The Detective Wore Silk Drawers Read Free

Edward Thackeray, Detective Constable, was not squeamish. He knew the London mortuaries as intimately as the pubs. If any reluctance was betrayed in his stride along Stamford Street towards Blackfriars mortuary on Tuesday, it was not at the prospect of encountering the dead, but the quick, in the person of Sergeant Cribb. The order from the Yard to report to M Division headquarters had caught him unprepared the evening before. The news when he got there in the morning that he was to rendezvous with Cribb at Blackfriars confirmed his worst intimations. Barely eight months had elapsed since his transfer. Eight months of civilized service advising Hampstead stockbrokers how to secure their windows against burglars. The most taxing investigation of the period an inquiry into an abducted heiress. Regular eight to six and no night duties. An inspector who was often out of the station for a week.
    Now he was returning to Cribb. And a dismembered corpse in Blackfriars. Cribb, who ignored a man’s age and susceptibility to irregular hours; who liked to account for every second of a constable’s working day and then claim his sleeping time as well.
    Cribb had good points, of course. He might give you the treadmill treatment for days or weeks on end, but he let you know what part your work played in a case. If he was dour at times, he also had spells—strange bouts of zest—when he gleefully shared his pleasure at some small development. But at present it was not Cribb’s better side that Thackeray was thinking about.
    He mounted the freshly scrubbed steps of the Hatfields workhouse and passed through the building to the mortuary, a converted coach house at the rear. His knock was answered by footsteps inside and the sounds of an elaborate unlocking procedure. A mild-looking attendant—why one always expected something more sinister, Thackeray was not sure—finally admitted the constable with a toss of the head. Sergeant Cribb was standing by his prize at a postmortem table. From his expression he might have just gained a first prize at the local flower show.
    “On time, Thackeray. Well done.”
    “Morning, Sarge.”
    “Good to have you with me again. There’s a glum look about you, though. Depressing work in S Division, I suppose. Well, that’s over for a spell, I’m glad to tell you.”
    The Constable nodded philosophically, and Cribb continued his breezy small talk. “You’ve put on an inch or two about the waist, I see. Sure indication of reduced activity. Office work, eh?”
    Typical of Cribb. Always ready with the personal slur.
    “Not really, Sergeant. I’ve been busy enough with the work I’ve had. Old age, I suppose.” He studied Cribb’s gaunt frame, wishing he could honestly detect some flaw that was developing, if it were only a receding hairline or a stoop of the shoulders. The Sergeant was in his forties and exasperatingly well-turned-out—neatly pressed suit, white wing collar, red spotted necktie. Cleanly trimmed Piccadilly weepers, but no beard or moustache.
    “The drape, if you please,” Cribb instructed the attendant, and the body on the table was uncovered. “What do you make of that, Thackeray?”
    The Constable moved to the table with interest, unaffected by the mutilation. Deep in concentration, he spent three silent minutes over his examination.
    “I would put death about four or five days ago, Sarge. Putrefaction ain’t far advanced. He’s obviously been hooked out of the river. Did Thames Division ask you to investigate?”
    “Never mind that. What about the build?”
    “Well, they’re powerful arms and shoulders, all right. He’s a labouring man, around forty years of age, I’d say. From the state of his palms, he was probably a brickie.”
    “Good. Injuries, apart from the obvious?”
    “That was done with a cross-cut saw, I’m certain. But this bruising around the ribs is baffling, Sarge. And on the forearms. Must have been inflicted before death. I’d like to look at his