The Toff and the Deadly Priest by John Creasey

last a round,” said another.
    â€˜â€E don’t strip bad,” conceded a third, grudgingly.
    â€œHas he done any boxing to speak of?” Chumley asked, leaning across Isobel.
    â€œHe says he’s done a bit at Oxford,” answered Rollison. “I’m told he was in the finals three years running, but he struck good years.”
    â€œHe can’t compete with Billy,” Chumley said. “The man’s made of rock.”
    Isobel looked at him sharply, and then turned reproachfully to the Toff.
    The fight started ten minutes late, to roars which echoed up and down the street and were taken up by the hundreds who could not gain admission. As they touched hands in the centre of the ring and Billy danced back, agile for a heavyweight, and always surprising his opponents by his footwork, there was a tense, almost a stunned, silence.
    Kemp went in with a straight left which shook Billy, and jabbed a right above the heart, stopping a rush. Kemp danced back, and Billy seemed to stand still.
    Rollison thought, it’s a pity that Kemp’s started off so well. Until then, Billy the Bull had been inclined to take the bout lightly, but although his smile remained, there was a wary expression in his eyes; the blows had made him realise that he must not be careless. Kemp knew the ring and did not take chances. He kept out of the way of those long arms, only taking two punches of any weight, and riding them well. He got in a couple to the ribs, which stung but did no damage, and his footwork was good. He managed to keep the fight away from him without making it a dancing match, sparring rather than fighting, but in no way pretentious.
    When the gong went, the erstwhile silent crowd let forth; there was a new note in their voices. They knew that they were going to see a real fight, not to gloat over a massacre – for the majority had come to see the complete eclipse of the parson who thought he could punch. The most noticeable change was in the corner where Kemp’s friends were sitting. They were eager and almost elated; the whole party seemed to have been relieved of a great burden.
    Rollison glanced at Isobel.
    â€œEnjoying it?” he asked.
    â€œYou beast!” she said, half-laughing. “I half believe you were right!”
    The little man in Billy’s corner was shrill and vociferous. Kemp’s seconds, including Whiting, behaved as if they could not believe what they had seen, and they settled down to see their man through. Kemp glanced once towards Rollison’s corner, and his gaze lingered on Isobel. Then the gong went, and he began to fight well, still keeping out of range of Billy’s murderous left swing, which was the punch which had scored most of his knockouts. Kemp used his feet as if he were remembering the textbook all the time. The round was even.
    The change in the temper of the crowd was even more noticeable. Chumley shot a shrewd glance at Rollison, and Isobel sat back as if enjoying herself.
    Three rounds of hard fighting followed, with Billy doing most of the attacking but gaining no noticeable advantage, and certainly not gaining ascendancy. Watching closely, Rollison thought that Kemp was beginning to tire; there were red blotches on his fair skin. Billy the Bull showed only one or two, although Kemp had drawn blood first, by a slight cut on Billy’s lips. At the start of the sixth round, Billy went in as if he meant to finish it off once and for all. In the first minute, it looked as though he would succeed. He brought out a pace which surprised Kemp, who backed swiftly but could not ride the punches. One of those famous lefts took him on the side of the jaw, and staggered him. The crowd jumped to its feet. How Kemp fended off the follow-up, Rollison did not know. He felt as excited as the others.
    Kemp kept the knockout away, but towards the end of the round he was groggy. He staggered into his corner as the gong went.
    â€œThat’s