The Detective Wore Silk Drawers (8 page)

So for the next five he fought to the book, controlling the bout as he pleased, treating the crowd to first blood in the sixth with a fine blow to Judd’s swollen lip. In the seventh he allowed Judd to throw him down from a neck hold. There was no difficulty now in believing in the reality of the fight; the spike wounds in his foot had greatly helped his concentration.

“You can give ’em a show of your quality in the next two, Jago, and finish it in the tenth, as we arranged,” D’Estin said between rounds. “How are your knuckles?”

“Damned painful,” Jago told him, looking at them as detached objects resting on his thighs.

“Grip some oakum, then.” He pushed several strands of loose rope fibre into the damp palms. “It’s quite within the rules, don’t worry. It’ll cushion your punching.”

As Jago rose from Vibart’s knee, he thought for a second that he recognized a face at an open window of the Fox. He had not been much aware of the crowd before; they supported Judd almost to a man, and he had ignored them. That face, though, was somehow familiar, and it watched him intently.

He gave his attention to Judd. The local man’s strategy now was the desperate tactics of attacking the neck. Early in his instruction from the Shoreditch professor Jago had learned how vulnerable the carotid artery was, either to persistent punching or to manual pressure. Fortunately the punches were slow in coming and he was able to deflect them easily. And as Judd in desperation bore down on him with fingers outstretched for a stranglehold, Jago turned his hip inwards, gripped his attacker’s right arm and guided him across his hip into a cross-buttock. Judd crashed against one of the stakes and lay still.

“Neatly executed!” said D’Estin, genuinely pleased, when Jago returned to the corner. “You’re learning well.”

He was not listening. His attention had returned to the face at the window, for it had now been joined by another, easily recognizable as Sergeant Cribb. The first face couldn’t be Thackeray’s. It was entirely clean-shaven.

“Time.”

Out for the ninth. Judd was slow to scratch, barely within the eight seconds allowed. This would need to be a less punishing round, or he would never come out for the tenth. Not a blow had been exchanged when both men were distracted by shouts from outside the ring. The bombardment of mingled abuse and encouragement they had learned to accept. It was integral to the fight; they heard it and dismissed it.

This shouting carried a more urgent note that broke into the ritual. The fighters stood back from each other, and looked about them, trying to comprehend the scene. Spectators were abandoning the fight. Men were struggling to uproot the stakes. The ropes had already collapsed.

D’Estin was at Jago’s side, wrapping a coat around him. “The blues, man! Can’t you hear? For God’s sake, get into the pub and hide. Here’s your trousers.”

It was no time for a dignified exit. Jago could not see the police, but he sprinted for the door of the bar. He was prima facie evidence so was well looked after. Hands pushed him behind the bar counter and towards an open trapdoor. With difficulty (for he was still wearing spiked shoes) he descended a short ladder.

Below, it was pitch-black at first. His eyes had been straining against the sunset for the last half-hour. Judd’s silhouetted form was imprinted on his retina, and now reappeared vividly in glowing orange in the darkness.

He felt a cask behind him and sat on it. The place was full of people, and more were trying to come down. Shivering, he pulled off the spikes and struggled into his trousers.

“Drink this. Do you good.” A tumbler was pushed into his hand. He gulped the contents thankfully.

Gradually, his eyes adapted themselves. He was in a spacious wine cellar, rather larger than the ring he had just left, but there must have been forty men crammed in, talking in whispers. The trapdoor closed; it seemed inconceivable that the police should fail to search there.

“Quiet!” A stage whisper from one of the last to descend.

Everyone waited. Jago could now distinguish Judd’s bulk slumped across two barrels in obvious exhaustion. Most of the others were there. Judd’s second and bottleholder sat near him, taking turns to swig at his brandy bottle. D’Estin, the last to enter, stood on the ladder itself.

Footsteps crossed the floor above, deliberate, heavy steps that left no doubt as to the occupation of their maker. The voices were inaudible. The referee and a few gallant regulars were up there trying to bluff their way through. Everyone waited for the trap to be lifted, each working out an original reason for being there. Someone winked at Jago from across the cellar. Thackeray again? Or a travesty of Thackeray, for why ever should he shave off his whiskers?

Steps crossed again, several more this time, making the floor creak loudly. More voices.

Then silence.

Five agonized minutes.

The trap was lifted.

“All right, gentlemen. Out you come.” It was the landlord’s voice.

They clambered up to daylight.

