The Detective Wore Silk Drawers (7 page)

“And so you want to make money, large amounts of money, from your skill as a fighter.”

“If I can.”

“We shall see. If you have the ability, the prizes are considerable. What will you say if your prospective father-in-law asks where your fortune came from?”

It was a question Cribb had not anticipated. Jago thought of Colonel Boltover.

“My feeling is that he would be sufficiently impressed by the money not to inquire where it came from, but if he discovered the truth, I doubt whether it would make much difference. He is a sportsman.” Correct in its way, although Boltover’s enthusiasm for Lord’s was unlikely ever to extend to secret prize rings in Essex fields.

“I hope you are right. I should not want your . . . new interests here to lead to an estrangement between you and the young lady.” Mrs. Vibart spoke with a strange emphasis. Jago felt the colour begin to rise to his cheeks. Blushing had always been his problem, a grave handicap to a plainclothes man. “Well, Mr. Jago,” she said. “I must show you my gymnasium.”

It was of small significance, but Jago was fascinated by Mrs. Vibart’s poise. Throughout their conversation she had sat forward on her chair, as upright as a governess, emphasizing the cut of her velvet bodice. And now she rose with scarcely any tilt of her body. As an athlete, Jago marvelled at such control. She had, in effect, performed a standard gymnastic exercise which he often practised. Even allowing for her slight build and the probable support of a corset, she could not have risen so elegantly without considerable power in her thighs. Jago blushed again.

She led him through a billiard room, superbly equipped, where her brother-in-law was practising shots. He did not look up as they passed.

“Here it is,” she said, opening a baize-covered door. “Mind that you say it impresses you, Mr. Jago, because I am very proud of my gymnasium.”

No need for deception. He had never seen a hall so comprehensively equipped. Each activity had its own section of apparatus: vaulting standards and boxes; ropes and bars for climbing; dumbbells and weights; punching bags; and, at the far end, a full-sized ring.

“Unbelievable!”

“So everyone says.”

“How many fighters are you training here?” Jago asked.

“At present, only one. You will meet him later.”

“Was all this built for him?”

She laughed. “Oh, no. There were others. They left us, though. It is not easy to stay long in the top class, as you will find.”

“Who were they?”

“Oh, they came from the Midlands. You wouldn’t have known them.”

“And did they win their fights?”

“Mostly. I should now like to see you exercise, Mr. Jago, if you are not too tired. There is a dressing room over there, and you will find drawers and pumps to fit you. I shall wait here.”

Mrs. Vibart’s request was made almost whimsically. But when Jago entered the dressing room, he realized that his appearance in the gym was prescribed some time before. The accommodation was spacious enough for a football team, but only two cubicles were labelled. The first, in excellent copperplate, read “Sylvanus Morgan” and the second “Henry Jago.” Inside were freshly laundered white boxing drawers with a black sash. He changed, and found them a sound fit. Under the bench were two pairs of gym shoes. The first he tried were right.

Bodily display was not usually embarrassing to Jago; stripping for the gym had become daily routine. This afternoon it was an ordeal. As he entered the vastness of the gym, conscious that everything he wore was owned and chosen by Mrs. Vibart, he felt as naked as Adam.

“Come over here, Henry Jago,” the Christian name spoken with emphasis, as though to impress on him that he could not preserve formalities now; although when he really considered it, “Mr. Jago” did seem inappropriate in white drawers. “Edmund is right. You have an excellent physique. Don’t stand over there. I want to examine you.”

Jago advanced to be examined.

For perhaps fifteen seconds Mrs. Vibart’s eyes travelled over his body.

“A good pectoral development and strong biceps. That suggests work with dumbbells or barbells. Your neck is quite strong-looking too, isn’t it? The legs could improve with some work, I think. How are your abdominal muscles? May I feel?”

She pushed her hand firmly into his diaphragm.

“That, Henry Jago, seems your weakest point. Flex it, please.” With the side of her hand she prodded the area below Jago’s ribs. “Yes, we can strengthen you there. You wouldn’t last long in a fist fight in your present condition. Have you ever used a rowing machine?”

