The Detective Wore Silk Drawers (17 page)

“Five stab wounds in the chest, left side,” recited Thackeray. “Distinct bruising on the left shoulder and the left side of the neck towards the front.”

“Thank you. It’s obvious enough, ain’t it, gentlemen, that the murderer held Mrs. Vibart down with his hand on her neck while he stabbed her with the knife in his other hand?

We don’t need demonstrations, do we? Now I’ve always admired the way the handicapped overcome their injuries, and you’ll all agree that Mr. D’Estin here is a notable example. He can put that one finger and thumb of his to a thousand uses, I dare say. But one thing I don’t think he could manage is to hold a dagger firm enough to stab a fellow being five times.” Cribb’s eyes darted from face to face like a schoolmaster’s checking for a flash of comprehension.

“Now before you tell me he could have held the knife in his left hand, just think about it. The right hand—his injured one—is at her throat, the left hand stabbing her. In practical terms, it can’t be done, gentlemen. Mr. D’Estin ain’t my man. What do you say, Mr. Vibart?”

He had no chance to say anything. D’Estin sprang from his chair, upending it behind him, and plunged his hand into his jacket pocket. “You killed her! I’ll settle with you, you bloody murderer!”

“You won’t, sir,” said Cribb. “Not without this.” He was holding the revolver D’Estin had expected to produce.

“Took it off you in the struggle when we arrested you, sir.

Just as well, too. Now sit down, will you, while we settle this in a civilized way?”

“Civilized?” repeated D’Estin, as though the word were totally foreign.

“Will you sit down, sir?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. Then D’Estin obeyed.

“Now, Mr. Vibart. I suggest that you are the only man who could have killed your late sister-in-law.”

D’Estin’s display of violence had shaken Vibart, but he was not ready to capitulate. “You can suggest what you bloody well like, Sergeant. It’s proof you’ll need in a court of law.”

“There’s cast-iron circumstantial evidence,” said Cribb.

“Motive. Opportunity. Once I’d eliminated the others, it had to be you. Your dealings with Beckett showed you had no loyalty towards Mrs. Vibart. But you deliberately arranged things so that suspicion fell on Morgan.”

Vibart shrugged. “That’s not evidence enough to hang a man.”

“There’s the contents of the valise,” Cribb pointed out. “I haven’t examined the papers in detail, but there’s a case to answer for the deaths of Quinton and several others—”

D’Estin intervened. “No, Sergeant. He’s right. A smart lawyer could raise enough doubts to confuse a jury. Without stronger evidence you’ll have to release him.” He turned to look at Vibart. “We’ll settle things ourselves—we agreed on that, didn’t we, Edmund?”

The false air of familiarity carried more menace than the open threat of a moment before. Jago had a sudden recollection of D’Estin’s sinister reference to the man once responsible for the accident to his hand.

Vibart paled. “You don’t believe this nonsense, D’Estin?

We’ve always been friends. Things weren’t easy. I can make everything up to you—”

D’Estin smiled grimly. “Indeed you will. Payment in full, I think.” He turned to Cribb. “Well, we mustn’t detain you, Sergeant. You’ll want to question Morgan about the prize fight. Good thing you can bring a charge for that, anyway.”

Saying nothing, Cribb got to his feet.

In desperation, Vibart looked from face to face for a spark of compassion. Cribb’s face was impassive, Thackeray’s vacant, Jago’s hidden by bandages. He panicked.

“Don’t leave me, Sergeant. Not with him—”

“I’m rather short of evidence, sir.”

“God in heaven, man! He means to kill me!”

“Do you reckon so, sir? We’ll certainly arrest him if he does,” Cribb assured him breezily. “Got your hat, Thackeray?”

“No! Wait, Sergeant!” Vibart appealed. “I can’t face him.

I’ll say whatever you want.”

Cribb turned. “Full statement, sir? Freely given, of course? We’ll start with the first prize fighter who came to Radstock Hall, then . . .”

¦ Cribb sat in his best suit at his usual place in the Ratcatcher, a tankard of Bass East India in front of him. It had been an illuminating day. “Report to Inspector Jowett, Great Scotland Yard, 11:30 A.M.,” the message left on his desk had said. There wasn’t much doubt in his mind about the outcome of this interview. He felt sorry there was no message for Thackeray, though, getting on in years, of course, and not particularly inspired, but surely worth a lift in rank towards the close of a dutiful career.

The wait outside Jowett’s office had been unusually prolonged. It was nearly twelve when the Inspector came out with three other people. “Ah, Sergeant Cribb! Good gracious, I’ve kept you waiting. Don’t look so concerned, though. Merely wanted to thank you for your stout efforts on the Vibart inquiry. You’ll be pleased to hear, I know, that I’ve managed to convince my superiors that a case like that merits promotion for someone. That’s why Jago came in this morning. It’s
Sergeant
Jago from now on, and well deserved. First-class investigation. Damned good family too.” He turned to the other beaming visitors. “Miss Boltover, I don’t need to introduce Sergeant Cribb, I believe. Miss Boltover told me quite a lot about her part in the inquiry, Sergeant. And this is Colonel Boltover, school associate of mine. We’re just off to enjoy a good meal together, and inflict old memories on these young people.

Must be away, then. Have a word with my sergeant before you go, will you? I want you to confirm that our count of crimes in your area is accurate.”

. . . Count of crimes! Cribb looked up from his drink and regarded the engraving on the wall above him: “. . . 302 rats in one hour at the Hare and Billet, Wimbledon, 7th May, 1863.” For some seconds he eyed the bull terrier, Leamington. Then he emptied his glass and went home.