“Only Sam Dalton on ’is new tricycle,” the landlord was explaining. “Coming over to show it off to me, ’e was. Brand-new ’Arrington Desideratum. Cost ’im fifteen quid. ’Ow ’e manages that on a bobby’s income I don’t know. Well, seeing that the fight was in progress as ’e rode up, poor old Sam ’ad no option but to stop it.”

“He gave us plenty of time to get down below,” said one appreciative voice.

“Yes, but ’e couldn’t decently ignore the evidence,” said the landlord. “We ’ad to leave five of the stakes in position. So Sam came in and questioned us. Most of us was regulars, so that was all right. ’E’s taken two back to police ’ouse for questioning—Mr. Vibart, because ’e tried to make a break for it on the dogcart, you see; and that tall feller from London in the deerstalker.”

Cribb arrested? Jago’s eyes flew to one of the darkened chimney seats, where the man who had winked was sitting. Jago now knew for certain that he was Thackeray. Although his face was in shadow, his eyes were visible. They glinted in quiet satisfaction.

CHAPTER

8

HENRY JAGO SAT IN A STATE OF BLISS IN A HIP BATH AT Radstock Hall. On Isabel Vibart’s instructions the brine had been warmed to slightly below body heat and was ready in the changing room when he returned. Two steaming jugfuls of water stood in reserve.

He winced at the colour of his knees jutting above water level. Pugilism was dirty, as well as painful. He reached for a tablet of Pear’s and began to lather the grazed and muddy skin. Beside the bath on a marble-topped table the entire resources of the bathroom were paraded—soaps, brushes, pumices, sponges and loofahs. On a lower tier stood a selection of oils, aromatic rubs and pomades in cut-glass containers. And, most welcome, a large glass of claret.

Jago took a sip of the drink and reclined, enjoying the luxury. Saws and severed heads could wait; tonight he had earned respite. To add piquancy to his enjoyment, there was the thought of Sergeant Cribb in custody at Rainham police station. Cribb could not reveal his identity—particularly with Vibart there—so he would have to submit to interrogation by the local constable. Possibly even a night in the cells . . .

On further reflection the Sergeant’s predicament was worrying. Jago knew Inspector Jowett, “Pilate,” as he was unofficially known at the Yard. If it came to a point where a county force complained to the Director, Jowett could be depended upon in only one respect. He would drop Cribb and his investigation like hot bricks. And if Cribb were in trouble for attending a prize fight, what was the position of a constable who had
fought
one?

He felt surges of panic. Grotesque possibilities took shape in his brain. His hands gripped one side of the bath.

“The wretched man who stands before you in the dock, gentlemen of the jury, was once Scotland Yard’s most brilliant young constable, a guardian of the law, entrusted with the confidential records of the Criminal Investigation Department. Expend no pity upon him. There is no one so contemptible as a corrupt police officer.” He pulled his hands away and put them to his forehead. When he opened his eyes, the fingers formed prison bars. He jerked the hands down, splashing water in all directions.

It had really happened. He had appeared in a prize ring.

All the time in his mind there had been the certainty of Cribb’s intervening at the last moment. He sponged his arms, trying to calm himself. What regulations had he broken? He had not, in effect, fought for money. “It was strictly in the course of an investigation, your lordship. I was obeying orders.” “Orders? Whose orders?” “Sergeant Cribb’s.”

“Oh, yes. I sentenced him earlier this afternoon.”

He reached for the claret. Cribb! He had to believe that Cribb would outwit the local police. Thinking otherwise was inviting depression. How could he help the Sergeant?

Only by controlling himself and quietly persevering with the inquiry. How, though? Cribb wanted proof of the dismemberment. But what was the use of searching for articles which would surely be well hidden, if not destroyed, by now? He had done his best, in the little time available to him, to quarter the grounds on his training runs, looking for likely burial spots for the severed head. Then D’Estin had told him to follow the same daily route. He was not sorry; he rather preferred searching for the saw.

Would there be more opportunities for searching now that the fight was over? He doubted it. They would have him in training for a second fight, encouraged by tonight’s showing. He would have to search the house by night, no matter how tired he was. If he could find some kind of evidence— even papers, the articles of battle, mentioning names—then he could send news to Cribb and get out of this suffocating situation.

He was momentarily overwhelmed by a desire to be with Lydia, sweet and untainted by all this. With a sense of shame he realized she had been far from his thoughts for days. His overtaxed mind struggled to create an image of her; all that came was Isabel Vibart’s gently mocking face.

He was jerked to awareness by D’Estin entering, bringing a bathrobe.

