“Stop looking so damned wistful, Sergeant. Now, what’s your business? I haven’t time to discuss prize fighting or your family.”
None the less his mood was more relaxed. If Jowett might be persuaded to concede anything, now was the moment.
Cribb spoke in earnest.
“I need to learn what’s happening among the prizefighting fraternity. I must get among them. Gain their confidence.”
“You need to be released from other duties for a time, you mean?”
“Certainly sir, but it’s more than that. Fist fighting’s illegal. Always was. I may need to stand by while it goes on. Even appear to enjoy it.” As alarm coursed across the Inspector’s face, Cribb added, “French methods, you might say, sir.”
There was a significant pause.
“Can you really assure me that this is a necessary subterfuge, Sergeant?”
“Fundamental to my investigation, sir. Of course, if it’s too unorthodox. .”
“Not at all-”
“Very good, sir. I presume, then, that Constable Thackeray can accompany me.”
Jowett blinked, scarcely aware that the decision was made. “I-that is-yes.”
“Thank you, sir. We shan’t actively encourage the pugs, I promise you.”
Jowett’s jaw jolted. “Indeed no! So far as this investigation is concerned, Sergeant, you must be meticulously cautious. Do nothing that smacks of conspiracy. That may be difficult in the circumstances, but you must abide by it. And I think it advisable, Sergeant, that you act without further reference to me in this case. You understand that if any of the divisional inspectors heard that one of my detectives had concealed information about illegal prize fighting, for whatever reason, it might lead to a calamitous situation between this office and the divisions.”
“Ruinous, sir,” agreed Cribb breezily.
Three minutes later he was striding in the sunshine along Whitehall. Jowett, alone at his desk, was obsessively drawing at his pipe.
CHAPTER 3
“It’s been the same everywhere, Sarge. You mention fist fighting, and they start. I’ve heard it all six times over this afternoon, from Gentleman Jackson to Jem Mace. Ropes and stakes, first bloods and knockdowns, fibbings and cross-buttocks until it fair turned my stomach. They all talk about the golden days with tears in their eyes until the ale runs out. But ask ’em where you might see a fist fight nowadays and they look at you as if you was asking to meet Prince Albert, rest his soul.”
“You tried them all, then?”
“Except the
“Common complaint,” Cribb observed, thinking of Scotland Yard. “Did you ask what happened to the promoters and backers? They can’t all have vanished.”
“Seems they turned to other sports, Sarge. The turf, or pedestrianism. There ain’t the money in glove fighting.”
They paced the Victoria Embankment, watching the river traffic. It was too warm to be indoors. Thackeray needed air, anyway, after his spell on duty in the bars of Fleet Street. Ahead of them two small boys chased metal hoops. The glittering Thames seemed totally innocent of anything so unpoetic as a headless corpse.
“Jago,” said Cribb.
“What’s that, Sarge?”
“Henry Jago. He’s the young cove to see. Should have thought of it before.”
“Another newspaperman?” inquired Thackeray.
“Someone much more useful. A constable. Young fellow attached to the Yard. Come on, Thackeray. If we’re in luck, he may be off duty.”
Cribb set off at a brisk pace towards Northumberland Avenue. Thackeray, reacting less quickly, followed a few paces behind and toppled a straying hoop in his efforts to close with the Sergeant.
“Fungus face!” bawled the owner.
At Palace Place, Great Scotland Yard, Cribb marched up to the building known in the Department as “single men’s quarters.” P. C. Jago had a room on the second floor, and they noisily mounted an uncarpeted staircase.
“This Jago,” queried Thackeray, rather short of breath.
“Yes?”
“Has he made a study of prize fighting?”
“Better than that,” said Cribb. “He’s a first-class boxer.”
They stood by a door on the second-floor landing. It was dark indoors after the July sunshine. Thackeray peered closely at a small white rectangle mounted in brass on the door.
“Blimey, Sarge. A visiting card! ‘Henry Jago. Constable, Metropolitan Police.’ Can you credit that? First time I’ve seen such a thing in nearly thirty years in the force! Why, I don’t suppose even Inspector Jowett’s got one. ‘Constable, Metropolitan Police’!”
Cribb sniffed. “Keep your voice down. Don’t want to give him offence. Jago’s from a high-class family. Private tutor and public school. Should have gone to University. Certainly had the money for it. There was some sort of family quarrel, though.
Young Jago walked out in protest and joined the force.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Thackeray, who had never encountered such a well-connected constable.
“Hope he’s in.” Cribb knocked.
Nothing.
A second knock.
Sounds from inside.
A pause.
The door opened a few inches and Constable Jago’s eyes appeared through the gap.
“What the-Sergeant Cribb! Come in, gentlemen.”
The door swung inwards and revealed a figure in a striped cotton nightshirt.
“You must excuse me. Working at nights, you understand. Do find yourselves a chair. You’ll think me most uncivil, but I cannot offer you a drink. I try to avoid all intoxicants, and I can’t endure the torment of keeping them for guests. Perhaps an orange?”
The visitors declined and waited while Jago drew back the curtains and straightened the bed he had just left. Sturdily built and in his early twenties, he moved about with remarkable agility for one who had been slumbering two minutes before.
He left the room to wash. Thackeray got up to examine the mantelshelf. “Blondin poised on his wire above Niagara,” a well-thumbed postcard in a picture frame, held the position of honour between two pewter boxing trophies. An antique chiming clock had been moved aside and crowned with soiled collars.
Thackeray crossed the room to a bookcase stacked with piles of sporting newspapers weighted down by odd dumbbells and the two standard volumes on criminal law. What caught his eye, resting on top, was a half-filled decanter.
“I thought he said he didn’t keep liquor.”
“What is it?” asked Cribb.
Thackeray removed the glass stopper and took a deep, speculative sniff. He instantly regretted doing so.
“Elliman’s,” announced Cribb. “Can smell it from here. Embrocation. Splendid for toning the muscles. Not recommended by the glass.”
Thackeray produced a large handkerchief and cleared his nostrils. He joined Cribb on the sofa just as Jago re-entered, now presentable in shirt and regulation trousers.