“I did some rowing . . . years ago,” said Jago. The words “at school” had almost slipped out.

“Several years, I should think,” said Mrs. Vibart, smiling. “You are an admirer of Blondin, my maid tells me. His abdominal muscles are uncommonly powerful, or he would never retain his balance. I don’t advise you to attempt to cross Niagara Falls for the present.”

Jago smiled, remembering his exhibition in the Fox.

“Let me see your back.”

Jago turned.

“Flex the arms, please, and hold that position.”

“You’ve found another one then, Isabel. And quite a handsome show of flesh, eh?” A man’s voice, suddenly close to where Mrs. Vibart was standing.

“Robert? You’ve come back early. Turn round, Mr. Jago, and meet Mr. D’Estin. Robert is a family friend, and I hope that he will agree to train you.”

Jago obeyed.

He was eye to eye with one of the most powerful men he had encountered. If Mrs. Vibart set her physical standards by Robert D’Estin, Jago could see why his own physique had not been passed as perfect. Yet there was nothing gorilla-like about him; he was uniformly well-proportioned, and good-looking. The face intelligent and clear-skinned, the moustache neatly barbered. He held a silver-topped cane.

“Glad to meet you, Jago.”

A handshake.

The sensation was so unexpected that Jago could not disguise his shock. The hand that gripped his had three fingers missing.

“Accident with a duck gun,” D’Estin explained. “Four-bore. A good gun, too, from Bond Street. The barrel blew up. Improperly cleaned, you see, so I’ve got this to remind me. The bastard that neglected his job has his own souvenir of the occasion. I saw to that.”

Jago was sometimes grateful for a limited imagination. Violence allied to such power was appalling to contemplate.

“Well, Mr. Jago,” said Mrs. Vibart, formal again in D’Estin’s presence, “I would like to ask you to use my gymnasium. I am sure that Robert would like to see you exercise.”

It was a relief to turn to activity, and less of an ordeal now that it was not for an audience of one. He picked up a skipping rope and loosened his muscles with two minutes’ work. Then the five-pound dumbbells, curling them slowly up from arm’s length twenty times; and then twenty pushes upwards from the shoulders. After this he jumped for the rings suspended from a beam, and swung his body upside-down, pulled his shoulders to ring level and then righted himself slowly. These were not exhibition pieces, but he preferred to perform efficiently and conscientiously.

“Now the sawdust bag,” called D’Estin. “Let’s see your fists working.”

Jago moved over to where a large sack was suspended, and began working at it, finding a rhythm in his punching, and weaving and feinting as he had learned in the Anchor gym.

“Good. You move well,” said D’Estin finally. “Let’s see your hands.”

Jago walked over and opened his palms.

“The knuckles, man.”

He turned them over. They were red from the roughness of the hessian.

“Tender, are they?” D’Estin asked, without much sympathy in the expression. “They want pickling. When do we start, Isabel? Can we get these delicate dukes in vinegar tonight? The sooner, the better.”

“What do you think, Mr. Jago?” she asked, smiling again. “Are you still game for a fist-fighting career?”

“If you’ll take me on.” He was beginning to enjoy the prospect.

“Very good. I don’t have to tell you that shedding the gloves has its dangers for a fighter, outside the ring as well as in. A fist fighter blatantly breaks the law; if you are arrested at a prize fight, you can offer no defence. The penalties will be heavy. There are compensations, however. We shall keep you in food and lodging, and you will be paid five shillings a day while you are in training. My commission on your fights is fifty per cent of your earnings. Is that acceptable?”

“Entirely.” It was rather better than he was getting at Scotland Yard.

“Excellent. I think we can spare him the vinegar treatment until tomorrow, Robert, but he will need physicking, of course.”

“Physicking?” queried Jago.

“The first step in getting a man fit, my friend,” D’Estin explained. “A strong emetic, and then purging with Glauber’s salts. A week of dosing should get your stomach clear.”

CHAPTER

7

TWO COMMUNICATIONS OF GREAT SIGNIFICANCE WERE delivered to Sergeant Cribb on the following Friday. The first was a telegraph message:

Radstock Hall.

