Doctor Who_ All-Consuming Fire - Andy Lane [32]
He gestured and two men were pushed through the ropes into the ring.
Each one was held firmly by a large punisher.
'Now you know the form,' Jitter said to the men. Despite the calmness of his voice, they were white and shaking. 'You was the ones on duty outside the place during the week when the swag was nicked. Either you was both stupid, and let the gonoph get through, or you took an alderman or two to look the other way. Now I'll make it easy for you. The man who admits taking some other bugger's shilling, I'll let him take his chances in the ring with one of Yeovil's bludgers. If you don't talk . .' He glanced over at Yeovil, who had pulled a huge cleaver from his coat. '. . . Then Mack the Knife will be relieving you of your hands.'
The first cowering figure - a runtish teenager with wispy red hair - was pushed forward by one of the punishers. His right hand was forced down onto the block.
Yeovil smiled down at him.
'Did you break faith with the family, Frank?'
'No, Mr Yeovil,' Frank squealed. 'I swear, I searched everyone who came out. Nobody was carrying anything. I swear it on my dear Mother's grave!'
'Remember boy,' Yeovil said gently, 'if you admit it, I'll let you fight like a man. If you don't...'
Frank was crying now.
'I swear, Mr Yeovil...'
The cleaver flashed in the sun and buried itself in the block. Frank screamed. A fine spray of blood misted the air. His hand clutched convulsively at the wooden surface, dragging itself an inch or two away from the cleaver.
The crowd roared its approval.
'Take him away and see to him,' Jitter commanded. One of the punishers clamped a dirty handkerchief over the stump and dragged him off to, Holmes presumed, where the shady doctors who serviced the bareknuckle fights would be waiting.
The second man, a small-time cracksman named Froome who had crossed Holmes's path before, was led to the block. His face was waxy: his eyes were almost starting from his face.
'You know the score, Alf' said Jitter, standing at Yeovil's elbow. 'Tell us who paid you off.'
Froome seemed to be fascinated by the blood trickling from the blade of the cleaver.
'Tell us, Alf,' Jitter prompted.
'I been a good family man,' Froome whispered. 'You ain't 'ad cause to complain, Mr Jitter. I always been faithful to you. I ain't taken no money, an'
I don't know nothin' 'bout any books bein' stolen.'
He seemed to take courage from his words. Drawing himself up, he said,
'An' that's the truth.'
The cleaver moved so fast that it had severed Froome's hand before anybody saw it move. Froome didn't even seem to feel it: he raised his arm triumphantly to the crowd, and it was only when he saw the blood jetting from the stump that his eyes rolled up in his head and he fell to the floor.
He was carried off, with a grimy handkerchief acting as a makeshift tourniquet.
'That's the end of it,' Jitter shouted to the crowd. 'Let that be a lesson to anybody who thinks about crossing either of us.'
Holmes had seen enough. He was about to make his way to the fringes of the crowd when he felt a sudden stir close to his chest. He lashed back with his boot, and felt it connect with a satisfying crunch. A cry rang out behind him and a hand whipped out from his coat. He grabbed at it and turned. A small man, whose hair stuck out at all angles from his face like a fretful porcupine, was hopping up and down and cursing. He was clutching a shilling all the money that Holmes had left.
'Give easy!' the pickpocket cried. 'You dropped it. I was only puttin' it back!'
'Ger'cha!' Holmes growled, trying to stay in character, and shoved the pickpocket away. The smaller man staggered back into a large, spade-bearded fellow, whose tattoos covered every exposed portion of his skin.
He, in turn, cuffed the pickpocket into the back of a rat-faced man wearing a dilapidated top hat, who whirled and thumped the bearded lout between the eyes.
The crowd,