In my years with Sherlock Holmes, he and I shared many recreational interests. For Holmes, his pleasure of choice was the concert hall, where we could spend an afternoon enjoying performances by London’s local talent. Occasionally, Holmes would accompany me on outings to my social clubs, where I would partake in a round or two of cards, and he would partake in mentally cataloging every guest in the parlor. However, not every leisure activity was a step into polite society. In fact, one of my most thrilling hobbies was one I was surprised to find that Holmes shared with me: boxing.

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I had always been a very active boy. As a lad in primary school, I’d often come home with cuts and bruises from rough play with my school mates. I wrestled for a time in secondary, and eventually, my interests led me to less scrutable ringside venues, out of the eye of the public. Boxing had its place above ground, certainly, as many professionals I knew were gentlemen of the highest order. But there was just nothing quite like the thrill of matches out of sight of the commonwealth, where hundreds of pounds traded hands by the hour. Perhaps it was my life with Holmes that gave me a taste for danger, as the rough crowd who occupied the benches were just the types of fellows he and I would put behind bars. So it was no wonder that I was surprised when Holmes elected to join me for the match of Foster vs. Crestwell in Whitechapel that foggy, eerie evening.

 

The venu was a small, unmarked brick building, undoubtedly used as a bottling facility in the daytime. After being dropped off by our cab, Holmes and I joined the queue at the front door. “I’m still amazed you’ve decided to come, dear fellow,” I said.

 

Holmes removed his gloves as we came closer to the entrance. “A night in Whitechapel surrounded by London’s underclass? How could I refuse?” The jab caught the attention of the roughshod gentleman in front of us, who sneered over his shoulder at Holmes. I smiled, nervously, and cleared my throat as he turned back around.

 

“Holmes,” I mumbled, “perhaps try not to insult our fellow spectators so loudly? I would rather not have any altercations by the end of the night.”

 

“Ah, you may be right, doctor.” He returned my smile. “I shall keep my thoughts private to the best of my ability. At least until we are home.”

 

“Quite right.” We reached the door, and I paid a few shillings for our entry fee. After which, we stepped inside. The factory equipment was all shut off, a pathway carved to the stairs that led down to the cellar. Those who did not yet wish to descend to the ring chatted and smoked beside cold equipment. I wondered if the workmen in the daytime had any inclination as to the nature of their place of employment after hours. Or, perhaps, if they themselves were the men who paid a few farthings a piece once their foramen had gone home. Leading Holmes down the steps, the cellar came into my view. It had been cleared to make room for a ring, roped off with a hemp spool that was no doubt laying about the tools of the factory. Some benches had been set up, but most of the spectators would no doubt be standing. A bookie took numbers in the corner, happily penning bets from the audience. A chalkboard displayed the odds. Crestwell was up 3 to 1 against Foster.

 

“Shall we place a bet, do you think?” I asked Holmes. “We could leave here with money for a new silk cravat for each of us.”

 

Holmes chuckled, his walking stick under his arm. “Dear friend, if you wish to waste your pennies, then by all means do so.”

 

“No? Then what is your motive for joining me this evening?”

 

“What makes you think I have motive?”

 

“Well, plainly put, you rarely make time to be idle in our outings beside the concert hall. So forgive me if I find it odd that you might join me for the love of the sport.”

 

Holmes’ brow quirked in that way which indicated I had him cornered. His lips plucked up, and he turned about face. “Is that a popcorn kettle there?” I looked over. Indeed, a vendor had set up a hot tin kettle for popping corn kernels. “Shall we treat ourselves to a snack, Watson?” Holmes strut forward, and I was compelled to follow. He paid a half penny and procured a bag of freshly popped corn. “Come, let us stand aside while we eat.” We both took a wide step away from the queue, and Holmes lowered his voice. “I am afraid, my witty friend, that you are correct in your assumption. I have come with alternative motives.” He tossed a few pieces of corn into his mouth.

 

“Have you?” I could not withhold my glee. I took a handful myself and enjoyed them. “Go on then, Holmes. What nefarious reasoning brings you out with me on such an auspicious occasion?”