19th July, 1880

Second Report of Investigation presently being conducted
at Radstock Hall, Rainham by 325, Jago, Henry Fortescue,
Police Constable attached to M Division.

Further to my Report of 16th Inst. I have the honour to submit the following account of subsequent developments.

July 17th. I passed this day in abject discomfort, the direct consequence of the two ounces of Glauber’s salts administered to me the evening before. I was awakened at six by D’Estin, who ordered me to strip and then advanced on me with horsehair gloves and rubbed my flesh into an inflamed state. The cold bath that followed cooled me somewhat before the rubbing began afresh. Then a two-mile walk outside the grounds, which in other circumstances I should have enjoyed. On this occasion it was with some relief that I returned to the Hall. Breakfast followed, consisting of a broiled cutlet of mutton, stale bread and strong tea. D’Estin then took me in hand again, the morning’s programme consisting of alternating showers and massage. After the midday meal, for which I was served roast beef, stale bread, a mealy potato and a small portion of greens, I was allowed to move about gently until nature had been complied with, and then to the gymnasium. Much barbell work and some sparring with the sack, all under D’Estin’s direction. Then more rubbing, another shower, and a slow walk through the grounds. Two lightly boiled eggs and dry toast for tea.

I did not see Mrs. Vibart at all during the day. The Ebony I met briefly at tea, but found him uncommunicative. He was not present at all during the evening when I played billiards with D’Estin. I retired soon after eleven, but no sooner had I drawn on my nightshirt than the water jug commenced to vibrate and rattle so noisily that I began to suspect a poltergeist was at work. When I raised the jug from its position on the commode, I found that I could hear the real origin of the vibrations. From somewhere in my wing of the house came the strains of organ music, some fugue of Bach so inexpertly rendered that I at once set the water jug down, where its rattling drowned the sound for the next forty minutes. Vibart, it seems, has a chamber organ in his bedroom and is accustomed to practise before retiring. Others in the house may find his playing conducive to sleep; I lay awake long after he had stopped.

Wednesday’s programme was identical to Tuesday’s, even to the composition of the meals. But after tea I was asked to report to Mrs. Vibart in the drawing room, Edmund Vibart also being present. Mrs. Vibart inquired about my progress, and seemed pleased enough with the answers I gave. She then informed me that a “test” was being arranged for me this coming Saturday. Edmund has contracted for a local man to spar with me in the yard of the Fox and Grapes, commencing seven o’clock. It is not to be an articled contest, but a hat will be passed round after, and the contributions shared between us. I am to be attended by Vibart (bottleholder) and D’Estin (second). My instructions are to let the fight run for ten rounds and then to try to finish it. My opponent is said to be well-made and strong, but not so spry as I am.

Mrs. Vibart asked whether I had any questions regarding the fight, and I thought it timely to inquire whether I should be allowed to spar with Morgan (the Ebony) to sharpen my preparation. This elicited a significant response, both Mrs. Vibart and her brother-in-law spiritedly resisting the suggestion. When the time was right, they informed me, I should go into the ring with Morgan, but I should on no account face him before. Since sparring was all that I suggested, the agitation in their refusal surprised me somewhat.

In the evening, after billiards, D’Estin applied lemon juice to my face to toughen the skin, and pickled my hands as usual. Then to my disquiet he insisted that I took a Seidlitz powder before retiring, a quite superfluous inducement to my system. The consequences of this, and an hour or more of the “Old Hundredth” abominably rendered by Vibart on his organ combined to reduce my sleep to a minimum.

Today, Thursday, has followed the same sequence of events, although my activity has tended to be more intestinal than gymnastic. I hope, if I have recovered somewhat by this afternoon, to take a training walk to Rainham, and there to post this report. I shall, if asked, tell D’Estin that it is a letter to my future fiancée. I have been quite unable so far to induce him to discuss the pugilists who trained previously at the Hall. I have not forgotten your instruction to begin a systematic search of the building, but the opportunity has not arisen, for they rarely leave me alone. I searched my room for possible evidence of an earlier occupant, but found nothing.

