The Case of The Pugilist's Ploy (Bow Street Society Book 6) Read online

  BOW STREET SOCIETY:

  The Case of The Pugilist’s Ploy

  By

  T.G. Campbell

  All characters in this novel are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Cover illustration by Peter Spells

  Bow Street Society Logo by Heather Curtis

  Text & artwork copyright © -

  2022 Tahnee Anne Georgina Campbell

  Edited by Susan Soares

  All Rights Reserved

  Available on Kindle and other devices

  ALSO BY THE AUTHOR

  The Case of The Curious Client

  The Case of The Lonesome Lushington

  The Case of The Spectral Shot

  The Case of The Toxic Tonic

  The Case of The Maxwell Murder

  The Case of The Shrinking Shopkeeper & Other Stories

  The Case of The Peculiar Portrait & Other Stories

  The Case of The Russian Rose & Other Stories

  The Case of The Gentleman’s Gambit & Other Stories

  The Case of The Devil’s Dare

  in

  Criminal Shorts

  a

  UK Crime Book Club anthology sold for the benefit of

  The Red Kite Academy in Corby, Northamptonshire, UK.

  Dedicated to Mum

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you to all my readers, including my beta team, for your unerring enthusiasm and support. It keeps me going in moments of self-doubt and pushes me to be the best writer I can. Also, thank you to my sister for her faith in me and unconditional support, and to my editor, Susan Soares, for her professionalism and keen eye for detail. I wouldn’t be where I am without you all, and I want you to know I appreciate you all from the bottom of my heart.

  I’d also like to thank Pam Mills [MA], author of Prevention, Detection & Keepers of the Peace: Policing Tonbridge, a Division of Kent County Constabulary. The first 50 years and more. (Tunbridge Wells; Heronswood press Ltd, 2022). The research sources and knowledge she gave me about late nineteenth century Tonbridge in Kent were invaluable. I highly recommend her book to history enthusiasts, as she truly has an encyclopaedic knowledge of Tonbridge.

  I’d also like to thank Fiona Orsini, curator of the Drawings & Archives Collections at the Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA). She kindly provided photographs of Norman Shaw’s original 1888 floorplans of the New Scotland Yard building for me to use as references whilst writing my descriptions.

  Finally, I’d like to thank ex-Champion Lightweight of America and England, William “Billy” Edwards, for writing his comprehensive Art of Boxing and Manual of Training Illustrated way back in 1888. I’d also like to thank Peter Lovesey for writing the second Sergeant Cribb mystery, The Detective Wore Silk Drawers, and W. Russel Gray for writing his essay For Whom the Bell Tolled: The Decline of British Prize Fighting in the Victorian Era. You were all tremendous sources of inspiration to me.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Also by the author

  Acknowledgements

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  EPILOGUE

  Notes from the author

  Gaslight Gazette

  More Bow Street Society

  Sources Of Reference

  PROLOGUE

  Mr Joseph Maxwell’s dark-green, bloodshot eyes tracked a snowflake as it drifted past his window and landed upon its ledge. Others followed suit as the bleak sky unleashed its flurry upon Bow Street. The din of passing carriages and pedestrians soon waned in response to the heavy snowfall until only the occasional whinnying of a horse broke through the hush. At the same time, the distant, muffled voices of Miss Trent, Mr Snyder, and Miss Dexter came from the kitchen downstairs.

  Reluctant to join them, Joseph lay upon his side on a narrow brass bed in the middle of the room. Located on the first floor of the Society’s house, directly over the parlour, its interior had been untouched since Thaddeus Dorsey’s day. Light-green wallpaper, embossed with dark-green swirling leaves, had faded in the sun. Patches above the wall-mounted gas lamps had also been blackened by the flames. The exposed floorboards would creak unforgivingly under foot, whilst their old varnish had been scratched and thinned in several places.

  A few days had passed since Oliver’s arrest. During that time, Mr Snyder had been kind enough to retrieve Joseph’s typewriter and clothes from the house on Duncan Terrace. These, along with some ornaments and prints, had helped him to settle in when he’d first arrived. Yet, now, he regretted his decision to have them brought to Bow Street. They weren’t comforting reminders of home, but instead representations of the happy future Poppy had been denied by him and Oliver. As a result, their presence had only served to heighten his guilt.

  Attired in an off-white nightshirt beneath the many woollen blankets, Joseph’s slender form exuded the strong scents of bodily odour and unwashed linen. His dark-auburn hair rested in a tangled mess upon his head, whilst his jaw and high cheekbones were covered in stubble. Having not had anything to eat since the previous day, his stomach complained with a growl. The thought of seeing the others filled him with a dread so nauseating, though, his hunger pains vanished in an instant.

  It wasn’t as if they were unsympathetic—quite the opposite. Yet, each expression of condolence, offer of assistance, and gentle embrace had felt like a lie. Those giving them were sincere, of course, but he wasn’t sincere in his gratitude. He’d spent hours going over what had happened in his mind and, no matter how he’d looked at it, there remained one inescapable truth: he should’ve done more.

