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.
CHAPTER 11
My dearest Lydia [read Sergeant Cribb],
I do thank you for your letter which reached me yesterday, tho’ I must ask that you do not write again.
My present choice of occupation is, you will understand, not entirely proper in the eyes of the law, and my advisers here suggest that we should keep my presence at Radstock Hall a closely guarded secret.
For the same reason this must be my last letter to you. I am sure I may rely upon you to dispose of it when you have read it.
I am well looked after here, and have never felt so fit in my life. I even have hopes of becoming a celebrity of the ring, as I am now, by default (of a kind which I cannot explain here), the star of this particular school of arms. With luck, and good fist work, I may soon have sufficient capital to advance my claims with your father.
I was pleased to learn that you have had a communication from Roberta. She, I feel sure, has more of interest to write to you than ever I could. Very little happens here except the daily routine of training.
Be assured that my thoughts are often with you. I shall return as soon as I am able.
Until then I remain
Yr. most affectionate
Henry
“What’s happened to the Ebony then, Sarge?” Thackeray asked. “Has he gone the way of Quinton, do you think?”
Cribb was sceptical. “More likely to have walked out,” he said. “And if he’s done that, it must have been for a better offer. Pretty obvious where that came from.”
“Is it, Sarge?” It was obviously not, to everyone.
“The gang that handled Meanix,” Cribb explained with unaccustomed patience. “Who else could have known where the Ebony was, to say nothing of getting in touch with him? When Meanix kissed the turf, it was obvious they needed a new bruiser!”
Thackeray’s face lit up. “Of course!”
“So you can go off sharp to Shoreditch and listen to the chat in the fighting pubs. There’s five of ’em, so watch your liquor intake. Johnny Gill’s pub, Jane Shore; Mr. Parrott’s place-the Duke’s Head in Norton Folgate; the Sportsman in Boundary Street; the Blue Anchor in Church Street, and the Five Inkhorns in New Nicholl Street. If the Ebony’s back in the East End, someone there will have wind of it.
We can’t afford to lose him.”
Long after Thackeray had departed, Cribb sat alone in the office with Jago’s letter in front of him, troubling him more than he cared to say.
There was champagne with dinner that evening. Edmund Vibart was unusually sociable; it appeared he had been to London that day and returned in a four-wheeler. He arrived for dinner in a new suit.
“Flash as Newgate Knocker, eh? Not often you see me in nobby-looking clothes, so feast your eyes for once.” He danced across the room to a chair with two wrapped objects on it. “This is for you, Isabel. The very latest from Maples.”
She unwrapped the parcel.
“Cretonne chintz,” explained Vibart, as she held out the material to examine it. “You can brighten your rooms with it. And this, D’Estin, is for you. I nearly bought some Eau Figaro-miraculous stuff that restores grey hair to its original colour, what?”
D’Estin, unappreciative, took the object from Vibart and gave it to Isabel to untie for him. It was a revolver.
“Six-shooter, old man. Got it at Holland and Holland’s in New Bond Street. You can keep the bloody roughs at bay with it.”
“Thank you.”
“Didn’t know what to bring you, Jago, not knowing you so well, but Isabel will tell you what your gift is in a few minutes.”
She, too, was radiant that evening. She wore black silk and diamente brilliants, the cut of her bodice refuting any suggestion that she was still in mourning. She offered Jago the fruit bowl.
“Yes. In effect, Henry, you are the most favoured of us all.
Edmund has been able to negotiate a contract for you.”
“Really,” said Jago, interested. “A fight?”
Isabel hesitated a fraction. “Yes. It will be worth a great deal of money. You can see now why Edmund has taken a premature opportunity to spend some of it.”
“Who is to be my antagonist?”
Nobody answered.
Jago smiled nervously. “Well, tell me, please. Who am I to meet?”
Isabel stood up and came round the table to place a hand on his shoulder. “You are to meet Sylvanus Morgan.”
“Morgan! The-”
“The Ebony, old man,” confirmed Vibart with an air of total unconcern. “Don’t worry, though. We’re not expecting you to win.”
Jago was dazed.
“Allow me to explain, Edmund,” Isabel said. “But first pour the champagne, Robert, if you please.”
D’Estin, strangely submissive in the last day or two, obeyed.
“Now, Henry,” Isabel continued after resuming her seat.
“Please hear me out before you express any surprise at what I have to tell you. You will know that Sylvanus deserted us quite suddenly and discourteously on Tuesday. Well, it is now quite clear that he had been approached with an offer of higher rewards by a group of men in the East End of London. How they got into contact with him I have yet to discover, but that is another matter. And although I was very angry indeed at his going, I later realized that it resolved several difficulties for us.”
“I should bloody say so,” muttered Vibart.
“Our greatest difficulty,” said Isabel, “was that after the Meanix fight we had no match for Sylvanus. Fist fighters, as you must be aware, are rare individuals; few men have the courage or physique to earn a living with their knuckles.
Oh, there were one or two about-in Birmingham and Manchester-but they weren’t in our man’s class, you understand, and I do insist that my fighters are not matched below their form. In short, we had nothing to offer Sylvanus, so he left. And as it happens, he went to a man named Matt Beckett, who manages Meanix.”
“Oh,” said Jago, who was beginning to follow the thread.
“Beckett, being a good businessman, saw the possibility of staging a fight between Sylvanus and someone from my school of fighters-a grudge contest, you see, as far as the public are concerned, with Sylvanus determined to defeat the man I choose to replace him.”
“I see.” It was manifestly clear. “And there is no one but me.”
Isabel laughed. “Oh, Henry Jago, you do underrate yourself! You are a splendid fist fighter, with fine prospects. But don’t misunderstand me. I am not asking you to defeat Sylvanus.”
