Vibart, re-entering the bedroom from behind Jago, broke through his reverie. “You can see why he did this.”
He was pointing to the open door of a small safe, set in the wall to their right. It was empty. The key was still in the lock.
“The money,” Vibart explained. “Beckett handed her five hundred pounds last night. Five hundred! What a price for Isabel’s life!”
“What do you mean?” Jago asked. “Are you saying you know who did this?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Morgan killed her. He hated her anyway, but he killed her for the money. He was out of the room last night for half an hour or more. Didn’t you see the bundle he brought back afterwards? There must have been blood on his clothes and hands. He wore the dressing gown to kill her and carried it away with him afterwards. Knife, money, bloodstained hands-they were all hidden in that bundle.”
Jago’s faculties were beginning now to function professionally. The situation, he realized, placed him in an appalling dilemma. He could admit at once to being a policeman and take command until a senior officer could be fetched; but that could expose and destroy Cribb’s entire investigation into the dead pugilists. Or he could continue in his masquerade, possibly gaining privileged information as the others reacted to the new circumstances; that, he well knew, might lead to an unanswerable investigation into his conduct as an officer. For the present, he would delay the decision.
“We must tell D’Estin,” he said. “Then one of us should go for the police.”
“The police?” repeated Vibart in disbelief. “You must be mad! Do you think they can help her now, coming here to turn the blasted place upside-down and bring us all into court?”
“I wasn’t thinking,” said Jago. “Those dogs outside-I can’t concentrate for their howling. Can you get them away from the house? I’ll rouse D’Estin.” He would gain time, perhaps fifteen minutes, while Vibart returned them to the lodge. Before he went to D’Estin, he would examine the room alone; that was exactly what he would do if he were a uniformed investigator.
“Very well,” said Vibart. “What got them into this state, do you think?”
“The smell of blood,” said Jago. “An open window.
Warm sun. Any hunting dog would have got the scent. Take them away at once, can’t you?”
“I’ll get some clothes on,” Vibart agreed, and went off to his room.
In his role as sleuth, Jago approached the bed and touched the largest bloodstain. It was practically dry.
Controlling his emotions now, he bent to examine the stab wounds. He was no expert, but they told him the murder weapon was broad-bladed, and had been thrust into the flesh with great force five times. There was also bruising on the throat and left shoulder, suggesting she had been held down by the nonstriking hand. Her hands were unmarked, the fingernails unbroken; she had not had a chance to fight.
He looked around the room. The silk dress she had worn the previous evening was hanging on the side of the wardrobe, the folds arranged to prevent creasing. On a painted satinwood chair nearby the other garments had been put to air, the underskirt draped across the arms, the corset, black like the rest, over the back. The stockings and garters lay unseparated near the boots on the floor, but it was clear enough from the arrangement of the rest that Isabel had not been disturbed before getting into bed. Nor had she got up to admit her murderer; even a woman as unreserved as she would have put her undergarments out of sight first.
He crossed to the safe. It was a small metal container, certainly large enough to have held a hundred five-pound notes. Earlier he would have dearly liked to examine its contents for the evidence Cribb required. Now it was quite empty.
Suddenly Jago turned in surprise. From outside, under the window, had come two reports. He darted to the sill and looked out. The two dogs lay motionless on the lawn.
Presently Vibart, carrying a gun, approached their great bodies with caution, holding it ready for a third shot.
“Why in God’s name did you do that?” Jago shouted down. He was incensed. Hadn’t there been enough meaningless violence already?
Vibart gave no answer until he was satisfied, by shifting the fallen bodies with his foot, that they were really dead.
“They were hers,” he shouted back. “There’s no sense in keeping them on now. They didn’t save her from Morgan, did they? Useless brutes. Better off dead.”
A movement behind Jago made him turn. D’Estin had entered the room and was standing facing the bed, shaking his head in incomprehension.
“I heard shooting,” he said. “But this. .”
