The Detective Wore Silk Drawers (12 page)

“Good. If you will keep your arms outstretched, I can take your chest measurement.”

Jago had not heard before of fist fighters being subjected to so comprehensive a physical survey. He tried to relax and submit to science. Somehow two beads of nervous sweat escaped from his right armpit and trailed coldly across his ribs.

“Expand your chest, Henry.”

She was distractingly close. The air was heavy with her perfume; no English flower he had smelt was anything like it.

“Good. You may have lost a little weight, but you have certainly gained in muscularity. Flex this arm and I will measure the bicep.”

“Will you remember the measurements,” asked Jago with a note of desperation in his voice, “or should I fetch pencil and paper for you?”

“Thank you, but I have a faultless memory for such things. Your waist, please.”

He felt her bare forearms take the tape behind his back.

Monstrous thoughts assailed him. Whatever happened, he must keep control. He tried to banish Isabel, sari and scent from his mind. Instead he would concentrate on Sergeant Cribb, that nose and those Piccadilly weepers.

The potency of Cribb’s image lasted for perhaps ten seconds, until Isabel coaxed her tape measure around Jago’s right thigh.

“Is this necessary?” he demanded in an outraged voice.

“Essential,” she murmured, crouching to her task like a bootboy. “Just relax, Henry.”

He looked down. The silk drape had slipped from her shoulder, but she had not attempted to replace it. The bodice gaped. With admirable self-control he averted his eyes at once.

But as he did so, his thigh twitched involuntarily.

She stood up. “You really are far too tense, Henry Jago. You are in no state to fight anyone tomorrow night, least of all Syl-vanus Morgan. You need massage at once. Come with me.”

There was nothing for it but to follow her as she swept aside the curtain and marched purposefully across the sitting room and through a door. It was a relief to escape from the unnatural—or too natural—intimacy of the dressmaking closet. On the way he picked up his bathrobe but immediately decided to replace it on the chair; any display of modesty now seemed like weakness.

Jago was in Isabel’s bedroom and the door was shut behind him before he had time to collect himself.

“Lie face downwards on the ottoman.”

Not the bed, thank heaven! He flattened himself to the velvet upholstery like an infantryman on the order of fire.

The ottoman was upholstered in crimson and positioned at the foot of a brass double bed covered with a satin quilt.

From his restricted viewpoint he could see a half-open wardrobe with a row of Isabel’s boots on the lowest shelf. A mirror on the inside of the door allowed him a glimpse of the dressing table where she was standing behind him. Its top was crowded with jars, cut-glass bottles and silver-backed brushes. She was pouring some liquid into her cupped hand.

Without another word she came to where he was and sat along the edge with her thigh lightly touching his hip. He felt the mild shock of the cool liquid as she pressed it between his shoulders, and then the warmth of the palms and fingers spreading it across his skin. Her hands worked with a sense of symmetry distributing the balm evenly, her fingers probing each band of muscle individually, kneading quite forcefully at first, gradually relenting to a stroking movement, until finally the touch was no more than a caress.

Whatever she was using on his body was distinctly aromatic, with a heady muskiness about it, unlike any branded liniment he knew. And it tingled on the skin like champagne on the palate.

“Good. I can feel you relax now. The muscles are becoming more supple.”

Once or twice her fingertips were raised clear of the skin while she continued to massage with the mounts of her palms. Jago found himself waiting for the sensation of her

fingers coming consecutively back into contact. It was devilishly hard not to luxuriate. For distraction, he turned his head to look through the vertical bars of the bedstead at the picture over the bed. It was an animal study, but no Landseer. A white stallion, eyes rolling in terror, reared in a desperate attempt to throw a tiger from its back. He would never understand Isabel’s taste in art.

He turned elsewhere for inspiration. Every decent influence in his life—parents, two devoted sisters in Gloucester-shire, Lydia—dear Lydia, the vicar, his housemaster, Sergeant Cribb—paraded before his troubled conscience to be ignominiously dismissed. Isabel Vibart dispatched them all with one breath on the nape of his neck.

