The Detective Wore Silk Drawers

CHAPTER 10

Henry Jago put down his book and listened. Listened for anything but the susurration of beech leaves in the grounds outside. An hour and a half had passed since Vibart’s evening recital had finished and the bolts were secured downstairs, and Gruber, the German maidservant, had shuffled to her quarters at the rear of the house. There had been sounds enough after that-creaks and murmurs, howls and whines-but none of recognizable human origin.

He looked at his watch. No need to light the candle

tonight; the sky outside was clear, the moon in its third quarter. Mendoza’s Memoirs, prescribed reading for any literate fist fighter, lay open on the counterpane, the words legible even in partial shadow. Tonight, though, the Jew’s exploits ninety years before were insufficiently diverting. It was earlier than Jago had planned, but he decided to start.

He got up, drew a bathrobe over his nightshirt, and crept across the room. On the mantelshelf, in front of Blondin, was an Indian club. He pushed the narrow end of his right sleeve as far as the elbow so that the bulbous part rested in his palm. Then he eased open the door of his room.

The landing led past the Ebony’s door for some twenty-five yards to the entrance of Isabel’s suite, guarded by a suit of tarnished armour at the head of the main staircase. The room between was now unoccupied, D’Estin having moved on Sunday to a bedroom beyond Jago’s, up a small flight of stairs and around a corner in the passage. The floor was carpeted, but beneath the comforting pile lay boards as ready to screech as nesting game fowl. Jago moved with a poacher’s stealth. He had tried every board before, and knew which of them were stable.

Once past Isabel’s door, the stairs were easier. They were noisy only on the banister side. He descended quickly and crossed the hall to the passageway leading to the kitchen.

This would be difficult; he had been there only once before on the pretext of asking for a lemon for his skin. He hoped that the cook, another foreign woman seldom seen outside, kept the place in good order. Any kitchen implement accidentally knocked to the stone floor would sound an alarm through the house.

Jago tapped the door inwards. It groaned. There was no avoiding that. He paused momentarily, and went in.

Fortunately the moonlight had penetrated there. A wedge of bluish white divided the room diagonally from window to skirting board, chancing on a row of copper saucepans and highlighting them. He crossed the floor like an intruder in an illuminated tableau. He had seen what he came for: a large board over the stove with twenty or thirty hooks, from which labelled keys were suspended. He was unlikely to be heard, but he took excessive care not to chink them as he selected the one he needed. He pocketed it and turned his attention to the meat safe. From the lower shelf he removed a sizable piece of steak. Its absence would not be noticed, for the safe was prodigally overstocked. He withdrew the Indian club from his sleeve to free both hands and then wrapped the meat in cheesecloth and put it into his bathrobe pocket.

Then he slipped the bolt on the kitchen door, picked up the club and stepped outside the house.

A walk of thirty or more yards separated the house from the woodshed, where Jago was going. No distance at all, unless one recalled D’Estin’s earthy warning: “If you want the privy at night, forget it. Dogs, y’know. Better to wait till morning.” It had not been easy heeding the advice in those first painful nights after the physicking, but occasional baying from the grounds had proved a strong disincentive. It said much for his present determination to find the evidence Cribb wanted that he was now taking his chance with the dogs. Whether this indicated loyalty to Cribb or desperation to end his stay at the Hall, Jago did not like to contemplate. He gripped the Indian club and stepped manfully across the open yard to the shed.

Damn! The key was difficult to fit in. Or was he too nervous? It turned after a fearful delay and with a huge gasp of relief he stepped into the shed and slammed the door closed.

Never mind silence now!

Half the building was stacked with logs cut into foot lengths. He couldn’t possibly spend the night unstacking them to look for severed heads, although one could well be hidden there, perhaps under the ground, which was simply earth. He sniffed; there was only the expected smell of sawn timber. Nor was there much hope of finding bloodstains among these layers of soil and sawdust. There was one more possibility: the saw. If he could somehow smuggle that to Cribb, an expert might detect human blood particles somewhere on its surface. But where was it-hanging up somewhere?

Jago turned. There was a saw suspended from a nail on the wall behind him. In fact there were twelve saws, of all sizes and varieties. He swore aloud.