“I was coming to tell you,” Jago said. “Vibart and I found her a few minutes ago. He’s outside. He just shot the dogs with that gun he bought you. He must have awaked the entire household.”
“We must stop the servants’ finding out about this,” said D’Estin, collecting himself. “We want no questions- police-that sort of thing. We’ll settle the score in our own way. They emptied the safe, did they? One of those bastards who came last night did this. It was more than they could bear to part with five hundred, even when they stood to gain twice as much in the fight.” He came to the window.
“What’s that idiot going to do with the dogs?” He leaned out and shouted to Vibart. “Move them into the woodshed, man! We want no questions about this.”
“It must be six-thirty by now,” said Jago. “What time does Mrs. Gruber come to wake her?”
“Quarter to eight. She’ll be down in the kitchens by now.
Must have heard that halfwit shooting. He’ll have to tell her he was after game. Look, I’d better get the servants out of the way altogether. I’ll go down there now and tell ’em Isabel went off to London last night, and we’re off shortly, so that they can all take the weekend off.”
“That will sound very sudden,” cautioned Jago.
“You didn’t know Isabel. She was as liable to give them a day off at the drop of a hat as she was to keep ’em working hours after their time. They won’t think anything of it.”
“You ought to dress first then. There is time.”
D’Estin nodded and left. Jago became a policeman again and turned to the window to examine the sill. There was no sign of anyone having entered that way. As the pipes outside were arranged, the climb looked a more difficult feat than he had thought at first. The six feet of brickwork to be bridged between pipe and window was cleared of ivy and had no obvious footholds. Besides, the dogs would certainly have attacked anyone in the grounds at night. Vibart’s supposition that the Ebony was responsible and had taken all the evidence away in the four-wheeler seemed the best explanation. Certainly the Negro had no regard for Isabel; anyone could see the simmering scorn in his eyes whenever she had spoken patronizingly to him.
Vibart returned from depositing the dogs’ bodies in the woodshed. “The servants are bloody delighted! D’Estin’s given them the weekend off. I say, shouldn’t we draw the curtains or something?”
Jago did so. Then, between them, they lifted Isabel’s body to a more restful position on the bed and covered it with a clean sheet which Vibart fetched from the linen store in the window seat on the landing.
After a few minutes they were joined in the dressing room adjacent by D’Estin. Nobody had suggested a conference, but by tacit consent they seated themselves there, and Vibart summarized the position.
“I think we are agreed that only one man can be responsible for this appalling deed, and that is Morgan. He left us last night after Isabel had gone to bed, and he was gone for three-quarters of a bloody hour looking for a few clothes in the gym. He knew she had the money by then and he knew where her room was. Probably he did pick up the dressing gown from the gym and then wore it to protect his clothes as he stabbed her. When it was done, he wiped his hands on the night jacket in there and then made a bundle of the dressing gown with the knife and money inside it.”
“And he thinks he’s clear because, whatever we suspect, we wouldn’t be fools enough to bring i
n the police,” added D’Estin.
Jago nodded, allowing others to draw conclusions.
“But the bastard’s made a mistake if he thinks that’s the last he’s heard of the matter,” continued D’Estin. “I don’t know if I speak for you two as well, but I certainly plan to settle the score.”
“I’m with you,” said Vibart at once.
“What can we do?” said Jago without committing himself.
“Nothing till we know where he is,” said D’Estin. “Our only chance of catching up with him is to go through with the fight as planned. Afterwards we can get him away and give him a taste of our kind of justice.”
Vibart lit a cigar. He was ready for a long debate on strategy. “Surely Beckett will have him carefully protected. He may have been a party to this murder himself.”
“That’s possible,” D’Estin agreed. “But once Beckett has his hands on the money, he won’t be bothered about his ebony friend. We simply go to the nearest pub with them, as you always do after a fight, and wait our chance to move Morgan out. After twenty-six rounds with Jago here, he won’t be in much of a state to argue.”