Her voice was close to his ear. “Are you comfortable?”

What a question! “Extremely so.”

“You feel more relaxed here?”

“Quite so.”

“You find it hard to sleep in that room along the corridor?”

Good God! Did she believe D’Estin’s ravings the previous night?

“On the contrary. It is an excellent room.”

“That is good. Now I must rest a moment. Massage is tiring work.”

“You do it well.”

“I enjoy it.”

She continued to lean over him. Her hair, which had been swathed in a severe Indian style, must have worked loose with her movements, for he now felt its brushing motion across his shoulders. He arched his back a fraction at the sensation and felt his skin touch warm silk at two points.

And as he drew his chest to the velvet again, the yielding breasts nestled against his back. His pulse was racing.

“Shall I start again?”

“If you wish to.” He tried to convey the fact that he was not particular about massage any more.

“Then you must allow me to loosen your drawers and slip them over your hips. Otherwise I cannot massage your thighs.”

Fifteen minutes earlier it would have been unthinkable.

He felt for the lacing across his stomach.

“That is better. I am used to massaging men, you know.”

He wished she had not said so.

“I must get some more of the embrocation. Anointing oil I like to call it.” She went over to the dressing table.

He lay with the drawers around his knees and tried not to feel ridiculous. When she returned, she paused, standing at his side to survey him.

“You have a fine back, Henry. Not a mark on you. But I didn’t expect to see any.”

“What do you mean?”

“Spike marks, Henry. You refused the wrestler’s bridge.”

Her words acted on Jago like a jellyfish sting in a warm sea. The wrestler’s bridge! The gym. His humiliation. Now this confirmation that she had indeed been watching D’Estin punish him. Watching from her spy hole!

His body convulsed with shame. His head twisted to look at her and she knew exactly what was in his mind. There was total contempt in her expression.

Before he could tug his disabling garment about him, she fell on his back and with her fingernails clawed it from shoulder to loin.

“There’s a mark for you, Casanova!”

Then she fell across the ottoman laughing hideously.

Reeling with shame and confusion, Jago quit the room.

CHAPTER

12

“THAT—ER—CORPSE,” SAID INSPECTOR JOWETT WITH calculated disinterest. “The one you hooked out of the Thames a week or two ago. Head missing. Didn’t you have some theory at the time that he was a prize fighter?”

“Prize fighter? Oh, yes, prize fighter. I believe so, sir,”answered Sergeant Cribb, equally restrained. Deprived of the inspectorial pomp of desk, telephone and bookshelves, Jowett was a mere policeman in plain clothes. Looking down at him as they strolled in Hyde Park, Cribb even doubted whether he came up to the statutory five feet seven. Fancy! Quacks and professors had sought for years for a substance that would add an inch to a man’s height. They could have found the secret all the time at Great Scotland Yard—an old school tie.

“You didn’t take your investigations any further, then?”Jowett persisted. He had not gone to the trouble of arranging a rendezvous with Cribb to be snubbed like a street salesman.

“I’ve been very busy, you see, sir,” said Cribb. “Inquiries don’t come singly, as you know. Shall we head over that way, where the crowds are making for?”

Jowett looked in the direction Cribb was indicating. Some two hundred yards away across the grass a gathering of several hundred had formed. He was nervous of crowds.“What is it— speechmaking? Irishmen? Anarchists?”

“Unlikely, sir,” said Cribb. “The orators don’t stray far from Hyde Park Corner. Might be a prize fight.”

Jowett rose to the bait. “Good God!—do you think so?Let’s go the other way. We mustn’t get involved.”

“Observing them more closely, sir, I’d say it wasn’t a prize fight,” Cribb said. “Too many of the fair sex for that.” As though that settled the matter, he began walking more briskly towards the centre of interest, with Jowett reluctantly keeping up.

