The Detective Wore Silk Drawers

by Peter Lovesey

  That woman held the information he wanted. There should just be time, if he were ready, to interview her at the Hall, and then set off in pursuit of the others. He was not notably perturbed by Jowett’s instructions, but he did feel under a sentimental obligation to Jago to stop the fight before the twenty-sixth round if possible.

  ¦ A cold supper was ordered for that evening, with the intention of getting the servants to their quarters as early as possible. Consultations about the fixing of fights were best held in total privacy. For Jago, the informality—one arrived in one’s own time on cold supper evenings—saved an embarrassing confrontation with Isabel. Furthermore, eating alone allowed him time to collect himself before the negotiations. After an early meal he went to his room and did not appear again until the visitors arrived at nine.

  They came in a four-wheeler and Jago heard them welcomed by Vibart. Any resentment at the Ebony’s desertion had been quite dissolved by the prospect of profit. The bonhomie downstairs was worthy of a Crimea reunion. He went down to join them in the main drawing room.

  “Ah, Jago. You haven’t met Matt Beckett.”

  It was the strangest sensation shaking hands with a man he had known as a set of notes on a card for nearly two years. “Beckett, Matthew.” Hardly a day passed without that name fleetingly impressing itself on his brain. “Crown tattooed . . .” He found himself checking the details.

  Beckett showed no sign of recognizing Jago, although it was not long since they had shared a railway compartment after the Meanix fight. “You’re fit, I hope?” he said with a laugh. “All we ask of you, mate, is that you can get up when you’ve been grassed and that you can count to twenty-six, eh, Vibart?”

  “No fears on that score,” Vibart assured him. “Jago’s been privately educated.”

  “Has he indeed?” Beckett openly sneered. “Tomorrow night he’ll have a new tutor, then. Morgan here ain’t exactly a university man, but he’ll learn you a few points, Jago.”

  “You haven’t met Mr. Foster, Jago,” Vibart intervened.

  “He will act as second to Sylvanus tomorrow.”

  “Foster, David. Born 1860. Five foot six. Ten stone.” A strong grip for a slight man.

  “Pleased to meet you, mate.” That was something for the card. “Two lower front teeth missing.”

  “Where’s Mrs. Vibart, then? We ain’t got the time for small talk,” said Beckett. There was menace in his voice, a grey neutrality in his eyes that one could not very well record by Scotland Yard methods.

  “She’ll be down,” Vibart promised. “What are you drinking?”

  “Rum and shrub for me,” Beckett said. “You can have ale, Morgan,” he told the Ebony, and added, speaking to Vibart, “in a pony glass. We don’t want no thick heads tomorrow.”

  In spite of his welcome, the Ebony was ill at ease. He received his drink and sat hugely on a small high-backed chair in the centre of the room, concentrating on the pattern of the carpet. Jago selected an armchair against the wall. D’Estin brought him a ginger beer.

  Everyone stood for Isabel’s entrance, in a black high-necked dress of surah silk, serene and gracious, difficult to credit as Jago’s assailant a few hours earlier. His back still smarted, though.

  The introductions were made and Beckett at once began stating terms. “It must seem a fair stand-up fight, with Jago taking the early rounds to shorten the odds. I’ll keep Morgan reined until the tenth. You can have first blood.

  When do you want it?”

  “The fourth,” said D’Estin.

  “Does he know what to do?”

  “You go for the lip,” D’Estin told Jago. “And as you land, he bites it to make sure and the tide flows. You understand?”

  “The fourth,” Jago confirmed, secretly telling himself Cribb would have stopped the fight before then.

  “First four knockdowns and first blood to your man, then,” said Beckett. “Then Morgan must win two rounds.”

  “Liver hits,” suggested Foster with relish. “A man goes down beautiful from a liver hit. You can always go to work on the face later, Morgan.”

  The Ebony nodded. Jago glanced at the black fist enfolding the beer glass and looked quickly away again.

  Isabel spoke: “We want no permanent injuries. Understand that, Sylvanus. A certain amount of blood is to be expected, but gouging is not. Show me your thumbnails.”

