The Detective Wore Silk Drawers sc-2

by Peter Lovesey

  She coloured.

  “You’ll have watched him swimming in the Serpentine, I dare say,” said Cribb, with prompt tact. “The truth of the matter is, miss, that he’s sending us reports on certain suspicious persons. He does the knuckle fighting to give himself a reason for being there, so to speak. Pugilism’s as harmless as tin soldiers to a man of his experience.”

  “Harmless!” Lydia went back to the newspaper and began to read aloud, “ ‘Round one-The attitude of the men being struck, they sparred long for an opening until Judd dashed in his left on the body. Jago retaliated with a flush hit to the ribs, which caused Judd to commence business in earnest, and within seconds the novice’s neck and shoulders were as red as pickled cabbage. A spanking hit with the dexter mauley on Jago’s left listener had him staggering. Then a stinger with the left on the knowledge box completely knocked him off his pins to mother earth.’

  Harmless!”

  “Capital writing, though!” cried Cribb. “What do they say about the other rounds?”

  Lydia tossed the paper aside. “It was too revolting to read. I simply cast my eyes to the foot of the column to ensure that Henry was not killed.”

  Thackeray had now got the paper. “This is a more refreshing bit, miss. ‘Round six-Jago at once planted a right with terrific force on the masticator. It was a staggerer and so bothered Judd that he was unable to escape a clinker on the ivories, bringing “first blood,” the crimson tide soon flowing copiously. A nasty one on the bridge of Judd’s smelling bottle caused the cork to be drawn there. Good counterhitting to a close, when Judd got to grass.’ ” He beamed at Lydia.

  She grimaced.

  “He’s well able to protect himself, Miss Boltover,” Cribb assured her. “Nor was he hurt in the least. When he comes back, there won’t be a mark on him, and with any luck he’ll have tracked down a”-he checked himself-“suspected person.”

  “But how long does he have to persist with this dreadful pose as a prize fighter?”

  “Not long now.” Cribb suddenly had an inspiration. “You want to get in touch with him, I expect?”

  “Please, oh, yes!”

  The Sergeant leaned forward confidentially. “If I let you write to him, he might be able to reply. I couldn’t give you his address, of course. But you could write a letter, and we would see to its delivery.”

  Her face fell a little. “Just a letter?”

  “Nothing else would be safe at this stage, miss. And I shall have to read the letter, you understand.”

  “Oh.”

  “And you won’t mind me including a few lines of my own? You could write ’em for me, you see. It’s a way of getting a message to him.”

  Minutes later, Lydia sat with pen and paper in another room. At the desk opposite was a young constable with walrus moustache and eyes more sinister than any on the “Wanted” notices behind him. “As tender a letter as you can write,” Cribb had ordered. “And don’t mind us, miss.”

  Thackeray read Jago’s report.

  “He sounds uncommon depressed, Sarge. Seems to think he’s done all he can at Rainham. It’s my belief that he’s missing the company of a certain young woman.”

  Ascribing motives was a favourite occupation with Thackeray. Cribb might have been more impressed if he had not earlier noticed his assistant’s eyes straying to a partially uncovered ankle.

  “Miss Boltover doesn’t really come into it,” he declared with a tinge of reproof. “Jago’s too smart a bobby to let sentiment spoil his work. What worries him is what the Ebony told him on Saturday night after the meal in the Indian room. If the black really plans to quit Radstock Hall, Jago becomes the principal fighter. Everything is centred on him, you see-training, matches. Possibly the widow’s attention in other respects.”

  “Do you believe that, Sarge? Why should the Ebony want to leave? He’s well-looked-after where he is. The training couldn’t be more lavish.”

  “Financial considerations,” said Cribb. He picked up the letter and read: “ ‘Morgan (The Ebony) told me he was not going to stay much longer at Radstock Hall and if I was wise, I would not remain either. He said that evil things were liable to happen here. He had made his plans to leave, and Edmund Vibart was helping him. Mrs. Vibart wasn’t the only backer of knuckle fighters, and others were willing to pay handsomely for a star performer.’ From which I deduce that Vibart has acted as agent for the Ebony with another group of backers.”

