The Detective Wore Silk Drawers sc-2

by Peter Lovesey

  The second was postmarked Rainham, Essex:

  Radstock Hall.

  19th July, 1880

  Second Report of Investigation presently being conducted at Radstock Hall, Rainham by 325, Jago, Henry Fortescue, Police Constable attached to M Division.

  Further to my Report of 16th Inst. I have the honour to submit the following account of subsequent developments.

  July 17th. I passed this day in abject discomfort, the direct consequence of the two ounces of Glauber’s salts administered to me the evening before. I was awakened at six by D’Estin, who ordered me to strip and then advanced on me with horsehair gloves and rubbed my flesh into an inflamed state. The cold bath that followed cooled me somewhat before the rubbing began afresh. Then a two-mile walk outside the grounds, which in other circumstances I should have enjoyed. On this occasion it was with some relief that I returned to the Hall. Breakfast followed, consisting of a broiled cutlet of mutton, stale bread and strong tea. D’Estin then took me in hand again, the morning’s programme consisting of alternating showers and massage. After the midday meal, for which I was served roast beef, stale bread, a mealy potato and a small portion of greens, I was allowed to move about gently until nature had been complied with, and then to the gymnasium. Much barbell work and some sparring with the sack, all under D’Estin’s direction. Then more rubbing, another shower, and a slow walk through the grounds. Two lightly boiled eggs and dry toast for tea.

  I did not see Mrs. Vibart at all during the day. The Ebony I met briefly at tea, but found him uncommunicative. He was not present at all during the evening when I played billiards with D’Estin. I retired soon after eleven, but no sooner had I drawn on my nightshirt than the water jug commenced to vibrate and rattle so noisily that I began to suspect a poltergeist was at work. When I raised the jug from its position on the commode, I found that I could hear the real origin of the vibrations. From somewhere in my wing of the house came the strains of organ music, some fugue of Bach so inexpertly rendered that I at once set the water jug down, where its rattling drowned the sound for the next forty minutes. Vibart, it seems, has a chamber organ in his bedroom and is accustomed to practise before retiring. Others in the house may find his playing conducive to sleep; I lay awake long after he had stopped.

  Wednesday’s programme was identical to Tuesday’s, even to the composition of the meals. But after tea I was asked to report to Mrs. Vibart in the drawing room, Edmund Vibart also being present. Mrs. Vibart inquired about my progress, and seemed pleased enough with the answers I gave. She then informed me that a “test” was being arranged for me this coming Saturday. Edmund has contracted for a local man to spar with me in the yard of the Fox and Grapes, commencing seven o’clock. It is not to be an articled contest, but a hat will be passed round after, and the contributions shared between us. I am to be attended by Vibart (bottleholder) and D’Estin (second). My instructions are to let the fight run for ten rounds and then to try to finish it. My opponent is said to be well-made and strong, but not so spry as I am.

  Mrs. Vibart asked whether I had any questions regarding the fight, and I thought it timely to inquire whether I should be allowed to spar with Morgan (the Ebony) to sharpen my preparation. This elicited a significant response, both Mrs. Vibart and her brother-in-law spiritedly resisting the suggestion. When the time was right, they informed me, I should go into the ring with Morgan, but I should on no account face him before. Since sparring was all that I suggested, the agitation in their refusal surprised me somewhat.

  In the evening, after billiards, D’Estin applied lemon juice to my face to toughen the skin, and pickled my hands as usual. Then to my disquiet he insisted that I took a Seidlitz powder before retiring, a quite superfluous inducement to my system. The consequences of this, and an hour or more of the “Old Hundredth” abominably rendered by Vibart on his organ combined to reduce my sleep to a minimum.

  Today, Thursday, has followed the same sequence of events, although my activity has tended to be more intestinal than gymnastic. I hope, if I have recovered somewhat by this afternoon, to take a training walk to Rainham, and there to post this report. I shall, if asked, tell D’Estin that it is a letter to my future fiancee. I have been quite unable so far to induce him to discuss the pugilists who trained previously at the Hall. I have not forgotten your instruction to begin a systematic search of the building, but the opportunity has not arisen, for they rarely leave me alone. I searched my room for possible evidence of an earlier occupant, but found nothing.

