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?
Steps crossed again, several more this time, making the floor creak loudly. More voices.
Then silence.
Five agonized minutes.
The trap was lifted.
“All right, gentlemen. Out you come.” It was the landlord’s voice.
They clambered up to daylight.
“Only Sam Dalton on ’is new tricycle,” the landlord was explaining. “Coming over to show it off to me, ’e was. Brand-new ’Arrington Desideratum. Cost ’im fifteen quid. ’Ow ’e manages that on a bobby’s income I don’t know. Well, seeing that the fight was in progress as ’e rode up, poor old Sam ’ad no option but to stop it.”
“He gave us plenty of time to get down below,” said one appreciative voice.
“Yes, but ’e couldn’t decently ignore the evidence,” said the landlord. “We ’ad to leave five of the stakes in position. So Sam came in and questioned us. Most of us was regulars, so that was all right. ’E’s taken two back to police ’ouse for questioning-Mr. Vibart, because ’e tried to make a break for it on the dogcart, you see; and that tall feller from London in the deerstalker.”
Cribb arrested? Jago’s eyes flew to one of the darkened chimney seats, where the man who had winked was sitting. Jago now knew for certain that he was Thackeray. Although his face was in shadow, his eyes were visible. They glinted in quiet satisfaction.
CHAPTER 8
Henry Jago sat in a state of bliss in a hip bath at Radstock Hall. On Isabel Vibart’s instructions the brine had been warmed to slightly below body heat and was ready in the changing room when he returned. Two steaming jugfuls of water stood in reserve.
He winced at the colour of his knees jutting above water level. Pugilism was dirty, as well as painful. He reached for a tablet of Pear’s and began to lather the grazed and muddy skin. Beside the bath on a marble-topped table the entire resources of the bathroom were paraded-soaps, brushes, pumices, sponges and loofahs. On a lower tier stood a selection of oils, aromatic rubs and pomades in cut-glass containers. And, most welcome, a large glass of claret.
Jago took a sip of the drink and reclined, enjoying the luxury. Saws and severed heads could wait; tonight he had earned respite. To add piquancy to his enjoyment, there was the thought of Sergeant Cribb in custody at Rainham police station. Cribb could not reveal his identity-particularly with Vibart there-so he would have to submit to interrogation by the local constable. Possibly even a night in the cells. .
On further reflection the Sergeant’s predicament was worrying. Jago knew Inspector Jowett, “Pilate,” as he was unofficially known at the Yard. If it came to a point where a county force complained to the Director, Jowett could be depended upon in only one respect. He would drop Cribb and his investigation like hot bricks. And if Cribb were in trouble for attending a prize fight, what was the position of a constable who had
He felt surges of panic. Grotesque possibilities took shape in his brain. His hands gripped one side of the bath.
“The wretched man who stands before you in the dock, gentlemen of the jury, was once Scotland Yard’s most brilliant young constable, a guardian of the law, entrusted with the confidential records of the Criminal Investigation Department. Expend no pity upon him. There is no one so contemptible as a corrupt police officer.” He pulled his hands away and put them to his forehead. When he opened his eyes, the fingers formed prison bars. He jerked the hands down, splashing water in all directions.
It had really happened. He had appeared in a prize ring.
All the time in his mind there had been the certainty of Cribb’s intervening at the last moment. He sponged his arms, trying to calm himself. What regulations had he broken? He had not, in effect, fought for money. “It was strictly in the course of an investigation, your lordship. I was obeying orders.” “Orders? Whose orders?” “Sergeant Cribb’s.”
“Oh, yes. I sentenced him earlier this afternoon.”
He reached for the claret. Cribb! He had to believe that Cribb would outwit the local police. Thinking otherwise was inviting depression. How could he help the Sergeant?
Only by controlling himself and quietly persevering with the inquiry. How, though? Cribb wanted proof of the dismemberment. But what was the use of searching for articles which would surely be well hidden, if not destroyed, by now? He had done his best, in the little time available to him, to quarter the grounds on his training runs, looking for likely burial spots for the severed head. Then D’Estin had told him to follow the same daily route. He was not sorry; he rather preferred searching for the saw.
Would there be more opportunities for searching now that the fight was over? He doubted it. They would have him in training for a second fight, encouraged by tonight’s showing. He would have to search the house by night, no matter how tired he was. If he could find some kind of evidence- even papers, the articles of battle, mentioning names-then he could send news to Cribb and get out of this suffocating situation.
He was momentarily overwhelmed by a desire to be with Lydia, sweet and untainted by all this. With a sense of shame he realized she had been far from his thoughts for days. His overtaxed mind struggled to create an image of her; all that came was Isabel Vibart’s gently mocking face.
He was jerked to awareness by D’Estin entering, bringing a bathrobe.
“Don’t sit there too long, Jago,” he said. “Water softens the skin. How are your knuckles now?”
“A little numb.”
One of Jago’s wrists was gripped and lifted, tonglike by the two digits on D’Estin’s right hand.
“Bruised, merely. How about the rest of you? There was plenty of blood on you at the end. Mainly his, I hope.”
D’Estin’s tone was clinicial. The close relationship between trainer and fighter had lasted no longer than the fight.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t down him before the fight was stopped,” said Jago with conviction. Inwardly, he had baulked at the bludgeoning of a helpless opponent.
“It cost me fifty guineas,” D’Estin said. “No fault of yours, though. We agreed on the tenth round. Had it been a first-class match, we’d have had a clause in the articles to ensure the fight’s continuance elsewhere. There’s usually no question of a mill ending when the blues arrive. We simply move outside their boundary, set up the ropes
