Chapter 2: The Bare-Knuckle Pugilist

3rd May 1897

I gave my verbal report to the chief then requested that he let me take some officers to St. Agatha’s college of Domestic Service to bring the Governess and part-time pugilist Victoria Watson-Smythe to the Yard for questioning. This being in relation to the attacks upon the officers trying to arrest Suffragettes and the whereabouts of her mother. For I was certain that Victoria was the younger of the two women described in the reports. Which meant that her mother was most probably was the dangerous one who threw men around like nine-pins. The Chief looked at me with a strange look of resignation. “I’m afraid that will not be possible. St. Agatha’s has a special protection. Please do not ask me for I am not permitted to divulge it. Let us just say it is a mason’s charter and leave it at that”. I tried to protest that even masons were not above the law but he chided me on my naivety and instructed me to find another way to get the information that I sought.

5th May 1897

A runner came to my office and passed me a note. I gave the lad threepence and bade him to wait in case there was a reply. “Jack challenged V to a re-match the old-fashioned way this Friday. V accepts. For your personal interest only. Please acknowledge you understand. G”. I did not know what ‘the old-fashioned way’ was but understood that the cultured Mrs. Watson-Smythe had accepted a re-match with the working-class bully Jack and that Gordon did not want me attending in my official capacity which meant it was probably an illegal fight. I was sure that Gordon would not take me to the location of the match otherwise so I wrote a new note saying that I understood and would drop by to see him for a drink after I’d finished work on Friday then gave the note to the lad to return.

7th May 1897

After work, I met Gordon and a couple of his friends at his club then together got a carriage to Whitechapel. This was one part of London where I never went. It was old, wooden, narrow and crowded. It was nine years since Jack the Ripper yet nothing had changed. Whitechapel was still populated with prostitutes, violent crime and, yes, murderers. Gordon led us to what he assured us was one of the better public houses in the area, which is not saying much. There he introduced me to some of his peers, other club owners and trainers, as well as some unidentified ‘acquaintances’ for a few beers. Ignoring the hostile stares of some of the locals, he proceeded to enlighten me with more history about boxing in the not too distant past. “Do you remember me telling you about the boxing Baroness?” I told him that I did. “And you remember she fought bare-fisted and without rules” I nodded. Such matches were now illegal. If this was the fight we were about to view then this explained why Gordon had been so insistent that I had come as an off-duty civilian. “Despite her background she was upper-class. Amongst the working class there is a much older more tradition prevalent. Brutal uncontrolled scraps that took place in the rookeries”. He was referring to the older parts of the City that had not burnt down during the Great Fire of 1666 and had not been rebuilt. “It differed from venue to venue but it was no holds barred and fought to the end. Some allowed clubs, swords, and staves. It was a nasty business and unprofessional. Injury and death was common”

“And women fought in such matches?” I asked. “Yes lad. Working class women or prostitutes trying to make a little money or to settle a grudge. Some did it for money, others fought for clothing, gin or men. The Irish lasses in particular were renown for being especially tough. They often fought stripped to the waist with their hair bound upon their heads so that they could fight unencumbered. The sight of an aggressive woman, sweaty, bloody and bare breasted gave the watching men a titillating display of animality and passion rarely seen in polite society. These were no ordinary cat-fights, things got very bloody indeed and vicious. It was also a powerful denial of the popularly held belief about the natural passivity, gentleness and weakness of the female sex”. That had been my perception too until the professionally run boxing matches at Gordon’s club. “Would they fight men?” I asked getting interested. “Indeed and sometimes beat them too. These were rough tough brutish women that kept on fighting until submission or death. They would fight on through broken jaws and noses, smashed teeth, bloodied mouths and swollen eyes”. That indeed was repellent. The thought that the otherwise respectable Mrs. Watson-Smythe would partake in such barbarism did not sit right with the image I had of her.

One of Gordon’s ‘associates’ announced that it was time to sup up and leave. Gordon advised that we should visit the bathroom before we leave unless I wished to urinate in public which I did not. We were then led through the maze of streets and dim narrow alleys. The further we went, the more my heart sank to see such endemic poverty. Finally we arrived at a large courtyard formed by tall filthy terraced housing on all four sides. We made our way to the front of a line of people lining a central area lit by the fading rays of the sun where the fight was to be conducted and waited as the crowd built up. Soon people were crowded from every open window and packed upon every terrace. “Keep your wits about you and your hand upon your wallet for the pick-pockets and cut-purses will be out in force, and don’t purchase food or drink from the sellers unless you want to spend the night throwing up your own guts” Gordon warned.

A commotion ran through the massed throng as at long last a small group of people moved into the middle of the square. Out came the organiser of the event, a tall seedy looking man in a long leather coat flanked by a gang of brutish thugs. Alongside was Jack and his seconds. He was stripped to the waist showing off his impressive powerful physique which would intimidate most men. His face still bore the bruises from his encounter the previous week. In his hand was a wicked looking cudgel and I became afraid for the woman remembering Gordon’s earlier historical discourse. Victoria herself seemed unperturbed, flanked as she was by a couple of well-dressed lady supporters. Once again, she dressed well wearing a smart white blouse with pretty frills and lace that seemed out of place for such a sordid location. Her waist was pinched by a corset beneath and belted with a wide black leather strap. Her large firm bosom and hour-glass figure drew much remark of a baldy nature. The skirt she wore was long and black made of some lighter fabric than when I’d last seen her box and came down to her ankles. However as she moved I saw that the skirt was divided with overlapping panels as if meant to allow movement for riding. Although why the lady would wear a riding dress, I could not understand.