As if in answer there came a low, prolonged snarl from outside. The sweat on his body was suddenly chilled and a pulse was thrumming in his temple. He kept absolutely still.

The beast-if it was only one-was circling the shed.

He heard its rhythmic panting progress purposefully along the outer walls. It knew he was there. He could stay its prisoner till morning; or he could take his chance on getting back.

There was a small ventilation window high on one wall adjacent to the door. Jago slowly forced it open. The hound was under it in an instant, growling menacingly, ready to leap if his hand should venture outside.

He had to take the chance. From his pocket he took the steak and unwrapped it. He went close to the window.

The aperture was depressingly small. With all the momentum he could gather at so fine an angle, he slung the meat into the scrub behind, perhaps ten yards from the shed. Without waiting to check whether the dog had moved, he flung open the shed door and bolted across the yard, appallingly vulnerable in his flowing nightshirt and robe.

But he was at the kitchen door and inside and the bolt was across before he heard anything from the dog. Outside, the entrance to the shed gaped, the key still in the swinging door. He went to bed. Explanations could wait.

The summons to report to Isabel next morning was no surprise to Jago. But its purpose was.

She was in the morning room at her writing desk, and she did not look up when he entered. It was early; one rarely saw her before noon. She was wearing black, as usual, velveteen skirt and sealskin jacket over a white lace blouse. Her wardrobe must have been bought for a year’s mourning at least. Only on the evening after his fight had Jago seen her in another colour.

He coughed discreetly.

She continued with her writing for perhaps a minute.

When she eventually spoke, she did not look at Jago.

“You have disappointed me, Henry.”

He felt sure he knew why. “Disappointed?”

“Yes. I thought you understood that we have to keep our activities here entirely confidential.”

“I do understand that.”

She turned to face him. Inconsequentially he reflected that she probably wore black for its dramatic effect. Her face was radiant, the line of her cheek and neck in sharp relief against the sleek cut of the jacket collar.

“This letter arrived for you.”

“Letter?” It was not possible. Only Cribb knew where he was.

“Don’t try to appear surprised, Henry. You must have invited her to write to you. Oh, I know all about your Lydia.

It was necessary for me to read the letter, you understand. I cannot countenance my fighters corresponding clandestinely. Didn’t we have an understanding that you told nobody where you were?”

This was incomprehensible. “Yes.”

“And now you break your word. How many letters have you written to her?”

What on earth should he say?

“One.”

“Then you will write one more, and only one. You will tell Miss Boltover that it will be safer for you both if she does not attempt to correspond with you. From time to time she can read about your progress in the sporting newspapers, as she appears to have done on this occasion. But she must learn not to indulge her sentiments in other respects.

If she really intends to marry you, as you suppose, she will wait. When you have earned some good purses with me, she will be glad enough that she was patient. She at least has prospects. Other women have none. Here is your letter.”

He stepped forward and took it. The handwriting was Lydia’s, he was sure. What in heaven’s name was Cribb doing?

“I apologize. I did not like deceiving you.”

Isabel had picked up her pen again. “I should like to see your reply when you have written it.”

“You shall,” Jago assured her, turning to withdraw.

“And, Henry.” She spoke without looking up. “So that you shall have an opportunity of demonstrating your loyalty, I have instructed Robert to extend your training exercises today. Now you may go.”

Sergeant Cribb had the devil of a lot to answer for.

An hour later Jago, sweat coursing down the sides of his nose and onto his naked chest, was suspended from the wall bars, periodically raising his knees to D’Estin’s command.

The white drawers made the work increasingly difficult as his body temperature rose; the damp silk clung to his body and seemed tauter over knees and loins with every movement.

“Get them higher, man!”

Thank God there had been no mention of the woodshed!

Perhaps the servants had not reported the unlocked door, thinking they were concealing each other’s carelessness.

“Right! Down you come! Take the barbells and begin squatting and rising. Nimble’s the word!”

This would be easier. The abdominal muscles would get relief even if the thighs ached. In certain respects he was content to take his punishment, for punishment this most certainly was, whatever Isabel termed it. Earlier, his resentment had been strong. Now, after briefly reading Lydia’s letter, he was less angry; even a little encouraged.