  Humbly, the Ebony put out his hands.

  “They must be cut. Whatever you do to our man in the final rounds, I want him fit to fight again within six months.

  That means that any cuts must be superficial. What is that dreadful hold when you crook your arm around your adversary’s neck and hold his wrist while you batter his face with your free fist?”

  “The suit in chancery,” the Ebony said.

  “You must not use it on Jago.”

  “Wait a bit, my lady,” said Beckett. “Morgan ain’t fighting to your orders now. No lasting injuries, we agree to, but you can’t dictate what punches he throws.”

  “Mr. Beckett,” said Isabel quietly. “He is capable of killing a man. Would you be a party to manslaughter?”

  Beckett considered the point. Jago, the potential victim, waited for the decision. It occurred to nobody to ask his opinion.

  Beckett nodded. “Very well, then. No suit in chancery, Morgan. Now, are we agreed on a twenty-six-round fight or would you like Jago to twist his ankle in the fifth and retire?” The sarcasm helped him over the humility of conceding a point to Isabel. Plainly he did not like negotiating with a woman.

  She ignored him. “You aren’t looking so well as you should, Sylvanus. I hope you are quite fit.”

  “Fit enough,” the Ebony said without looking up.

  “He’ll ’ave Jago on toast in the last rounds,” promised Foster, whose taste for violence seemed unusually well cultivated.

  “You gave us no warning when you went,” Isabel continued. “That was a strange way to treat us after so many months here. It showed a singular lack of gratitude.”

  The Ebony lifted his face in surprise. “Gratitude?”

  “Don’t blame him, Mrs. Vibart,” said Beckett affably.

  “Morgan’s a professional. He simply accepted a better offer.

  There ain’t many openings for a fist fighter these days.

  When one comes, you don’t turn it down.”

  The Ebony, after seeming about to respond, lapsed into silence.

  “Shall we settle the financial business here, Mrs. Vibart?”

  Beckett went on. “I must give you a merry monk, I think.”

  “Merry—”

  “A monkey,” explained D’Estin. “Beckett owes you five hundred, Isabel. Two hundred back from your stakes and three hundred for tonight’s agreement.”

  “Of course. My writing desk is in the morning room, Mr.

  Beckett. Perhaps you will come there. I am sure I can leave you gentlemen to arrange the finer details for tomorrow between you. I intend to retire early, so I must wish you all good evening.”

  They stood for her. With a rustle of silk she turned, smiled, and was gone, Beckett following. Jago wished she had stayed, and despised himself.

  Foster, quite insensitive to the respect Isabel commanded, was quick to comment. “It ain’t every man that goes off with a young widow and five ’undred in flimsies in ’is pocket. We might be taking the four-wheeler back by ourselves tonight, Morgan.”

  The remark was unacceptable in any circumstances; spoken by Foster, it was odious. Instead of the sly winks he expected, he found himself hauled by his shirt front to within a foot of D’Estin’s face.

  “I suggest,” the trainer said in no more than a whisper, “that you retract that remark, because if you don’t, I shall take the greatest pleasure in returning it to the cesspit it came from.” The thumb and finger of his mutilated hand were ready to make the attempt.

  “I withdraw it,” breathed Foster. “I apologize.” With that he backed into an armchair and cowered on it li
ke a trapped hare.

  D’Estin addressed the Ebony. “You actually deserted us to rub shoulders with scum like that? There’s better company in Colney Hatch.”

  The Negro avoided meeting anyone’s eyes. His only response was a clenching and unclenching of the fists, more eloquent of helplessness than aggression.

  “Just lose one fight and see how they treat you,” D’Estin persisted. “Don’t look to us for help.”

  The Ebony got to his feet slowly, looked vacantly at D’Estin, and turned to Vibart. “I left some things here in the dressing room. I’d like to collect them, Mr. Vibart. Is the gymnasium open?”

  “It should be. If not, I’ll open it,” Vibart said appeasingly.

  “Will you have another drink first?”

  “I’ve had enough already, thank you.”

  The Ebony left the room. No one imagined he had anything to collect from the gymnasium. He was driven out by the unendurable atmosphere.