 

Holmes wiped his mouth with his forefinger and thumb. His eyes scanned the area, and as calmly as he could, he replied: “Because I knew you would want me to be here, my love.” He delighted in my shock and handed me the bag of popcorn before returning to the ring. I must say to you now, my dearest reader, that there were so many ways in which Holmes would surprise me, and such an honest proclamation in a crowded room of deviants was chief among 

them. Even considering the dastardly case that would follow, I had no reason to believe that he had lied. 

 

For not even Sherlock Holmes could have predicted what would transpire that very night.

 

We found ourselves in the back of the crowd, our bag of popcorn between us, and waited for the fighters to make their debut. As the venue was no proper establishment, the back rooms consisted mostly of storage facilities. I could see the rummaging of at least one of the boxers and his entourage. The whole place was crowded like the dickens, so it was difficult to parse much over the sea of many heads. At least, in that respect, I was allowed to stand comfortably close to my friend with no fear of a questioning eye in our direction. I wondered if he could still hear the way my heart pounded at his smallest admission of love.

 

“Final call! Final call for bets!” The bookie’s voice broke the hubbub, directing a few late comers to place their names in the roster. The man beside the bookie watched over his shoulder, and when he was satisfied, turned back to the board and laid out the final odds. Crestwell was now favored 5 to 1.

 

“Perhaps I should put a pound on Foster,” I mused. “Should there be an upset, I would certainly walk out a lucky man.”

 

The gentleman to my left grunted with delight. “I’d get in now while the gettin’s good, mate,” he said. “Crestwell’s the favorite, but he’s past his prime.”

 

“Oh, you think so?” I eyed my new neighbor. He was hunched, slightly, with chops of silver white and gnarled teeth beneath tobacco stained lips. His nails were yellowed, no doubt from an excessive smoking habit, or a liver, not long for this world. He wore a top hat, weathered by years, and was busy making notes in a small hand book. “I trust you are a well seasoned spectator, sir?”

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“Aye,” the old man grinned. He put the book in his breast pocket and pat it, fondly. “I know the look of a man who’s on his way out, and by God, I’ve seen Crestwell have his better days. There’s a reason the man’s down here with the likes of us and not out amongst gentle folk, ain’t there?”

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“I’m afraid I don’t know the name.”

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The man guffawed. “No doubt you will by the end of tonight, good sir. No doubt you will.”

The shrill of a tin whistle caught my attention, and I craned my neck to the officiant. Bets were officially called, and Crestwell remained the prime candidate for victory. The crowd grew animated as two figures stepped into the lamplight. The officiant stood in the center ring, his hand out to his left. “In this corner!” he announced. “Weighing in at one hundred and eighty five pounds, the challenger, Maximus Foster!” The first fighter stepped in. He was a spindle man, quick in his steps and young enough to be clean shaven. 

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“And in this corner, weighing in at two hundred and twenty pounds, the incumbent! Sebastian Crestwell!” In came the defending champion, and I saw at once why Foster was not favored by the odds. Sebastian Crestwell was a beast of a man, with most of his weight rounding out his thick shoulders and barrel chest. He was hidden from the nose down with a raggedy, bushy black beard, and eyes in the shadow of his wiry brow. I now was thankful I did not waste my money betting against the numbers.

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“Fighters!” Foster and Crestwell approached the center and tapped gloves as a show of sportsmanship. The officiant threw his hand out, and after a moment, yanked it back. A bell rang, and the fight began. The first round was exhilarating. Foster was a dancer on his feet, but Crestwell barely gave him an inch of headway. Had Foster not been fast to block, no doubt it would be a very quick match indeed. Crestwell managed a few solid blows, which nearly knocked Foster to the ground. But he stayed up long enough for the first bell to ring, and the fighters took their respective corners to rest before the second bout.

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“I must say, it’s quite the feat to stand your own against a man like that,” I remarked, helping myself to a handful of popcorn.

