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!”
