The English Killer (An Ennin Mystery) (The Ennin Mysteries Book 31) Page 2

  Figg was a true master of the cross-buttock. It is no exaggeration to say that I had never seen the move performed faster – or harder. As expert a fighter as Ennin undoubtedly was, still I think he even knew what was happening before he found himself being hurled up in the air – and then brought down hard towards the ground.

  I gave a gasp as I instantly realized Figg’s ultimate intent; he intended to bring his full body weight crashing down upon the Japanese man – with his right elbow also impacting straight into Ennin’s face. But using his left forearm, Ennin seemed somehow to ‘break’ his fall upon landing, thus avoiding significant damage from this initial impact, and twisted out of the way as the English Killer fell hard upon the spot he’d occupied just a split-second before.

  Then Ennin was upon Figg’s back, both his arms wrapping around the English Killer’s neck in a complicated choke-hold, the stricken Englishman’s face fast turning purple as he attempted to croak –

  ‘Foul! Foul…!’

  It took a number of us watching – including Captain Spillard, Ennin’s servant and the translator Nakayama – to separate the two men. Figg continued to protest that Ennin had cheated (while also coughing a great deal and rubbing his injured neck), and we conceded that, technically speaking, he was correct. But then his use of the cross-buttock had been unexpected and wholly undeclared; as such, he’d somewhat ‘blurred’ the rules governing bare-knuckle boxing himself.

  The fight was hurriedly judged a ‘draw’ by Captain Spillard, thus permitting both fighters (and Figg in particular) to save face. With evident ill-grace, Figg briefly shook hands with Ennin before stomping off (some Japanese will shake hands with the gaijin or ‘foreigners’, although their own custom is to exchange a bow), pausing only to look contemptuously at James Plummer, who was sat against the stone wall of one warehouse, still recovering from his recent thrashing.

  I then learnt that Ennin and his servant were staying at an inn near to the bridge which connects Leaving Island to the city harbor. I knew the area, having been there once or twice, although the foreigners on this island are seldom permitted to venture onto the mainland. (A few years earlier, an English sailor had been killed, and two badly injured, in a drunken brawl with some samurai. Ever since that time, contact with the ‘natives’, as it were, was greatly restricted.)

  Where Ennin and his servant were staying, I knew, were those houses where the yujo, or ‘women of the night’, plied their trade. It was all very tightly controlled, with the women of each building wearing matching kimono, almost as a sort of ‘in-house’ uniform.

  Still, these women knew that they could make excellent money – better than they could get from their usual, Japanese customers – from some of the men on Leaving Island. As such, and as I have already mentioned, they frequently stole across the bridge at night, knowing that they might ‘encounter’ an amorous foreigner waiting inside one of the cavernous dark warehouses.

  Out of the way of prying eyes, as it were…

  It was a practice grudgingly permitted by Captain Spillard, who knew that those men under his command had to have some release from the tedium of the endless months spent almost solely upon the small island, with precious little save for cards, grog and tobacco to alleviate their boredom.

  I was not so in favor of it, regardless. As a physician, I’d had to try and treat several men for the extremely unpleasant afflictions which can affect those who have to resort to prostitution. As the well-known saying puts it –

  ‘One night spent with Venus – a lifetime spent with Mercury…’

  The following morning, having slept a little late, I was awoken by a loud knocking upon my door. I staggered out of bed, and opened it to see Captain Spillard himself stood there.

  ‘Sir?’ I said, wiping bleary eyes.

  ‘Quickly, man, get dressed and come. It’s Robert Figg.’

  ‘What? Is he sick?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s dead, man – murdered.’

  Shocked, I opened my mouth to blurt something else; but again there came the curt instruction to get dressed, and I did so in just a few moments. I, Captain Spillard and a few others then went outside, and entered into one of the warehouses.

