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, ain’t it, Jacob?”
Jacob revealed a pink mouth in confirmation.
“You mentioned menfolk at the Hall,” persisted Cribb.“Are they servants?”
“Training folk. They’re none of ’em local men, I can tell you.Oh, and there’s Vibart’s brother, Edmund. We see Edmund at least once a week bein’ devout men, don’t we, Ben?”
Ben swore passionately and everyone chuckled.
“Edmund Vibart’s our church organist, you see. And a very fine lead ’e gives to our singin’ of the psalms. Yes, a rare musician is Mr. Vibart, a very upright member of the church.”
“Really? But you said they didn’t enter into village life.”
“Ah, did I now? Well, I wouldn’t really call Edmund a village man, you know. As I say, we see ’im in church on Sundays, those of us that go to Sung Eucharist and Matins, but you ain’t liable to see ’im any other time, unless it’s passin’ in a carriage. ’E don’t call on us for a yarn and a smoke any more than we’d look ’im up at Radstock ’All.”
“You’ve never been inside, then?”
“Not since the Vibarts moved in. None of us go up there now. Mrs. Vibart wanted maids, but she couldn’t get no Rainham wenches to stop there.”
“Why should that be?”
“Oh, no good reason you could name. Wenches’ talk, mostly. Strange things ’appenin’ there, that grow in the tellin’, no doubt. Though there ain’t much you could tell some of our lasses, eh, mates?”
Even Thackeray and Jago were now attuned to the ponderous local wit, and joined in the broad winks.
There was one more question Cribb wanted to put.
“Is the Ebony the only fist fighter at Radstock Hall?”
It seemed to unsettle the spokesman. His companions, too, stopped smiling.
“We’ve talked enough about Rainham folk,” he said, after a pause. “Now you can tell us about London. ’Ave you seen the Crystal Palace?”
The mood relaxed, and Radstock Hall was dropped from the conversation. It was not mentioned again in the Fox that night. And after the marvels of the Crystal Palace were summed up in three short sentences by Cribb, he offered a more familiar glimpse of London life. With artistry nurtured in M Division smoking concerts, he impersonated a street tragedian in the Strand contesting his pitch with a German band. Thackeray then took the stage with a hilarious impression of Irving having an off night in The Bells. Jago’s contribution began with a colourful account of street entertainers, from performing dogs to fire-eating Indians. From there it was an easy progression to rope tricks, and so to his favourite topic, “the Automaton of the Age, Blondin.” At this point he placed his glass on the table and rose to demonstrate. A line between the floorboards became the tightwire suspended above the stage of the Royal Polytechnic. Jago edged agonizingly across, seesawing his outstretched arms in a beautifully convincing performance.
A sudden shout from the end of the room of “Blimey, the train!” returned everyone to reality except Jago. Totally absorbed in his balancing, he heard the shout, swayed alarmingly, flailed the air with his arms and crashed to the floor. This in no way interrupted the general scramble for the door. The London train was due, and nobody wanted to spend the night in Rainham. The more sober stepped over the fallen artiste. Others were less fastidious.
“They’re right,” Thackeray confirmed. “Ten-fifty. We must get to the station.”
Cribb had been silent for some time; not from rapture at Jago’s performance.
“Not us,” he muttered tersely. “Jago goes. We stay.”
Constable Jago, now sheepishly brushing mud from his Norfolk, looked up in surprise.
“We’ll see you out, lad,” Cribb continued; and then, for the benefit of the others, “Do excuse us, gentlemen. Must get our young friend onto the train.”
He pushed the puzzled Constable ahead of him to the door. Outside they could talk more freely.
“You must travel with Meanix and the London mob. Get close enough to listen to ’em. I’ve got business here with Thackeray. We’ll take the first train back in the morning. Report to the station at nine tomorrow. I expect to be there. If I’m not, tell the Inspector everything that happened. And ask him, at my request, to get a squad of picked men out to Radstock Hall.”
A minute later, still in some bewilderment, Jago was seated in the same carriage as the now intoxicated Stepney Ox, bound for London.
¦ Perhaps it appealed to Cribb’s sense of humour, forcing a man in his fifties across drenched fields in Essex, half an hour before midnight. It was possible, Thackeray speculated, that if he had gallivanted about the bar of the Fox like a penguin attempting flight, Cribb might have sent him back to a warm bed in London. He suffered because he was utterly dependable.
As though he read the Constable’s thoughts, Cribb explained, “Far better for young Jago to keep a watch on Meanix and his friends. He’s more the Corinthian than you or I. Should be up to bandying talk of milling with that contingent, and might hear a useful word or two besides. You don’t mind a spot of night duty?”