“Last week, Sergeant,” he said, a little breathless, more from anxiety than exercise, “there was a fist fight. In Essex.”

“Really, sir?” Inwardly, Cribb flinched. How much did Jowett know?

“Fortunately, it was stopped by the local constable—‘an unwelcome blue cloud on the horizon,’ as the reporter termed him.”

Cribb chuckled. “Very good, sir.”

“Quite so. Good Lord! What on earth is that?”

Above the level of top hats and ostrich feathers ahead of them, something of great size arched like an elephant struggling to its feet. But this was bright orange in colour, and its shape altered from second to second. It seemed to be straining for freedom.

“A balloon, sir!” said Cribb. “Must be the French aeronaut they interviewed in the
Morning Post.
He claims it’s dirigible. Ovoid in shape, you see, and he carries a propeller on the car. They’re inflating it with gas. Capital sight!”

Jowett was not so easily distracted. He stopped, holding Cribb’s arm to prevent him going on. “I didn’t arrange for us to meet in secret to watch a blasted balloon launching. I want to talk to you in private, Cribb. I picked Hyde Park, thinking it was inconspicuous.”

“We’d be less conspicuous in a crowd, sir.”

“Possibly, but I need to speak in confidence,” said Jowett.“Two weeks ago you asked permission to attend prize fighting. I gave my assent—reluctantly I may say—in the belief that you found attendance there absolutely vital to your investigation.”

“Fundamental, sir.”

“And as I remember, I warned you of the possible embarrassment to the Criminal Investigation Department if a county force learned you had been present at a prize fight in its area.”

Heavens! What had Jowett found out?

“I don’t know whether you were aware when you asked me that attendance—yes, even attendance—at a prize fight is illegal.”

Already preparing his excuses, Cribb recited the legal precedent. “ ‘An assembly of persons to witness a prize fight is an unlawful assembly and everyone present and countenancing the fight is guilty of an offence.’ Rex versus Billingham, 1826, sir.”

“Thank you. Now, Sergeant, I shall not ask you whether you were present at this squalid affair in Essex, but I think it right to tell you that if you attend a prize fight, it is your duty to intervene.”

“Yes, sir. I shall.”

Jowett looked up sharply. “You almost sound as though you know of one that has been arranged.”

“I—”

“Don’t tell me, Sergeant! Simply remember what I have said. Thugs like those two I read of—Judd and Jago—must be brought to justice.”

Cribb offered silent thanks for the obtuseness of his superior. The prospect of one of his staff
attending
a prize fight was as awful as anything Jowett was ready to contemplate.

Having now allowed for that possibility, he felt able to relax.

“It’s the French balloon, all right,” he announced confidently. “Look at the shape. You know, Sergeant, we’ve got a lot to learn from across the Channel. Looking ahead—and a policeman should always have a clear view of the future— I can see exciting possibilities in this ballooning. Imagine a police balloon patrolling the air over London. No criminal will feel secure on the streets.”

Sergeant Cribb was looking ahead, but less far. On the following evening Thomas Quinton, alias Henry Jago, was due to fight the Ebony. If Thackeray’s latest information from Shoreditch were correct, the fight would last twenty-six rounds before the Negro poleaxed Jago. The fight was arranged for somewhere in Surrey, so everyone but Isabel Vibart would leave Radstock Hall early, probably by eleven.

That woman held the information he wanted. There should just be time, if he were ready, to interview her at the Hall, and then set off in pursuit of the others. He was not notably perturbed by Jowett’s instructions, but he did feel under a sentimental obligation to Jago to stop the fight before the twenty-sixth round if possible.

¦ A cold supper was ordered for that evening, with the intention of getting the servants to their quarters as early as possible. Consultations about the fixing of fights were best held in total privacy. For Jago, the informality—one arrived in one’s own time on cold supper evenings—saved an embarrassing confrontation with Isabel. Furthermore, eating alone allowed him time to collect himself before the negotiations. After an early meal he went to his room and did not appear again until the visitors arrived at nine.

