Free The Detective Wore Silk Drawers by Peter Lovesey Page B

complexion, watch that Negro fight. As pretty a mover as you’ll see, and weighty with it. I wouldn’t spar with ’im unless ’e’s wearing mittens, and that’s sound advice.”
    Sound, but superfluous. Cribb and Thackeray had both made the same point earlier that day.
    The landlord wiped a window with his cloth.
    “Don’t see no sign of ’im. If ’e’s stopped off at the church, there’s no telling when the old bugger’ll show up.”
    “Oh,” said Jago, with interest. “He’s a religious man, is he?”
    “Religious?” The connection seemed to escape the landlord. “Who, Vibart? You don’t know much about your friends at Radstock ’All, do you? Vibart’s the organist at the church ’ere and if you think that makes ’im religious, you ought to ’ear the language ’e uses when he ’its a wrong note, which is three or four times a service. There’s mothers in Rainham that’s stopped their boys from singing in the choir because of it. Vibart enjoys ’imself, though, and the vicar can’t find nobody else.” He shook his head. “You might be better off making your own way there. I could send your luggage on later. You don’t ride a bicycle, do you? You could borrow mine. Beautiful machine. India-rubber tires. Take you ’alf the time.”
    Jago appreciated the generosity. The gleaming penny-farthing in the passage had caught his eye earlier.
    “Thanks, but I’m a duffer at balancing.”
    The landlord clapped a hand to his forehead.
    “Blimey, of course you are! You’re the lad that fell flat on ’is face in ’ere the other night. I thought there was something about you.” He began to shake with laughter. “Well, don’t make an ’abit of it, lad, or Mrs. Vibart’ll feed you to the Ebony for breakfast!”
    To Jago’s relief the merriment was cut short by the entry of Edmund Vibart.
    “Henry Jago? Sorry I’m late. We cast a shoe on the first attempt and I had to go back and change the bloody horse. That’s your luggage, is it? Would you put it aboard, landlord? Then you can draw me a large beer. Welcome to Rainham, Jago! Hades apart, you won’t find a more Godforsaken hole than this.”
    Jago smiled and inwardly recoiled. Vibart exuded sweat and self-importance. His clothes, broad check suit, silk shirt, crimson cravat and matching kerchief, jarred even on a sportsman’s sensibility.
    “You’re a sizable fellow, aren’t you? I shan’t pick a bloody fight with you—not until we’ve trimmed you down a bit, eh? What’s your weight?”
    “Around twelve stone, I believe.”
    Jago under scrutiny felt as he imagined a bullock feels in a beef-stock sale.
    “Not a bad weight. Not bad at all. You can reckon to lose a stone in the first two weeks of serious training. That’s if we take you on, of course. Stand up. Let’s see your height.”
    “Whatever happens, co-operate,” Cribb had ordered Jago. That was going to call for extraordinary self-discipline. He got to his feet, trying to think of it as a duty sergeant’s inspection. Vibart’s head came close, at the level of Jago’s necktie. Macassar, cheap and pungent, invaded his nostrils.
    “Good height, too. Six foot, I’d say, give half an inch either way.”
    Jago fully expected a sweaty hand to force his lips apart for a dental inspection. Instead, Vibart took a step back, gave one more approving look at his build, and turned to the beer waiting on the table. In seconds it was gone. Then without another glance at Jago, he planted a deerstalker on his head and marched to the door.
    “No time for another, landlord. We must get back. I may be in again in a day or two. Mrs. Vibart has plans for another set-to, you understand.”
    “Very good, sir.”
    As Jago followed, the landlord came with him to the door.
    “Don’t mind ’im, young ’un,” he murmured. “But watch out for the lady.”
    Driving through the lanes was as pleasant as the innkeeper predicted. The surface was badly rutted in places, but it was a well-sprung