The Detective Wore Silk Drawers (5 page)

“That may be so,” conceded Cribb. “But our direction isn’t far wrong, even if the going ain’t exactly Pall Mall. We’re following the same course the Ebony and his friend took. I don’t take the word of a bunch of swivel-eyed rustics without checking for myself.”

One consolation was that the rain clouds were fast dispersing, and there were frequent short periods of moonlight. Between them huge shadows traversed the fields like black tides. The landscape was depressingly flat, relieved only by a few small silhouetted copses. Thackeray tried to put the grinning rustics out of his mind. He concentrated on planting each step on the most solid ground available.

“There’s a chimney!” announced Cribb in some triumph fifteen minutes later. “Above the cedars there. Unmistakable.”

They cut across a turnip crop, quickening their pace. As they approached the group of trees that increasingly dominated the landscape, a lane was revealed, snaking in from the right.

“There’s the approach road,” Cribb announced. “Look where it comes from. Would have added miles to our walk.”

Thackeray never openly questioned his sergeant’s infallibility. But he noted with satisfaction that Cribb’s right galosh was missing, claimed by some quagmire they had passed through.

The estate of Radstock Hall was enclosed by a six-foot wall. This the detectives surmounted with the help of an overhanging branch. Their progress was deliberate and by no means stealthy. Instinctively they felt secure from guards, dogs or other hazards the grounds might contain. The trees and scrub were dense enough, anyway, to give them cover if necessary. The house was moonlit when they reached it—an elegant Elizabethan country house in glimmering red brick. The roof, still damp from the earlier downpour, gleamed theatrically. Gaunt, well-weathered chimneys jutted against the restless sky.

They skirted the building, moving with more caution now, and keeping in the shadow of the foliage, although no lights were burning at the front. As they rounded the side of the house, Cribb stopped abruptly and said, almost aloud, “God Almighty!”

Thackeray froze. His sergeant was not given to casual blasphemy. Around the corner was something exceedingly unpleasant. A procession of headless corpses would not have provoked a more extreme outburst. But the horror confronting Thackeray when he looked was altogether different. Not a physical violation at all, but an aesthetic one. With blatant disregard to the style of the house a squat, grey, modern wing had been added to the back, as vulgar as a blowfly on a rose. What sort of people were these?

“Take it slow now,” cautioned Cribb. “We’ll get a closer look if we can.”

They were standing in a convenient plantation of rhododendrons extending around two sides of the building. To approach the new wing, they would have to break cover for forty yards and cross a kitchen garden.

“Keep to the paths,” Cribb whispered. “And watch that open window. I think there may be a lamp inside. This light’s deceptive.”

They scudded as noiselessly as two large men could across the open area and halted at the grey wall itself, to the left of the open window. Cribb was correct; both of them glimpsed a flickering paraffin lamp as they passed within view of the room. And when Thackeray’s agitated breathing subsided, they could hear a low voice, too muffled for the words to be intelligible.

“I’ll try to get closer,” Cribb breathed. “May hear something useful. You move along the wall and look in the other windows. Careful, mind.”

Thackeray tiptoed away on his mission. He could never be sure at such times whether Cribb was giving him responsibility or making certain he was out of the way. His boot caught a flowerpot, and it toppled over and rolled through an arc on the gravel path. He stiffened against the wall, cursing his clumsiness.

For two minutes Thackeray waited, thoughts racing through his brain of action to take when he was discovered. The proper course was to hold them off as conspicuously as possible, giving Cribb a chance of flight. He looked around for a weapon. There was only the flowerpot. If the Ebony came in pursuit, no flowerpot would fell him. Thackeray decided to rely on a dash for the rhododendrons.

Nothing happened, so he edged forward again, calculating each footfall like a mountaineer. There was a window a few feet ahead. He stopped, straining to hear sounds within. Nothing. He leaned forward and moved his eye to the glass. The brim of his bowler made contact, and he jerked back with a small start.