They came in a four-wheeler and Jago heard them welcomed by Vibart. Any resentment at the Ebony’s desertion had been quite dissolved by the prospect of profit. The bonhomie downstairs was worthy of a Crimea reunion. He went down to join them in the main drawing room.

“Ah, Jago. You haven’t met Matt Beckett.”

It was the strangest sensation shaking hands with a man he had known as a set of notes on a card for nearly two years.
“Beckett, Matthew.”
Hardly a day passed without that name fleetingly impressing itself on his brain.
“Crown tattooed
. . .”
He found himself checking the details.

Beckett showed no sign of recognizing Jago, although it was not long since they had shared a railway compartment after the Meanix fight. “You’re fit, I hope?” he said with a laugh. “All we ask of you, mate, is that you can get up when you’ve been grassed and that you can count to twenty-six, eh, Vibart?”

“No fears on that score,” Vibart assured him. “Jago’s been privately educated.”

“Has he indeed?” Beckett openly sneered. “Tomorrow night he’ll have a new tutor, then. Morgan here ain’t exactly a university man, but he’ll learn you a few points, Jago.”

“You haven’t met Mr. Foster, Jago,” Vibart intervened.

“He will act as second to Sylvanus tomorrow.”

“Foster, David. Born 1860. Five foot six. Ten stone.”
A strong grip for a slight man.

“Pleased to meet you, mate.” That was something for the card.
“Two lower front teeth missing.”

“Where’s Mrs. Vibart, then? We ain’t got the time for small talk,” said Beckett. There was menace in his voice, a grey neutrality in his eyes that one could not very well record by Scotland Yard methods.

“She’ll be down,” Vibart promised. “What are you drinking?”

“Rum and shrub for me,” Beckett said. “You can have ale, Morgan,” he told the Ebony, and added, speaking to Vibart, “in a pony glass. We don’t want no thick heads tomorrow.”

In spite of his welcome, the Ebony was ill at ease. He received his drink and sat hugely on a small high-backed chair in the centre of the room, concentrating on the pattern of the carpet. Jago selected an armchair against the wall. D’Estin brought him a ginger beer.

Everyone stood for Isabel’s entrance, in a black high-necked dress of surah silk, serene and gracious, difficult to credit as Jago’s assailant a few hours earlier. His back still smarted, though.

The introductions were made and Beckett at once began stating terms. “It must seem a fair stand-up fight, with Jago taking the early rounds to shorten the odds. I’ll keep Morgan reined until the tenth. You can have first blood.

When do you want it?”

“The fourth,” said D’Estin.

“Does he know what to do?”

“You go for the lip,” D’Estin told Jago. “And as you land, he bites it to make sure and the tide flows. You understand?”

“The fourth,” Jago confirmed, secretly telling himself Cribb would have stopped the fight before then.

“First four knockdowns and first blood to your man, then,” said Beckett. “Then Morgan must win two rounds.”

“Liver hits,” suggested Foster with relish. “A man goes down beautiful from a liver hit. You can always go to work on the face later, Morgan.”

The Ebony nodded. Jago glanced at the black fist enfolding the beer glass and looked quickly away again.

Isabel spoke: “We want no permanent injuries. Understand that, Sylvanus. A certain amount of blood is to be expected, but gouging is not. Show me your thumbnails.”

Humbly, the Ebony put out his hands.

“They must be cut. Whatever you do to our man in the final rounds, I want him fit to fight again within six months.

That means that any cuts must be superficial. What is that dreadful hold when you crook your arm around your adversary’s neck and hold his wrist while you batter his face with your free fist?”

“The suit in chancery,” the Ebony said.

“You must not use it on Jago.”

“Wait a bit, my lady,” said Beckett. “Morgan ain’t fighting to your orders now. No lasting injuries, we agree to, but you can’t dictate what punches he throws.”

