“Where’s Mrs. Vibart, then? We ain’t got the time for small talk,” said Beckett. There was menace in his voice, a grey neutrality in his eyes that one could not very well record by Scotland Yard methods.
“She’ll be down,” Vibart promised. “What are you drinking?”
“Rum and shrub for me,” Beckett said. “You can have ale, Morgan,” he told the Ebony, and added, speaking to Vibart, “in a pony glass. We don’t want no thick heads tomorrow.”
In spite of his welcome, the Ebony was ill at ease. He received his drink and sat hugely on a small high- backed chair in the centre of the room, concentrating on the pattern of the carpet. Jago selected an armchair against the wall. D’Estin brought him a ginger beer.
Everyone stood for Isabel’s entrance, in a black high-necked dress of surah silk, serene and gracious, difficult to credit as Jago’s assailant a few hours earlier. His back still smarted, though.
The introductions were made and Beckett at once began stating terms. “It must seem a fair stand-up fight, with Jago taking the early rounds to shorten the odds. I’ll keep Morgan reined until the tenth. You can have first blood.
When do you want it?”
“The fourth,” said D’Estin.
“Does he know what to do?”
“You go for the lip,” D’Estin told Jago. “And as you land, he bites it to make sure and the tide flows. You understand?”
“The fourth,” Jago confirmed, secretly telling himself Cribb would have stopped the fight before then.
“First four knockdowns and first blood to your man, then,” said Beckett. “Then Morgan must win two rounds.”
“Liver hits,” suggested Foster with relish. “A man goes down beautiful from a liver hit. You can always go to work on the face later, Morgan.”
The Ebony nodded. Jago glanced at the black fist enfolding the beer glass and looked quickly away again.
Isabel spoke: “We want no permanent injuries. Understand that, Sylvanus. A certain amount of blood is to be expected, but gouging is not. Show me your thumbnails.”
Humbly, the Ebony put out his hands.
“They must be cut. Whatever you do to our man in the final rounds, I want him fit to fight again within six months.
That means that any cuts must be superficial. What is that dreadful hold when you crook your arm around your adversary’s neck and hold his wrist while you batter his face with your free fist?”
“The suit in chancery,” the Ebony said.
“You must not use it on Jago.”
“Wait a bit, my lady,” said Beckett. “Morgan ain’t fighting to your orders now. No lasting injuries, we agree to, but you can’t dictate what punches he throws.”
“Mr. Beckett,” said Isabel quietly. “He is capable of killing a man. Would you be a party to manslaughter?”
Beckett considered the point. Jago, the potential victim, waited for the decision. It occurred to nobody to ask his opinion.
Beckett nodded. “Very well, then. No suit in chancery, Morgan. Now, are we agreed on a twenty-six-round fight or would you like Jago to twist his ankle in the fifth and retire?” The sarcasm helped him over the humility of conceding a point to Isabel. Plainly he did not like negotiating with a woman.
She ignored him. “You aren’t looking so well as you should, Sylvanus. I hope you are quite fit.”
“Fit enough,” the Ebony said without looking up.
“He’ll ’ave Jago on toast in the last rounds,” promised Foster, whose taste for violence seemed unusually well cultivated.
“You gave us no warning when you went,” Isabel continued. “That was a strange way to treat us after so many months here. It showed a singular lack of gratitude.”
The Ebony lifted his face in surprise. “Gratitude?”
“Don’t blame him, Mrs. Vibart,” said Beckett affably.
“Morgan’s a professional. He simply accepted a better offer.
There ain’t many openings for a fist fighter these days.
When one comes, you don’t turn it down.”
The Ebony, after seeming about to respond, lapsed into silence.
“Shall we settle the financial business here, Mrs. Vibart?”
Beckett went on. “I must give you a merry monk, I think.”
“Merry-”
“A monkey,” explained D’Estin. “Beckett owes you five hundred, Isabel. Two hundred back from your stakes and three hundred for tonight’s agreement.”
“Of course. My writing desk is in the morning room, Mr.
Beckett. Perhaps you will come there. I am sure I can leave you gentlemen to arrange the finer details for tomorrow between you. I intend to retire early, so I must wish you all good evening.”
They stood for her. With a rustle of silk she turned, smiled, and was gone, Beckett following. Jago wished she had stayed, and despised himself.
Foster, quite insensitive to the respect Isabel commanded, was quick to comment. “It ain’t every man that goes off with a young widow and five ’undred in flimsies in ’is pocket. We might be taking the four-wheeler back by ourselves tonight, Morgan.”
The remark was unacceptable in any circumstances; spoken by Foster, it was odious. Instead of the sly winks he expected, he found himself hauled by his shirt front to within a foot of D’Estin’s face.
“I suggest,” the trainer said in no more than a whisper, “that you retract that remark, because if you don’t, I shall take the greatest pleasure in returning it to the cesspit it came from.” The thumb and finger of his mutilated hand were ready to make the attempt.
“I withdraw it,” breathed Foster. “I apologize.” With that he backed into an armchair and cowered on it like a trapped hare.
D’Estin addressed the Ebony. “You actually deserted us to rub shoulders with scum like that? There’s better company in Colney Hatch.”
The Negro avoided meeting anyone’s eyes. His only response was a clenching and unclenching of the fists, more eloquent of helplessness than aggression.
“Just lose one fight and see how they treat you,” D’Estin persisted. “Don’t look to us for help.”
The Ebony got to his feet slowly, looked vacantly at D’Estin, and turned to Vibart. “I left some things here in the dressing room. I’d like to collect them, Mr. Vibart. Is the gymnasium open?”
“It should be. If not, I’ll open it,” Vibart said appeasingly.
“Will you have another drink first?”
“I’ve had enough already, thank you.”
The Ebony left the room. No one imagined he had anything to collect from the gymnasium. He was driven out by the unendurable atmosphere.
Cigars were exchanged and glasses refilled to revive cordiality. Vibart took the initiative in this. Whenever Isabel was absent, he cast his cynicism like a chrysalis and expanded as a personality. “Sylvanus is bloody worried,” he told Jago, half confidentially. “You’re looking fitter than he expected. Mark my words, he’s gone to exercise in the gym!”
And then for everyone’s ears, brandishing a claret bottle, “Whatever the fancy think of tomorrow’s set-to, gentlemen, they’ll be in no doubt about the quality of the assistance Jago receives. There ain’t a more practised bottleholder than Edmund Vibart in the south of England!”
Beckett, too, was in high spirits when he rejoined them fifteen minutes later, rubbing his hands. “I’ll have a neat whisky now, if you please, Mr. Vibart, and drink to the success of our arrangement. Your sister-in-law drives a hard bargain, but I’ve paid in full and everything’s settled. We call you Quinton from now on, Jago-” He stopped suddenly.
