The Detective Wore Silk Drawers sc-2

by Peter Lovesey

  “Self-defence. And fighting off jealous curates. I think I shall try again with your papa, Lydia.”

  She took his arm and they walked on to the posting box.

  In the records room at Great Scotland Yard, Constable Thackeray stretched his legs and turned his feet to examine the insteps of his best pair of regulation boots. The damp line extended like a chalk mark all the way round. He doubted whether they would ever fully recover from their soaking the previous week in the Essex mud.

  “ ‘Beckett,’ ” read Sergeant Cribb aloud, “ ‘Matthew James. Born 1853. Five feet ten. Twelve stone two. Dark complexion. No permanent address. Last lodging in Bermondsey. Ex-seaman. Crown tattooed on right forearm. Serpent on left.’ Jago missed that. Let’s see what the record is. ‘June 1873. Six months for housebreaking. March ’76. Drunk and disorderly. One month. April ’78. Loitering with intent to commit a felony. Fined?1.’ None of them violent crimes, you see, but he appeared to be the leader. Where’s the last file?”

  Thackeray handed it over.

  “ ‘Foster, David. Born 1860. Five foot six. Ten stone.’ Beautiful copperplate, this. Only one entry. Drunk and disorderly again. I can believe that too, after Friday evening in that Rainham taproom.” He tossed the file back to Thackeray. “That’s the four with records, then. Three tough coves and one young ’un. Capital work of Jago’s to pick ’em out.”

  “I think he knows these records like the coins in his pocket, Sarge. That could well be his own handwriting you admired. Is there anything on Meanix himself?”

  “Not here,” Cribb answered. “So many charges were brought a few years back for prize fighting that the records were never centralized. You’ll find a better account of him in Fistiana than anywhere else. No, it’s the bunch who followed him that interests me.”

  “Was anything said, Sarge?”

  “Plenty. Young Jago’s less dumb than he looks. Gave me enough to hook in most of his fellow travellers on suspicion if I needed to.”

  “You won’t, then?”

  “Wouldn’t help at present. I need something more decisive and I think I know where to find it. Someone’s got to lead me to the killer. I’m leaving every possibility open at present. Things will happen in the next week. Almost sure to.”

  “Why, Sarge?”

  “The gang. If Meanix had done his job, they stood to make a mint.”

  Thackeray was dubious. “I don’t see how that was possible, Sarge. The odds were heavily in his favour from the start.”

  Cribb sometimes despaired of his assistant.

  “Side bets, Constable; side bets. First knockdown, first blood, length of contest. Meanix was hired to engineer that fight to order, round by round. And he would have done, with different opposition. They expected a muscle-bound ploughman in the village-idiot class. The Ebony was quite a different kettle.”

  “So they lost heavily,” concluded Thackeray.

  “Not so heavily. There was time to hedge their bets when they saw the Ebony’s form. But they gained nothing. And with Meanix a spent force they’ve got to hire a new punching machine. From what Jago heard, they’d like to take over the Ebony.”

  “What will happen to Meanix?”

  The edges of Cribb’s mouth creased into a smile.

  “Thackeray, I know what you’re thinking. The Ox to the slaughterhouse, eh? You could be right, too. I think they’ll put him to grass, though.”

  “Could our headless fighter be another one who disappointed them?” ventured Thackeray.

  “I think not.” Cribb flexed an arm, stood up, and walked to the window, to look across Great Scotland Yard. “Dispatching a pug in London ain’t that easy, even if you top him first. Questions get asked. People miss him in the pubs and training gyms. It’s a week now since I fished him out of the river.”

  Thackeray stroked his beard sagely. “We’ve enough listeners in the pubs to have picked something up by now.”

  “Exactly. London turns up nothing, so where do we look?”

  “Essex or Kent, I suppose, Sarge. But don’t the same things apply? If he was a provincial man, the chances of someone local missing him would be far greater than in London, I’d say.”

  “Certainly,” said Cribb. “What if he were imported, though, and kept in a place like Radstock Hall? D’you suppose the Ebony is a Rainham man? Who do you think would ask questions if he disappeared tomorrow and wasn’t seen again? I heard that woman talk of other fighters, men who were pushed too soon into the top class. Suppose one of them was badly beaten, killed even, by Meanix, or one of the London pugs.”

