“Day off for them,” decided Cribb. “Even the old ’un looks as corky as a two-year-old.”
After that, though, nothing for two hours. Small wonder that Thackeray finally turned on his back. The day had started for him at six, a mortifying hour for a senior constable to be afoot, with Blackfriars Road still wet from the water cart, and a full two hours to go before the dossers got turned out of the Salvation Army shelter. Then a far-from-comfortable third-class journey out to Rainham on the London and Southend and an hour’s walk in the sun to Radstock Hall. After footing it last time through rain and mud, he had brought his Inverness and heaviest boots and now regretted it. He had blisters the size of pennies, he was sure, but dared not examine them for fear of the feet swelling and never going back into the boots. He closed his eyes and imagined himself checking closing time in Hampstead.
“Here they come,” said Cribb. “Take a look while I check my watch.”
Thackeray turned over at once and peered through the field glasses. He saw Vibart waiting in the gig at the front of the Hall, whip in hand, while Jago and D’Estin manhandled a portmanteau aboard.
“Eleven,” said Cribb. “Just as I expected.”
“Then, why,” pondered Thackeray, “did you drag me across the fields blowing like a confounded grampus at eight-thirty?” He trained the glasses on the one constable in the force he would not have changed places with at that moment. Jago was now seated in the gig; from the set of his shoulders it might well have been a tumbril. D’Estin climbed up to join him and Vibart shook the reins.
“Pity we can’t give him a wave to let him know we’re here,” said Thackeray, in a surge of sympathy, as the trap approached along the drive.
Cribb sniffed. “That’s the sure way to give him apoplexy.
Jago’s expecting to see us waiting at the ringside, not here.”
“Shouldn’t we follow, then, Sarge?” urged Thackeray as the carriage trundled past, gathering speed. “He won’t thank us for arriving late. Suppose we lost them altogether.”
“No fear of that. They’ll be taking the eleven-forty to Fenchurch Street and then cabbing across to London Bridge. There’ll be a pretty conspicuous contingent of the fancy waiting to travel out to Surrey with ’em. Won’t need much detective work to find out which train they all boarded.”
That was not Thackeray’s point. “But they could start the fight before we get there.”
“Probably will,” agreed Cribb nonchalantly. “We’ve more important business on hand than sparing Jago a few rounds in a prize ring.”
“He might be maimed for life!” protested Thackeray, appalled at such callousness. Had Cribb forgotten the state of the Stepney Ox after the Ebony had dealt with him?
“Not very likely,” the Sergeant retorted, getting to his feet and clapping the field glasses back into their case.
“Don’t forget Jago’s had a week’s paid instruction in self-defence from a professor in the art. Fellow should be able to look after himself. Besides, the Ebony won’t want to fell him too early. We’ll do our best to get there before the claret flows. If we don’t, the Yard will foot the doctor’s bills.”
With that touching assurance Cribb marched decisively to the driveway and headed towards the front entrance of Radstock Hall. Thackeray, shaking his head in disbelief, picked up his cape and bowler and followed.
When the Sergeant’s repeated knocking and ringing brought no response, he stood sceptically scratching his side whiskers.
“Why doesn’t the pesky woman come?” he said aloud, backing away from the door to look for signs of life at the windows.
Thackeray remained silent. He knew Cribb’s moods too well to venture any suggestion.
The Sergeant gave one more tug at the bell, frustrated as any front-door pedlar. Then he stalked huffily across the lawns towards the back of the building, Thackeray ambling behind. While Cribb tried the kitchen door, his assistant decided to examine the woodshed. It was fastened by a simple latch, which yielded easily.
Thackeray gave a long, low whistle. Cribb turned from the lock he was struggling inexpertly to ease open with a piece of wire.
“What is it?”
“Dogs, Sarge. Two ruddy great wolfhounds with bullets through their brains.”
Cribb went to see for himself. The bodies lay just inside the door across the threshold, as though they were too heavy to drag any further into the hut. No attempt had been made to cover them.
“Not long dead,” said Cribb. “Why should anyone do that?”
“Could be that Mrs. Vibart has quit Radstock Hall for a while, and they’ve no further use for the guard dogs,” ventured Thackeray. “It’s a savage way to treat dumb animals, but these people ain’t over sentimental.”
“We’ll break into the house,” decided Cribb. He stepped across the bodies and picked up a short stump of wood. The subtle art of springing locks with wire could be practised some other time. He returned to the kitchen area and selected a window. Then he shattered the glass and felt for the catch.
Opened, the window was wide enough to admit a slim man.
Thackeray looked on dubiously.
“I’d better make a back for you, Sarge.”
A steady and substantial back. Cribb stepped from it through the window into the kitchen and unlocked the door to admit Thackeray. “You’re probably right,” he told the Constable. “It’s ten to one now that there isn’t a living soul in the house, but we’d better anounce ourselves just the same. And take off your hat.” He passed from the kitchen along a short passage to the entrance hall. “Looks as central a place as any,” he said, and then cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Hello, there! Mrs. Vibart! Hello! Is anyone there?”
The words must certainly have been heard through the building. The two intruders waited while the resonance died away.
“Theory confirmed, then,” said Cribb. “An empty house.” He took out the watch from his waistcoat. “That gives us almost an hour to find the evidence I want before we need to get off to London. Papers, mainly-contracts, diaries, training programmes-anything to prove Quinton was here. I’ll take the rooms downstairs and you can go up.
Try all the bedrooms. It’s unlikely they’ve left any of his clothes in a room, but we can’t neglect the possibility.”
Cribb began downstairs by opening all the doors in sight, found the morning room and went straight to the writing desk. It was locked, a handsome piece of furniture, a satinwood davenport banded with rosewood, which Cribb without hesitation splintered at the lock with a paperknife. He need not have bothered; it contained a dozen or so sheets of paper, ink and a few sachet cards. The side drawers at first promised more. One yielded a large bound account book.
He opened it on the desk lid and began thumbing through the pages. If there was evidence there, it was going to take time to find. On a first inspection the accounts seemed restricted to housekeeping expenses and servants’ wages. He delved into the lower drawer, but there were only ancient copies of The Times in there. Not even a sporting paper.
“Sergeant!” Thackeray’s sudden shout was unusually urgent.
Cribb left the desk as it was and ran to the staircase, mounting it in threes.
“In here!” The Constable was at a door at the top of the stairs. Cribb followed him through a dressing room to a second door. “It was locked,” Thackeray explained, “so I put my boot to it.” The splintered door frame showed the result.
Cribb walked to the bed and gently peeled back the sheet from Isabel Vibart’s body. It was unclothed, and blood had been washed from the wounds below the left breast, ugly stab wounds, all the more offensive for being cleaned and exposed as gaping punctures in the otherwise flawless flesh.