Peter Lovesey - The Detective Wore Silk Drawers

Sergeant Cribb, after wincing at Thackeray’s blunder with the flowerpot, waited fully three minutes before attempting to improve his position at the window. The speaking within continued. It was more monologue than conversation, the same teasingly subdued voice speaking at intervals and answered occasionally in monosyllables. Cribb crouched at sill height and looked in.

The conversation became audible.

“. . said he was probably a heavier man than you, and weight is important in fighting. Your physical construction is incomparable, of course, but crude weight is said to out-top muscle when there is enough of it. Are you feeling cooler now? This will surely keep you from getting muscle stiffness this time.”

To Cribb’s surprise, the speaker was a woman. Her face was in shadow, but the voice and figure were young. She was standing beside a backless chaise-longue, talking as she applied liniment to the Ebony’s dorsal muscles. He was lying quite naked, face downwards, his thighs and buttocks glistening darkly after massage.

“He was the best available,” she continued, pouring more of the liquid into her palm. The air at the window was heavy with its aroma. “His record was in the champion class. Mostly straight knockdowns, too. It won’t be easy to find another of his reputation. Your ribs must be sore. I’ll dab them lightly.”

The Ebony’s face was clearly visible from Cribb’s position. The left eye was swollen, but he was otherwise unmarked. He was drowsy, and apparently indifferent to what his masseuse was saying as she stroked his skin. Once, though, when her flattery became obvious, his mouth twisted into a secret sneer.

“Next time I would like to watch you. I wouldn’t be the first of my sex to attend a prize fight. Plenty did in the past, when it was considered respectable. If I disguised myself, I could pass as a youth, couldn’t I?”

A meaningless grunt from the Ebony. His indifference was no discouragement to her. Using the jargon of sport with incredible naturalness, she talked on, her small hands probing the black surface of his back to isolate and caress the individual bands of muscle.

“The difficulty, Sylvanus, is to find another antagonist for you. You aren’t ready yet for the French or the Yankees, though you’ll poleaxe them when the time comes. We took the others into the top class too soon. I shall not make that mistake with you. Besides-” she leaned forward to whisper something into his ear and a strand of hair that had become loose fell on his shoulder.

Outside, Cribb froze, feeling himself within her line of vision. But she straightened and continued her work.

In those few seconds the Sergeant was able to study her face. They were certainly a young woman’s features, delicately fashioned, yet sharply defined. Dark, expressive eyes, elegant nose, cheeks flushed slightly, perhaps by the close heat of the Ebony’s body. All the character, though, was in her mouth. It was a fraction wider than perfect proportion asked. The upper line almost arrogant in its precision. Below it a fuller, rounded lip. Sensuousness underlying vestal coldness.

“I may arrange for Edmund to bring a fighter down from the north,” she continued. “He once told me of a group of fist fighters in Manchester. You’re not fighting any more farm boys, I promise you. Would you lift your arms? If you fold them above your head, I can soon be on your biceps.” She giggled slightly. “You’ll soon be my anointed one, Sylvanus. Handmaidens did this for kings in ancient times.”

Cribb was studying the Ebony’s face. Unmistakably it creased into an expression of contempt.

“These moths!” she said petulantly. “The lamp draws them. Now that the rain has stopped, it isn’t possible to have a light near an open window. I’ll draw the curtain. It’s time Edmund unleashed the dogs.”

Cribb ducked, flattening himself to the wall. Thackeray, rejoining him from behind, stiffened to a halt.

There was the sound of heavy curtains being drawn.

Cribb gestured to Thackeray to move away.

The glint in the Sergeant’s eye was more than moonshine. “I don’t know what you saw, Thackeray,” he whispered when they were sufficiently far away, “but I’ve learned enough in the last ten minutes to get us both a quick promotion.”

Brilliant in red and green, it leaped and dived in the gusty air, a magnificent checkered kite, as large as its owners. In mid afternoon a breath of wind had disturbed the trees, causing leaves to gleam momentarily silver in the sunlight. By teatime you could call it a breeze and-splendid for kite flying-it varied in force from one moment to the next. Now, in early evening, the kite, after being quiescent in a playroom for months, swooped and shivered above Richmond Green, while two small boys and Henry Jago struggled to control its flight.

Waiting there to intercept Lydia on her way to post her father’s letters, he had found the kite impossible to resist. Clearly its elevation could be much improved with the help of strength and science. Soon the owners stood stiffly at a distance, occasionally paying out more cord. Jago, with his hands on the lifeline, tugged and raced to achieve even greater height.

Lydia must have been watching for several minutes before he realized she was there.

His hand slipped down the cord in an automatic movement. The kite swooped downwards. Its protesting owners rushed to take control again.

“I thought you policemen discouraged kites,” she scolded as he came sheepishly to her.

“Kites? Oh, yes. Very dangerous near roads, when they cause the horses to rear. Kites and hoops-the modern child will play with these dangerous toys. I’d have them banned myself.”

She smiled.

What a relief!

“Lydia, how can I apologize for your appalling disappointment yesterday evening? You did receive my letter in the afternoon? It was absolutely unavoidable. Short of disobeying orders and losing my job, I couldn’t possibly have come.”

“Yes, it was a disappointment, Henry.”

Said so tolerantly! She either had an unshakable affection for him, or she was unusually well-brought-up. Jago had known young ladies from good families who would have ended the acquaintanceship for less. Discarded him like last season’s bonnet. And not without a torrent of abuse.

“I hope you were able to warn Stella in reasonable time. She was coming as chaperone, wasn’t she?”

Lydia nodded. “Papa drove round to tell her we could not go.”

The Colonel. If it was possible, his opinion of Jago would have sunk still lower. Bad enough that a young fellow decently educated should be so ill-advised as to join the blasted police force. But when he had the sheer impertinence to break a promise made to a lady-a serving officer’s daughter-the bounder deserved cashiering at the very least.

“ She was disappointed, too, I expect.” Jago said this without excessive sympathy. Stella, Lydia’s closest friend, invariably came as chaperone. She never said very much to him, but her eyes spoke. “You won’t make much impression, Henry Jago. There are things I could tell her about you, and I probably will.”

“Yes,” answered Lydia. “She was certainly looking forward to The Corsican Brothers. The Lyceum is her favourite theatre. Can you tell me what it was you had to do?”

Deuced awkward situation. She was being so charming about everything. He was bound to say something.

“I’m not officially permitted to say, but it was important work.” Stella, he was sure, would give her verdict on his activities. “Detective work! He is no detective, Lydia, believe me. Why doesn’t he wear his uniform when he takes you out, as any young subaltern does? He is ashamed, that’s why. And not just ashamed of being merely a constable. I once passed him in Northumberland Avenue and saw his uniform. The seat of his trousers, my dear! It gleams like a mirror! He sits on a chair all day and pushes a pen. You’ve seen the ink stains on his fingers, haven’t you?”