  Thackeray saw the implication.

  “Nobody would ask questions, because nobody knows how many fighters are kept at Radstock Hall, or where they come from.”

  Cribb scarcely heard the remark. He was in a strangely restive mood. He turned from the window.

  “Sunshine,” he informed Thackeray. “Rare enough in London. Let’s get out in it.”

  The Constable needed no second bidding. Scotland Yard’s stained oak and dark leather depressed him, too. He almost envied young Jago’s two hours that morning with his professor in the art of self-defence. Cribb seemed drawn to the river as though it would yield the secret of the headless pugs if he visited it enough. Reaching the Embankment, he set out purposefully towards Waterloo Bridge, at a pace too athletic for Thackeray’s comfort on a summer morning. Strolling nannies heard the brisk approach of boots and moved their perambulators aside. Children in sailor suits looked up from games of ducks and drakes at the water’s edge.

  “Fine respect we have for human life,” Cribb said with scorn. “What is it-ten years since the Embankment opened? What happens if a nipper chases a hoop over the edge? Look down here. See the lion’s mouth bosses in the granite? They were linked with chains in the designs. Here we are in 1880 with not a chain in place. If you fell in at any point between Westminster Bridge and Blackfriars you couldn’t find a chain, nor a rope nor a boom for a handhold in the length of the Embankment. No wonder they make a business out of collecting bodies in King’s Reach.”

  Thankful for a pause, Thackeray made it clear from his stance that he planned a few moments’ study of the river traffic. A Thames Company paddle steamer sounded a scape-pipe warning to a coal barge on the South Bank side.

  “Devil’s own vessels, paddle boats,” commented Cribb, warming to his theme. “As cock-eyed a system of navigation as you’ll find. Captain passes on his orders from the bridge through deaf-and-dumb finger talk to a rating, and he tries to make the engineer understand. More often than not results in chaos. Next time you visit the boat race, take a close look at the flotilla that follows it up. For my money those steamboat skippers provide better sport than the oarsmen out front. I’ve seen a solid wall of eight steamers jammed sponson to sponson and crammed with old Blues go full bat at a buttress of Hammersmith Bridge. You couldn’t drag me aboard. I’d sooner sweat it out in one of the eights.”

  Thackeray cast an analytical eye down Cribb’s gaunt frame.

  “You ain’t the rowing build, Sarge. Nor am I, come to that, though I might have been twenty or thirty years back. Now Constable Jago would look well in a boat. He must have done some rowing at school, I dare say, being a public school man. I still can’t understand what made him join the force, he being such a one for manly exercises. Oxford or Cambridge was the proper place for a young fellow of his breeding.”

  Cribb made a snorting sound deep in his nostrils.

  “He’ll get his share of exercise soon enough.”

  Thackeray enjoyed the joke.

  “You think the professor will make him sweat a bit, Sarge?”

  “I hope so. He needs to be fit to take up knuckle fighting.”

  Silence, while Thackeray wrestled with the significance of what Cribb had said. The Sergeant’s callous streak was not new to him; indeed, he had suffered personally from it many times. But victimization of a hardened veteran was one thing; sentencing young Jago to certain butchery was brutal b
eyond belief. He rounded on Cribb.

  “You can’t make him do that! He’s got no experience.

  He’ll be torn to ribbons.”

  Cribb said nothing, seeming more interested in a passing skiff than Thackeray’s indignation.

  “We can’t use Jago, Sarge. You saw what happened to Meanix, and he was a seasoned knuckle fighter. Young Jago doesn’t fight their way. Queensberry Rules don’t permit wrestling and spiking and kidney punching. It’s like matching a farm bird with a fighting cock.”

  “He’s game,” said Cribb airily. “And I’ve fixed lessons for him to learn some of the tricks.”

  “He’ll need more than a few tricks,” Thackeray commented bitterly. “I don’t think you should ask a man to do such a thing. He’d feel obliged to say yes, having been moved to your division to help you. But he’s no knuckle fighter-”

  “Police champion,” interjected Cribb.

  “Yes, but at glove fighting, and that’s as different as milk is from brandy. What good can it do to have a promising young bobby beaten to pulp in a prize ring?”