The interior was sufficiently well-lit by the moon. Thackeray was looking into a spacious room, dominated by a platform structure at the centre, a yard in height and at least twenty-four feet square, a full-scale boxing ring with posts and ropes. To the left was an area equipped for gymnastics, with ropes suspended from the ceiling, two with rings. There were parallel and horizontal bars, a high bar and a trapeze. Scattered about the floor were Indian clubs and dumbbells. He stayed at the window, making a mental inventory of every object within view. Somebody had provided handsomely for the Ebony’s training.

Sergeant Cribb, after wincing at Thackeray’s blunder with the flowerpot, waited fully three minutes before attempting to improve his position at the window. The speaking within continued. It was more monologue than conversation, the same teasingly subdued voice speaking at intervals and answered occasionally in monosyllables. Cribb crouched at sill height and looked in.

The conversation became audible.

“. . . said he was probably a heavier man than you, and weight is important in fighting. Your physical construction is incomparable, of course, but crude weight is said to out-top muscle when there is enough of it. Are you feeling cooler now? This will surely keep you from getting muscle stiffness this time.”

To Cribb’s surprise, the speaker was a woman. Her face was in shadow, but the voice and figure were young. She was standing beside a backless chaise-longue, talking as she applied liniment to the Ebony’s dorsal muscles. He was lying quite naked, face downwards, his thighs and buttocks glistening darkly after massage.

“He was the best available,” she continued, pouring more of the liquid into her palm. The air at the window was heavy with its aroma. “His record was in the champion class. Mostly straight knockdowns, too. It won’t be easy to find another of his reputation. Your ribs must be sore. I’ll dab them lightly.”

The Ebony’s face was clearly visible from Cribb’s position. The left eye was swollen, but he was otherwise unmarked. He was drowsy, and apparently indifferent to what his masseuse was saying as she stroked his skin. Once, though, when her flattery became obvious, his mouth twisted into a secret sneer.

“Next time I would like to watch you. I wouldn’t be the first of my sex to attend a prize fight. Plenty did in the past, when it was considered respectable. If I disguised myself, I could pass as a youth, couldn’t I?”

A meaningless grunt from the Ebony. His indifference was no discouragement to her. Using the jargon of sport with incredible naturalness, she talked on, her small hands probing the black surface of his back to isolate and caress the individual bands of muscle.

“The difficulty, Sylvanus, is to find another antagonist for you. You aren’t ready yet for the French or the Yankees, though you’ll poleaxe them when the time comes. We took the others into the top class too soon. I shall not make that mistake with you. Besides—” she leaned forward to whisper something into his ear and a strand of hair that had become loose fell on his shoulder.

Outside, Cribb froze, feeling himself within her line of vision. But she straightened and continued her work.

In those few seconds the Sergeant was able to study her face. They were certainly a young woman’s features, delicately fashioned, yet sharply defined. Dark, expressive eyes, elegant nose, cheeks flushed slightly, perhaps by the close heat of the Ebony’s body. All the character, though, was in her mouth. It was a fraction wider than perfect proportion asked. The upper line almost arrogant in its precision. Below it a fuller, rounded lip. Sensuousness underlying vestal coldness.

“I may arrange for Edmund to bring a fighter down from the north,” she continued. “He once told me of a group of fist fighters in Manchester. You’re not fighting any more farm boys, I promise you. Would you lift your arms? If you fold them above your head, I can soon be on your biceps.” She giggled slightly. “You’ll soon be my anointed one, Sylvanus. Handmaidens did this for kings in ancient times.”

Cribb was studying the Ebony’s face. Unmistakably it creased into an expression of contempt.

“These moths!” she said petulantly. “The lamp draws them. Now that the rain has stopped, it isn’t possible to have a light near an open window. I’ll draw the curtain. It’s time Edmund unleashed the dogs.”

Cribb ducked, flattening himself to the wall. Thackeray, rejoining him from behind, stiffened to a halt.

There was the sound of heavy curtains being drawn.

Cribb gestured to Thackeray to move away.

The glint in the Sergeant’s eye was more than moonshine. “I don’t know what you saw, Thackeray,” he whispered when they were sufficiently far away, “but I’ve learned enough in the last ten minutes to get us both a quick promotion.”

