Peter Lovesey - The Detective Wore Silk Drawers

“I hope it wasn’t a policeman’s smoking concert, anyway,” said Lydia, smiling.

“Not at all!” he said almost too vehemently, for a memory of his performance in the Fox had flashed through his mind. “Quite the reverse. Strictly an evening on duty.” He looked about him and moved closer to her. “I can at least say this, but in heaven’s name, do not tell anyone-not even Stella-or I shall lose my job. Last night I was travelling in company with a group of men who may lead us to a most savage murderer. I was alone in a railway carriage with them.”

“Alone? But how dreadful, Henry! How did you prevent them from attacking you?”

“Ah. Disguise. In a manner of speaking. You see, I was dressed as I am now, like any ordinary member of the public.”

“How clever. What happened?”

He opened his palms in a gesture of helplessness. “I really cannot say. But this morning I was congratulated for the information I passed on.”

“Weren’t you in terrible danger?”

He basked in her concern.

“Possibly. That is part of my job.”

“Then they shouldn’t send you on such missions. I know you are an expert in boxing with gloves, but what chance would you have against a gang of desperate ruffians? They could have recognized you and thrown you out of the moving train, or worse!”

Jago enjoyed himself thinking of the unspeakable injuries he had escaped. “But here I am, Lydia, without a mark on me.” The moment he had said it, he realized how smug it sounded. “Tell me how you are. What have you done today?”

They walked slowly across the Green, Lydia holding her father’s letters ceremoniously, like an ambassador’s credentials. They were her reason for walking in that direction and chancing to meet Henry Jago. It was only right that one should spare the servants a duty on occasions.

“Henry, do you think your prospects of advancement in the police are good?”

She looked up at him earnestly, blushing slightly at her own temerity, peachy cheeks touched by copper curls.

Jago cleared his throat nervously. “I certainly hope so. There are many possibilities, but one has to prove oneself capable, as one does in any employment.”

“Papa was asking.”

“Really?” Was the Colonel actually taking him seriously?

“I didn’t know quite what to say. I don’t think he understands much about the police. He asked me whether you had good noncommissioned officers serving under you, as that could make a lot of difference to your platoon.”

“Oh.”

“I think he might be prepared to meet you again if you would like to leave your card. He realizes that he was rather abrupt last time. But when we first met at the West Surrey, he gained the impression that you were a regimental man.”

“Yes, I remember.” Only his admiration for Lydia had prevented Jago from undeceiving the Colonel at once.

“If he knew you better, he might allow you to call on us regularly. He is rather suspicious about my going out to post his letters, I fear. This one isn’t the nearest posting box to our house.”

Jago smiled appreciatively.

“Papa read your letter most carefully yesterday. He asked me a number of questions about you. Then he finished by saying that I should widen my circle of acquaintances. He has been introduced to the curate at St. Martin’s, a young gentleman recently from theological college, and we have been invited to call on him next Saturday.”

Jago blanched. “I see.”

“Henry, I think you would find much in common with Papa, if you would call on us. You have told me yourself that the force is organized like a military regiment. And then there is your sport.”

Jago tried to appear enthusiastic. “Oh, yes. He is interested in cricket, isn’t he? I know a bit about Grace-W. G., you know, not the kind his curate friend specializes in.”

It was feeble humour, but both needed the chance to smile.

“He does enjoy cricket talk,” Lydia said. “I think that is why he is interested in the curate. He scored a century for Cambridge.”

A pause.

“I could talk about boxing,” said Jago. “Have you told him about my police championship victory?”

“No. Not yet.”

“My sergeant has just arranged for me to have intensive training in self-defence. Two hours a day. I shall be the most able-bodied bobby in London, Lydia!”

“Self-defence? Is that boxing?”

“Yes, but much more besides. I’m starting with a professor at Shoreditch School of Arms on Monday morning. I shall be instructed in the art of wrestling, as the Japanese practise it, and fist fighting-”

“But what is it for, Henry?”

Altogether more buoyant now, Jago lifted his fists and mimed the classic stance of the pugilist.

“Self-defence. And fighting off jealous curates. I think I shall try again with your papa, Lydia.”

She took his arm and they walked on to the posting box.

In the records room at Great Scotland Yard, Constable Thackeray stretched his legs and turned his feet to examine the insteps of his best pair of regulation boots. The damp line extended like a chalk mark all the way round. He doubted whether they would ever fully recover from their soaking the previous week in the Essex mud.

“ ‘Beckett,’ ” read Sergeant Cribb aloud, “ ‘Matthew James. Born 1853. Five feet ten. Twelve stone two. Dark complexion. No permanent address. Last lodging in Bermondsey. Ex-seaman. Crown tattooed on right forearm. Serpent on left.’ Jago missed that. Let’s see what the record is. ‘June 1873. Six months for housebreaking. March ’76. Drunk and disorderly. One month. April ’78. Loitering with intent to commit a felony. Fined?1.’ None of them violent crimes, you see, but he appeared to be the leader. Where’s the last file?”

Thackeray handed it over.

“ ‘Foster, David. Born 1860. Five foot six. Ten stone.’ Beautiful copperplate, this. Only one entry. Drunk and disorderly again. I can believe that too, after Friday evening in that Rainham taproom.” He tossed the file back to Thackeray. “That’s the four with records, then. Three tough coves and one young ’un. Capital work of Jago’s to pick ’em out.”

“I think he knows these records like the coins in his pocket, Sarge. That could well be his own handwriting you admired. Is there anything on Meanix himself?”

“Not here,” Cribb answered. “So many charges were brought a few years back for prize fighting that the records were never centralized. You’ll find a better account of him in Fistiana than anywhere else. No, it’s the bunch who followed him that interests me.”

“Was anything said, Sarge?”

“Plenty. Young Jago’s less dumb than he looks. Gave me enough to hook in most of his fellow travellers on suspicion if I needed to.”

“You won’t, then?”

“Wouldn’t help at present. I need something more decisive and I think I know where to find it. Someone’s got to lead me to the killer. I’m leaving every possibility open at present. Things will happen in the next week. Almost sure to.”

“Why, Sarge?”

“The gang. If Meanix had done his job, they stood to make a mint.”

Thackeray was dubious. “I don’t see how that was possible, Sarge. The odds were heavily in his favour from the start.”

Cribb sometimes despaired of his assistant.

“Side bets, Constable; side bets. First knockdown, first blood, length of contest. Meanix was hired to engineer that fight to order, round by round. And he would have done, with different opposition. They expected a muscle-bound ploughman in the village-idiot class. The Ebony was quite a different kettle.”

“So they lost heavily,” concluded Thackeray.

“Not so heavily. There was time to hedge their bets when they saw the Ebony’s form. But they gained nothing. And with Meanix a spent force they’ve got to hire a new punching machine. From what Jago heard, they’d like to take over the Ebony.”