Young Sherlock Holmes_ Death Cloud - Andrew Lane [54]
There was a pond over to one side of the fair, and a duck being thrown in by a man in a brightly coloured waistcoat and top hat. Its leg was tied to a weight by a thin length of cord, and the weight was holding it down. Around the edge of the pond, dogs were snarling and slavering at the end of ropes and leather leashes. Seeing money being exchanged all around the crowd, Sherlock had a terrible feeling that he knew what was coming next. The man in the waistcoat stepped backwards and raised his hand. The crowd grew quiet, expectant. The dogs redoubled their efforts to get free, and their growling was enough to cause the ground to shake. The man’s hand dropped to his waist, and the dogs were let loose by their owners. As a mass they plunged into the pond, trying to seize the quacking bird and sending water spraying everywhere. Terrified, the duck fluttered back and forth across the water as far as the cord and the weight would let it, evading their lunges. For their part the dogs avoided going too far out of their depth, with the exception of one brave terrier which paddled frantically across the pond, chasing the duck. Sherlock turned away before it sank its teeth into the duck’s neck. It was a foregone conclusion, the only uncertainty being which owner would win the prize.
Sickened, Sherlock turned away.
He walked past stalls selling hot sausages and cold toffee-covered apples on sticks, orange-flavoured biscuits and puffy, salted pork crackling. He wasn’t sure if the feeling he had in his stomach was hunger or nervousness. Or both.
The crowd was growing thicker and more raucous, and Sherlock felt himself pushed and jostled from behind. People around him were jeering and grumbling. A voice rose above them, shouting: ‘Who will take on the undefeated champion? Who has the courage to pit themselvesagainstNatWilson, the Kensal GreenWonder? A sovereign if you win; nothing but scorn and derision if you lose!’ He stumbled to one knee. Pulling himself to his feet he was knocked sideways. Something hard slammed into his back. He turned, and found that he was suddenly at the front of the crowd. The thing that he had stumbled against was a wooden pole, one of four that marked out the corners of a square. Ropes had been strung between the poles. A man wearing nothing but leather breeches stood in the centre of the ring, posturing and gesturing to the crowd. His chest and arms were corded with muscle. Another man, this one in a dusty suit and a Homburg hat, was staring straight at Sherlock.
‘We have a challenger!’ he cried. The crowd applauded.
Sherlock tried to back away, but people were pushing him from behind. Hands pulled the ropes apart to form a gap, and Sherlock was pushed through into the grassy enclosure.
‘No!’ he shouted, realizing that somehow he was the challenger. ‘I don’t—’
The barker cut across him. ‘Standard Broughton Rules,’ he chanted. ‘No padding and no knuckledusters. Anything goes except hitting a man when he’s down. When a man is down he gets thirty seconds to rest and eight additional seconds to come to scratch. The fight is over when one man can’t stand up.’ He glanced at Sherlock, who was looking wildly around, trying to find a gap in the crowd through which he could escape. ‘Kid,’ he murmured, ‘I don’t rate you for more than a minute unaided. If you can last five, I’ll double the prize. Got to keep the punters entertained.’
‘I shouldn’t be here!’ protested Sherlock.
‘It’s a little late for that,’ the barker replied.
‘But this is an accident!’
‘No.’ The man smiled, revealing black,