  “It’s sickening,” Dermid Maxwell sneered.

  Dragged from his thoughts, Joseph looked at his brother holding the Gaslight Gazette. He’d just finished reading Joseph’s article about their mother’s suicide and Poppy’s murder. “How you could bring yourself to write this is beyond me.”

  Joseph eased himself into a sitting position but remained under the blankets. “I had no choice. If I hadn’t, Mr Baldwin would’ve, and he…” He frowned. “It would’ve been lies.”

  Dermid hmphed.

  At thirty, he was the elder by nine years, but the shorter at only five feet four. Although his wavy, black hair and vivid dark-green eyes made him handsome, his large nose and pointed jaw were repulsive reminders of their father. His attire consisted of a knee-length black overcoat
, waistcoat, suit, and tie teamed with a white shirt. All of it, except for the tie, had been tailor made for him. Unlike Joseph, a hint of lavender soap lingered about him.

  Dermid folded the newspaper and tossed it onto the writing desk. “When are you due to give evidence?”

  “In a f-few days,” Joseph mumbled, bowing his head as the nausea returned.

  “You’ll need to bathe before then.” Dermid glanced over him in disgust.

  “I-I will.”

  The burgeoning reputation of the Bow Street Society had encouraged the sensationalist press to portray the group as the genius sleuths who had exposed Oliver whilst the police had stumbled around in the dark. As a result, the flames of public outrage had been fanned into a frenzy, thereby compelling the courts to hasten the process. The looming festivities of Christmas had also added an extra degree of pressure. No one wanted to sup their mulled wine between hearings after all.

  Dermid hmphed again and went over to the window. Clasping his hands behind his back and knitting his brow, he gazed out at the horizon. After a few moments had passed, he turned to Joseph. “Have you thought about what you will do once this is all over?”

  Joseph lay on his opposite side. “I-I don’t know when that w-will be.” Hearing his brother approach, he brought his knees up to his chest and clutched the blankets tightly beneath his chin. “P-Please … I want to b-be alone.”

  Dermid released a sad sigh, and Joseph felt the bed shift as he sat on its end.

  “As you know, Father has wrote a new will, leaving everything to me,” Dermid began in a gentle tone. “Both houses on Duncan Terrace, the business, his financial assets—everything. Once he has been found guilty, and his inevitable sentence carried out, I intend to liquidise it all and divide it equally between me, you, and Frazier.” With a sideways glance, he mumbled in disgust, “The second Mrs Oliver Maxwell will also receive a small yearly allowance.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  Dermid pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t be foolish. It would give you financial independence.” He paused as a thought occurred to him. “You could finally marry Miss Dexter.”

  “N-No, I couldn’t.” Joseph frowned, and his eyes glistened with unshed tears. “N-Not now.”

  Dermid’s lips formed a hard line as he exhaled through his nose. Taking a moment to reassess the situation, he decided a change of tact was required. “I’ve booked passage to New York City in January. I have to close the business there. I want you to come with me.”

  Joseph turned over and stared at him, wide eyed. “Me?”

  “The change would do you good, and I’d appreciate the company.”

  Joseph sat up. “B-But New York City is in America.”

  “It is.”

  “Y-You want to sail t-to America … t-to be in America … with me?”

  Dermid gave a small chuckle. “You’re acting as if it would be a disaster.”

  “It-it would be.”

  Dermid smiled. “Whyever for?”

  “B-Because it’s me.” Joseph’s eyes became downcast. “I always make a m-mess of things.”

  Taking a firm grip of Joseph’s shoulder, Dermid waited for their eyes to meet. “Don’t worry. I’ll look after you.” Joseph’s eyes became downcast once more. “You don’t have to decide now. Give it some thought and let me know what you decide once this whole business with Father is finished. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Joseph mumbled, unconvinced.

  “Good.” Dermid stood. “In the meantime, try to eat and get some rest.”

  * * *

  Dearest, darling Lynnie,

  I hope this letter finds you and Percy well. The news in your last was most saddening to your father and me, for it will be the first Christmas Day we have not made merry together. Naturally, we appreciate the pressures of Percy’s schedule—and yours, of course—have made it quite impossible. Nevertheless, we are disappointed it will be just the two of us this year. Your father has been utterly morose over it, even if he tries to be strong for my sake. We shall simply have to make arrangements for you both to visit us here in Cheshire come January. Does Percy still perform those delightful card tricks?

  Dr Lynette Locke discarded her mother’s letter and, plonking her elbows down with a thud, rubbed her forehead with both hands. Closing her eyes at the same time, she reminded herself that her parents knew nothing of what was happening with Percy. Nevertheless, her mother’s blatant attempt to make her feel guilty had initially caused her body to tense and quiver from the rush of anger.