I shall continue to send reports when I can. It should be possible, if you wish, to pass a message to me at the bout on Saturday evening.

In some haste, Your obedient servant, H. Jago, P.C.

“I feel for him, reading that,” said Thackeray, returning the report to Cribb. “It almost goes beyond the call of duty, suffering of that kind. I’m not sure I could face it.”

“After two ounces of Glauber’s salts and a Seidlitz powder, you’d answer the call, Thackeray, depend upon it,” Cribb assured him breezily. “You saw the telegraph. We’re making progress at last. If Jago hadn’t got the tip about the Midlands, we’d still be looking for our pug.”

“You think this Quinton may be the headless man, Sarge?”

“Think? I’m sure of it. Everything’s right—age, size, colour of hair—even the convictions. Common assault has often simply meant a prize fight before now. I’ve got the widow coming down to look at the clothes. With luck, she’ll identify them.”

“What made you pick Birmingham, Sarge?”

“I didn’t particularly. All the forces up there got my inquiry: Leicester, Northampton, all of them. Brum was likeliest to turn something up, though, once we had the word to try the Midlands. Several of the bare-fisted division live there, or in Wolverhampton. Usually they fight with gloves these days, but some make exceptions.”

“Charlie Mitchell?” suggested Thackeray.

“You’re becoming quite a Corinthian, Constable. Would you care to see a fight on Saturday?”

“Seven o’clock, Fox and Grapes? I wouldn’t miss it, Sarge.”

“Nor I. We’ll need to look a trifle different from last time, though. Can’t be known as regulars. Tweeds and deerstalker for me. You’re easy. You just shave off your beard.”

Thackeray started back in horror.

“My beard, Sarge?”

“Yes. Soon grows again. Jago’s suffering in the cause of duty. Must show solidarity, eh, Constable?”

¦ It was disturbingly unreal, wholly unlike the setting for Meanix and the Ebony. The declining sun, impossibly red, made a woodcarving of the yard and its occupants. Probing light and deep shadow chiselled trivial details, doorframes, eaves, coach wheels, into sharp significance. Old men seated at tables with tankards had their nutcracker faces picked out grotesquely.

Jago stood in his corner. He had lost the toss and faced the light. The shadow of his opponent spanned the ring and was touching his feet. Vibart and D’Estin worked vigorously at his thighs and calves. Around the ring, but at a decent distance, the spectators waited, some seated, others in groups, all with mugs in hand. There was no tension here, no scramble to place bets. This was a local affair and if money changed hands, it was between friends. The crowd was small for a fist fight—perhaps eighty—and not much more than the usual attendance at the Fox on a Saturday.

Jago examined his hands. They were well prepared for their ordeal, hardened by vinegar and lemon, nails trimmed, knuckles greased. He was feeling fitter than he had all week, after forty-eight hours without aperients. And what he had lost in excess flesh he had replaced in muscle fibre.

The difficulty lay in forcing himself to believe he was actually about to toe the scratch for a knuckle fight, to flout the law he had been trained to uphold. After a week at Radstock Hall even Sergeant Cribb seemed a remote figure, as alien to this setting as his boxing coach at school. Certainly there was no sign of Cribb or Thackeray among the crowd. What would happen if the fight was raided by the local police, and they arrested him? Could Cribb intervene, or would the law take its course? Was the expulsion of one constable from the force a matter worth sacrificing all their investigations for? Hadn’t Thackeray himself suggested Cribb was callous towards his subordinates? He was a strange man, this Sergeant Cribb, and inspiring in his way; Jago wished he knew him well enough to trust him.

It was easier in this strange mood to believe that he was fighting for Mrs. Vibart than Cribb.
Mrs?
It was Isabel from now on, she had told him when she came to the gym to see his final limbering that afternoon. “You are fighting for me, Henry Jago,” she had said in that allusive way, inviting him to speculate on her meaning. “I know that you will not disappoint me.” And she had put forward her hand and pressed his forearm. Little wonder that Cribb was fading as a source of inspiration.

“Will the two antagonists and attendants come to the scratch, please?”