  Cigars were exchanged and glasses refilled to revive cordiality. Vibart took the initiative in this. Whenever Isabel was absent, he cast his cynicism like a chrysalis and expanded as a personality. “Sylvanus is bloody worried,” he told Jago, half confidentially. “You’re looking fitter than he expected. Mark my words, he’s gone to exercise in the gym!”

  And then for everyone’s ears, brandishing a claret bottle, “Whatever the fancy think of tomorrow’s set-to, gentlemen, they’ll be in no doubt about the quality of the assistance Jago receives. There ain’t a more practised bottleholder than Edmund Vibart in the south of England!”

  Beckett, too, was in high spirits when he rejoined them fifteen minutes later, rubbing his hands. “I’ll have a neat whisky now, if you please, Mr. Vibart, and drink to the success of our arrangement. Your sister-in-law drives a hard bargain, but I’ve paid in full and everything’s settled. We call you Quinton from now on, Jago—” He stopped suddenly.

  “Where’s Morgan? Where the hell is Morgan?”

  “Collecting some of ’is toggery from the gym,” Foster told him, as if he actually believed it.

  “Ah, is that so? Well, he’s not necessary to our last item of business. The time and place, gentlemen, the time and place. Now let’s say this at the outset. We want no trouble from the police. They’ve queered too many pitches in the last year or two by getting wind of a fight before it takes place. So I’ve made it known that we’ve settled on Surrey and I hope it’s reached the law’s ears, for now I’d like to propose that we set up stakes in Kent—out Tunbridge Wells way. There’s a fast train out from London Bridge at noon.

  We can put up there for a handsome lunch and then hire ourselves some swell carriages and pairs to take us into the country in style. Then Jago here—sorry, Quinton—and Morgan can have their good old-fashioned mill with the raw ’uns, while half the blues in Surrey are wearing out shoe leather looking for ’em.”

  “It sounds a capital arrangement to me,” said Vibart enthusiastically.

  Jago was thinking of Sergeant Cribb. “What about the onlookers—the fancy and the bookies? How will they know we’re not contesting the fight in Surrey?”

  “They won’t—until about eleven tomorrow morning, when I let slip the word,” Beckett explained. “That’s early enough for the needle-pointed division. Every fighting pub in the East End will know within the hour. Are we agreed, then?”

  “Entirely,” said Vibart after a nod from D’Estin.

  Beckett stood, holding his glass high. “A toast to twenty-six sledge-hammering rounds at Tunbridge Wells, then.”

  Jago sipped at his ginger beer, somewhat relieved that the Ebony had not been there to hear the toast. In fact it was some ten minutes before Sylvanus did return, and then he confounded everyone by having with him a bundle wrapped in a bathrobe that Jago remembered seeing in the gym.

  “What have you got there, Morgan—Mrs. Vibart’s silver collection?” quipped Beckett. “We’d better get you away, man, before they loose the dogs on you. He’s scared of your dogs, you know, Vibart. He wouldn’t think of leaving Radstock Hall by night.”

  “He’s wise,” said Vibart. “But don’t concern yourselves, gentlemen. While the gates are open, as they are tonight, we keep the dogs locked up. When your carriage has left, I shall unleash them. In fact, I should be grateful to join you as far as the gate.”

  Outside, the warmth of the day lingered, although it was approaching eleven. The four men settled themselves in the carriage, Foster taking the reins.

  “Remember, Jago,” Beckett called through the darkness.

  “Twenty-five times you come to scratch. Leave the rest to Morgan.”

  Foster laughed uproariously and cracked the whip. Long after the shape of the carriage was lost against the trees, his cackles could be heard above the grating wheels.

  D’Estin nudged Jago’s arm. “Nervous? Let’s have a game of billiards. You’ll sleep all the better for it.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  D’ESTIN WAS RIGHT. RETIRING SHORTLY BEFORE MIDNIGHT, Jago settled quickly into untroubled sleep and woke much refreshed to sunshine and the colloquy of the rook community on his side of the house: no melodious awakening, but preferable to the squeak and trundle of handcarts and carriage wheels outside his lodgings at Palace Place. There had always been a rookery at home, at Chapeldurham; with his eyes trained on the ceiling, it was amusing how graphically the carving revived early memories. Each one in a line of three nannies was available for recall with her distinctive morning ritual: cold bath with coal-tar soap; wrestling match under the quilt; and rhubarb pills and stretching exercises.

