Page 30 of A Ruse of Shadows
They’d ferreted out and visited just about every boxing gymnasium in and near New Cross, in southeast London. But they had to use an oblique approach—Lord Bancroft thinks that a blatant search might set the crown on your trail, Miss Charlotte had said. And Lawson’s story of having heard about a trio of good boxers who had lost their sponsor hadn’t yielded the results they sought.
At the last place they tried, however, the pub owner, his brow furrowed with effort, had said that he recalled being told something similar when he visited his brother in Smithfield.
Think we were at a place called—blast it, can’t remember the name. But I remember the sign over the door. It’s a whale with a great big pointy horn.
Don’t know about that, but there’s a whale that’s got a long tusk, Lawson had answered cautiously.A narwhal.
Must be that then.
Smithfield, part of central London, was a good six miles northwest of New Cross. In this densely populated city, six miles might as well be six countries in terms of distance and character.
But in Smithfield their luck improved. A description of the unusual sign quickly produced directions to the Unicorn of the Sea, with the comment,Always thought that was a fancy-looking sea lion. A tusked whale, eh? Blimey.
And now they were standing outside the Unicorn of the Sea. The painter of the sign had clearly never seen a stuffed narwhal at the Museum of Natural History, let alone a real one. A fancy-looking sea lion—it was swaddled in a scarlet cape—was exactly how Mrs. Watson would have described the image. And the slender tusk wasn’t even situated on the sea lion’s head, but held in a flipper.
“Remember your promise to me, Harry,” she said loudly as Lawsonheld open the pub’s door for her, “no more than half an hour here. There’s already been too many smelly old gymnasiums on this trip.”
The early rush of workers from the nearby market had left, and the midday customers hadn’t arrived yet. There weren’t many patrons in the pub, and Mrs. Watson’s arrival turned every head. She had on the same elaborate promenade dress she’d worn the summer before, on the day she first spoke to Miss Charlotte. The wide blue silk polonaise, worn over a tiered white underskirt, was perfect for a woman in the role of decorative appendage to a man generous with his money.
A sharp-eyed man of about forty stood behind the bar. They sat down directly in front of him.
He put aside the pint glass he was polishing. “Something to quench your thirst, sir, ma’am?”
“Too early in the day for pints, too late for coffee, and this one,” Lawson pointed at Mrs. Watson, “drinks only the best claret.”
Mrs. Watson traced the tips of her gloved fingers over the enormous white plume in her hat. “Why, thanks to you, darling.”
“That’s right.” Lawson turned his attention to the man. “This your place then, lad? You ever been at sea?”
The nautical theme proliferated inside the pub, with fishing nets hanging from the rafters, rusty anchors in corners, and fishermen’s lanterns on the walls.
“It’s been my place these past five years,” said the pub owner, “but I bought it from an old sailor.”
“And did the old sailor also start a boxing gymnasium?”
The publican smiled slightly. “No, that was me. Got a bit of a bum leg and was never able to box myself, but I’ve always wanted to be part of it.”
Lawson nodded. “I’m luckier than you. I did get to box when I was a lad.”
He slapped himself lightly across the chest. “Too bad you never saw me in the ring, Suzie. Deadly I was, I tell you. Deadly.”
Mrs. Watson cooed accordingly as the publican looked on in amusement.
“And now that I’ve made good in my old age,” said Lawson, once again addressing the publican, “I’m looking for a few boxers. Saw two I liked in Manchester, but turned out they were sponsored by a friend. And they were the only good ones—the rest were useless.
“So I thought I’d try my luck in London. Look in on a few places with good reputation and see if I see anyone promising. And of course”—he set a sovereign on the bar—“if I get the talent I want, I won’t forget the one who made the introduction, Mr. uh—”
“Mowlem is the name, sir.” The pub owner took out two glasses, poured a golden liquid inside, and passed one each to Mrs. Watson and Lawson. “And you are—”
“Harold Nelson, lately of Manchester. And this is the missus, of course.”
“Of course,” said Mowlem, bowing slightly to Mrs. Watson, a respect accorded not to her, per se, but to the shining coin on the bar. “Now, Mr. Nelson, I’m sure you know that sponsors can be a feisty bunch. If I made introductions willy-nilly, I might find myself cornered in my own pub by angry men demanding to know why I helped to poach their boxers.
“However…” He drew out the word.
Mrs. Watson tensed but pretended to study her bracelet.
“At the moment,” continued the publican, “there are three hardworking young people who have recently lost their sponsor. He hasn’t been seen in these parts since October of last year, and their stipends ran out in April.”
