Page 31 of A Ruse of Shadows
Mrs. Watson’s heart leaped. Could it be—
“If I stopped paying someone four months ago, I wouldn’t consider them remotely obliged to me today. And indeed one of the boxers has found a new sponsor. But last I heard, the other two still held out hope that their Mr. Underwood might return.”
The sound of that name pulsed in Mrs. Watson’s veins, a wildrelief. She took a healthy gulp from her glass. West Country scrumpy, going down surprisingly easy.
“That’s good intelligence, that,” Lawson said heartily. He turned to Mrs. Watson. “See, I told you I had a good feeling about this place.”
Mrs. Watson clapped her hands. “I guess now it’s just a matter of meeting these young boxers. Is it not, Mr. Mowlem?”
“I haven’t seen those two lately,” said the publican. “But their friend, the one who already has a new sponsor, will be here tonight for a fight. I believe he wants them to follow his example and jump ship.”
“Oh?” said Mrs. Watson. She set an exaggeratedly quizzical fingertip on her chin. “Is he helping his friends out of affection, or is he afraid that this Mr. Underwood might return, and therefore doesn’t want to be alone in abandoning him?”
“Could be both.”
Lawson narrowed his eyes. “Doyouexpect this Mr. Underwood to come back, Mr. Mowlem?”
The publican picked up another pint glass to polish. “Hard to say. Until the kids’ stipends stopped coming, I expected him to turn up any day. But after that, let’s just say, now I’d be surprised if hedidturn up.”
“But there’s still a chance that he would?”
“Sure.” The publican shrugged. “But by this point, if he’s a man with any sense of decency, he wouldn’t make a fuss. After all, he’d stopped being those kids’ sponsor.”
Lawson turned to Mrs. Watson again. “Well, what do you say, Suzie dear?”
“I guess you’ll need to ask around a bit, won’t you, Harry? But I don’t mind.” Mrs. Watson caressed the plume on her hat again. “It’ll give me time to order new hats and shoes to go with my new frocks.”
“Ah, I knew you’d never object to a longer stay in London.” Lawson downed a finger of scrumpy and asked the publican, “You wouldn’t be able to tell us anything about this Mr. Underwood,would you? It sounds as if he must have had a moneyman handling payments to his boxers.”
“I believe he did, but that’s all I know about that. The kids themselves would know more.”
Mrs. Watson slapped her palm down on the bar. “You don’t suppose, Mr. Mowlem, that some other boxer or sponsor did Mr. Underwood in, do you? In that case, it might not be wise for us to inquire too closely.”
Lawson tapped his fingernails against the side of his glass, making little pings. “You have a point, good woman. But then again, we haven’t even met the kids yet. If we don’t like the kids, then we’re certainly not going to ask more questions about this missing Mr. Underwood.”
Mowlem glanced toward the sovereign that still lay on the bar, quietly glistening. “It’s odd, Mr. Underwood’s disappearance—no doubt about it. But if you’ll indulge me for a moment here, Mr. Nelson, I don’t think it was connected to boxing. Mr. Underwood wasn’t exactly one of us, if you know what I mean. I’m not sure where he hailed from. And while he was most certainly a man you wouldn’t want to cross, he didn’t grow up in these streets—and maybe not in any kind of streets.
“He liked boxing, but he didn’t exactlyassociatewith boxing folks—even his kids held themselves a bit apart from the rest of us. He came to fights, but he didn’t become friends or enemies with anyone. And if his methods were dirtier than anyone else’s—” Here the publican hesitated. “Well, let’s just say that when all was well, I didn’t hear much about Mr. Underwood, except speculation on where he came from and what he did besides sponsoring boxers.”
Mrs. Watson set an elbow on the bar and dropped her chin into her palm. “You’ve made me curious, Mr. Mowlem. Whatdidfolks think about where he came from?”
“They thought that maybe he himself wasn’t a gentleman but his father was.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Watson, elongating the syllable to signal her understanding.
Goodness, they thought him a by-blow.
“He didn’t drink, didn’t carouse, didn’t get into fistfights, didn’t look at anyone’s lady the wrong way,” said Mowlem, a note of genuine wonder in his voice. “I see no reason anyone from hereabouts would want to ‘disappear’ him.”
Mrs. Watson perked up, an affectionately indulged woman who caught something in the conversation and wished to receive a bit of praise for her cleverness. “But you said, Mr. Mowlem, that before this Mr. Underwood vanished, no one had anything particularly evil to say about him. What about afterwards?”
“I hate to say it,” said Mowlem, shaking his head, “but lately there have been all kinds of rumors accusing him of cheating and knavery.”
Lawson, who had just taken another sip of his scrumpy, set his glass down with a thud. “And you wantusto step into all that muddy water?”
Mowlem rubbed hard at a spot on the pint glass in his hand before he looked up and met Lawson’s eyes. “If you were from London, Mr. Nelson, maybe I’d have second thoughts. But since you’re taking the kids to Manchester, you won’t have trouble from anyone.”
Eleven
