Thankful for a pause, Thackeray made it clear from his stance that he planned a few moments’ study of the river traffic. A Thames Company paddle steamer sounded a scape-pipe warning to a coal barge on the South Bank side.
“Devil’s own vessels, paddle boats,” commented Cribb, warming to his theme. “As cock-eyed a system of navigation as you’ll find. Captain passes on his orders from the bridge through deaf-and-dumb finger talk to a rating, and he tries to make the engineer understand. More often than not results in chaos. Next time you visit the boat race, take a close look at the flotilla that follows it up. For my money those steamboat skippers provide better sport than the oarsmen out front. I’ve seen a solid wall of eight steamers jammed sponson to sponson and crammed with old Blues go full bat at a buttress of Hammersmith Bridge. You couldn’t drag me aboard. I’d sooner sweat it out in one of the eights.”
Thackeray cast an analytical eye down Cribb’s gaunt frame.
“You ain’t the rowing build, Sarge. Nor am I, come to that, though I might have been twenty or thirty years back. Now Constable Jago would look well in a boat. He must have done some rowing at school, I dare say, being a public school man. I still can’t understand what made him join the force, he being such a one for manly exercises. Oxford or Cambridge was the proper place for a young fellow of his breeding.”
Cribb made a snorting sound deep in his nostrils.
“He’ll get his share of exercise soon enough.”
Thackeray enjoyed the joke.
“You think the professor will make him sweat a bit, Sarge?”
“I hope so. He needs to be fit to take up knuckle fighting.”
Silence, while Thackeray wrestled with the significance of what Cribb had said. The Sergeant’s callous streak was not new to him; indeed, he had suffered personally from it many times. But victimization of a hardened veteran was one thing; sentencing young Jago to certain butchery was brutal beyond belief. He rounded on Cribb.
“You can’t make him do that! He’s got no experience.
He’ll be torn to ribbons.”
Cribb said nothing, seeming more interested in a passing skiff than Thackeray’s indignation.
“We can’t use Jago, Sarge. You saw what happened to Meanix, and he was a seasoned knuckle fighter. Young Jago doesn’t fight their way. Queensberry Rules don’t permit wrestling and spiking and kidney punching. It’s like matching a farm bird with a fighting cock.”
“He’s game,” said Cribb airily. “And I’ve fixed lessons for him to learn some of the tricks.”
“He’ll need more than a few tricks,” Thackeray commented bitterly. “I don’t think you should ask a man to do such a thing. He’d feel obliged to say yes, having been moved to your division to help you. But he’s no knuckle fighter-”
“Police champion,” interjected Cribb.
“Yes, but at glove fighting, and that’s as different as milk is from brandy. What good can it do to have a promising young bobby beaten to pulp in a prize ring?”
“I guessed you might take it amiss, Thackeray. The plain fact is that I need to get an informant inside Radstock Hall. Listening at windows has its uses, but it ain’t the most thoroughgoing method of inquiry, now is it? I’ve seen and heard enough this twenty-four hours to make me think we could be uncovering a very ugly set of crimes-as vicious as anything I’ve come across. Now there’s things to be learned at Radstock Hall, I’m sure, but they’ll take time and smart detective work. I need someone there who’s in their confidence. I want to know all about those fighters who failed, and I want the place examined-not obviously, but methodically over several days. I’m not asking Jago to dig for severed heads. I just want to know what’s happening there, and what’s been happening since the Vibarts moved in. Jago’s no mean performer with his fists. He ought to give a fair impersonation of a promising pug. He may not need to fight in earnest at all. But if the situation arises, I know when to intervene.”
Thackeray was far from convinced.
“I don’t like this at all, Sarge. He’s strong and able, is young Jago, but he’s not one quarter as sharp as you are. It’s not easy passing yourself off as something you ain’t, even if you take on a false name-”
“He won’t,” said Cribb.
“No false name, Sarge? But they could identify him as one of the force, and then there’s nothing to prevent them killing him, if they’re the bunch we think they are.”
The Sergeant shook his head emphatically. “I want this simple. We’ll leave play-acting out of it. If a false name confused anyone, it’d be Jago himself. They’ve no way of checking if he’s a Scotland Yard man-he’s strictly on clerical duties, as you know, so his name’s not quite a household word. Don’t worry. We’ll let slip enough genuine information about Jago to satisfy ’em. They won’t be expecting members of the force to masquerade as fist fighters, anyway. That’s not the way we’re supposed to work.”
“He’ll need to keep his wits about him,” said Thackeray dubiously.
“He’s no use in Criminal Investigation if he can’t,” commented Cribb.
Thackeray cast about for another means of penetrating the Sergeant’s indifference.
“How will he get into Radstock Hall, then?”
“Shouldn’t be any trouble,” said Cribb. “He’s known in his gym at the Anchor. Once the word gets round that he’s game to fight with the raw ’uns, there should be offers enough. Anyone can see he’s primely built for pugilism and there aren’t that many fist fighters about. The Essex bunch are professionals; they wouldn’t build a gym like the one you saw if they weren’t investing heavily in the game. When Jago’s on the market, they’ll be interested, believe me.”
When Cribb put it that way, Thackeray found it all too plausible.
“But they’ll want him to live in Radstock Hall, like the Ebony.”
“Without a doubt.”
Thackeray played his final card.
“What about his young lady, then?”
“His what?” So Cribb had actually overlooked something.
“The young lady at Richmond. A high-spirited young woman from Jago’s account of her. But he’s very sweet on her. A redhead, I think he said, and deuced attractive. How do you muzzle one of the fair sex?”
Cribb walked in silence, plainly ruffled.
“I’m damned if I know,” he admitted at last.
CHAPTER 6
“You’ll be waiting for someone to pick you up, I dare say, sir.”
Henry Jago nodded. He had been sipping a half pint of beer for forty-five minutes already. Since he was the only customer in the Fox and Grapes that afternoon, and his portmanteau stood inside the door, he could hardly deny the landlord’s conclusion.
“Going up to the ’All, are you?” The landlord was drying freshly washed tankards and wanted to talk as he worked. It was a difficult situation.
“Radstock Hall,” Jago admitted.
“Ah, Mr. Vibart should be coming for you with the trap, then. You’ll ’ave a pleasant drive through the lanes this fine afternoon. Makes a change, don’t it? Been there before, ’ave you?”
“No, I can’t say I have.”
“Ah.” This was uttered with great emphasis.
Three tankards later the landlord began again.
“I thought when you came in off the train, I thought here’s a lissome lad. If he’s going anywhere, it’s up to Vibart’s place. Most of the parties that go up to the ’All stop off ’ere, you see. Big lads, all of ’em. You’ll ’ave a good show of muscle round the epaulettes yourself, I can see. Funny, you know. What gives you scrappers away ain’t so much your build, or what you say. It’s what you drink-or rather what you don’t. I always say that a classy scrapper knows what’s good for ’im. Beer and bare fists don’t mix, do they? If a pug can’t keep ’is elbow down, there ain’t much future for ’im.”