Jago smiled feebly.
“Shall we knife him?” asked Vibart matter-of-factly.
“Shooting’s cleaner. I’ve got the revolver. We’ll dump him in the nearest river. Are you with us, Jago? It means you go through with the fight as it was arranged last night. It won’t be all lavender fighting a man you know to be a bloody murderer. Are you game?”
Now was hardly the time to admit oneself on the side of the law.
“Game? Never more so,” declared Jago earnestly.
CHAPTER 14
“I wouldn’t do that, Thackeray,” said Sergeant Cribb unexpectedly.
“Do what, Sarge?”
“Lie on your back in the grass.”
Thackeray propped himself onto one elbow and squinted at Cribb. “Why?”
“Grasshoppers.”
“Grasshoppers, Sarge? What do you mean?”
Cribb paused a second, dissecting a dandelion. “Poor-sighted little parties, grasshoppers.”
Thackeray’s eyes gaped.
“If one of ’em sees that crop turned skywards,” continued Cribb, eyeing the six-day stubble on Thackeray’s chin, “he’s liable to make a jump for it and end up in your mouth.”
There were times, even in the country under a cloudless sky at the height of summer, when Thackeray understood what drove men to violent crime. Without a word, he slumped down again.
Two and a half hours they had lain there in the long grass like scouts on the North-West Frontier, Cribb periodically training his field glasses on the Hall. All the action had taken place in the first half-hour. Two women in their forties and an elderly man had passed within thirty yards of them on their way to the gate. From their dress they were obviously of the servant class, the man probably a gardener and the women cooks or maidservants. They chatted excitedly and with obvious pleasure.
“Day off for them,” decided Cribb. “Even the old ’un looks as corky as a two-year-old.”
After that, though, nothing for two hours. Small wonder that Thackeray finally turned on his back. The day had started for him at six, a mortifying hour for a senior constable to be afoot, with Blackfriars Road still wet from the water cart, and a full two hours to go before the dossers got turned out of the Salvation Army shelter. Then a far-from-comfortable third-class journey out to Rainham on the London and Southend and an hour’s walk in the sun to Radstock Hall. After footing it last time through rain and mud, he had brought his Inverness and heaviest boots and now regretted it. He had blisters the size of pennies, he was sure, but dared not examine them for fear of the feet swelling and never going back into the boots. He closed his eyes and imagined himself checking closing time in Hampstead.
“Here they come,” said Cribb. “Take a look while I check my watch.”
Thackeray turned over at once and peered through the field glasses. He saw Vibart waiting in the gig at the front of the Hall, whip in hand, while Jago and D’Estin manhandled a portmanteau aboard.
“Eleven,” said Cribb. “Just as I expected.”
“Then, why,” pondered Thackeray, “did you drag me across the fields blowing like a confounded grampus at eight-thirty?” He trained the glasses on the one constable in the force he would not have changed places with at that moment. Jago was now seated in the gig; from the set of his shoulders it might well have been a tumbril. D’Estin climbed up to join him and Vibart shook the reins.
“Pity we can’t give him a wave to let him know we’re here,” said Thackeray, in a surge of sympathy, as the trap approached along the drive.
Cribb sniffed. “That’s the sure way to give him apoplexy.
Jago’s expecting to see us waiting at the ringside, not here.”
“Shouldn’t we follow, then, Sarge?” urged Thackeray as the carriage trundled past, gathering speed. “He won’t thank us for arriving late. Suppose we lost them altogether.”
“No fear of that. They’ll be taking the eleven-forty to Fenchurch Street and then cabbing across to London Bridge. There’ll be a pretty conspicuous contingent of the fancy waiting to travel out to Surrey with ’em. Won’t need much detective work to find out which train they all boarded.”
That was not Thackeray’s point. “But they could start the fight before we get there.”
“Probably will,” agreed Cribb nonchalantly. “We’ve more important business on hand than sparing Jago a few rounds in a prize ring.”