  “The roughs that managed Meanix?”

  “Quite possibly. There aren’t that many parties interested in managing knuckle fighters.”

  “Why should Vibart cheat his sister-in-law?” asked Thackeray.

  “You did read the letter?” snapped Cribb. “The man is short of money. Someone will pay him well for seducing the black away from Mrs. Vibart. He promised the Ebony larger rewards and more regular fights. It doesn’t require any more persuading than that to get him away from Radstock Hall.”

  Put that way, it made sense to Thackeray.

  “As for Jago’s low spirits,” continued Cribb, “Miss Boltover’s letter will raise them if it’s spiced with a few sharp instructions from me. He stays at Rainham for at least another week. I need evidence, and a shakeup at Radstock Hall may provide it.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Henry Jago put down his book and listened. Listened for anything but the susurration of beech leaves in the grounds outside. An hour and a half had passed since Vibart’s evening recital had finished and the bolts were secured downstairs, and Gruber, the German maidservant, had shuffled to her quarters at the rear of the house. There had been sounds enough after that-creaks and murmurs, howls and whines-but none of recognizable human origin.

  He looked at his watch. No need to light the candle

  tonight; the sky outside was clear, the moon in its third quarter. Mendoza’s Memoirs, prescribed reading for any literate fist fighter, lay open on the counterpane, the words legible even in partial shadow. Tonight, though, the Jew’s exploits ninety years before were insufficiently diverting. It was earlier than Jago had planned, but he decided to start.

  He got up, drew a bathrobe over his nightshirt, and crept across the room. On the mantelshelf, in front of Blondin, was an Indian club. He pushed the narrow end of his right sleeve as far as the elbow so that the bulbous part rested in his palm. Then he eased open the door of his room.

  The landing led past the Ebony’s door for some twenty-five yards to the entrance of Isabel’s suite, guarded by a suit of tarnished armour at the head of the main staircase. The room between was now unoccupied, D’Estin having moved on Sunday to a bedroom beyond Jago’s, up a small flight of stairs and around a corner in the passage. The floor was carpeted, but beneath the comforting pile lay boards as ready to screech as nesting game fowl. Jago moved with a poacher’s stealth. He had tried every board before, and knew which of them were stable.

  Once past Isabel’s door, the stairs were easier. They were noisy only on the banister side. He descended quickly and crossed the hall to the passageway leading to the kitchen.

  This would be difficult; he had been there only once before on the pretext of asking for a lemon for his skin. He hoped that the cook, another foreign woman seldom seen outside, kept the place in good order. Any kitchen implement accidentally knocked to the stone floor would sound an alarm through the house.

  Jago tapped the door inwards. It groaned. There was no avoiding that. He paused momentarily, and went in.

  Fortunately the moonlight had penetrated there. A wedge of bluish white divided the room diagonally from window to skirting board, chancing on a row of copper saucepans and highlighting them. He crossed the floor like an intruder in an illuminated tableau. He had seen what he came for: a large board over the stove with twenty or thirty hooks, from which labelled keys were suspended. He was unlikely to be heard, but he took excessive care not to chink them as he selected the one he needed. He pocketed it and turned his attention to the meat safe. From the lower shelf he removed a siza
ble piece of steak. Its absence would not be noticed, for the safe was prodigally overstocked. He withdrew the Indian club from his sleeve to free both hands and then wrapped the meat in cheesecloth and put it into his bathrobe pocket.

  Then he slipped the bolt on the kitchen door, picked up the club and stepped outside the house.

  A walk of thirty or more yards separated the house from the woodshed, where Jago was going. No distance at all, unless one recalled D’Estin’s earthy warning: “If you want the privy at night, forget it. Dogs, y’know. Better to wait till morning.” It had not been easy heeding the advice in those first painful nights after the physicking, but occasional baying from the grounds had proved a strong disincentive. It said much for his present determination to find the evidence Cribb wanted that he was now taking his chance with the dogs. Whether this indicated loyalty to Cribb or desperation to end his stay at the Hall, Jago did not like to contemplate. He gripped the Indian club and stepped manfully across the open yard to the shed.