  I gasped as I saw Figg lying there, a mixed expression of anger and shock upon his face, the top of his skull having been stoved in with such ferocity that his very brains were showing. The dusty ground around his head was black with blood, flies buzzing above, and lying nearby was a length of wood – Japanese oak, the hardest wood in the world. One end was stained with blood, so that it wasn’t hard to realize that this had to be the murder weapon.

  (There were any number of wooden caskets, barrels and the like inside this warehouse – just like every warehouse on Leaving Island. As such, it wasn’t at all surprising to see pieces of timber, of various types, lengths and sizes, lying around.)

  Once I’d got over the initial feeling of shock, it was hard to know exactly what Captain Spillard expected me to do. Check Robert Figg’s pulse? Undoubtedly he was dead; and as the morning was quickly getting hotter, the flies around the corpse increasing in number, it seemed to me advisable that the ‘English Killer’ was buried, either at sea or in the earth, as quickly as possible…

  There suddenly came shouting, from outside the warehouse. I looked over at the entrance, amazed, as several men dragged James Plummer inside.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ demanded Captain Spillard; then he saw, as did the rest of us, the smear of blood across the front of Plummer’s white shirt.

  ‘Just came down from his room, sir, and sat down bold as brass to his breakfast,’ said one of the men, who’d brought the young man into his warehouse. ‘Didn’t even realize he had this bloodstain upon his shirt – then we heard that… Well, that Figg’s body here had been discovered, and everything became obvious.’

  Plummer was panting hard, and seemed to have trouble looking at the battered corpse of the man who’d given him such a sound thrashing just the previous day.

  ‘Did you do this, Plummer?’ asked Captain Spillard gravely.

  ‘I…’

  ‘I’m waiting, lad…’

  ‘Yes,’ said Plummer abruptly, his bruised face at once losing its shocked expression, and instead becoming hard and resolved. ‘Yes, I did, sir. I found Figg here late last night, and when I realized that I’d never be able to beat him with my fists, I smashed in his head with that length of wood.’

  ‘You mean – you mean you started fighting again?’ demanded the Captain.

  ‘Exactly that, sir. But when I knew that I was just going to lose again, I got that weapon there, and – well…’

  ‘A sickening, cowardly action, lad,’ said Captain Spillard, shaking his head, ‘and one which I fear you’ll pay heavily for. Take him, and put him in the cell, here on this island.’

  ‘Say what you will,’ cried Plummer. ‘But nothing could be more ‘sickening’ or ‘cowardly’ than what that man lying there did – and to my own, half-blind older brother, and then my father! Rot him; I care no more about killing him than if I’d merely swatted a fly…’

  ‘Take him to the cell,’ said the Captain firmly, addressing the men holding the young Plummer, ‘and then maybe we’ll finally learn what the real story is here…’

  There was only the single cell, in a small building that was next to the Captain’s private residence. The room next door could be used as a court – for we have our own laws and punishments here on Leaving Island, and that includes the power to execute a man for the crime of murder. Things, it had to be said, already looked black for young Plummer.

  He sat in the cell, on a wooden cot fixed to one stone wall. He stared at us through the thick wooden bars. There was Captain Spillard, myself – and also Ennin, his servant and the translator Nakayama. It was due to Nakayama that the famous Japanese detective (and also his servant, whose name I gathered was Kukai) were also able to hear Plummer’s incredible story.

  ‘You said earlier that I and Figg had th
e same accent, Mr. Bradley – something I’m sure others here had already picked up on. Well, we both come from Devonshire – or came, as it is in Figg’s case now – and in particular from a small set of villages, which lie no great distance from the city of Plymouth and thus the sea.

  ‘You should know that I have an older brother, who was kicked in the face by a horse in childhood and so left blind in one eye. In time, also, the sight in his other eye began to fade, so that he was effectively half-blind. Depressed by this, he took to drinking more than was good for him, in the local inns.

  ‘He was near mortal-drunk one evening when Figg – then a young man – and his gang of bully boys entered the same inn he was in. I wasn’t there (I was still effectively just a child), but by all accounts, as my brother made his way to the toilet – feeling his way by using the walls and the wooden bar, what with his poor sight and also the effects of the drink – Figg tripped him up. My brother went flying into a table, upsetting a load of drinks on its surface.

