assistant keeper banged his knee into my face as he walked past. He stopped in the doorway and told his men. ‘Put Lynch back in his original cell; we’re done mollycoddling him. Then lock this door. Don’t move the stiff until I’ve got to the bottom of what happened here.’
Derbyshire, September 1885
Moriarty’s grizzly companion, the fat, old wrestler Michael Brannigan, came for me just after dawn. As I guessed he would. Men like him know the rewards that the element of surprise can bring.
But I had been ready for such an eventuality. I had risen a good hour earlier, washed and changed into the clean clothes that had been left in my room for me, and I was sitting on my bed full of smiles.
He held the door open and smirked. ‘So, you can dress yourself. That at least is something. Now are you ready to do some work?’
‘Are you?’
‘You would be well-advised to show me some respect.’
‘Is that right? Even the young and ignorant, like me, know respect is
earned
, not freely given.’
He headed out of my room and I followed, feeling much stronger than yesterday. Last night, I had eaten well. Stayed clear of ale and wine. And aside from a fevered dream about Lady Elizabeth had managed a refreshing seven hours of sleep.
Brannigan took me past storerooms and larders, out of a tradesman’s door and beyond the entrances to coal bunkers an ice house that was in the process of being filled with fresh produce. We walked briskly around the side of what I saw for the first time was a splendid three-storey Jacobean mansion. The walls were made from a fine blue-grey stone, matched with golden brown lintels and steps. Carefully trimmed ivy aspired to grow higher than the bedroom windows where it had been halted by diligent gardeners. Above tall windows perched grim gargoyles, their ever-open eyes keeping vigil over the vast grounds beneath them.
Presently, we came across a warped and weathered barn with a broken roof through which the sky could be frequently spied. Skipping ropes lay coiled like sleeping snakes on a straw-covered stone floor. Behind a stack of hay bales stood a slackly roped-off ring.
Brannigan caught my stare, looked across to the arena and laughed. ‘That’s not for you. Not unless you want to die before breakfast.’
I walked towards it. ‘I am a young and fit boxer and you are a fat and old wrestler. I know washerwomen who could beat you as easily as their clothes.’
He had been in the process of heading away from the ring but turned now and approached me. ‘They haven’t told you about me, have they?’
‘What is there to tell that your fat stomach and wasted arms haven’t already said? Age has caught up with you and made you half the man you were. Am I right?’
‘You’re as cheeky as fuck. That’s what you are.’ He looked me up and down. ‘Boxer are you? Self-taught?’
‘I was trained by one of the best.’
‘Where would a toerag get such tutorage?’
‘In the workhouse, by a great fighter of African descent.’
‘
African
? Now you’re havin’ a bleedin’ joke.’ Brannigan spat on the ground. ‘I am a
Romany
.’ He punched his heart with pride. ‘That makes me tougher than any bloody African, or for that matter a mouthy piece of London shite like you.’
‘Then let’s see.’ I pointed to the ropes. ‘Or have we got up this early just to swap insults?’
‘We got up to train you, and we should get on with it.’ He flapped a hand dismissively at me. ‘You’re not ready to fight me. Happen you never will be.’
I turned and walked to the ropes. ‘I’m getting in the ring. Follow me and fight, or else be off and feed that fat gut of yours somewhere I can’t see you.’
There was no answer.
His bluff had been called. I was young and fit and he clearly didn’t fancy a beating this early in the morning.
I was toying with the ring rope when Brannigan kicked my legs from under me and hurled his big old body down on me like a carriage filled with
Derbyshire, September 1885
Moriarty’s grizzly companion, the fat, old wrestler Michael Brannigan, came for me just after dawn. As I guessed he would. Men like him know the rewards that the element of surprise can bring.
But I had been ready for such an eventuality. I had risen a good hour earlier, washed and changed into the clean clothes that had been left in my room for me, and I was sitting on my bed full of smiles.
He held the door open and smirked. ‘So, you can dress yourself. That at least is something. Now are you ready to do some work?’
‘Are you?’
‘You would be well-advised to show me some respect.’
‘Is that right? Even the young and ignorant, like me, know respect is
earned
, not freely given.’
He headed out of my room and I followed, feeling much stronger than yesterday. Last night, I had eaten well. Stayed clear of ale and wine. And aside from a fevered dream about Lady Elizabeth had managed a refreshing seven hours of sleep.
Brannigan took me past storerooms and larders, out of a tradesman’s door and beyond the entrances to coal bunkers an ice house that was in the process of being filled with fresh produce. We walked briskly around the side of what I saw for the first time was a splendid three-storey Jacobean mansion. The walls were made from a fine blue-grey stone, matched with golden brown lintels and steps. Carefully trimmed ivy aspired to grow higher than the bedroom windows where it had been halted by diligent gardeners. Above tall windows perched grim gargoyles, their ever-open eyes keeping vigil over the vast grounds beneath them.
Presently, we came across a warped and weathered barn with a broken roof through which the sky could be frequently spied. Skipping ropes lay coiled like sleeping snakes on a straw-covered stone floor. Behind a stack of hay bales stood a slackly roped-off ring.
Brannigan caught my stare, looked across to the arena and laughed. ‘That’s not for you. Not unless you want to die before breakfast.’
I walked towards it. ‘I am a young and fit boxer and you are a fat and old wrestler. I know washerwomen who could beat you as easily as their clothes.’
He had been in the process of heading away from the ring but turned now and approached me. ‘They haven’t told you about me, have they?’
‘What is there to tell that your fat stomach and wasted arms haven’t already said? Age has caught up with you and made you half the man you were. Am I right?’
‘You’re as cheeky as fuck. That’s what you are.’ He looked me up and down. ‘Boxer are you? Self-taught?’
‘I was trained by one of the best.’
‘Where would a toerag get such tutorage?’
‘In the workhouse, by a great fighter of African descent.’
‘
African
? Now you’re havin’ a bleedin’ joke.’ Brannigan spat on the ground. ‘I am a
Romany
.’ He punched his heart with pride. ‘That makes me tougher than any bloody African, or for that matter a mouthy piece of London shite like you.’
‘Then let’s see.’ I pointed to the ropes. ‘Or have we got up this early just to swap insults?’
‘We got up to train you, and we should get on with it.’ He flapped a hand dismissively at me. ‘You’re not ready to fight me. Happen you never will be.’
I turned and walked to the ropes. ‘I’m getting in the ring. Follow me and fight, or else be off and feed that fat gut of yours somewhere I can’t see you.’
There was no answer.
His bluff had been called. I was young and fit and he clearly didn’t fancy a beating this early in the morning.
I was toying with the ring rope when Brannigan kicked my legs from under me and hurled his big old body down on me like a carriage filled with
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