To confirm the dreamlike nature of this experience, the referee was the landlord of the Fox. Jago was quite prepared for his opponent, whose face had been in shadow, to be Lydia’s Papa, attended by the curate from St. Martin’s. Instead the man who stepped forward was a total stranger, Jago’s height, but broader in the chest and bronzed from work in the fields. Instead of boxing drawers he wore flannel longjohns artfully adapted, but obvious for what they were. If anyone felt uncomfortable it was Jago in the expensive white silk drawers Isabel had provided.

“Mr. Jago?” said the landlord. “We know each other, of course. This ’ere is Luke Judd from Benson’s farm.” The rivals nodded in recognition. “As to the rules, gentlemen, they are according to the London Prize-Ring, last amended 1866. Thirty seconds between rounds, and when I call ‘Time’ you ’ave eight seconds to get to scratch unaided. No butting, gouging, biting, kicking or tearing the flesh with the fingernails. And no seizing of your antagonist below the waist or belting ’im when ’e’s down. A man’s down when ’e’s got one knee and one ’and on the ground, and don’t let me see no deliberate falling on each other. Seconds and bot-tle’olders keep outside the ring until someone goes down. Then you can lift your man to ’is corner. The final matter to mention is that the referee gets five per cent of the takings, by the usual arrangements. No questions? Good. Retire to your corners and wait for the call of ‘Time.’ ”

Everyone but the two fighters climbed out through the ropes. The imminence of action brought even the serious drinkers from the bar. Jago caught the surprised glance of one of the regulars. Last week he had been one of the window-seat group.

A light breeze fluttered the colours tied to the centre stake: black silk for Isabel. “You are fighting for me, Henry Jago.” Was he the protégé—or she the prize?

“Time.”

Time of reckoning.

He walked to scratch and took his stance.

A fist jabbed at him. It was easy to jerk aside and respond with a probing left. Short of the target. He edged forward and measured the distance again. Judd rocked out of reach.

Judd was coming back, open to a straight left. A fast, no-nonsense punch direct to the point. Short, though! What was wrong? That should have floored him, not chucked him under the chin.

A sudden, vicious haymaker from Judd came perilously near. It fanned his ear as he leaned away. Then a second swing rammed his chest. He countered with one to Judd’s ribs. Bone against bone. His knuckles smarted.

Pain transformed Judd into a threshing machine. Arms flailed destructively, unstoppable. Most glanced off the forearms, but some Jago could not parry. He felt one jolt on his collarbone. Another scraped his ear cruelly. “They’re almost as vulnerable as eyes to bare fists,” D’Estin had told him.

Now Judd was upon him, groping for a handhold. The grasp for the throat was easy to deflect. But not the simultaneous crunch of the spiked boot on his foot.

Jago reeled in pain. A cuff on the temple. Balance gone.

Down!

With astonishing speed D’Estin was through the ropes and hoisting him to the corner. Propped there on Vibart’s knee, gasping for air.

“Drink this. Takes the pain away.”

Brandy and water, by the taste.

“Box the man. Don’t let him wrestle you. Strike for the face.”

Agonized pulsation from the pierced foot.

“Time.”

Out to scratch again, to shoot a long right to Judd’s head, warning him away. Beady brown eyes glinted in annoyance. “Box the man.” Devilish hard with him waiting there, hands half open to grapple. Try, though. A feinting right, and immediately a strong straight left. On the mark!

Judd winced and backed. Jago tried two more long lefts, more to intimidate than injure. Judd retreated again. A right. Judd was cornered, waiting for the onslaught.

Here was a chance for real advantage, not to be squandered. Coolly Jago set to work, measuring the punches and delivering them crisply. Judd bowed, arms locked across his face. Seeing no way past his attacker, he clearly decided on a strategic closure of the round. Far from convincingly he tottered forward and fell at Jago’s feet.

“Prettier work,” said D’Estin, as he sponged Jago’s face. “Don’t finish him too early, though. You fight to instructions. Understand?”

Jago understood. Even in a backyard scuffle between two unknowns the ritual of the prize ring had to be observed. You didn’t finish a fight in three rounds.