CHAPTER

5

BRILLIANT IN RED AND GREEN, IT LEAPED AND DIVED IN THE gusty air, a magnificent checkered kite, as large as its owners. In mid afternoon a breath of wind had disturbed the trees, causing leaves to gleam momentarily silver in the sunlight. By teatime you could call it a breeze and—splendid for kite flying—it varied in force from one moment to the next. Now, in early evening, the kite, after being quiescent in a playroom for months, swooped and shivered above Richmond Green, while two small boys and Henry Jago struggled to control its flight.

Waiting there to intercept Lydia on her way to post her father’s letters, he had found the kite impossible to resist. Clearly its elevation could be much improved with the help of strength and science. Soon the owners stood stiffly at a distance, occasionally paying out more cord. Jago, with his hands on the lifeline, tugged and raced to achieve even greater height.

Lydia must have been watching for several minutes before he realized she was there.

His hand slipped down the cord in an automatic movement. The kite swooped downwards. Its protesting owners rushed to take control again.

“I thought you policemen discouraged kites,” she scolded as he came sheepishly to her.

“Kites? Oh, yes. Very dangerous near roads, when they cause the horses to rear. Kites and hoops—the modern child
will
play with these dangerous toys. I’d have them banned myself.”

She smiled.

What a relief!

“Lydia, how can I apologize for your appalling disappointment yesterday evening? You did receive my letter in the afternoon? It was absolutely unavoidable. Short of disobeying orders and losing my job, I couldn’t possibly have come.”

“Yes, it was a disappointment, Henry.”

Said so tolerantly! She either had an unshakable affection for him, or she was unusually well-brought-up. Jago had known young ladies from good families who would have ended the acquaintanceship for less. Discarded him like last season’s bonnet. And not without a torrent of abuse.

“I hope you were able to warn Stella in reasonable time. She was coming as chaperone, wasn’t she?”

Lydia nodded. “Papa drove round to tell her we could not go.”

The Colonel. If it was possible, his opinion of Jago would have sunk still lower. Bad enough that a young fellow decently educated should be so ill-advised as to join the blasted police force. But when he had the sheer impertinence to break a promise made to a lady—a serving officer’s daughter—the bounder deserved cashiering at the very least.

“
She
was disappointed, too, I expect.” Jago said this without excessive sympathy. Stella, Lydia’s closest friend, invariably came as chaperone. She never said very much to him, but her eyes spoke. “You won’t make much impression, Henry Jago. There are things I could tell her about you, and I probably will.”

“Yes,” answered Lydia. “She was certainly looking forward to
The Corsican Brothers.
The Lyceum is her favourite theatre. Can you tell me what it was you had to do?”

Deuced awkward situation. She was being so charming about everything. He was bound to say something.

“I’m not officially permitted to say, but it was important work.” Stella, he was sure, would give
her
verdict on his activities. “Detective work! He is no detective, Lydia, believe me. Why doesn’t he wear his uniform when he takes you out, as any young subaltern does? He is ashamed, that’s why. And not just ashamed of being merely a constable. I once passed him in Northumberland Avenue and saw his uniform. The seat of his trousers, my dear! It gleams like a mirror! He sits on a chair all day and pushes a pen. You’ve seen the ink stains on his fingers, haven’t you?”

“I hope it wasn’t a policeman’s smoking concert, anyway,” said Lydia, smiling.

“Not at all!” he said almost too vehemently, for a memory of his performance in the Fox had flashed through his mind. “Quite the reverse. Strictly an evening on duty.” He looked about him and moved closer to her. “I can at least say this, but in heaven’s name, do not tell anyone—not even Stella—or I shall lose my job. Last night I was travelling in company with a group of men who may lead us to a most savage murderer. I was alone in a railway carriage with them.”

“Alone? But how dreadful, Henry! How did you prevent them from attacking you?”

“Ah. Disguise. In a manner of speaking. You see, I was dressed as I am now, like any ordinary member of the public.”

“How clever. What happened?”

He opened his palms in a gesture of helplessness. “I really cannot say. But this morning I was congratulated for the information I passed on.”

“Weren’t you in terrible danger?”

He basked in her concern.

“Possibly. That is part of my job.”

“Then they shouldn’t send you on such missions. I know you are an expert in boxing with gloves, but what chance would you have against a gang of desperate ruffians? They could have recognized you and thrown you out of the moving train, or worse!”