  Damn! The key was difficult to fit in. Or was he too nervous? It turned after a fearful delay and with a huge gasp of relief he stepped into the shed and slammed the door closed.

  Never mind silence now!

  Half the building was stacked with logs cut into foot lengths. He couldn’t possibly spend the night unstacking them to look for severed heads, although one could well be hidden there, perhaps under the ground, which was simply earth. He sniffed; there was only the expected smell of sawn timber. Nor was there much hope of finding bloodstains among these layers of soil and sawdust. There was one more possibility: the saw. If he could somehow smuggle that to Cribb, an expert might detect human blood particles somewhere on its surface. But where was it-hanging up somewhere?

  Jago turned. There was a saw suspended from a nail on the wall behind him. In fact there were twelve saws, of all sizes and varieties. He swore aloud.

  As if in answer there came a low, prolonged snarl from outside. The sweat on his body was suddenly chilled and a pulse was thrumming in his temple. He kept absolutely still.

  The beast-if it was only one-was circling the shed.

  He heard its rhythmic panting progress purposefully along the outer walls. It knew he was there. He could stay its prisoner till morning; or he could take his chance on getting back.

  There was a small ventilation window high on one wall adjacent to the door. Jago slowly forced it open. The hound was under it in an instant, growling menacingly, ready to leap if his hand should venture outside.

  He had to take the chance. From his pocket he took the steak and unwrapped it. He went close to the window.

  The aperture was depressingly small. With all the momentum he could gather at so fine an angle, he slung the meat into the scrub behind, perhaps ten yards from the shed. Without waiting to check whether the dog had moved, he flung open the shed door and bolted across the yard, appallingly vulnerable in his flowing nightshirt and robe.

  But he was at the kitchen door and inside and the bolt was across before he heard anything from the dog. Outside, the entrance to the shed gaped, the key still in the swinging door. He went to bed. Explanations could wait.

  The summons to report to Isabel next morning was no surprise to Jago. But its purpose was.

  She was in the morning room at her writing desk, and she did not look up when he entered. It was early; one rarely saw her before noon. She was wearing black, as usual, velveteen skirt and sealskin jacket over a white lace blouse. Her wardrobe must have been bought for a year’s mourning at least. Only on the evening after his fight had Jago seen her in another colour.

  He coughed discreetly.

  She continued with her writing for perhaps a minute.

  When she eventually spoke, she did not look at Jago.

  “You have disappointed me, Henry.”

  He felt sure he knew why. “Disappointed?”

  “Yes. I thought you understood that we have to keep our activities here entirely confidential.”

  “I do understand that.”

  She turned to face him. Inconsequentially he reflected that she probably wore black for its dramatic effect. Her face was radiant, the line of her cheek and neck in sharp relief against the sleek cut of the jacket collar.

  “This letter arrived for you.”

  “Letter?” It was not possible. Only Cribb knew where he was.

  “Don’t try to appear surprised, Henry. You must have invited her to write to you. Oh, I know all about your Lydia.

  It was necessary for me to read the letter, you understand. I cannot countenance my fighters corresponding clandestinely. Didn’t we have an understanding that you told nobody where you were?”

  This was incomprehensible. “Yes.”

  “And now you break your word. How many letters have you written to her?”

  What on earth should he say?

  “One.”

  “Then you will write one more, and only one. You will tell Miss Boltover that it will be safer for you both if she does not attempt to correspond with you. From time to time she can read about your progress in the sporting newspapers, as she appears to have done on this occasion. But she must learn not to indulge her sentiments in other respects.

  If she really intends to marry you, as you suppose, she will wait. When you have earned some good purses with me, she will be glad enough that she was patient. She at least has prospects. Other women have none. Here is your letter.”

  He stepped forward and took it. The handwriting was Lydia’s, he was sure. What in heaven’s name was Cribb doing?