  “I guessed you might take it amiss, Thackeray. The plain fact is that I need to get an informant inside Radstock Hall. Listening at windows has its uses, but it ain’t the most thoroughgoing method of inquiry, now is it? I’ve seen and heard enough this twenty-four hours to make me think we could be uncovering a very ugly set of crimes-as vicious as anything I’ve come across. Now there’s things to be learned at Radstock Hall, I’m sure, but they’ll take time and smart detective work. I need someone there who’s in their confidence. I want to know all about those fighters who failed, and I want the place examined-not obviously, but methodically over several days. I’m not asking Jago to dig for severed heads. I just want to know what’s happening there, and what’s been happening since the Vibarts moved in. Jago’s no mean performer with his fists. He ought to give a fair impersonation of a promising pug. He may not need to fight in earnest at all. But if the situation arises, I know when to intervene.”

  Thackeray was far from convinced.

  “I don’t like this at all, Sarge. He’s strong and able, is young Jago, but he’s not one quarter as sharp as you are. It’s not easy passing yourself off as something you ain’t, even if you take on a false name-”

  “He won’t,” said Cribb.

  “No false name, Sarge? But they could identify him as one of the force, and then there’s nothing to prevent them killing him, if they’re the bunch we think they are.”

  The Sergeant shook his head emphatically. “I want this simple. We’ll leave play-acting out of it. If a false name confused anyone, it’d be Jago himself. They’ve no way of checking if he’s a Scotland Yard man-he’s strictly on clerical duties, as you know, so his name’s not quite a household word. Don’t worry. We’ll let slip enough genuine information about Jago to satisfy ’em. They won’t be expecting members of the force to masquerade as fist fighters, anyway. That’s not the way we’re supposed to work.”

  “He’ll need to keep his wits about him,” said Thackeray dubiously.

  “He’s no use in Criminal Investigation if he can’t,” commented Cribb.

  Thackeray cast about for another means of penetrating the Sergeant’s indifference.

  “How will he get into Radstock Hall, then?”

  “Shouldn’t be any trouble,” said Cribb. “He’s known in his gym at the Anchor. Once the word gets round that he’s game to fight with the raw ’uns, there should be offers enough. Anyone can see he’s primely built for pugilism and there aren’t that many fist fighters about. The Essex bunch are professionals; they wouldn’t build a gym like the one you saw if they weren’t investing heavily in the game. When Jago’s on the market, they’ll be interested, believe me.”

  When Cribb put it that way, Thackeray found it all too plausible.

  “But they’ll want him to live in Radstock Hall, like the Ebony.”

  “Without a doubt.”

  Thackeray played his final card.

  “What about his young lady, then?”

  “His what?” So Cribb had actually overlooked something.

  “The young lady at Richmond. A high-spirited young woman from Jago’s account of her. But he’s very sweet on her. A redhead, I think he said, and deuced attractive. How do you muzzle one of the fair sex?”

  Cribb walked in silence, plainly ruffled.

  “I’m damned if I know,” he admitted at last.

  CHAPTER 6

  “You’ll be waiting for someone to pick you up, I dare say, sir.”

  Henry Jago nodded. He had been sipping a half pint of beer for forty-five minutes already. Since he was the only customer in the Fox and Grapes that afternoon, and his portmanteau stood inside the door, he could hardly deny the landlord’s conclusion.

  “Going up to the ’All, are you?” The landlord was drying freshly washed tankards and wanted to talk as he worked. It was a difficult situation.

  “Radstock Hall,” Jago admitted.

  “Ah, Mr. Vibart should be coming for you with the trap, then. You’ll ’ave a pleasant drive through the lanes this fine afternoon. Makes a change, don’t it? Been there before, ’ave you?”

  “No, I can’t say I have.”

  “Ah.” This was uttered with great emphasis.

  Three tankards later the landlord began again.

  “I thought when you came in off the train, I thought here’s a lissome lad. If he’s going anywhere, it’s up to Vibart’s place. Most of the parties that go up to the ’All stop off ’ere, you see. Big lads, all of ’em. You’ll ’ave a good show of muscle round the epaulettes yourself, I can see. Funny, you know. What gives you scrappers away ain’t so much your build, or what you say. It’s what you drink-or rather what you don’t. I always say that a classy scrapper knows what’s good for ’im. Beer and bare fists don’t mix, do they? If a pug can’t keep ’is elbow down, there ain’t much future for ’im.”

