Free The Detective Wore Silk Drawers by Peter Lovesey Page A

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.”
    There was no point in playing dumb, Jago decided. He should have recognized the landlord before as the referee at the fight between Meanix and the Ebony.
    “You sound a connoisseur, landlord.”
    The innkeeper came beaming round the counter.
    “I think that’s a fair description, sir. There ain’t many I’ve not seen in the last twenty or thirty years—swells, Jews, Yankees, gippos—some capital fighters, I can tell you. In the palmy days, when the beaks winked at a fist fight, I ’ad matches every week out the back ’ere, in my yard. And we drew the gentry like yourself down from London—lords, judges, parliamentarians. Get a man like Mace in the magic circle and there wasn’t no limit to the class of spectator, royalty included.”
    Jago saw possibilities in this conversation.
    “It’s quite another story now, though.”
    The landlord needed little prompting. “True, very true. The rough element—the sharp boys—spoilt it for the rest. If it weren’t for them money-grabbing fellows cutting rough, we’d ’ave open fist fighting today. I might say that I do admire Mrs. Vibart for what she’s doing for the sport.”
    “ Mrs. Vibart?”
    “Yes. Ah, you won’t ’ave met the lady yet. Your dealings will ’ave been with Edmund, I dare say. She’s the guvnor up at Radstock ’All, though, believe me. Never seen a public fist fight in ’er life, but knows the London prize-ring rules better than our vicar knows ’is Ten Commandments. If you’re invited to join the Radstock ’All bunch, it’s at Mrs. Vibart’s invitation, I can tell you.”
    Jago had his instructions from Cribb to discover more about the occupants of Radstock Hall. This, if it could be believed, was sensational information.
    “It’s most irregular, a woman taking an active interest in a man’s sport.”
    “Most irregular woman altogether,” commented the landlord. “She’s got an eye for a fighter, all right. You may ’ave ’eard of the Ebony. Mrs. Vibart’s pet ’e ’is. Now if you want to see a pair of dukes attending to a man’s