He turned to me, throwing out his blade in a wide slash. Yet I had anticipated it, was waiting for it even, and was out of range when the knife swept past, and when it had, I stepped forward and brought down the club on the hand that held it. It dropped from his grasp. He made a desperate dive to recover it. I clouted him again on the head and thought surely I had knocked him senseless. Yet as I dug at the knife with my foot and sent it skittering over the pavement, away from us both, he managed somehow to struggle to his feet.
Standing there, panting, sweating drops of gin, bleeding from his ear and scalp, he seemed little of a threat, yet I knew I must finish him. I tucked the club into my belt and beckoned him to me. He came lumbering forward, his hands extended as if he meant to throttle me, which no doubt he would have done had I given him the chance.
What followed could not have been good to watch. Yet memory of Mariah loosed a fury in me that powered the flurry of kicks and punches I gave to his vertical yet inert form. Finally, with him leaning upon me for support I delivered a butt to his head with my own. I stepped away, and he fell flat upon the bricks of the alley.
I waited. He did not move. I walked backwards, unwilling to turn my back upon him until I was a safe distance away. As I went, I glanced left and right at the crowd and saw money changing hands. For the most part they were silent, whether from boredom now that their amusement was ended, or disappointment at its outcome, I could not tell. I found the four I sought, muttering amongst themselves.
“I’ll have that coat, if you please.” I pulled out Mr. Perkins’s club and slapped my palm.
The ugliest of Jackie Carver’s table companions — and none was a beauty — held on still to my bottle-green coat. He threw it to me, shaking his head in disgust. Then did all four turn and walk away, leaving their champion where he lay.
“Here! Here! What is this disturbance has taken place here?”
It was Mr. Perkins, coat unbuttoned, red waistcoat revealed, presenting himself as a constable just now come upon the scene. He went straight to me.
“Was you part of this?” he asked, in a manner most severe. “I’ll just take that weapon you have there in your hand, young sir.”
I handed it over without argument. (It was, after all, his own.) He took me by the arm and led me by an indirect route to Jackie Carver. On the way, he made a “discovery.”
“Why, what have we here? A knife?” He bent and scooped it up from the pavement. “Was you usin’ this on that poor fella lyin’ there?”
Before there was need for me to raise my voice in my own defense, three of the onlookers came forward to put things right.
“No, Constable, that ain’t how it was.”
” ‘Twas the other fella had the knife. He’s known for it.”
“The lad didn’t use the club till the knife came out.”
“Well,” said Mr. Perkins, walking to the form lying upon the bricks, “even so, he’s done considerable damage to this one.”
Carver, thank God, had begun to stir. My three defenders trailed along for a closer look at him. Mr. Perkins knelt down, supposedly to examine his wounds, yet at the same time he seemed to be whispering in the unbloodied ear.
Of a sudden, Bunkins appeared beside me. “You’ve made me a wealthy man, Jeremy old chum,” said he. “The odds was against you, and I bet all I had in my pocket and a bit more.”
“Didn’t hedge your bets?”
He regarded me in consternation. “I would never do such!”
“I know you would not.” I smiled and gave him a reassuring wink. And as I did so, it occurred to me that if indeed I could now smile, then this ordeal must surely have ended.
“Why, dear me,” cried Mr. Perkins for all to hear, “all this while I have had my foot upon this poor fella’s right hand. I may have done him further harm.”
All the same, he did not remove his foot until he had risen and put the full weight of his body upon it. Carver was now attempting to rise, pushing up on his elbows. The others looked on. more in curiosity than concern.
“Here, you three. Help him to his feet. I charge you to take him to a surgeon to look to his wounds. There is a medico round the way on Tavistock Street, Donnelly by name.”
The three leaped to obey the constable’s order. Another came to join them. They managed to get him upright.
“And you, young sir,” said Mr. Perkins, taking me roughly by the arm, “I’m takin’ you straight to Bow Street. And I warn you that if you resist, you will regret it!”
I hung my head and, needless to say, offered no resistance.
Our mood, as we left them, was one of suppressed jubilance. As soon as we were out of sight and earshot, Bunkins let out a great howl of triumph. And Mr. Perkins allowed himself at last to smile.
“I thought I upheld the honor of the Bow Street Runners quite proper. Would you say so, lads? Can’t have them thinkin’ we approve of alley-fightin’.”
We assured him he had played his part well. And as Bunkins crowed over his winnings, Mr. Perkins asked to be certain I had not been cut. He assured me that had I been, he would have stopped the combat immediate. Then did he launch into a critique of my performance.
“Now, your only mistake,” said he, “was backin’ off after you’d sent him down with that kick at his knee.”
“But the way he dodged the blade — ” put in Bunkins.
“Was dangerous and right frightening to watch,” said Mr. Perkins gruffly.
And so it went until, approaching Bow Street by way of Great Hart, we parted with Bunkins who declared he must hurry home to count his riches. Mr. Perkins and I walked along in silence for a bit. But he halted me quite sudden and looked me over critically.
“Well,” said he, “you’ve sweat that’s dried on you, and a dirty face, and hair that needs combin’, but you come out of it well, Jeremy. And I do say that’s a handsome coat you got on, quite worth fightin’ for.”
I thanked him, then added: “That’s one thing that Carver spoke true. The fight wasn’t about the coat — or it was only partly so.”
“I had a notion of that.”
And then we resumed our walk.
“Tell me, Mr. Perkins,” said I, “when you bent down to look at him, you seemed to be whispering in Carver’s ear. What did you say?”
“Oh yes, that. I did indeed give him a message. I told him that if he had any ideas about getting back at you, he was to forget them. If harm came to you, I would search him out and kill him deader and swifter than any crap mer-
chant could do him. I asked him did he understand, and he gave out a moan, which I took to mean yes.”
Nothing more was said between us until we were about to enter Number 4 Bow Street. Then did he urge me to wash up a bit and comb my hair before I went upstairs.
“There will be no charges then?” I asked with an impudent grin.
“No charges,” said he.
There were comings and goings in the next few days, and a couple of them did seem most mysterious. One that did not was the return of the woman who did our wash. Proudly she presented the shirt and breeches I had worn to go wading in the Fleet River. Somehow, by washing them thrice and hanging them to dry on three rare November days of sunshine, she had got them clean. More important still, she had got the stink out of them. I was ever so grateful to her, so much that I rewarded her with two shillings from the great store of money that Bunkins had passed on to me. (His conscience would not allow him to keep all to himself what he had won from my efforts, and so he divided his winnings and gave half to me.) The good woman was quite overcome by my generosity. So long as I used this heap of shillings for such purposes, I had no need to feel guilt that I had accepted them. Or so it seemed to me.
More curious was an unexplained visit from the Mill-house family. Thaddeus, Lucinda, and little Edward entered one Sunday morning dressed in their best. I met them just as I was leaving on a trip to the postbox to send off letters for Lady Fielding. Greeting them, I found all, even little Edward, to be most solemn in demeanor. No doubt they had been summoned, though I had carried no letter to them, and it was evidently a matter of some importance. Since my errand took me all the way to the coach yard, I was surprised to glimpse the Millhouse family in Covent Garden on my return — surprised not so much to see them as to note the remarkable change in their attitude. Even at a distance — for I viewed them across the wide though near-empty piazza — I could tell by the smiles on their faces and the happy way they chattered that their visit to Sir John had cheered them greatly. Perhaps, I thought, he had forgiven altogether the fine for drunkenness he had imposed upon Thaddeus Millhouse. It would be in Sir John’s nature to do so.