  He had been fully awake for perhaps three minutes when the second sound invaded his consciousness. It had not been there on other mornings—a persistent ululation, drowned at times by the clamour from the rooks, but continuing at its own level. A sound uncharacteristic of any bird or animal he knew, but certainly not of human origin. If only their racket would stop for a minute, he might distinguish some recognizable cadence. In exasperation he threw back the bedding, walked to the window and pulled up the lower casement.

  Then he leaned out to catch the sound more acutely.

  The source was clear at once. Some forty yards to his left, on the lawn adjacent to the billiard room and the gymnasium wing, were two huge dogs, Irish wolfhounds, the nocturnal guards of Radstock Hall. They stood facing the main block, rooted apparently to one small area of lawn, sometimes backing a few steps and then recovering the ground, straining to lift their muzzles to the maximum elevation, and all the time maintaining a series of melancholy howls that combined to make the weird monotone Jago had heard.

  He watched them in mystification; this was no part of their routine. Once or twice each night he would hear them baying as they patrolled the woods, but by dawn they always returned to the lodge, waiting to be readmitted and fed.

  One of the dogs appeared to have seen Jago, for it turned to direct its howling at him. But it made no attempt to approach. The small area of grass which they chose to regard as their pound was clearly defined by their prints in the dew; they must have been there for an hour at least. Yet there was nothing within the patch that he could see—no dead rabbit or resisting hedgehog—to detain them. In its agitation one of the dogs began rearing on its hind legs, and it was then Jago realized their howls were directed at an upper window of the house, the fourth away from his: Isabel’s.

  He came away from the window, drawing it down to deaden the sound and allow him to consider what to do.

  Dogs were not rational creatures and it was possible that their alarming behaviour was due to some trick of light or scent, or that some canine disorder had affected them. They were trained guard dogs, however, and it could be that they had trailed a genuine scent to the point where they could no longer follow. Some intruder might have scaled the drainpipes under Isabel’s window.

  Jago felt bound to check that she was safe. He decided to rouse Vibart; it would certainly not do to intrude on Isabel alone. Both Viba
rt and D’Estin slept in rooms on the south side of the house and could not possibly have seen the dogs, even if they had dimly heard them. He drew on his bathrobe and went quickly along the corridor past D’Estin’s door to Vibart’s room.

  Vibart must have been deeply asleep. He came to the door at the fourth burst of knocking, slit-eyed and tousled.

  “You? What in God’s name do you want at this confounded hour?”

  “I think someone may have broken in.”

  “Broken in? Burglar, you mean?”

  “I don’t know,” said Jago. “The dogs—”

  “The bloody dogs!” exclaimed Vibart, his lower lip jutting forward in annoyance. “You come disturbing me because the bloody dogs are barking? Listen to me, Jago. If there is a damned burglar in the house, which I doubt, he won’t set foot outside it while those brutes are loose, so you can go back to bed and let him sweat it out downstairs or wherever he is till morning. If you want to apprehend him, you can do it on your own.

  You’re trained to look after yourself, aren’t you?”

  He was. He was also trained to cope with unco-operative members of the public. As Vibart drew back and slammed the door, Jago put his foot in the way. It was done so automatically that he forgot he was wearing neither shoes nor socks.

  To his credit he made only a muted yell of pain, and the rest of the house slept on while he executed an impromptu entrechat. It was sufficient to hold Vibart’s attention while the initial pain subsided.

  “Isabel,” Jago finally managed to say. “The dogs are barking outside her window. I think we should see that she’s all right.”

  Without another word Vibart took down a dressing gown from the back of the door and led Jago along the corridor to Isabel’s suite. In that part of the house the noise made by the dogs was quite audible. It seemed inconceivable that she had not been disturbed by them herself.