  I shall continue to send reports when I can. It should be possible, if you wish, to pass a message to me at the bout on Saturday evening.

  In some haste, Your obedient servant, H. Jago, P.C.

  “I feel for him, reading that,” said Thackeray, returning the report to Cribb. “It almost goes beyond the call of duty, suffering of that kind. I’m not sure I could face it.”

  “After two ounces of Glauber’s salts and a Seidlitz powder, you’d answer the call, Thackeray, depend upon it,” Cribb assured him breezily. “You saw the telegraph. We’re making progress at last. If Jago hadn’t got the tip about the Midlands, we’d still be looking for our pug.”

  “You think this Quinton may be the headless man, Sarge?”

  “Think? I’m sure of it. Everything’s right-age, size, colour of hair-even the convictions. Common assault has often simply meant a prize fight before now. I’ve got the widow coming down to look at the clothes. With luck, she’ll identify them.”

  “What made you pick Birmingham, Sarge?”

  “I didn’t particularly. All the forces up there got my inquiry: Leicester, Northampton, all of them. Brum was likeliest to turn something up, though, once we had the word to try the Midlands. Several of the bare-fisted division live there, or in Wolverhampton. Usually they fight with gloves these days, but some make exceptions.”

  “Charlie Mitchell?” suggested Thackeray.

  “You’re becoming quite a Corinthian, Constable. Would you care to see a fight on Saturday?”

  “Seven o’clock, Fox and Grapes? I wouldn’t miss it, Sarge.”

  “Nor I. We’ll need to look a trifle different from last time, though. Can’t be known as regulars. Tweeds and deerstalker for me. You’re easy. You just shave off your beard.”

  Thackeray started back in horror.

  “My beard, Sarge?”

  “Yes. Soon grows again. Jago’s suffering in the cause of duty. Must show solidarity, eh, Constable?”

  It was disturbingly unreal, wholly unlike the setting for Meanix and the Ebony. The declining sun, impossibly red, made a woodcarving of the yard and its occupants. Probing light and deep shadow chiselled trivial details, doorframes, eaves, coach wheels, into sharp significance. Old men seated at tables with tankards had their nutcracker faces picked out grotesquely.

  Jago stood in his corner. He had lost the toss and faced the light. The shadow of his opponent spanned the ring and was touching his feet. Vibart and D’Estin worked vigorously at his thighs and calves. Around the ring, but at a decent distance, the spectators waited, some seated, others in groups, all with mugs in hand. There was no tension here, no scramble to place bets. This was a local affair and if money changed hands, it was between friends. The crowd was small for a fist fight-perhaps eighty-and not much more than the usual attendance at the Fox on a Saturday.

  Jago examined his hands. They were well prepared for their ordeal, hardened by vinegar and lemon, nails trimmed, knuckles greased. He was feeling fitter than he had all week, after forty-eight hours without aperients. And what he had lost in excess flesh he had replaced in muscle fibre.

  The difficulty lay in forcing himself to believe he was actually about to toe the scratch for a knuckle fight, to flout the law he had been trained to uphold. After a week at Radstock Hall even Sergeant Cribb seemed a remote figure, as alien to this setting as his boxing coach at school. Certainly there was no sign of Cribb or Thackeray among the crowd. What would happen if the fight was raided by
the local police, and they arrested him? Could Cribb intervene, or would the law take its course? Was the expulsion of one constable from the force a matter worth sacrificing all their investigations for? Hadn’t Thackeray himself suggested Cribb was callous towards his subordinates? He was a strange man, this Sergeant Cribb, and inspiring in his way; Jago wished he knew him well enough to trust him.

  It was easier in this strange mood to believe that he was fighting for Mrs. Vibart than Cribb. Mrs? It was Isabel from now on, she had told him when she came to the gym to see his final limbering that afternoon. “You are fighting for me, Henry Jago,” she had said in that allusive way, inviting him to speculate on her meaning. “I know that you will not disappoint me.” And she had put forward her hand and pressed his forearm. Little wonder that Cribb was fading as a source of inspiration.

  “Will the two antagonists and attendants come to the scratch, please?”