“He might be maimed for life!” protested Thackeray, appalled at such callousness. Had Cribb forgotten the state of the Stepney Ox after the Ebony had dealt with him?
“Not very likely,” the Sergeant retorted, getting to his feet and clapping the field glasses back into their case.
“Don’t forget Jago’s had a week’s paid instruction in self-defence from a professor in the art. Fellow should be able to look after himself. Besides, the Ebony won’t want to fell him too early. We’ll do our best to get there before the claret flows. If we don’t, the Yard will foot the doctor’s bills.”
With that touching assurance Cribb marched decisively to the driveway and headed towards the front entrance of Radstock Hall. Thackeray, shaking his head in disbelief, picked up his cape and bowler and followed.
When the Sergeant’s repeated knocking and ringing brought no response, he stood sceptically scratching his side whiskers.
“Why doesn’t the pesky woman come?” he said aloud, backing away from the door to look for signs of life at the windows.
Thackeray remained silent. He knew Cribb’s moods too well to venture any suggestion.
The Sergeant gave one more tug at the bell, frustrated as any front-door pedlar. Then he stalked huffily across the lawns towards the back of the building, Thackeray ambling behind. While Cribb tried the kitchen door, his assistant decided to examine the woodshed. It was fastened by a simple latch, which yielded easily.
Thackeray gave a long, low whistle. Cribb turned from the lock he was struggling inexpertly to ease open with a piece of wire.
“What is it?”
“Dogs, Sarge. Two ruddy great wolfhounds with bullets through their brains.”
Cribb went to see for himself. The bodies lay just inside the door across the threshold, as though they were too heavy to drag any further into the hut. No attempt had been made to cover them.
“Not long dead,” said Cribb. “Why should anyone do that?”
“Could be that Mrs. Vibart has quit Radstock Hall for a while, and they’ve no further use for the guard dogs,” ventured Thackeray. “It’s a savage way to treat dumb animals, but these people ain’t over sentimental.”
“We’ll break into the house,” decided Cribb. He stepped across the bodies and picked up a short stump of wood. The subtle art of springing locks with wire could be practised some other time. He returned to the kitchen area and selected a window. Then he shattered the glass and felt for the catch.
<
br /> Opened, the window was wide enough to admit a slim man.
Thackeray looked on dubiously.
“I’d better make a back for you, Sarge.”
A steady and substantial back. Cribb stepped from it through the window into the kitchen and unlocked the door to admit Thackeray. “You’re probably right,” he told the Constable. “It’s ten to one now that there isn’t a living soul in the house, but we’d better anounce ourselves just the same. And take off your hat.” He passed from the kitchen along a short passage to the entrance hall. “Looks as central a place as any,” he said, and then cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Hello, there! Mrs. Vibart! Hello! Is anyone there?”
The words must certainly have been heard through the building. The two intruders waited while the resonance died away.
“Theory confirmed, then,” said Cribb. “An empty house.” He took out the watch from his waistcoat. “That gives us almost an hour to find the evidence I want before we need to get off to London. Papers, mainly-contracts, diaries, training programmes-anything to prove Quinton was here. I’ll take the rooms downstairs and you can go up.
Try all the bedrooms. It’s unlikely they’ve left any of his clothes in a room, but we can’t neglect the possibility.”
Cribb began downstairs by opening all the doors in sight, found the morning room and went straight to the writing desk. It was locked, a handsome piece of furniture, a satinwood davenport banded with rosewood, which Cribb without hesitation splintered at the lock with a paperknife. He need not have bothered; it contained a dozen or so sheets of paper, ink and a few sachet cards. The side drawers at first promised more. One yielded a large bound account book.
He opened it on the desk lid and began thumbing through the pages. If there was evidence there, it was going to take time to find. On a first inspection the accounts seemed restricted to housekeeping expenses and servants’ wages. He delved into the lower drawer, but there were only ancient copies of The Times in there. Not even a sporting paper.
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