Paramount, of course, was the pleasure in recognizing that most of the letter was genuinely hers; at times this week she had seemed very remote. Now her concern and affection heartened him.

“Get into a rhythm, Jago! Don’t rest on your haunches!”

Cribb’s message, cunningly phrased (he supposed, as it was palpably not Lydia’s style) and inserted in Lydia’s handwriting, was also encouraging. “It seems insufferable that you must be away so long, but I know how important it is to your career and our prospects. Please, Henry, endure whatever is necessary for both our sakes, but be wary too (in the ring). Learn all that you can at Radstock Hall, for it will help later. But you must not concern yourself unduly about me.

Remember that I am not so far away, and when you fight, rest assured that I shall know about it and shall not let you out of my thoughts.” Surely the tenderest message Cribb had ever sent to a constable.

“Very well! Now the dumbbells, if you please. Above the head. Lower them slowly. Elbows straight!”

The pain in his biceps was just endurable. He could not continue long. The weights started to pull the arms down from the crucifix pose.

“Keep them up, man! You’re on show, you know!”

On show. . Something in D’Estin’s emphasis confirmed what Jago had increasingly suspected: that concealed somewhere in the panelled wall ahead of him was an observation hole. Each exercise was staged facing that end of the gymnasium. Every grimace, every agonizing effort, was scrutinized by its architect, Isabel Vibart.

“That will do,” D’Estin ordered. “You can finish with the wrestler’s bridge.”

The devil he would. Once before they had bullied him into that. The pain was excruciating. And that was when he was fresh. It sounded simple enough, like touching one’s toes. One lay on the ground with legs bent and forced one’s back and buttocks up so that all the weight rested on heels and head. “Like a wrestler avoiding being thrown,” they had told him. “You keep it up for ten seconds.” He had collapsed in six.

“The wrestler’s what?” Any time now was precious.

“You know very well! Get down! Orders!”

“On the contrary, I don’t know.”

“I’m sure you’ve done it. You’ve seen Morgan do it, anyway.

There’s only one way to learn properly.” D’Estin picked up a boxing shoe and placed it, spikes upward, on the ground. “You make a back over that for ten seconds. Then I kick it away.

There isn’t a mark on Morgan’s back anywhere. Where is the black bastard? He was told to report sharp at noon.”

What was the point of silence?

“He will not be reporting.”

D’Estin frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

“You won’t see Sylvanus today. He walked out with his baggage after breakfast. It was obvious to anyone that he was not coming back.”

“Walked out?” One would think from D’Estin’s tone that Radstock Hall was a pleasure garden. Recovering from sheer disbelief, he hurried across to the dressing-room door.

“God! You must be right! I must see Isabel.”

Jago hobbled away to get into a cold bath.

Later, he lay in bed, sore and stiff, but not entirely displeased with the day. The afternoon, once he realized D’Estin was too preoccupied to supervise the “training,”

was positively diverting. When the Ebony’s room had been checked, pandemonium broke loose in the house. Panicking servants-and in German the panic was formidable- roamed the house checking the valuables. D’Estin was sent in the dogcart in pursuit of the deserter, but returned later with the news that a “strong-looking man of colour” had been seen boarding the London train soon after eleven.

Then came the inquisition: D’Estin, Vibart and finally Jago appearing before Isabel. She was tight-lipped when he saw her, but surprisingly forbearing with him. Perhaps Vibart had managed to convince her that the Ebony had left of his own accord. At any rate, Jago was able to withdraw after ten minutes, having admitted to no more than seeing the departure- which had actually been quite conspicuous, but exceedingly well-timed. And by supper that evening calm was restored, if a little uneasily. Isabel said little to D’Estin or her brother-in-law, but talked freely to Jago about the war in Afghanistan, the theatre, the London season-anything, in fact, but pugilism. At nine he had been able to plead tiredness. For one alarming moment he thought she was about to offer massage, but it passed. He thankfully made his exit.

And now it was night again, and he lay listening. He had waked from two hours’ sleep, necessary and convenient, for it spared him the nervous strain of waiting. By now the house was reassuringly quiet; only the pleasant rustle of rain outside breaking absolute silence. Enough to smother a creaking floorboard.

