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.