  Plucking the letter from the bureau at which she sat, she scanned the remainder of its contents with dark-blue green eyes blemished by dark circles. A grey tinge had also settled upon her fair complexion, making it look washed out. The rest of her appearance was just as haggard. Her once meticulously styled dark-blond hair was scraped into a tight bun at the back of her head, whilst her bright, fitted clothing had become a loose, dark-brown woollen dress. Although only thirty, the heaviness of her fatigued limbs made her feel much older. The burden of her husband’s round-the-clock care had also caused her shoulders to droop and her posture to slouch, thereby superficially shortening her six-foot height.

  She returned to the start of the letter and read; it will be the first Christmas Day we have not made merry together. Her eyes glazed over as she watched the events of the previous Christmas Day unfold in her mind. Percy had impressed her parents with expensive gifts, charmed them with compliments, and entertained them with his wit and sleight of hand. He’d also waited until they’d retired for the night, and he’d been intimate with her, to ask for some heroin. A bitter taste seeped into her mouth as she recalled what he’d said: I only need one dose to help me sleep. He’d only ever ask for ‘one dose,’ but it was still ‘one dose’ of many. She lifted her gaze, knowing he was asleep upstairs. It was all he did these days.

  From the moment his attendant, Claude, had brought him back from the opium den, he’d been undergoing a sodium bromide treatment to help him through the worst of the withdrawals. Outlined in Dr J. B. Mattison’s plan for the treatment of opium addiction, it consisted of administering sodium bromide to Percy every twelve hours. She’d started him on the minimum dose of sixty grains in sixty drachms of cooled, boiled water. Now, she was giving him the maximum dose of one hundred and twenty grains in the same number of drachms of water. By the third day of the treatment, Percy had become drowsy. By the fourth, he’d descended into a profound slumber.

  Although it had meant he was unaware of his body’s fevered reaction to the loss of the opium, it had also caused him to be unaware of other things, too. Namely, the need for him to stay awake long enough to exercise, wash, or converse. Even eating had lost all interest for him, and every mealtime had become a battle of wills. When he’d begun to lose weight, she’d had no option but to implement a regime of force feeding.

  A pained expression fell upon her face as she recalled that morning’s breakfast. Percy’s struggles were difficult enough to witness, but it was his whimpering after each forced swallow that had truly grieved her. Closing her eyes, she swallowed the lump forming in her throat and took a deep, shuddering breath. Opening her eyes, she took out her writing things and, with a trembling hand, began her response.

  * * *

  Sitting at the table in the Society’s kitchen, Miss Dexter planned to draw Miss Trent as she rolled out some pastry for a batch of mince pies. Unfortunately, the more she stared at the blank page, the more her mind was filled with the events of a few days’ ago. She still couldn’t believe it; it was so horrible, and yet, so tragic. Neither Poppy nor Sybil Maxwell had deserved what had befallen them. Joseph hadn’t, either. She felt her heart ache.

  Attired in midnight-blue bustle skirts and blouse, the eighteen-year-old artist’s auburn hair was neatly wrapped in a bun at the base of her skull and adorned with plain, silver pins. They, and the silver brooch pinned to the collar of her blouse, sparkled in the lamplight.

  A full decade ol
der than her friend, Miss Trent was also three inches taller at five foot seven. Her attire consisted of plum bustle skirts with a lilac panel at their front, a plum jacket with silk lapels, a cream blouse with ruffled detailing, and a broad, black belt with brass buckle. An apron was also tied around her waist. Like Miss Dexter’s, the gold and ivory brooch pinned to her blouse’s high neck occasionally caught the lamp’s light. Finally, aside from a few loose curls against her back, her chestnut-brown hair was pinned atop her head in an elaborately sculpted mass.

  Setting aside her rolling pin, Miss Trent looked to Miss Dexter with the intention of enquiring after the progress of her sketch. The sight of the artist’s green eyes staring, unblinkingly, through the page at something unseen beneath made her frown, however. It had been hard on them all, but Miss Dexter had taken the news of Oliver’s deeds to heart.

  “Red shirt’s in the livery,” Mr Snyder’s rough, East End of London-accented voice remarked from the doorway. With a calloused and cracked thumb pointing over his shoulder, his brown, beady eyes looked between his friends. Broad in build, his black bushy sideburns and short hair appeared more unkempt than usual. His brown jacket, dark-brown trousers, and worn, black leather boots were also damp in places. At forty-eight, he was the most senior in the group.

  “Is it still snowing?” Miss Trent enquired.

  “Yeah, but not as heavy,” Mr Snyder replied, taking a seat opposite Miss Dexter.

  “Good.” Miss Trent carefully cut circles out of the pastry and scooped a spoonful of filling into the centre of each. “Am I moving too much?”

  “Hmm?” Miss Dexter lifted her head. Realising what she’d said, she offered a polite smile. “Not at all.” With a melancholic expression, she set down her sketchbook and pencil. “I haven’t been able to draw anything.”

  “Inspiration will come, lass,” Mr Snyder gently encouraged.