Peter Lovesey - The Detective Wore Silk Drawers

“I think I know the rest,” said Mrs. Vibart. “You met a young woman who lives in Richmond and you hope to marry her, but your present financial position is such that you could not presume to discuss it with her father.”

This much Cribb had agreed could be let slip to Jago’s contact at the Anchor. Yet hearing the details repeated so faithfully by Mrs. Vibart alerted Jago to the seriousness of his position. Every part of his story would be checked.

“And so you want to make money, large amounts of money, from your skill as a fighter.”

“If I can.”

“We shall see. If you have the ability, the prizes are considerable. What will you say if your prospective father-in-law asks where your fortune came from?”

It was a question Cribb had not anticipated. Jago thought of Colonel Boltover.

“My feeling is that he would be sufficiently impressed by the money not to inquire where it came from, but if he discovered the truth, I doubt whether it would make much difference. He is a sportsman.” Correct in its way, although Boltover’s enthusiasm for Lord’s was unlikely ever to extend to secret prize rings in Essex fields.

“I hope you are right. I should not want your. . new interests here to lead to an estrangement between you and the young lady.” Mrs. Vibart spoke with a strange emphasis. Jago felt the colour begin to rise to his cheeks. Blushing had always been his problem, a grave handicap to a plainclothes man. “Well, Mr. Jago,” she said. “I must show you my gymnasium.”

It was of small significance, but Jago was fascinated by Mrs. Vibart’s poise. Throughout their conversation she had sat forward on her chair, as upright as a governess, emphasizing the cut of her velvet bodice. And now she rose with scarcely any tilt of her body. As an athlete, Jago marvelled at such control. She had, in effect, performed a standard gymnastic exercise which he often practised. Even allowing for her slight build and the probable support of a corset, she could not have risen so elegantly without considerable power in her thighs. Jago blushed again.

She led him through a billiard room, superbly equipped, where her brother-in-law was practising shots. He did not look up as they passed.

“Here it is,” she said, opening a baize-covered door. “Mind that you say it impresses you, Mr. Jago, because I am very proud of my gymnasium.”

No need for deception. He had never seen a hall so comprehensively equipped. Each activity had its own section of apparatus: vaulting standards and boxes; ropes and bars for climbing; dumbbells and weights; punching bags; and, at the far end, a full-sized ring.

“Unbelievable!”

“So everyone says.”

“How many fighters are you training here?” Jago asked.

“At present, only one. You will meet him later.”

“Was all this built for him?”

She laughed. “Oh, no. There were others. They left us, though. It is not easy to stay long in the top class, as you will find.”

“Who were they?”

“Oh, they came from the Midlands. You wouldn’t have known them.”

“And did they win their fights?”

“Mostly. I should now like to see you exercise, Mr. Jago, if you are not too tired. There is a dressing room over there, and you will find drawers and pumps to fit you. I shall wait here.”

Mrs. Vibart’s request was made almost whimsically. But when Jago entered the dressing room, he realized that his appearance in the gym was prescribed some time before. The accommodation was spacious enough for a football team, but only two cubicles were labelled. The first, in excellent copperplate, read “Sylvanus Morgan” and the second “Henry Jago.” Inside were freshly laundered white boxing drawers with a black sash. He changed, and found them a sound fit. Under the bench were two pairs of gym shoes. The first he tried were right.

Bodily display was not usually embarrassing to Jago; stripping for the gym had become daily routine. This afternoon it was an ordeal. As he entered the vastness of the gym, conscious that everything he wore was owned and chosen by Mrs. Vibart, he felt as naked as Adam.

“Come over here, Henry Jago,” the Christian name spoken with emphasis, as though to impress on him that he could not preserve formalities now; although when he really considered it, “Mr. Jago” did seem inappropriate in white drawers. “Edmund is right. You have an excellent physique. Don’t stand over there. I want to examine you.”

Jago advanced to be examined.

For perhaps fifteen seconds Mrs. Vibart’s eyes travelled over his body.

“A good pectoral development and strong biceps. That suggests work with dumbbells or barbells. Your neck is quite strong-looking too, isn’t it? The legs could improve with some work, I think. How are your abdominal muscles? May I feel?”

She pushed her hand firmly into his diaphragm.

“That, Henry Jago, seems your weakest point. Flex it, please.” With the side of her hand she prodded the area below Jago’s ribs. “Yes, we can strengthen you there. You wouldn’t last long in a fist fight in your present condition. Have you ever used a rowing machine?”

“I did some rowing. . years ago,” said Jago. The words “at school” had almost slipped out.

“Several years, I should think,” said Mrs. Vibart, smiling. “You are an admirer of Blondin, my maid tells me. His abdominal muscles are uncommonly powerful, or he would never retain his balance. I don’t advise you to attempt to cross Niagara Falls for the present.”

Jago smiled, remembering his exhibition in the Fox.

“Let me see your back.”

Jago turned.

“Flex the arms, please, and hold that position.”

“You’ve found another one then, Isabel. And quite a handsome show of flesh, eh?” A man’s voice, suddenly close to where Mrs. Vibart was standing.

“Robert? You’ve come back early. Turn round, Mr. Jago, and meet Mr. D’Estin. Robert is a family friend, and I hope that he will agree to train you.”

Jago obeyed.

He was eye to eye with one of the most powerful men he had encountered. If Mrs. Vibart set her physical standards by Robert D’Estin, Jago could see why his own physique had not been passed as perfect. Yet there was nothing gorilla-like about him; he was uniformly well-proportioned, and good-looking. The face intelligent and clear-skinned, the moustache neatly barbered. He held a silver-topped cane.

“Glad to meet you, Jago.”

A handshake.

The sensation was so unexpected that Jago could not disguise his shock. The hand that gripped his had three fingers missing.

“Accident with a duck gun,” D’Estin explained. “Four-bore. A good gun, too, from Bond Street. The barrel blew up. Improperly cleaned, you see, so I’ve got this to remind me. The bastard that neglected his job has his own souvenir of the occasion. I saw to that.”

Jago was sometimes grateful for a limited imagination. Violence allied to such power was appalling to contemplate.

“Well, Mr. Jago,” said Mrs. Vibart, formal again in D’Estin’s presence, “I would like to ask you to use my gymnasium. I am sure that Robert would like to see you exercise.”

It was a relief to turn to activity, and less of an ordeal now that it was not for an audience of one. He picked up a skipping rope and loosened his muscles with two minutes’ work. Then the five-pound dumbbells, curling them slowly up from arm’s length twenty times; and then twenty pushes upwards from the shoulders. After this he jumped for the rings suspended from a beam, and swung his body upside-down, pulled his shoulders to ring level and then righted himself slowly. These were not exhibition pieces, but he preferred to perform efficiently and conscientiously.

“Now the sawdust bag,” called D’Estin. “Let’s see your fists working.”