“Don’t sit there too long, Jago,” he said. “Water softens the skin. How are your knuckles now?”

“A little numb.”

One of Jago’s wrists was gripped and lifted, tonglike by the two digits on D’Estin’s right hand.

“Bruised, merely. How about the rest of you? There was plenty of blood on you at the end. Mainly his, I hope.”

D’Estin’s tone was clinicial. The close relationship between trainer and fighter had lasted no longer than the fight.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t down him before the fight was stopped,” said Jago with conviction. Inwardly, he had baulked at the bludgeoning of a helpless opponent.

“It cost me fifty guineas,” D’Estin said. “No fault of yours, though. We agreed on the tenth round. Had it been a first-class match, we’d have had a clause in the articles to ensure the fight’s continuance elsewhere. There’s usually no question of a mill ending when the blues arrive. We simply move outside their boundary, set up the ropes again and resume. Isn’t that right, Sylvanus?”

Jago had not noticed the Ebony’s arrival. He was out of vision, somewhere behind the bath.

“Correct, Mr. D’Estin.” A deep, educated voice.

“I’m sure that Henry knows all that, Robert.”

Good God! Isabel’s voice!

Jago reached for a large sponge.

The embarrassment was all on his side. Isabel walked serenely across the room and seated herself on a bench.

“I am told you controlled the fight like a veteran, Henry,”

she said. “We are delighted with the promise that you showed tonight. When you are bathed and massaged, I want you to dress for dinner. We always enjoy celebrating our successes, and you were close enough to victory to make no difference.”

“Fifty guineas. No difference,” muttered D’Estin.

She tossed her head in laughter.

“Really? Do you mean that I have two losers in my employment? Isn’t it enough that Edmund should be so imbecile as to make a run for it when the police arrived?

One middle-aged constable on a tricycle! What a fine testimony to the manly Vibarts!”

“He won’t find it easy producing an explanation,” said D’Estin, as though Vibart deserved some sympathy. “I know that bobby. He clings like a blasted leech until he’s drawn the truth out of you.”

Her voice hardened. “Edmund had better not say one word to the police, or I shall have him dealt with, brother-in-law or not. Now, Henry”—sweet reasonableness returned to the voice—“you shouldn’t stay too long in the water.”

Jago was determined to remain calm. He was, after all, a professional detective, and if nothing in his training had prepared him for this situation, that did not make it unsurmountable.

“I shall come out in a moment.”

A sceptical silence.

Jago soaped his knees for the second time. One simply had to prepare oneself mentally, to become detached. Of course one didn’t climb out of a bath under a lady’s scrutiny as a regular practice . . .

The knees were spotless.

It would not do to spring out and make a bolt for the bathrobe. Something more dignified was called for.

He gripped the sides of the bath manfully and took a deep breath.

“For God’s sake, Isabel,” said D’Estin. “You can see the lad’s not used to bathing in front of an audience.”

She laughed. “He’s trying to embarrass me, Henry.” She stood up, arranging her dress. “He hasn’t succeeded, because I know you aren’t ashamed of yourself. However, I must see to the preparation of the table. We shall meet in the rear dining room tonight, gentlemen. Shall we say in one hour’s time?”

Immediately after she had gone, Jago clambered out of the bath. D’Estin and the Ebony remained while he towelled himself energetically. He was used to communal changing rooms, and their presence was not inhibiting. Not, that is, until he became conscious that the Ebony was studying his body. It was a steady, calculating gaze, as though each point of his physique were being assessed. For the first time since coming to Radstock Hall, Jago felt a strong impression that the Ebony was considering him as a rival.

¦ Isabel’s dinner party was a revelation.

Meals were usually taken in a large dining room at the front of the house, in sunlight for much of the day. The second dining room, at the rear, was reserved for more special occasions.

D’Estin, more burly than ever in his dinner jacket, greeted Jago with a glass of sherry.

“Amontillado, and an expensive one. Make the most of it, Jago. You’ll be training again tomorrow. Sylvanus reckons to sink a dozen glasses on these occasions, don’t you?”

The Ebony was standing in shadow, away from the candlelit table. He made no response. Perhaps like Jago he resented the inference that pugilists came to sherry as horses to troughs of water.