  There was no point in playing dumb, Jago decided. He should have recognized the landlord before as the referee at the fight between Meanix and the Ebony.

  “You sound a connoisseur, landlord.”

  The innkeeper came beaming round the counter.

  “I think that’s a fair description, sir. There ain’t many I’ve not seen in the last twenty or thirty years-swells, Jews, Yankees, gippos-some capital fighters, I can tell you. In the palmy days, when the beaks winked at a fist fight, I ’ad matches every week out the back ’ere, in my yard. And we drew the gentry like yourself down from London-lords, judges, parliamentarians. Get a man like Mace in the magic circle and there wasn’t no limit to the class of spectator, royalty included.”

  Jago saw possibilities in this conversation.

  “It’s quite another story now, though.”

  The landlord needed little prompting. “True, very true. The rough element-the sharp boys-spoilt it for the rest. If it weren’t for them money-grabbing fellows cutting rough, we’d ’ave open fist fighting today. I might say that I do admire Mrs. Vibart for what she’s doing for the sport.”

  “Mrs. Vibart?”

  “Yes. Ah, you won’t ’ave met the lady yet. Your dealings will ’ave been with Edmund, I dare say. She’s the guvnor up at Radstock ’All, though, believe me. Never seen a public fist fight in ’er life, but knows the London prize-ring rules better than our vicar knows ’is Ten Commandments. If you’re invited to join the Radstock ’All bunch, it’s at Mrs. Vibart’s invitation, I can tell you.”

  Jago had his instructions from Cribb to discover more about the occupants of Radstock Hall. This, if it could be believed, was sensational information.

  “It’s most irregular, a woman taking an active interest in a man’s sport.”

  “Most irregular woman altogether,” commented the landlord. “She’s got an eye for a fighter, all right. You may ’ave ’eard of the Ebony. Mrs. Vibart’s pet ’e ’is. Now if you want to see a pair of dukes attending to a man’s complexion, watch that Negro fight. As pretty a
mover as you’ll see, and weighty with it. I wouldn’t spar with ’im unless ’e’s wearing mittens, and that’s sound advice.”

  Sound, but superfluous. Cribb and Thackeray had both made the same point earlier that day.

  The landlord wiped a window with his cloth.

  “Don’t see no sign of ’im. If ’e’s stopped off at the church, there’s no telling when the old bugger’ll show up.”

  “Oh,” said Jago, with interest. “He’s a religious man, is he?”

  “Religious?” The connection seemed to escape the landlord. “Who, Vibart? You don’t know much about your friends at Radstock ’All, do you? Vibart’s the organist at the church ’ere and if you think that makes ’im religious, you ought to ’ear the language ’e uses when he ’its a wrong note, which is three or four times a service. There’s mothers in Rainham that’s stopped their boys from singing in the choir because of it. Vibart enjoys ’imself, though, and the vicar can’t find nobody else.” He shook his head. “You might be better off making your own way there. I could send your luggage on later. You don’t ride a bicycle, do you? You could borrow mine. Beautiful machine. India-rubber tires. Take you ’alf the time.”

  Jago appreciated the generosity. The gleaming penny-farthing in the passage had caught his eye earlier.

  “Thanks, but I’m a duffer at balancing.”

  The landlord clapped a hand to his forehead.

  “Blimey, of course you are! You’re the lad that fell flat on ’is face in ’ere the other night. I thought there was something about you.” He began to shake with laughter. “Well, don’t make an ’abit of it, lad, or Mrs. Vibart’ll feed you to the Ebony for breakfast!”

  To Jago’s relief the merriment was cut short by the entry of Edmund Vibart.

  “Henry Jago? Sorry I’m late. We cast a shoe on the first attempt and I had to go back and change the bloody horse. That’s your luggage, is it? Would you put it aboard, landlord? Then you can draw me a large beer. Welcome to Rainham, Jago! Hades apart, you won’t find a more Godforsaken hole than this.”

  Jago smiled and inwardly recoiled. Vibart exuded sweat and self-importance. His clothes, broad check suit, silk shirt, crimson cravat and matching kerchief, jarred even on a sportsman’s sensibility.