  “I apologize. I did not like deceiving you.”

  Isabel had picked up her pen again. “I should like to see your reply when you have written it.”

  “You shall,” Jago assured her, turning to withdraw.

  “And, Henry.” She spoke without looking up. “So that you shall have an opportunity of demonstrating your loyalty, I have instructed Robert to extend your training exercises today. Now you may go.”

  Sergeant Cribb had the devil of a lot to answer for.

  An hour later Jago, sweat coursing down the sides of his nose and onto his naked chest, was suspended from the wall bars, periodically raising his knees to D’Estin’s command.

  The white drawers made the work increasingly difficult as his body temperature rose; the damp silk clung to his body and seemed tauter over knees and loins with every movement.

  “Get them higher, man!”

  Thank God there had been no mention of the woodshed!

  Perhaps the servants had not reported the unlocked door, thinking they were concealing each other’s carelessness.

  “Right! Down you come! Take the barbells and begin squatting and rising. Nimble’s the word!”

  This would be easier. The abdominal muscles would get relief even if the thighs ached. In certain respects he was content to take his punishment, for punishment this most certainly was, whatever Isabel termed it. Earlier, his resentment had been strong. Now, after briefly reading Lydia’s letter, he was less angry; even a little encouraged.

  Paramount, of course, was the pleasure in recognizing that most of the letter was genuinely hers; at times this week she had seemed very remote. Now her concern and affection heartened him.

  “Get into a rhythm, Jago! Don’t rest on your haunches!”

  Cribb’s message, cunningly phrased (he supposed, as it was palpably not Lydia’s style) and inserted in Lydia’s handwriting, was also encouraging. “It seems insufferable that you must be away so long, but I know how important it is to your career and our prospects. Please, Henry, endure whatever is necessary for both our sakes, but be wary too (in the ring). Learn all that you can at Radstock Hall, for it will help later. But you must not concern yourself unduly about me.

  Remember that I am not so far away, and when you fight, rest assured that I shall know about it and shall not let you out of my thoughts.” Surely the tenderest message Cribb had ever sent to a constable.

  “Very well! Now the dumbb
ells, if you please. Above the head. Lower them slowly. Elbows straight!”

  The pain in his biceps was just endurable. He could not continue long. The weights started to pull the arms down from the crucifix pose.

  “Keep them up, man! You’re on show, you know!”

  On show. . Something in D’Estin’s emphasis confirmed what Jago had increasingly suspected: that concealed somewhere in the panelled wall ahead of him was an observation hole. Each exercise was staged facing that end of the gymnasium. Every grimace, every agonizing effort, was scrutinized by its architect, Isabel Vibart.

  “That will do,” D’Estin ordered. “You can finish with the wrestler’s bridge.”

  The devil he would. Once before they had bullied him into that. The pain was excruciating. And that was when he was fresh. It sounded simple enough, like touching one’s toes. One lay on the ground with legs bent and forced one’s back and buttocks up so that all the weight rested on heels and head. “Like a wrestler avoiding being thrown,” they had told him. “You keep it up for ten seconds.” He had collapsed in six.

  “The wrestler’s what?” Any time now was precious.

  “You know very well! Get down! Orders!”

  “On the contrary, I don’t know.”

  “I’m sure you’ve done it. You’ve seen Morgan do it, anyway.

  There’s only one way to learn properly.” D’Estin picked up a boxing shoe and placed it, spikes upward, on the ground. “You make a back over that for ten seconds. Then I kick it away.

  There isn’t a mark on Morgan’s back anywhere. Where is the black bastard? He was told to report sharp at noon.”

  What was the point of silence?

  “He will not be reporting.”

  D’Estin frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You won’t see Sylvanus today. He walked out with his baggage after breakfast. It was obvious to anyone that he was not coming back.”

  “Walked out?” One would think from D’Estin’s tone that Radstock Hall was a pleasure garden. Recovering from sheer disbelief, he hurried across to the dressing-room door.