“Mr. Beckett,” said Isabel quietly. “He is capable of killing a man. Would you be a party to manslaughter?”

Beckett considered the point. Jago, the potential victim, waited for the decision. It occurred to nobody to ask his opinion.

Beckett nodded. “Very well, then. No suit in chancery, Morgan. Now, are we agreed on a twenty-six-round fight or would you like Jago to twist his ankle in the fifth and retire?” The sarcasm helped him over the humility of conceding a point to Isabel. Plainly he did not like negotiating with a woman.

She ignored him. “You aren’t looking so well as you should, Sylvanus. I hope you are quite fit.”

“Fit enough,” the Ebony said without looking up.

“He’ll ’ave Jago on toast in the last rounds,” promised Foster, whose taste for violence seemed unusually well cultivated.

“You gave us no warning when you went,” Isabel continued. “That was a strange way to treat us after so many months here. It showed a singular lack of gratitude.”

The Ebony lifted his face in surprise. “Gratitude?”

“Don’t blame him, Mrs. Vibart,” said Beckett affably.

“Morgan’s a professional. He simply accepted a better offer.

There ain’t many openings for a fist fighter these days.

When one comes, you don’t turn it down.”

The Ebony, after seeming about to respond, lapsed into silence.

“Shall we settle the financial business here, Mrs. Vibart?”

Beckett went on. “I must give you a merry monk, I think.”

“Merry—”

“A monkey,” explained D’Estin. “Beckett owes you five hundred, Isabel. Two hundred back from your stakes and three hundred for tonight’s agreement.”

“Of course. My writing desk is in the morning room, Mr.

Beckett. Perhaps you will come there. I am sure I can leave you gentlemen to arrange the finer details for tomorrow between you. I intend to retire early, so I must wish you all good evening.”

They stood for her. With a rustle of silk she turned, smiled, and was gone, Beckett following. Jago wished she had stayed, and despised himself.

Foster, quite insensitive to the respect Isabel commanded, was quick to comment. “It ain’t every man that goes off with a young widow and five ’undred in flimsies in ’is pocket. We might be taking the four-wheeler back by ourselves tonight, Morgan.”

The remark was unacceptable in any circumstances; spoken by Foster, it was odious. Instead of the sly winks he expected, he found himself hauled by his shirt front to within a foot of D’Estin’s face.

“I suggest,” the trainer said in no more than a whisper, “that you retract that remark, because if you don’t, I shall take the greatest pleasure in returning it to the cesspit it came from.” The thumb and finger of his mutilated hand were ready to make the attempt.

“I withdraw it,” breathed Foster. “I apologize.” With that he backed into an armchair and cowered on it like a trapped hare.

D’Estin addressed the Ebony. “You actually deserted us to rub shoulders with scum like that? There’s better company in Colney Hatch.”

The Negro avoided meeting anyone’s eyes. His only response was a clenching and unclenching of the fists, more eloquent of helplessness than aggression.

“Just lose one fight and see how they treat you,” D’Estin persisted. “Don’t look to us for help.”

The Ebony got to his feet slowly, looked vacantly at D’Estin, and turned to Vibart. “I left some things here in the dressing room. I’d like to collect them, Mr. Vibart. Is the gymnasium open?”

“It should be. If not, I’ll open it,” Vibart said appeasingly.

“Will you have another drink first?”

“I’ve had enough already, thank you.”

The Ebony left the room. No one imagined he had anything to collect from the gymnasium. He was driven out by the unendurable atmosphere.

Cigars were exchanged and glasses refilled to revive cordiality. Vibart took the initiative in this. Whenever Isabel was absent, he cast his cynicism like a chrysalis and expanded as a personality. “Sylvanus is bloody worried,” he told Jago, half confidentially. “You’re looking fitter than he expected. Mark my words, he’s gone to exercise in the gym!”