Jago enjoyed himself thinking of the unspeakable injuries he had escaped. “But here I am, Lydia, without a mark on me.” The moment he had said it, he realized how smug it sounded. “Tell me how you are. What have you done today?”

They walked slowly across the Green, Lydia holding her father’s letters ceremoniously, like an ambassador’s credentials. They were her reason for walking in that direction and chancing to meet Henry Jago. It was only right that one should spare the servants a duty on occasions.

“Henry, do you think your prospects of advancement in the police are good?”

She looked up at him earnestly, blushing slightly at her own temerity, peachy cheeks touched by copper curls.

Jago cleared his throat nervously. “I certainly hope so. There are many possibilities, but one has to prove oneself capable, as one does in any employment.”

“Papa was asking.”

“Really?” Was the Colonel actually taking him seriously?

“I didn’t know quite what to say. I don’t think he understands much about the police. He asked me whether you had good noncommissioned officers serving under you, as that could make a lot of difference to your platoon.”

“Oh.”

“I think he might be prepared to meet you again if you would like to leave your card. He realizes that he was rather abrupt last time. But when we first met at the West Surrey, he gained the impression that you were a regimental man.”

“Yes, I remember.” Only his admiration for Lydia had prevented Jago from undeceiving the Colonel at once.

“If he knew you better, he might allow you to call on us regularly. He is rather suspicious about my going out to post his letters, I fear. This one isn’t the nearest posting box to our house.”

Jago smiled appreciatively.

“Papa read your letter most carefully yesterday. He asked me a number of questions about you. Then he finished by saying that I should widen my circle of acquaintances. He has been introduced to the curate at St. Martin’s, a young gentleman recently from theological college, and we have been invited to call on him next Saturday.”

Jago blanched. “I see.”

“Henry, I think you would find much in common with Papa, if you would call on us. You have told me yourself that the force is organized like a military regiment. And then there is your sport.”

Jago tried to appear enthusiastic. “Oh, yes. He is interested in cricket, isn’t he? I know a bit about Grace—W. G., you know, not the kind his curate friend specializes in.”

It was feeble humour, but both needed the chance to smile.

“He does enjoy cricket talk,” Lydia said. “I think that is why he is interested in the curate. He scored a century for Cambridge.”

A pause.

“I could talk about boxing,” said Jago. “Have you told him about my police championship victory?”

“No. Not yet.”

“My sergeant has just arranged for me to have intensive training in self-defence. Two hours a day. I shall be the most able-bodied bobby in London, Lydia!”

“Self-defence? Is that boxing?”

“Yes, but much more besides. I’m starting with a professor at Shoreditch School of Arms on Monday morning. I shall be instructed in the art of wrestling, as the Japanese practise it, and fist fighting—”

“But what is it for, Henry?”

Altogether more buoyant now, Jago lifted his fists and mimed the classic stance of the pugilist.

“Self-defence. And fighting off jealous curates. I think I shall try again with your papa, Lydia.”

She took his arm and they walked on to the posting box.

In the records room at Great Scotland Yard, Constable Thackeray stretched his legs and turned his feet to examine the insteps of his best pair of regulation boots. The damp line extended like a chalk mark all the way round. He doubted whether they would ever fully recover from their soaking the previous week in the Essex mud.

“ ‘Beckett,’ ” read Sergeant Cribb aloud, “ ‘Matthew James. Born 1853. Five feet ten. Twelve stone two. Dark complexion. No permanent address. Last lodging in Bermondsey. Ex-seaman. Crown tattooed on right forearm. Serpent on left.’ Jago missed that. Let’s see what the record is. ‘June 1873. Six months for housebreaking. March ’76. Drunk and disorderly. One month. April ’78. Loitering with intent to commit a felony. Fined £1.’ None of them violent crimes, you see, but he appeared to be the leader. Where’s the last file?”

Thackeray handed it over.

“ ‘Foster, David. Born 1860. Five foot six. Ten stone.’ Beautiful copperplate, this. Only one entry. Drunk and disorderly again. I can believe that too, after Friday evening in that Rainham taproom.” He tossed the file back to Thackeray. “That’s the four with records, then. Three tough coves and one young ’un. Capital work of Jago’s to pick ’em out.”