  ‘Maddened, he demanded to know who’d tripped him.

  “It was me,’ returned Figg, sneering at him. ‘And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll just laugh about it same as us.’

  ‘Well, my brother always had a short temper, especially when he was in drink. Also, despite his poor sight, he was no slouch with his fists.

  “Laugh about it?’ he returned, picking himself up. ‘You’ll be laughing on the other side of your face in a few minutes. Outside with you, now.’

  ‘A few men – those who’d had their drinks upset by my brother’s falling body – spoke quietly to him, warning him against pitting himself against Figg. Figg’s torso was powerful in a collarless white shirt, his hair then long, black and curly. He was feared throughout the county as a bare-knuckle boxer; and here was my poor, half-blind brother challenging him out.

  ‘Well, my brother would not listen to the other men’s good advice. No arguing with him when his blood was up. He marched outside with Figg, into the small lane that ran beside the inn; and there Figg proceeded to give my brother the thrashing of his life, all the while egged on by his mates.

  ‘From the very start, my brother could barely manage to get a blow in. Soon, it was all he could do to try and cover himself up, as Figg’s colossal fists smashed into his face and body. His remaining eye was soon hopelessly swollen, so that he was completely blind; and finally he sank to the stony ground, Figg taking the opportunity to sink a few more body-shots in as he collapsed.

  ‘Laughing, Figg and his mates returned inside the inn; and some of the other men who’d watched the bloody altercation – but who’d dared not try and intervene – fetched a wooden barrow, tenderly placing my brother’s beaten, unconscious body on top of it before transporting him back to my parent’s hut as quickly as possible.

  ‘I can still remember being awoken by my mother’s screams, and my father’s shouted oaths. Wet towels were placed upon my brother’s poor, bleeding face, and the best doctor my parents could afford hurriedly sent for. He came, clucked about my brother’s eye – he feared he might even have lost the sight in that one, too, because of the attack – and then advised that my brother be kept in a dark room, and fed such broth as he was able to slurp down through his horribly swollen lips.

  ‘Shouting, completely enraged, my father stormed out of our hut. He was a simple farmer, not known as a fighter, but for all his advancing years his body was still powerful, and he fully intended to give Figg the thrashing of his life.

  ‘He stormed into that inn (I heard what happened later, from people who were there) and without even saying anything immediately ‘drew the box’ on Figg – that is, hit him without any warning at all. By all accounts it was a powerful punch, made even more terrible by my father’s anger, and it might very well have signaled Figg’s final defeat.

  ‘But Figg had his mates with him, and together they were too much for my poor father. Dragging him outside, they set about him with fists and feet, kicking him unmercifully and leaving him draped unconscious over a dry stone wall by a field. They reckon my father passed little bits of bone through him right till the day he died, a good few years after, because of the beating he received that day.

  ‘Anyway, back he came in the very same barrow that had earlier transported my brother, and the elderly doctor tended my father’s injuries as best as he could before he and my brother were left to recover in the same dark room.

  ‘Soon after, we heard, Figg left to go to sea – a common move for a young man in Devonshire, life otherwise offering precious little in the way of excitement or adventure. I took the same route almost as soon I was of age, and found myself sailing for the Orient, and so stopping in such places as Macau, Hong Kong, Yokohama – and then Leaving Island, which is where I saw Robert Figg. I neglected to say that I’d previously seen him in my own village – he was notorious locally – and so had no problem recognizing him as the bully who’d so badly beaten up my half-blind brother, and my father.

  ‘But how did he recognize you, if you were still only a child when he – Figg – left to go to sea?’ demanded Captain Spillard, who like all of us appeared fascinated by this tale. (There was again a quick, low murmuring as Nakayama translated this last question into Japanese for Ennin.)

