Peter Lovesey - The Detective Wore Silk Drawers

“You think this Quinton may be the headless man, Sarge?”

“Think? I’m sure of it. Everything’s right-age, size, colour of hair-even the convictions. Common assault has often simply meant a prize fight before now. I’ve got the widow coming down to look at the clothes. With luck, she’ll identify them.”

“What made you pick Birmingham, Sarge?”

“I didn’t particularly. All the forces up there got my inquiry: Leicester, Northampton, all of them. Brum was likeliest to turn something up, though, once we had the word to try the Midlands. Several of the bare-fisted division live there, or in Wolverhampton. Usually they fight with gloves these days, but some make exceptions.”

“Charlie Mitchell?” suggested Thackeray.

“You’re becoming quite a Corinthian, Constable. Would you care to see a fight on Saturday?”

“Seven o’clock, Fox and Grapes? I wouldn’t miss it, Sarge.”

“Nor I. We’ll need to look a trifle different from last time, though. Can’t be known as regulars. Tweeds and deerstalker for me. You’re easy. You just shave off your beard.”

Thackeray started back in horror.

“My beard, Sarge?”

“Yes. Soon grows again. Jago’s suffering in the cause of duty. Must show solidarity, eh, Constable?”

It was disturbingly unreal, wholly unlike the setting for Meanix and the Ebony. The declining sun, impossibly red, made a woodcarving of the yard and its occupants. Probing light and deep shadow chiselled trivial details, doorframes, eaves, coach wheels, into sharp significance. Old men seated at tables with tankards had their nutcracker faces picked out grotesquely.

Jago stood in his corner. He had lost the toss and faced the light. The shadow of his opponent spanned the ring and was touching his feet. Vibart and D’Estin worked vigorously at his thighs and calves. Around the ring, but at a decent distance, the spectators waited, some seated, others in groups, all with mugs in hand. There was no tension here, no scramble to place bets. This was a local affair and if money changed hands, it was between friends. The crowd was small for a fist fight-perhaps eighty-and not much more than the usual attendance at the Fox on a Saturday.

Jago examined his hands. They were well prepared for their ordeal, hardened by vinegar and lemon, nails trimmed, knuckles greased. He was feeling fitter than he had all week, after forty-eight hours without aperients. And what he had lost in excess flesh he had replaced in muscle fibre.

The difficulty lay in forcing himself to believe he was actually about to toe the scratch for a knuckle fight, to flout the law he had been trained to uphold. After a week at Radstock Hall even Sergeant Cribb seemed a remote figure, as alien to this setting as his boxing coach at school. Certainly there was no sign of Cribb or Thackeray among the crowd. What would happen if the fight was raided by the local police, and they arrested him? Could Cribb intervene, or would the law take its course? Was the expulsion of one constable from the force a matter worth sacrificing all their investigations for? Hadn’t Thackeray himself suggested Cribb was callous towards his subordinates? He was a strange man, this Sergeant Cribb, and inspiring in his way; Jago wished he knew him well enough to trust him.

It was easier in this strange mood to believe that he was fighting for Mrs. Vibart than Cribb. Mrs? It was Isabel from now on, she had told him when she came to the gym to see his final limbering that afternoon. “You are fighting for me, Henry Jago,” she had said in that allusive way, inviting him to speculate on her meaning. “I know that you will not disappoint me.” And she had put forward her hand and pressed his forearm. Little wonder that Cribb was fading as a source of inspiration.

“Will the two antagonists and attendants come to the scratch, please?”

To confirm the dreamlike nature of this experience, the referee was the landlord of the Fox. Jago was quite prepared for his opponent, whose face had been in shadow, to be Lydia’s Papa, attended by the curate from St. Martin’s. Instead the man who stepped forward was a total stranger, Jago’s height, but broader in the chest and bronzed from work in the fields. Instead of boxing drawers he wore flannel longjohns artfully adapted, but obvious for what they were. If anyone felt uncomfortable it was Jago in the expensive white silk drawers Isabel had provided.

“Mr. Jago?” said the landlord. “We know each other, of course. This ’ere is Luke Judd from Benson’s farm.” The rivals nodded in recognition. “As to the rules, gentlemen, they are according to the London Prize-Ring, last amended 1866. Thirty seconds between rounds, and when I call ‘Time’ you ’ave eight seconds to get to scratch unaided. No butting, gouging, biting, kicking or tearing the flesh with the fingernails. And no seizing of your antagonist below the waist or belting ’im when ’e’s down. A man’s down when ’e’s got one knee and one ’and on the ground, and don’t let me see no deliberate falling on each other. Seconds and bot-tle’olders keep outside the ring until someone goes down. Then you can lift your man to ’is corner. The final matter to mention is that the referee gets five per cent of the takings, by the usual arrangements. No questions? Good. Retire to your corners and wait for the call of ‘Time.’ ”

Everyone but the two fighters climbed out through the ropes. The imminence of action brought even the serious drinkers from the bar. Jago caught the surprised glance of one of the regulars. Last week he had been one of the window-seat group.

A light breeze fluttered the colours tied to the centre stake: black silk for Isabel. “You are fighting for me, Henry Jago.” Was he the protege-or she the prize?

“Time.”

Time of reckoning.

He walked to scratch and took his stance.

A fist jabbed at him. It was easy to jerk aside and respond with a probing left. Short of the target. He edged forward and measured the distance again. Judd rocked out of reach.

Judd was coming back, open to a straight left. A fast, no-nonsense punch direct to the point. Short, though! What was wrong? That should have floored him, not chucked him under the chin.

A sudden, vicious haymaker from Judd came perilously near. It fanned his ear as he leaned away. Then a second swing rammed his chest. He countered with one to Judd’s ribs. Bone against bone. His knuckles smarted.

Pain transformed Judd into a threshing machine. Arms flailed destructively, unstoppable. Most glanced off the forearms, but some Jago could not parry. He felt one jolt on his collarbone. Another scraped his ear cruelly. “They’re almost as vulnerable as eyes to bare fists,” D’Estin had told him.

Now Judd was upon him, groping for a handhold. The grasp for the throat was easy to deflect. But not the simultaneous crunch of the spiked boot on his foot.

Jago reeled in pain. A cuff on the temple. Balance gone.

Down!

With astonishing speed D’Estin was through the ropes and hoisting him to the corner. Propped there on Vibart’s knee, gasping for air.

“Drink this. Takes the pain away.”

Brandy and water, by the taste.

“Box the man. Don’t let him wrestle you. Strike for the face.”

Agonized pulsation from the pierced foot.

“Time.”

Out to scratch again, to shoot a long right to Judd’s head, warning him away. Beady brown eyes glinted in annoyance. “Box the man.” Devilish hard with him waiting there, hands half open to grapple. Try, though. A feinting right, and immediately a strong straight left. On the mark!

Judd winced and backed. Jago tried two more long lefts, more to intimidate than injure. Judd retreated again. A right. Judd was cornered, waiting for the onslaught.