“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.
“You’re a sizable fellow, aren’t you? I shan’t pick a bloody fight with you—not until we’ve trimmed you down a bit, eh? What’s your weight?”
“Around twelve stone, I believe.”
Jago under scrutiny felt as he imagined a bullock feels in a beef-stock sale.
“Not a bad weight. Not bad at all. You can reckon to lose a stone in the first two weeks of serious training. That’s if we take you on, of course. Stand up. Let’s see your height.”
“Whatever happens, co-operate,” Cribb had ordered Jago. That was going to call for extraordinary self-discipline. He got to his feet, trying to think of it as a duty sergeant’s inspection. Vibart’s head came close, at the level of Jago’s necktie. Macassar, cheap and pungent, invaded his nostrils.
“Good height, too. Six foot, I’d say, give half an inch either way.”
Jago fully expected a sweaty hand to force his lips apart for a dental inspection. Instead, Vibart took a step back, gave one more approving look at his build, and turned to the beer waiting on the table. In seconds it was gone. Then without another glance at Jago, he planted a deerstalker on his head and marched to the door.
“No time for another, landlord. We must get back. I may be in again in a day or two. Mrs. Vibart has plans for another set-to, you understand.”
“Very good, sir.”
As Jago followed, the landlord came with him to the door.
“Don’t mind ’im, young ’un,” he murmured. “But watch out for the lady.”
Driving through the lanes was as pleasant as the innkeeper predicted. The surface was badly rutted in places, but it was a well-sprung dogcart. Jago looked out across vegetable crops intersected by low hedges, and thought of Cribb and Thack-eray tramping by night across the same fields. There were compensations in being a junior constable.
Having made his assessment of Jago’s physique, Vibart was not much interested in conversation.
“Is it far?” Jago ventured.
“Far enough.”
“Not really a walking proposition, then?”
“If it was,” Vibart snapped, “I wouldn’t be acting as bloody cabby, would I?”
They passed a field where a ploughman was at work patterning the scene with furrows, pursued by flocks of scavenging birds. His face turned to watch the passing trap, but there was no wave of recognition.
“Do you have many servants at the Hall?” Jago asked.
“One cook, one maid, one gardener. Germans.”
“Ah, that’s enough, I expect. Does your wife—”
“My what?” Vibart turned a scandalized face towards Jago.
“Mrs. Vibart. Isn’t she— I’m most terribly sorry if I’ve jumped to a wrong conclusion,” said Jago, rather pleased at his guile. “I just assumed—”
“She’s my sister-in-law. Percy, my older brother, married her a year ago. Died of heart failure last Christmas. He was close to twenty years older than her. She inherited the entire bloody estate. I have my rooms there and help with the sporting arrangements. A woman can’t do business with the fancy, you see, so I act as agent. Blasted messenger boy and cabman, that’s my function.”
Vibart was plainly too obsessed with the indignity of his personal position to volunteer more information. They drove on in silence.
The approach to Radstock Hall was through a copse, and the air was distinctly cooler in the shade. A pair of wrought-iron gates barred the entrance to the grounds.
“Hold the reins while I unlock,” ordered Vibart. “Don’t be alarmed if you hear barking. We keep two dogs in the lodge.”
The din from inside the small building adjacent to the entrance was intimidating when Vibart touched the gates.
“Ferocious blasted animals,” he commented when he rejoined Jago. “They eat more steak than you could in a week and they’d still go for your throat if you met them off the chain. I’d have them shot myself, but she’s attached to them.”
The front aspect of the Hall was grand in its way, Jago decided as they drove towards it, but certainly inferior to Chapeldurham, ancestral home of the Jagos. The amber glow of brickwork in the afternoon sun was pleasing, but ivy had taken a grip and obscured much of the builder’s handiwork. It was too symmetrical, anyway, with twin gables flanking the turreted entrance porch, and precisely positioned casements. And the height of the chimney stacks was unsightly, if not dangerous.
Vibart’s pull at the bell rope was answered by the maid, a humourless woman in her fifties.
“The mistress will take tea with you in the sun lounge when you have unpacked,” she told Jago in a heavy accent as she led him through a panelled entrance hall to the stairs. Vibart, his mission completed, had slipped away without a word.
“I hope you find it satisfactory, sir.”
It was a small, comfortably furnished bedroom at the rear of the house, with brass bedstead, commode, wardrobe and armchair. All it lacked was ornaments, the sentimental knick-knackery that gave a room personality. Jago lifted his portmanteau onto the bed, took out Blondin and placed him reverently in the centre of the mantelshelf. Then he removed his jacket, lifted the water jug from its basin on the commode and began to wash his hands, whistling. From the window he could see the flat roof of the new grey-brick wing Cribb had described. That would be the gym. He looked forward to using it.
Fifteen minutes later Jago edged open the door of the sun lounge.
“Please come in, Mr. Jago. You must be ready for tea
.”
A low-pitched voice for a woman, authoritative but not unfeminine.
“Over here. One has to force one’s way through the greenery, I know, but I like to take tea here in the summer.”
She was seated in a bamboo chair, almost obscured by a large semi-tropical shrub. Jago saw at once that Cribb’s description of “a deuced fine-looking woman” was gross understatement. Mrs. Vibart was magnetic; simultaneously demure and alluring.
She put forward a slender hand.
“Do be seated. I shall pour the tea. As a man in training, you do without milk, I expect?”
“If you please.” Jago was not particularly concerned about the contents of his teacup. He settled opposite her in a cane chair, marvelling that so elegant a creature could interest herself in the brutalities of the ring.
“Edmund was late, I understand. He is usually reliable. I expect he explained that he is the brother of my late husband. He is less intelligent than Percy was, and has none of his charm. You will doubtless have formed your opinion, however. A scone?”
“Thank you.” Jago’s social training took over. “You have given me a most comfortable room, Mrs. Vibart.”
She smiled. The parting of her lips caused Jago’s knee to jerk involuntarily. He re-crossed his legs.
“It is very small, but I think you should be comfortable there. If you decide to remain with us, you will not need to spend much time in your room. I have a well-equipped gymnasium—better, I believe, than the one you are used to, a billiard room and several lounges. Now, Mr. Jago—” she pushed the bamboo table and tea tray aside “—you are interested in fighting professionally, I believe.”
“That is so.” Jago hastily regrouped his thoughts.
“And you have some experience of amateur boxing?” She used the term as though it were foreign to her conversation.
“Yes, in a limited way. For two years.”
“Have you won any championships?”
“I did not bother to enter,” lied Jago. “Until recently, my only interest was in an occasional bout with a skilful opponent. I have sometimes beaten quite reputable amateurs.”
A pause. It was going almost exactly as Cribb had rehearsed it the day before. Except that Cribb lacked the power to distract.
“Mr. Jago. You are patently a gentleman. Where were you educated?”
“Privately, by tutor.” Public school records would be easy to check.
“And your university?”
This at least would be true. “I had a difference with my father and decided to forgo university.”
“Really? That was rather perverse.” The smile again. “What did you do then?”
“I tried to make my way in the legal profession, not too successfully.”
“I think I know the rest,” said Mrs. Vibart. “You met a young woman who lives in Richmond and you hope to marry her, but your present financial position is such that you could not presume to discuss it with her father.”
This much Cribb had agreed could be let slip to Jago’s contact at the Anchor. Yet hearing the details repeated so faithfully by Mrs. Vibart alerted Jago to the seriousness of his position. Every part of his story would be checked.
“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.
The Detective Wore Silk Drawers Page 7
