process of obliterating their memory of the fight. Cribb edged a passage to the counter with difficulty and ordered three glasses of porter. Thackeray had found a single seat under a window, towards which Cribb moved with the tankards, ducking to avoid an oil lamp slung from a beam.
“Doesn’t look as strong as it might,” he said, accepting the chair, “but any thing's welcome when you’ve got a thirst.”
“Been to th’ fight, ’ave you?”
The speaker was one of a group of eight firmly established around the three sides of the window seat. From the style and dry state of their dress they were the local clientele, alone among those present in not having been at Moat Farm.
Cribb nodded. “You didn’t go, then?”
There were superior smiles all round.
“Standin’ in ’Arrison’s field for an hour or more, watchin’ the Ebony alter a London bruiser’s profile? We got better ways o’ passin’ time, friend.”
“You’re not betting men, then?” inquired Thackeray, to encourage the conversation.
“Bettin’?” The speaker, shrewd behind his grey whiskers, with squirrel-sharp eyes that darted meaningfully around the table before each remark, added, “Bettin’ ain’t part o’ God’s law. And God in ’Is mercy preserves us from temptation by keep in’ down our wages to what we can spend in ’ere. ’Ow long did y’ London man last, then?”
“Fourteen rounds.”
“Hm. Fair showing.” The nodding of heads around the table showed a striking consensus of agreement. “What was the odds before they started?”
“Strongly favouring Meanix,” said Cribb. “If we’d known the black was so handy with his dukes, we’d have made a few pounds tonight.”
“Ebony’s form ain’t broadly known,” agreed the spokesman. “We know ’im round these parts, o’ course. I’m told that if fist fights was still written up in th’ papers, you London folk would’ve ’eard of ’im afore now. Don’t really trouble us, as only Ben there can read, and ’e prefers ’is prayer book to sportin’ news, don’t you, mate?”
Smiles were liberally exchanged.
“Has the Ebony fought many in Rainham, then?” Cribb inquired.
“Only two that I know of. Both was said to ’ave their record in
“When was this?”
“Lor’, now you’ve asked me somethin’. The memory ain’t tickin’ over so well. Strikes me it needs a spot o’ lubrication. What d’you say, mates?”
They said nothing, but drained their glasses simultaneously.
Cribb saw what had to be done. Jago and Thackeray followed him to the bar with handfuls of empty glasses. There Thackeray felt it his duty to caution the Sergeant.
“They’re not truthful men, Sarge. It’s not worth standing them drinks when their word ain’t reliable.”
“I’ll judge that,” said Cribb. “Let ’em have their sport with us. I can pick wheat from chaff.”
When the first sips had been taken, Cribb again put his question about the Ebony’s previous fights.
“I’ll give it some thought, mate. Last November, I reckon, was when ’e fought that Bermondsey boy.”
There was general concurrence.
“And the Webster fight was two months back, easy.
Around Easter, that was.”
If this could be believed, Thackeray inwardly noted, the headless corpse could not be Mr. Webster’s.
“This Ebony,” Cribb persisted, “seems a stout fighter.
Who trains him?”
The spokesman shook his head.
“Can’t say we know much about ’im, mate, save that ’e’s a capital bruiser.”
“Where does he live, then? I’d like to meet the fellow.”
This was hilariously received. The spokesman explained why.
“Ebony comes from Vibart’s place, Radstock ’All, a mile or more north of the village. And they don’t much like strangers up there, ’cept the ones they invite.”
“You mean that they don’t enter into village life?”
“In a manner of speaking. We see ’em once in a while. The Ebony, just as you saw ’im today. Sometimes Mrs. Vibart in ’er four-wheeler, or the menfolk ’eadin’ for London, or comin’ back. But they’re none of ’em conversationalists, if you follow me.”
“This Vibart,” said Cribb. “What does he do?”
“Do?”
“What’s his work?”
There was more amusement at this.
“Mr. Vibart ain’t really fit for work any more, mate. You see, ’e’s been dead this twelvemonth.”
“Really? Was he old, then?”
“Far from it. I could give ’im twenty year, and I’m still capable in all particulars. Jacob there could give ’im fifty, and all ’e’s lost in a few ivories, ain’t it, Jacob?”
Jacob revealed a pink mouth in confirmation.
“You mentioned menfolk at the Hall,” persisted Cribb.“Are they servants?”
“Training folk. They’re none of ’em local men, I can tell you.Oh, and there’s Vibart’s brother, Edmund. We see Edmund at least once a week bein’ devout men, don’t we, Ben?”
Ben swore passionately and everyone chuckled.
“Edmund Vibart’s our church organist, you see. And a very fine lead ’e gives to our singin’ of the psalms. Yes, a rare musician is Mr. Vibart, a very upright member of the church.”
“Really? But you said they didn’t enter into village life.”
“Ah, did I now? Well, I wouldn’t really call Edmund a village man, you know. As I say, we see ’im in church on Sundays, those of us that go to Sung Eucharist and Matins, but you ain’t liable to see ’im any other time, unless it’s passin’ in a carriage. ’E don’t call on us for a yarn and a smoke any more than we’d look ’im up at Radstock ’All.”
“You’ve never been inside, then?”
“Not since the Vibarts moved in. None of us go up there now. Mrs. Vibart wanted maids, but she couldn’t get no Rainham wenches to stop there.”
“Why should that be?”
“Oh, no good reason you could name. Wenches’ talk, mostly. Strange things ’appenin’ there, that grow in the tellin’, no doubt. Though there ain’t much you could tell some of our lasses, eh, mates?”
Even Thackeray and Jago were now attuned to the ponderous local wit, and joined in the broad winks.
There was one more question Cribb wanted to put.
“Is the Ebony the only fist fighter at Radstock Hall?”
It seemed to unsettle the spokesman. His companions, too, stopped smiling.
“We’ve talked enough about Rainham folk,” he said, after a pause. “Now you can tell us about London. ’Ave you seen the Crystal Palace?”
The mood relaxed, and Radstock Hall was dropped from the conversation. It was not mentioned again in the Fox that night. And after the marvels of the Crystal Palace were summed up in three short sentences by Cribb, he offered a more familiar glimpse of London life. With artistry nurtured in M Division smoking concerts, he impersonated a street tragedian in the Strand contesting his pitch with a German band. Thackeray then took the stage with a hilarious impression of Irving having an off night in
A sudden shout from the end of the room of “Blimey, the train!” returned everyone to reality except Jago. Totally absorbed in his balancing, he heard the shout, swayed alarmingly, flailed the air with his arms and crashed
