The Detective Wore Silk Drawers by Peter Lovesey Read Free Book Online

didn’t go, then?”
    There were superior smiles all round.
    “Standin’ in ’Arrison’s field for an hour or more, watchin’ the Ebony alter a London bruiser’s profile? We got better ways o’ passin’ time, friend.”
    “You’re not betting men, then?” inquired Thackeray, to encourage the conversation.
    “Bettin’?” The speaker, shrewd behind his grey whiskers, with squirrel-sharp eyes that darted meaningfully around the table before each remark, added, “Bettin’ ain’t part o’ God’s law. And God in ’Is mercy preserves us from temptation by keep in’ down our wages to what we can spend in ’ere. ’Ow long did y’ London man last, then?”
    “Fourteen rounds.”
    “Hm. Fair showing.” The nodding of heads around the table showed a striking consensus of agreement. “What was the odds before they started?”
    “Strongly favouring Meanix,” said Cribb. “If we’d known the black was so handy with his dukes, we’d have made a few pounds tonight.”
    “Ebony’s form ain’t broadly known,” agreed the spokesman. “We know ’im round these parts, o’ course. I’m told that if fist fights was still written up in th’ papers, you London folk would’ve ’eard of ’im afore now. Don’t really trouble us, as only Ben there can read, and ’e prefers ’is prayer book to sportin’ news, don’t you, mate?”
    Smiles were liberally exchanged.
    “Has the Ebony fought many in Rainham, then?” Cribb inquired.
    “Only two that I know of. Both was said to ’ave their record in Fistiana —though we wouldn’t know that, would we, mates, bein’ illiterate men? Ebony sledge-’ammered ’em both.”
    “When was this?”
    “Lor’, now you’ve asked me somethin’. The memory ain’t tickin’ over so well. Strikes me it needs a spot o’ lubrication. What d’you say, mates?”
    They said nothing, but drained their glasses simultaneously.
    Cribb saw what had to be done. Jago and Thackeray followed him to the bar with handfuls of empty glasses. There Thackeray felt it his duty to caution the Sergeant.
    “They’re not truthful men, Sarge. It’s not worth standing them drinks when their word ain’t reliable.”
    “I’ll judge that,” said Cribb. “Let ’em have their sport with us. I can pick wheat from chaff.”
    When the first sips had been taken, Cribb again put his question about the Ebony’s previous fights.
    “I’ll give it some thought, mate. Last November, I reckon, was when ’e fought that Bermondsey boy.”
    There was general concurrence.
    “And the Webster fight was two months back, easy.
    Around Easter, that was.”
    If this could be believed, Thackeray inwardly noted, the headless corpse could not be Mr. Webster’s.
    “This Ebony,” Cribb persisted, “seems a stout fighter.
    Who trains him?”
    The spokesman shook his head.
    “Can’t say we know much about ’im, mate, save that ’e’s a capital bruiser.”
    “Where does he live, then? I’d like to meet the fellow.”
    This was hilariously received. The spokesman explained why.
    “Ebony comes from Vibart’s place, Radstock ’All, a mile or more north of the village. And they don’t much like strangers up there, ’cept the ones they invite.”
    “You mean that they don’t enter into village life?”
    “In a manner of speaking. We see ’em once in a while. The Ebony, just as you saw ’im today. Sometimes Mrs. Vibart in ’er four-wheeler, or the menfolk ’eadin’ for London, or comin’ back. But they’re none of ’em conversationalists, if you follow me.”
    “This Vibart,” said Cribb. “What does he do?”
    “Do?”
    “What’s his work?”
    There was more amusement at this.
    “Mr. Vibart ain’t really fit for work any more, mate. You see, ’e’s been dead this twelvemonth.”
    “Really? Was he old, then?”
    “Far from it. I could give ’im twenty year, and I’m still capable in all particulars. Jacob there could give ’im fifty, and all ’e’s lost in a few ivories,