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“Quite.” Though Holmes had agreed with me, the lilt in his voice indicated that his mind was elsewhere. A detail I noticed straight away.

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“Holmes?”

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“Hm?” His eyes did not leave the ring.

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“Something on your mind?”

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Finally, he turned to me, and offered a smile to soothe my worries. “Just enjoying myself, dear friend.”

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Ding ding! 

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The second round had begun. With a new wind of life, Foster took initiative, dancing around Crestwell’s massive shadow like a water bug. Crestwell landed a few more hits, but took more than he gave. At one point, he managed to sneak in a right-hook, which sent Foster flying into the ropes. But rather than appreciating the moment, Crestwell pulled back and shook his hand, as though he’d hurt it. From where we were standing, I could surmise that Crestwell might have landed the hit incorrectly and twinged his wrist.

 

“Holmes, did you see—?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What do you think? Fracture, perhaps?”

 

Holmes narrowed his eyes as Crestwell readied his fists for Foster’s return. “Perhaps,” he said. “It’s most likely.” I was quick to notice that this was not a tacit agreement.

 

Ding!

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The end of the second round came about, and still, both men were up. As they rested at their corners, I could see both covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Foster rolled his shoulders, hoping to loosen his muscles and stay limber. As for Crestwell, I could see the man’s face burn red as he limply shook his fists in his gloves. Had he tweaked both wrists now? I hadn’t even remembered him landing a left punch. At the time, I had half a mind to stop the fight on my authority as a physician. In retrospect, I regret that my slowness to act very well cost Crestwell his life.

 

Ding-ding!

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The third bell rang. Crestwell pushed himself upright with great effort. Foster was as spritely as ever. The scales had tipped dramatically in Foster’s favor, as he showered his opponent in expertly timed blows. Crestwell’s footing was unstable now, with muscles twitching on either arm. He was distracted and winded to the untrained eye. To mine and Holmes’ own, we exchanged uneasy glances as we each understood that something was sorely wrong.

 

Our moment of distraction was suddenly interrupted by an explosion of cheers. Holmes and I whipped our heads back around to see Foster take initiative. Crestwell had barely the wherewithal to block, stepping back on uncertain feet. Eventually, Foster reared back and shocked the crowd with an uppercut so severe that Crestwell flew back and landed on the ground with a hard slap of his bare skin.

 

Holmes and I fought the onlookers to get a closer view. As we pushed our way forward, all eyes were on Foster as he held his hands up in victory. Only Holmes and I saw Crestwell shuddering and foaming at the mouth.

 

“Move away!” I heard myself shout. “This man is dying! Everyone move!” Confusion broke through the ring as I ducked under the rope to get a better look. Crestwell’s eyes were wide and glassy, his muscles spasming as though he had been hooked up to an electric wire. My mind raced to try and label the symptoms. Convulsions? Cholera? Or something more evident? I felt the pulse in his neck. His heart was erratic, and upon a quick inspection, I noticed that the bend in his neck was at an unnatural angle. “Good God… Holmes… This man’s neck has snapped.”

 

The moment such morbid words left my lips, Crestwell ceased to be. As though a switch had been flipped, his body went still, and his head lolled to one side. A pool of bile and blood now mixed beneath his lips, giving off a horrendous stench of death. Around us, a panic set in. I looked to Holmes. “Call a constable.”

 

“What’s wrong with him?” Foster, sweaty and wide-eyed, stared at the man laid out on the cold stone. “What… why ain’t he moving…?”

 

With a heavy heart, I removed my pocket watch. “Time of death, 10:43.”

 

“Time of…” I could see Foster’s face drain of color. Rather than panic, he shuffled back and collapsed against the hemp rope, his eyes fixed on Crestwell’s body. “No… No, I didn’t… did I…?”

 

“Quickly now,” I reminded Holmes. “We cannot let hysteria take hold.”

 

“You’re quite right, doctor. I shall be back momentarily.” Holmes glanced at Foster as he left the ring. “Mr. Foster. You would do well not to leave the area. I would hate to have to hunt you down.”