men being struck, they sparred long for an opening until Judd dashed in his left on the body. Jago retaliated with a flush hit to the ribs, which caused Judd to commence business in earnest, and within seconds the novice’s neck and shoulders were as red as pickled cabbage. A spanking hit with the dexter mauley on Jago’s left listener had him staggering. Then a stinger with the left on the knowledge box completely knocked him off his pins to mother earth.’
Harmless!”
“Capital writing, though!” cried Cribb. “What do they say about the other rounds?”
Lydia tossed the paper aside. “It was too revolting to read. I simply cast my eyes to the foot of the column to ensure that Henry was not killed.”
Thackeray had now got the paper. “This is a more refreshing bit, miss. ‘Round six-Jago at once planted a right with terrific force on the masticator. It was a staggerer and so bothered Judd that he was unable to escape a clinker on the ivories, bringing “first blood,” the crimson tide soon flowing copiously. A nasty one on the bridge of Judd’s smelling bottle caused the cork to be drawn there. Good counterhitting to a close, when Judd got to grass.’ ” He beamed at Lydia.
She grimaced.
“He’s well able to protect himself, Miss Boltover,” Cribb assured her. “Nor was he hurt in the least. When he comes back, there won’t be a mark on him, and with any luck he’ll have tracked down a”-he checked himself-“suspected person.”
“But how long does he have to persist with this dreadful pose as a prize fighter?”
“Not long now.” Cribb suddenly had an inspiration. “You want to get in touch with him, I expect?”
“Please, oh, yes!”
The Sergeant leaned forward confidentially. “If I let you write to him, he might be able to reply. I couldn’t give you his address, of course. But you could write a letter, and we would see to its delivery.”
Her face fell a little. “Just a letter?”
“Nothing else would be safe at this stage, miss. And I shall have to read the letter, you understand.”
“Oh.”
“And you won’t mind me including a few lines of my own? You could write ’em for me, you see. It’s a way of getting a message to him.”
Minutes later, Lydia sat with pen and paper in another room. At the desk opposite was a young constable with walrus moustache and eyes more sinister than any on the “Wanted” notices behind him. “As tender a letter as you can write,” Cribb had ordered. “And don’t mind us, miss.”
Thackeray read Jago’s report.
“He sounds uncommon depressed, Sarge. Seems to think he’s done all he can at Rainham. It’s my belief that he’s missing the company of a certain young woman.”
Ascribing motives was a favourite occupation with Thackeray. Cribb might have been more impressed if he had not earlier noticed his assistant’s eyes straying to a partially uncovered ankle.
“Miss Boltover doesn’t really come into it,” he declared with a tinge of reproof. “Jago’s too smart a bobby to let sentiment spoil his work. What worries him is what the Ebony told him on Saturday night after the meal in the Indian room. If the black really plans to quit Radstock Hall, Jago becomes the principal fighter. Everything is centred on him, you see-training, matches. Possibly the widow’s attention in other respects.”
“Do you believe that, Sarge? Why should the Ebony want to leave? He’s well-looked-after where he is. The training couldn’t be more lavish.”
“Financial considerations,” said Cribb. He picked up the letter and read: “ ‘Morgan (The Ebony) told me he was not going to stay much longer at Radstock Hall and if I was wise, I would not remain either. He said that evil things were liable to happen here. He had made his plans to leave, and Edmund Vibart was helping him. Mrs. Vibart wasn’t the only backer of knuckle fighters, and others were willing to pay handsomely for a star performer.’ From which I deduce that Vibart has acted as agent for the Ebony with another group of backers.”
“The roughs that managed Meanix?”
“Quite possibly. There aren’t that many parties interested in managing knuckle fighters.”
“Why should Vibart cheat his sister-in-law?” asked Thackeray.
“You did read the letter?” snapped Cribb. “The man is short of money. Someone will pay him well for seducing the black away from Mrs. Vibart. He promised the Ebony larger rewards and more regular fights. It doesn’t require any more persuading than that to get him away from Radstock Hall.”
Put that way, it made sense to Thackeray.
“As for Jago’s low spirits,” continued Cribb, “Miss Boltover’s letter will raise them if it’s spiced with a few sharp instructions from me. He stays at Rainham for at least another week. I need evidence, and a shakeup at Radstock Hall may provide it.”
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
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
