Peter Lovesey - The Detective Wore Silk Drawers

He stepped forward and took it. The handwriting was Lydia’s, he was sure. What in heaven’s name was Cribb doing?

“I apologize. I did not like deceiving you.”

Isabel had picked up her pen again. “I should like to see your reply when you have written it.”

“You shall,” Jago assured her, turning to withdraw.

“And, Henry.” She spoke without looking up. “So that you shall have an opportunity of demonstrating your loyalty, I have instructed Robert to extend your training exercises today. Now you may go.”

Sergeant Cribb had the devil of a lot to answer for.

An hour later Jago, sweat coursing down the sides of his nose and onto his naked chest, was suspended from the wall bars, periodically raising his knees to D’Estin’s command.

The white drawers made the work increasingly difficult as his body temperature rose; the damp silk clung to his body and seemed tauter over knees and loins with every movement.

“Get them higher, man!”

Thank God there had been no mention of the woodshed!

Perhaps the servants had not reported the unlocked door, thinking they were concealing each other’s carelessness.

“Right! Down you come! Take the barbells and begin squatting and rising. Nimble’s the word!”

This would be easier. The abdominal muscles would get relief even if the thighs ached. In certain respects he was content to take his punishment, for punishment this most certainly was, whatever Isabel termed it. Earlier, his resentment had been strong. Now, after briefly reading Lydia’s letter, he was less angry; even a little encouraged.

Paramount, of course, was the pleasure in recognizing that most of the letter was genuinely hers; at times this week she had seemed very remote. Now her concern and affection heartened him.

“Get into a rhythm, Jago! Don’t rest on your haunches!”

Cribb’s message, cunningly phrased (he supposed, as it was palpably not Lydia’s style) and inserted in Lydia’s handwriting, was also encouraging. “It seems insufferable that you must be away so long, but I know how important it is to your career and our prospects. Please, Henry, endure whatever is necessary for both our sakes, but be wary too (in the ring). Learn all that you can at Radstock Hall, for it will help later. But you must not concern yourself unduly about me.

Remember that I am not so far away, and when you fight, rest assured that I shall know about it and shall not let you out of my thoughts.” Surely the tenderest message Cribb had ever sent to a constable.

“Very well! Now the dumbbells, if you please. Above the head. Lower them slowly. Elbows straight!”

The pain in his biceps was just endurable. He could not continue long. The weights started to pull the arms down from the crucifix pose.

“Keep them up, man! You’re on show, you know!”

On show. . Something in D’Estin’s emphasis confirmed what Jago had increasingly suspected: that concealed somewhere in the panelled wall ahead of him was an observation hole. Each exercise was staged facing that end of the gymnasium. Every grimace, every agonizing effort, was scrutinized by its architect, Isabel Vibart.

“That will do,” D’Estin ordered. “You can finish with the wrestler’s bridge.”

The devil he would. Once before they had bullied him into that. The pain was excruciating. And that was when he was fresh. It sounded simple enough, like touching one’s toes. One lay on the ground with legs bent and forced one’s back and buttocks up so that all the weight rested on heels and head. “Like a wrestler avoiding being thrown,” they had told him. “You keep it up for ten seconds.” He had collapsed in six.

“The wrestler’s what?” Any time now was precious.

“You know very well! Get down! Orders!”

“On the contrary, I don’t know.”

“I’m sure you’ve done it. You’ve seen Morgan do it, anyway.

There’s only one way to learn properly.” D’Estin picked up a boxing shoe and placed it, spikes upward, on the ground. “You make a back over that for ten seconds. Then I kick it away.

There isn’t a mark on Morgan’s back anywhere. Where is the black bastard? He was told to report sharp at noon.”

What was the point of silence?

“He will not be reporting.”

D’Estin frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

“You won’t see Sylvanus today. He walked out with his baggage after breakfast. It was obvious to anyone that he was not coming back.”

“Walked out?” One would think from D’Estin’s tone that Radstock Hall was a pleasure garden. Recovering from sheer disbelief, he hurried across to the dressing-room door.

“God! You must be right! I must see Isabel.”

Jago hobbled away to get into a cold bath.

Later, he lay in bed, sore and stiff, but not entirely displeased with the day. The afternoon, once he realized D’Estin was too preoccupied to supervise the “training,”

was positively diverting. When the Ebony’s room had been checked, pandemonium broke loose in the house. Panicking servants-and in German the panic was formidable- roamed the house checking the valuables. D’Estin was sent in the dogcart in pursuit of the deserter, but returned later with the news that a “strong-looking man of colour” had been seen boarding the London train soon after eleven.

Then came the inquisition: D’Estin, Vibart and finally Jago appearing before Isabel. She was tight-lipped when he saw her, but surprisingly forbearing with him. Perhaps Vibart had managed to convince her that the Ebony had left of his own accord. At any rate, Jago was able to withdraw after ten minutes, having admitted to no more than seeing the departure- which had actually been quite conspicuous, but exceedingly well-timed. And by supper that evening calm was restored, if a little uneasily. Isabel said little to D’Estin or her brother-in-law, but talked freely to Jago about the war in Afghanistan, the theatre, the London season-anything, in fact, but pugilism. At nine he had been able to plead tiredness. For one alarming moment he thought she was about to offer massage, but it passed. He thankfully made his exit.

And now it was night again, and he lay listening. He had waked from two hours’ sleep, necessary and convenient, for it spared him the nervous strain of waiting. By now the house was reassuringly quiet; only the pleasant rustle of rain outside breaking absolute silence. Enough to smother a creaking floorboard.

Painful as it was, he had to rouse himself. A curious sentence in Lydia’s letter, after he read it for the fourth time, thinking more of Cribb than Lydia (exceedingly difficult) had stayed in his mind. His tired brain had made enough sense of it before he fell asleep to ensure that he would not sleep long. “Your suggestion that I might divert myself by corresponding with my cousin Roberta in the Midlands has had an encouraging result, for last week I received a reply from Birmingham full of support and news-just what I needed at the present time.” Once it dawned on him that Roberta was the Chief Constable of Birmingham-Cribb would be priding himself on that inspiration-he deciphered the rest. The headless pugilist had been identified.

All he now had to do at Radstock Hall was discover some clear evidence linking the murdered man with D’Estin, Vibart or Isabel, or perhaps all three. He felt certain it was there-documentary evidence, articles of battle, or even a diary of training-somewhere downstairs, and probably in Isabel’s writing desk.

So he opened the door of his room and crept cautiously along the landing. Past the now empty room where the

Ebony had slept. On as far as the door of the room adjoining Isabel’s. There he paused, deciding the points on the carpet where each foot could safely press. Then forward again, gliding lightly for a large man. The merest glance, as he passed, at Isabel’s door. Did her obsession with black extend to her night attire-the sheets of her bed, even?