Once more she resembled a stern-looking school teacher. Her hair was pulled back quite severely and pinned into a bun at the back of her head but remarkably it was topped with a large wide-brimmed showy hat featuring lace and plumes which seemed most out of place. Her thin pinched face was cold, stern and unemotional as she removed her spectacles and passed them to one of her ladies. I saw her glance at Jack and the cudgel in his hand then spoke with her supporters who passed her a rolled long-handled umbrella. I was most perplexed, was she expecting rain? There was no referee, no civilities. The organizer and his heavies and both sets of supporters backed out of the cleared arena leaving Jack grinning evilly while the tall, slim, strict-looking middle-class governess faced him showing no emotion. Her dainty fists were raised with the umbrella hanging from her arm. Dressed as for a garden party, she looked completely misplaced in this hell-hole. Surrounded by the dregs of humanity, the crowd weren’t here for a display of boxing skill and professionalism, they just wanted the entertainment of seeing two human beings beating each other senseless and the more bloody it was the better. I suspected that they wouldn’t be on her side due to her class which she flaunted in their faces. However in the end they would not really care who won as long they beat their opponent to pulp.

This time Jack didn’t even bother with any niceties neither did her even bother to engage in any fisticuffs. He raised the heavy cudgel above his head making his arms look thick, muscular and fearful. Then he ran at her screaming loudly. The mob roared their approval sensing the start of a bloody end to the snobby woman in their midst. My stomach clenched in knots of worry. The rampaging man was almost upon her about to bring the cudgel crashing down to smash her skull when showing no concern, she gracefully slipped the umbrella from her arm and, gripping it with both hands, quickly thrust it towards his oncoming body point first. Jack was too close and running too fast to stop. The out-thrust point impaled itself deep between the muscled ridges on his belly. “Arrrghhh!” he yelled as the point drove right in. Barely had he began to crease forwards when she withdrew the umbrella and in a single fluid movement with bent knee drove the point up into the flesh beneath the jaw. “Arghh!” he cried as the thrust of the umbrella elevated his face upwards. Deftly she spun the umbrella around and caught his neck in the crook of the handle. A sudden tug brought his head down to the level of her waist. With impressive athleticism her long black skirt divided and a panel rose as her knee snapped up to meet his face. CRUD! The crowd roared as blood spurted in all directions as his nose broke upon her knee. The umbrella spun once more and the point was driven hard into the crook of his right arm. “Argh!” his hand flew open and the cudgel fell to the ground. Once more the umbrella spun as Victoria’s skirt lifted and her booted foot came down upon his knee. “Argh!” he screamed again, only to be silenced when the handle of the umbrella was brought down with force upon the base of his neck. In an instant the ruffian was down upon the ground, once again the male champion floored within seconds by a sophisticated middle-class woman.

The crowd roared for her to smash his skull with the handle but instead the cultured woman kicked the cudgel out of the arena then threw her surprising deadly weapon to one of her seconds. With a look of stern reproach she addressed the bloodied man struggling to get to his feet. “Try something like that again and I promise I will break your arm. Now show some decorum and face me like a man”. Just then I felt a light tug upon my pocket. My hand closed around a tiny wrist and I looked down to find a small grubby face. The lad stuck out his tongue and his greasy wrist slipped out of my grasp and he fled without my wallet. It was then that I realised that unlike this low-life crowd who had probably never seen a bath let alone use on, Victoria was impeccably clean and washed.

Jack’s reply was unrepeatable and should never be heard by sensitive female ears. With a snarl he launched himself at her with fists the size of lump-hammers raised to give her a battering. Looking calm and collected with a studious glare, she waited with her own fists raised. The sight of a feminine graceful albeit stern-faced and buxom-figured woman in such a pose showing great confidence and ready for violent action caused my member to stir in arousal. She let him get so close that I nearly cried out aloud as he began to launch a mighty swing at her head. With her forearms in front of her face for protection, she surprised me by suddenly leaning her torso right back at a sharp angle out of reach of the blow. At the same time the front of her divided skirt snapped up high in an instant as her knee blasted into his sternum. WHUMP! “Naarurfffff!” he yelled as his body jerked upwards and his face became a grotesque mask of pain. I felt excitement in my loins that she could get her knee so high. Without pause her torso snapped up straight then her fists slammed right into his mouth. BLAM! BLAM! I was shocked, these weren’t dainty little punches from a delicate lady. BAM! BAM! Her fists struck rapidly again, too fast for him to block. They were audibly loud punches that rocked his head back and forth a couple of times in rapid succession. BAM! BAM! She struck again. There was something raw and feral and highly exciting about a well-dressed classed woman inflicting hard punches with her bare fists.