Isabel had not appeared, and the other two were content to remain silent, so Jago stepped farther into the dining room. He now saw in the play of candlelight that the small room was filled with objects from the East. Carvings, pottery, statuettes, bronzes: they seemed to have been deposited at the sides of the room with utter disregard for positioning or design. A large embroidered picture filled with semi-clothed Indian dancers surrounding a godlike figure was almost obscured by a grotesque figurine mounted on a plinth. On another wall two tigers’ heads vied for space with a jewelled two-handed sword and a set of woodcarvings. Small tables and carved chests pushed to the walls were littered with silver, copper and ivory objects. Any one of them might have been a priceless artefact which a collector would have mounted in a showcase. Their very profusion in this small room led to an effect of depressing prodigality.

The air was oppressive with the scent of sandalwood.

Hearing the rustle of silk, Jago turned.

“Do you like my Indian collection? It all belonged to my late husband.” She was dazzling, in a velvet dress of deep violet with a pale pink panel from bodice to hem. A row of tiny artificial flowers entwined her body, emphasizing, quite unnecessarily, the lines of her figure. “He was there for some years, you know, exporting metalware. Some of these pieces are worth more than the house, he used to tell me.

Do you like the necklace? He gave it to me as a birthday present.”

She approached Jago, for him to examine the golden pendant studded with rubies that rested in the cleft of her breasts. She subdued her voice to a murmur as she said, “It is priceless.”

Jago looked at the jewel and was repelled. It was in the shape of a cobra poised to strike.

“You don’t like serpents?” she said, sensitive at once to his reaction. “What a good thing you weren’t born an Indian, Henry Jago! In ancient India only the sacred cow was more revered among creatures. Perhaps you will allow me to wear it tonight, though.”

“It is a very fine piece,” said Jago, in some confusion.

They took their positions at table, a circular one draped in white linen fringed with minute beads. Among the silver table ornaments four black candles in glass funnels provided the only illumination. “My colour, you know,” Isabel explained.

D’Estin was ordered to see to the champagne, which had been overlooked.

“We shall have the Roper Frères, 1874. Robert, if you please.” When he had left the room, she added, “He would bring an inferior vintage otherwise. Robert has a low opinion of everyone’s palate but his own.” Each of her remarks was addressed to Jago; the Ebony might have been another statue, for all the attention she gave him.

D’Estin returned, and a clear soup was served.

“Come here, Gruber,” Isabel commanded the maid, the same solemn woman who had first admitted Jago to the Hall. “I want you to reassure Mr. Jago. I think he secretly fears that the next course is curry.”

“Duck,” pronounced Gruber lugubriously. “And chicken.

And beef.”

After the main dish had been brought in under silver covers, Gruber was dismissed. “We serve ourselves on our celebration evenings,” Isabel explained. “One feels less reserved with the servants out of the way.”

Jago wondered what she could possibly have in mind. He took a deep draught of champagne.

The joints were cooked in wine and smelt appetizing.

D’Estin and the Ebony took carvers and began to cut.

“You divide the duck, Henry,” Isabel said. “Don’t trouble with slices. Quarter it. We can forget Edmund.”

During the meal, the Ebony began to talk. In the previous week his speech had been limited to minimal responses.

Now, made loquacious perhaps by the wine, he questioned D’Estin closely on the fight, demanding to know how each round had progressed. Jago did not intervene. His own memory was probably not reliable, anyway. He continued with his meal, enjoying at intervals an approving smile from Isabel as D’Estin described some high point of the action.

“Is he ready to fight me, then?” the Ebony demanded, when the account was finished.

“You?” Isabel exclaimed in astonishment. “God, Sylvanus! You must be out of your mind!”

The Ebony threw down his knife and fork. “And why?

Why is it so extraordinary that he should fight me?”

“Stow your gammon, Morgan,” intervened D’Estin.

“How many fist fights have you had in your time—twenty or thirty? This lad doesn’t know a mill from a Morris dance yet. He wouldn’t last two rounds in the ring with you. What are you bothered about? Haven’t we paid you enough attention lately?”

Isabel glared at D’Estin.

“What am I bothered about?” repeated the Ebony. “I’m a fighter. That’s why I’m here. I want fights, not fancy parties!”

Isabel held herself in check. “If that is really your attitude, Sylvanus, you need not stay.”

He was nodding his head. “All right, then. I apologize.”

“A fight between you and Henry,” Isabel continued, “would scarcely help any of us very much, even if you were evenly matched. Professionals fight for prize money, not side bets. When we have an antagonist for you on the right terms, you’ll see some more action. Fighting every other week for silver won’t further your career.” She was talking as his manager, putting her arguments with a force and purpose that should have detracted from her sexuality, but actually intensified it.