  ‘Because I told him,’ returned Plummer simply; and I’d scarcely seen such honesty as was displayed upon his broad, bruised face. ‘Walked past him one day, almost beside myself with pent-up fury, what with watching that man swagger around and everyone deferring to him, ‘cause they were so scared of his fists, and I said –

  “You beat up my half-blind brother years back, in the village of Upper Downton, and then my father; and somehow, here on the other side of the world, fate’s given me a chance to avenge them.’

  ‘But, still, I’d no idea what to do after that. Doubtless he recalled his terrible behavior all those years before, and he stared hard at me each time we passed each other after that; but I’m not a sailing man for nothing, and discipline is discipline. I knew I couldn’t simply start brawling on this island; not at least till yesterday, when his damn sneer as I passed him was too much to take – and then came his mocking…’

  ‘I see,’ said Captain Spillard slowly, after a few moments had passed. ‘Well, if what you say is true, there was certainly provocation enough for your actions. But – you are now faced with a charge of murder, man. I urge you, as strongly as ever I have urged anyone, to tell me exactly what happened last night…’

  With Nakayama continuing to quickly translate for the Japanese detective, Plummer said –

  ‘There’s no great story there, sir. I left my room at night to use the lavatory, to put it plainly, and just as I stepped outside I saw Figg take the staircase that is at the end of the corridor. It was obvious that he was going outside with the intention of seeing if he could find one of the Japanese women who come upon this island at night; and, quietly, I followed him outside. I walked behind him, into the warehouse where you found his body.

  ‘Then… Well, we argued, fought for a bit, then I lost my head and grabbed a piece of wood and… Well, that’s about it, really. I’ve nothing much more I can really say.’

  It seemed to me that Plummer was somewhat glossing over what had taken place inside that warehouse. Perhaps the memory of his crime was now beginning to pain him, after all, for all his defiant words of before.

  ‘And you would have said nothing, if that bloodstain hadn’t been seen on your shirt?’ asked the Captain

  Plummer gave a slight, tired, humorless smile.

  ‘I don’t believe in deliberately inserting one’s head into the noose, sir,’ he replied. ‘No, I would have been perfectly content to have had the identity of Figg’s ‘assailant’, as it were, to remain unknown. But I didn’t notice that bloodstain upon my shirt, what with it being nighttime, and still being out of sorts, what with general adrenalin and nerves, and sleeplessness, when I came down to breakfast in the morning, still wearing that same shirt…’
/>
  The Japanese detective suddenly spoke. (Or rather the translator, Nakayama, but so as not to weary the reader, I shall write as though Ennin was just addressing us directly.)

  ‘You were carrying a candle or lamp when you left your room, and saw Robert Figg take the stairs?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Plummer almost irritably, and I noticed he had obvious trouble meeting the detective’s eyes. (Of course, his reply went first through Nakayama.) ‘As I say, I’d only left my room with the intention of using the lavatory. I know the way well enough, whether it be dark or light.’

  ‘Yet you were able to discern Figg’s shape upon the stairs…’

  ‘He… he coughed – I knew his cough well enough, also, for he often smoked a pipe. Then, peering closer, I was just able to see a man of large build take the stairs. It could hardly have been anyone else, save Robert Figg!’

  ‘I see,’ said Ennin, completely calm in the face of Plummer’s strange, and somewhat sudden, show of hostility.

  ‘Well, lad, I’d better do things by the book here,’ said Captain Spillard slowly. ‘You’ll go on trial charged with murder; there’ll be a defense counsel to be appointed, together, of course, with one for the prosecution… I’ll start getting things organized, though I can’t say I’ve ever had to do this sort of thing before, or indeed hoped that I would have to…’

  Shaking his head mournfully, the grey-haired, powerfully-built Captain started walking away from the small cell. This indicated to the rest of us that we should do the same; and as we exited outside, Ennin said to the Captain –

  ‘Would you have any objection, Captain, if my servant Kukai and I were to return at nightfall? Given the circumstances of this case, I think there is something that needs to be made known, as quickly as is possible.’