Painful as it was, he had to rouse himself. A curious sentence in Lydia’s letter, after he read it for the fourth time, thinking more of Cribb than Lydia (exceedingly difficult) had stayed in his mind. His tired brain had made enough sense of it before he fell asleep to ensure that he would not sleep long. “Your suggestion that I might divert myself by corresponding with my cousin Roberta in the Midlands has had an encouraging result, for last week I received a reply from Birmingham full of support and news-just what I needed at the present time.” Once it dawned on him that Roberta was the Chief Constable of Birmingham-Cribb would be priding himself on that inspiration-he deciphered the rest. The headless pugilist had been identified.

All he now had to do at Radstock Hall was discover some clear evidence linking the murdered man with D’Estin, Vibart or Isabel, or perhaps all three. He felt certain it was there-documentary evidence, articles of battle, or even a diary of training-somewhere downstairs, and probably in Isabel’s writing desk.

So he opened the door of his room and crept cautiously along the landing. Past the now empty room where the

Ebony had slept. On as far as the door of the room adjoining Isabel’s. There he paused, deciding the points on the carpet where each foot could safely press. Then forward again, gliding lightly for a large man. The merest glance, as he passed, at Isabel’s door. Did her obsession with black extend to her night attire-the sheets of her bed, even?

Then he was beside the suit of armour at the head of the stairs. It gleamed dully, a quite misplaced piece of ostentation; at home they consigned better examples to the cellars.

He even doubted, now that he was near, whether the helmet matched the rest.

A grim thought crossed Jago’s mind.

It was his duty to look inside the helmet. He reached for the visor and lifted it. Empty! If he was honest with himself, it was a relief. He took his hand away.

The visor dropped back into place with a metallic snap, loud enough to waken anyone in that part of the house. Jago froze momentarily, as though if he moved, the whole suit of armour might topple over and clatter nightmarishly down the stairs.

Then he started rapidly back towards his room, floorboards protesting at every step. He reached the door and turned the handle. Too late.

“What in hell is going on?”

D’Estin stood ahead of him in the corridor, naked to the waist.

“I knocked against the armour coming upstairs,” Jago improvised. “I’m sorry you were disturbed.”

The trainer approached, his head crooked forward menacingly.

“What are you up to, man, moving about the bloody house in the night?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I was going for a drink.” It sounded so feeble that he was already thinking of a second excuse.

D’Estin came unpleasantly close and pushed his arm aggressively past Jago’s right ear to lean on the doorjamb.

The smell of sleep hovered about him.

“You weren’t going anywhere else, then?”

“What do you mean?” Jago asked.

“It wouldn’t have occurred to your generous and cultivated mind that a certain lady might feel-how shall I put it-desolate and in need of company on a warm summer night?” Sarcasm oozed from D’Estin like the sweat glistening on his chest hair.

This was unexpected. Jago looked as affronted as a man could in his nightshirt. “That is a detestable implication, sir!

I thoroughly repudiate it! I suggest that you-”

“I suggest,” echoed D’Estin, “that you were groping in the darkness for the door of her bedroom and knocked against the armour. You wouldn’t be the first.”

Jago was genuinely embarrassed. For a moment he actually wished D’Estin had guessed he was searching the house for evidence. That at least would be an honourable charge.

Detective work was debasing. Confound it!

He controlled his fury. “You had better return to bed, D’Estin, before I have this out with you. I shall put these ridiculous insinuations down to your sudden awakening from deep sleep. I apologize for disturbing you.”

In answer, D’Estin jutted his face to within six inches of Jago’s and laughed lewdly. His breath was nauseous.

“What is happening?” Isabel’s voice, from along the corridor. She was looking out from her room, only her head visible, a long plait dangling beneath it.

D’Estin reacted quickly. “It’s quite all right. You can go back to sleep. I’ve caught the prowler. He won’t be blundering around your door again tonight-unless you invite him, of course.”

Isabel’s door slammed.

It was a significant moment in Jago’s career. Every instinct urged him to attack D’Estin. Sheer professionalism held him back. For he saw clearly that D’Estin’s suggestion, for all its base imputations, gave him a clear excuse for moving furtively about the house at night.

Like a guilty man, he shrugged, sighed and looked at his feet.

Smirking, D’Estin walked away.