CHAPTER 12
“That-er-corpse,” said Inspector Jowett with calculated disinterest. “The one you hooked out of the Thames a week or two ago. Head missing. Didn’t you have some theory at the time that he was a prize fighter?”
“Prize fighter? Oh, yes, prize fighter. I believe so, sir,”answered Sergeant Cribb, equally restrained. Deprived of the inspectorial pomp of desk, telephone and bookshelves, Jowett was a mere policeman in plain clothes. Looking down at him as they strolled in Hyde Park, Cribb even doubted whether he came up to the statutory five feet seven. Fancy! Quacks and professors had sought for years for a substance that would add an inch to a man’s height. They could have found the secret all the time at Great Scotland Yard-an old school tie.
“You didn’t take your investigations any further, then?”Jowett persisted. He had not gone to the trouble of arranging a rendezvous with Cribb to be snubbed like a street salesman.
“I’ve been very busy, you see, sir,” said Cribb. “Inquiries don’t come singly, as you know. Shall we head over that way, where the crowds are making for?”
Jowett looked in the direction Cribb was indicating. Some two hundred yards away across the grass a gathering of several hundred had formed. He was nervous of crowds.“What is it- speechmaking? Irishmen? Anarchists?”
“Unlikely, sir,” said Cribb. “The orators don’t stray far from Hyde Park Corner. Might be a prize fight.”
Jowett rose to the bait. “Good God! — do you think so?Let’s go the other way. We mustn’t get involved.”
“Observing them more closely, sir, I’d say it wasn’t a prize fight,” Cribb said. “Too many of the fair sex for that.” As though that settled the matter, he began walking more briskly towards the centre of interest, with Jowett reluctantly keeping up.
“Last week, Sergeant,” he said, a little breathless, more from anxiety than exercise, “there was a fist fight. In Essex.”
“Really, sir?” Inwardly, Cribb flinched. How much did Jowett know?
“Fortunately, it was stopped by the local constable-‘an unwelcome blue cloud on the horizon,’ as the reporter termed him.”
Cribb chuckled. “Very good, sir.”
“Quite so. Good Lord! What on earth is that?”
Above the level of top hats and ostrich feathers ahead of them, something of great size arched like an elephant struggling to its feet. But this was bright orange in colour, and its shape altered from second to second. It seemed to be straining for freedom.
“A balloon, sir!” said Cribb. “Must be the French aeronaut they interviewed in the
Jowett was not so easily distracted. He stopped, holding Cribb’s arm to prevent him going on. “I didn’t arrange for us to meet in secret to watch a blasted balloon launching. I want to talk to you in private, Cribb. I picked Hyde Park, thinking it was inconspicuous.”
“We’d be less conspicuous in a crowd, sir.”
“Possibly, but I need to speak in confidence,” said Jowett.“Two weeks ago you asked permission to attend prize fighting. I gave my assent-reluctantly I may say-in the belief that you found attendance there absolutely vital to your investigation.”
“Fundamental, sir.”
“And as I remember, I warned you of the possible embarrassment to the Criminal Investigation Department if a county force learned you had been present at a prize fight in its area.”
Heavens! What had Jowett found out?
“I don’t know whether you were aware when you asked me that attendance-yes, even attendance-at a prize fight is illegal.”
Already preparing his excuses, Cribb recited the legal precedent. “ ‘An assembly of persons to witness a prize fight is an unlawful assembly and everyone present and countenancing the fight is guilty of an offence.’ Rex versus Billingham, 1826, sir.”
“Thank you. Now, Sergeant, I shall not ask you whether you were present at this squalid affair in Essex, but I think it right to tell you that if you attend a prize fight, it is your duty to intervene.”
“Yes, sir. I shall.”
Jowett looked up sharply. “You almost sound as though you know of one that has been arranged.”
“I-”
“Don’t tell me, Sergeant! Simply remember what I have said. Thugs like those two I read of-Judd and Jago- must be brought to justice.”
Cribb offered silent thanks for the obtuseness of his superior. The prospect of one of his staff
Having now allowed for that possibility, he felt able to relax.
“It’s the French balloon, all right,” he announced confidently. “Look at the shape. You know, Sergeant, we’ve got a lot to learn from across the Channel. Looking ahead-and a policeman should always have a clear view of the future- I can see exciting possibilities in this ballooning. Imagine a police balloon patrolling the air over London. No criminal will feel secure on the streets.”
Sergeant Cribb was looking ahead, but less far. On the following evening Thomas Quinton, alias Henry Jago, was due to fight the Ebony. If Thackeray’s latest information from Shoreditch were correct, the fight would last twenty-six rounds before the Negro poleaxed Jago. The fight was arranged for somewhere in Surrey, so everyone but Isabel Vibart would leave Radstock Hall early, probably by eleven.
That woman held the information he wanted. There should just be time, if he were ready, to interview her at the Hall, and then set off in pursuit of the others. He was not notably perturbed by Jowett’s instructions, but he did feel under a sentimental obligation to Jago to stop the fight before the twenty-sixth round if possible.
¦ A cold supper was ordered for that evening, with the intention of getting the servants to their quarters as early as possible. Consultations about the fixing of fights were best held in total privacy. For Jago, the informality- one arrived in one’s own time on cold supper evenings-saved an embarrassing confrontation with Isabel. Furthermore, eating alone allowed him time to collect himself before the negotiations. After an early meal he went to his room and did not appear again until the visitors arrived at nine.
They came in a four-wheeler and Jago heard them welcomed by Vibart. Any resentment at the Ebony’s desertion had been quite dissolved by the prospect of profit. The bonhomie downstairs was worthy of a Crimea reunion. He went down to join them in the main drawing room.
“Ah, Jago. You haven’t met Matt Beckett.”
It was the strangest sensation shaking hands with a man he had known as a set of notes on a card for nearly two years.
Beckett showed no sign of recognizing Jago, although it was not long since they had shared a railway compartment after the Meanix fight. “You’re fit, I hope?” he said with a laugh. “All we ask of you, mate, is that you can get up when you’ve been grassed and that you can count to twenty-six, eh, Vibart?”
“No fears on that score,” Vibart assured him. “Jago’s been privately educated.”
“Has he indeed?” Beckett openly sneered. “Tomorrow night he’ll have a new tutor, then. Morgan here ain’t exactly a university man, but he’ll learn you a few points, Jago.”
“You haven’t met Mr. Foster, Jago,” Vibart intervened.
“He will act as second to Sylvanus tomorrow.”
“Pleased to meet you, mate.” That was something for the card.