  To confirm the dreamlike nature of this experience, the referee was the landlord of the Fox. Jago was quite prepared for his opponent, whose face had been in shadow, to be Lydia’s Papa, attended by the curate from St. Martin’s. Instead the man who stepped forward was a total stranger, Jago’s height, but broader in the chest and bronzed from work in the fields. Instead of boxing drawers he wore flannel longjohns artfully adapted, but obvious for what they were. If anyone felt uncomfortable it was Jago in the expensive white silk drawers Isabel had provided.

  “Mr. Jago?” said the landlord. “We know each other, of course. This ’ere is Luke Judd from Benson’s farm.” The rivals nodded in recognition. “As to the rules, gentlemen, they are according to the London Prize-Ring, last amended 1866. Thirty seconds between rounds, and when I call ‘Time’ you ’ave eight seconds to get to scratch unaided. No butting, gouging, biting, kicking or tearing the flesh with the fingernails. And no seizing of your antagonist below the waist or belting ’im when ’e’s down. A man’s down when ’e’s got one knee and one ’and on the ground, and don’t let me see no deliberate falling on each other. Seconds and bot-tle’olders keep outside the ring until someone goes down. Then you can lift your man to ’is corner. The final matter to mention is that the referee gets five per cent of the takings, by the usual arrangements. No questions? Good. Retire to your corners and wait for the call of ‘Time.’ ”

  Everyone but the two fighters climbed out through the ropes. The imminence of action brought even the serious drinkers from the bar. Jago caught the surprised glance of one of the regulars. Last week he had been one of the window-seat group.

  A light breeze fluttered the colours tied to the centre stake: black silk for Isabel. “You are fighting for me, Henry Jago.” Was he the protege-or she the prize?

  “Time.”

  Time of reckoning.

  He walked to scratch and took his stance.

  A fist jabbed at him. It was easy to jerk aside and respond with a probing left. Short of the target. He edged forward and measured the distance again. Judd rocked out of reach.

  Judd was coming back, open to a straight left. A fast, no-nonsense punch direct to the point. Short, though! What was wrong? That should have floored him, not chucked him under the chin.

  A sudden, vicious haymaker from Judd came perilously near. It fanned his ear as he leaned away. Then a second swing rammed his chest. He countered with one to Judd’s ribs. Bone against bone. His knuckles smarted.

  Pain transformed Judd into a threshing machine. Arms flailed destructively, unstoppable. Most glanced off the forearms, but some Jago could not parry. He felt one jolt on his collarbone. Another scraped his ear cruelly. “They’re almost as vulnerable as eyes to bare fists,” D’Estin had told him.

  Now Judd was upon him, groping for a handhold. The grasp for the throat was easy to deflect. But not the simultaneous crunch of the spiked boot on his foot.

  Jago reeled in pain. A cuff on the temple. Balance gone.

  Down!

  With astonishing speed D’Estin was through the ropes and hoisting him to the corner. Propped there on Vibart’s knee, gasping for air.

  “Drink this. Takes the pain away.”

  Brandy and water, by the taste.

  “Box the man. Don’t let him wrestle you. Strike for the face.”

  Agonized pulsation from the pierced foot.

  “Time.”

  Out to scratch again, to shoot a long right to Judd’s head, warning him away. Beady brown eyes glinted in annoyance. “Box the man.” Devilish hard with him waiting there, hands half open to grapple. Try, though. A feinting right, and immediately a strong straight left. On the mark!

  Judd winced and backed. Jago tried two more long lefts, more to intimidate than injure. Judd retreated again. A right. Judd was cornered, waiting for the onslaught.

  Here was a chance for real advantage, not to be squandered. Coolly Jago set to work, measuring the punches and delivering them crisply. Judd bowed, arms locked across his face. Seeing no way past his attacker, he clearly decided on a strategic closure of the round. Far from convincingly he tottered forward and fell at Jago’s feet.

  “Prettier work,” said D’Estin, as he sponged Jago’s face. “Don’t finish him too early, though. You fight to instructions. Understand?”

  Jago understood. Even in a backyard scuffle between two unknowns the ritual of the prize ring had to be observed. You didn’t finish a fight in three rounds.

  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 s
takes. 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?