“I think he knows these records like the coins in his pocket, Sarge. That could well be his own handwriting you admired. Is there anything on Meanix himself?”

“Not here,” Cribb answered. “So many charges were brought a few years back for prize fighting that the records were never centralized. You’ll find a better account of him in
Fistiana
than anywhere else. No, it’s the bunch who followed him that interests me.”

“Was anything said, Sarge?”

“Plenty. Young Jago’s less dumb than he looks. Gave me enough to hook in most of his fellow travellers on suspicion if I needed to.”

“You won’t, then?”

“Wouldn’t help at present. I need something more decisive and I think I know where to find it. Someone’s got to lead me to the killer. I’m leaving every possibility open at present. Things will happen in the next week. Almost sure to.”

“Why, Sarge?”

“The gang. If Meanix had done his job, they stood to make a mint.”

Thackeray was dubious. “I don’t see how that was possible, Sarge. The odds were heavily in his favour from the start.”

Cribb sometimes despaired of his assistant.

“Side bets, Constable; side bets. First knockdown, first blood, length of contest. Meanix was hired to engineer that fight to order, round by round. And he would have done, with different opposition. They expected a muscle-bound ploughman in the village-idiot class. The Ebony was quite a different kettle.”

“So they lost heavily,” concluded Thackeray.

“Not so heavily. There was time to hedge their bets when they saw the Ebony’s form. But they gained nothing. And with Meanix a spent force they’ve got to hire a new punching machine. From what Jago heard, they’d like to take over the Ebony.”

“What will happen to Meanix?”

The edges of Cribb’s mouth creased into a smile.

“Thackeray, I know what you’re thinking. The Ox to the slaughterhouse, eh? You could be right, too. I think they’ll put him to grass, though.”

“Could our headless fighter be another one who disappointed them?” ventured Thackeray.

“I think not.” Cribb flexed an arm, stood up, and walked to the window, to look across Great Scotland Yard. “Dispatching a pug in London ain’t that easy, even if you top him first. Questions get asked. People miss him in the pubs and training gyms. It’s a week now since I fished him out of the river.”

Thackeray stroked his beard sagely. “We’ve enough listeners in the pubs to have picked something up by now.”

“Exactly. London turns up nothing, so where do we look?”

“Essex or Kent, I suppose, Sarge. But don’t the same things apply? If he was a provincial man, the chances of someone local missing him would be far greater than in London, I’d say.”

“Certainly,” said Cribb. “What if he were imported, though, and kept in a place like Radstock Hall? D’you suppose the Ebony is a Rainham man? Who do you think would ask questions if he disappeared tomorrow and wasn’t seen again? I heard that woman talk of other fighters, men who were pushed too soon into the top class. Suppose one of them was badly beaten, killed even, by Meanix, or one of the London pugs.”

Thackeray saw the implication.

“Nobody would ask questions, because nobody knows how many fighters are kept at Radstock Hall, or where they come from.”

Cribb scarcely heard the remark. He was in a strangely restive mood. He turned from the window.

“Sunshine,” he informed Thackeray. “Rare enough in London. Let’s get out in it.”

The Constable needed no second bidding. Scotland Yard’s stained oak and dark leather depressed him, too. He almost envied young Jago’s two hours that morning with his professor in the art of self-defence. Cribb seemed drawn to the river as though it would yield the secret of the headless pugs if he visited it enough. Reaching the Embankment, he set out purposefully towards Waterloo Bridge, at a pace too athletic for Thackeray’s comfort on a summer morning. Strolling nannies heard the brisk approach of boots and moved their perambulators aside. Children in sailor suits looked up from games of ducks and drakes at the water’s edge.

“Fine respect we have for human life,” Cribb said with scorn. “What is it—ten years since the Embankment opened? What happens if a nipper chases a hoop over the edge? Look down here. See the lion’s mouth bosses in the granite? They were linked with chains in the designs. Here we are in 1880 with not a chain in place. If you fell in at any point between Westminster Bridge and Blackfriars you couldn’t find a chain, nor a rope nor a boom for a handhold in the length of the Embankment. No wonder they make a business out of collecting bodies in King’s Reach.”