‘You what?’ The Irishman had pulled up and rounded on Mostyn-Smith.
‘Carbolic, O’Flaherty. For hygiene, you know. The place reeked of animals. I don’t think you’ll be disturbed. I haven’t seen the cleaning-woman go in myself, but the hut smells distinctly sweeter.’
‘Carbolic? Cleaning-woman?’ repeated O’Flaherty. His face darkened as realisation dawned on him. ‘Oh Father! Keep me from committing a mortal sin!’
He wielded a fist before Mostyn-Smith’s startled face, but words and action failed him. He dropped his hands limply. Utterly deflated, he trudged off after the others, praying that they had not heard the conversation.
Walter Jacobson did not immediately search for Monk. The spirit he had shown in the boardroom had shaken Herriott. He was determined not to surrender any of the new respect he had won. So he resisted the impulses that urged him to carry out orders at once. And when he eventually found Monk, towards six o’clock, the circum-stances had altered. Charles Darrell’s spasm of energy had plainly subsided. He now moved along the track at a sedate plod, and the limp was back. Chadwick, however, had run off his stiffness and settled to a comfortable jog-trot, ener-getic enough to make inroads on his rival’s lead.
Monk was in the restaurant. ‘Emergency breakfasts’ were being served there.
‘Chadwick needs to make up a mile or two after your lad’s fine start,’ Jacobson tactfully began, as he seated himself next to the trainer. ‘I think he surprised us all, going off at such a gallop.’
Monk shook his head.
‘Too fast. It wasn’t like Charlie. He knows you can’t play about with pace. He knows that as well as anyone. What’s he doing now? Beginning to suffer, I shouldn’t wonder.’
He seemed complacent. Evidently Darrell deserved to suffer a little, in his trainer’s opinion.
‘Well,’ answered Jacobson, ‘his lapping looks a sight slower than it was. Do you mean that he wasn’t under instructions to warm up the pace?’
‘I never give instructions unless I see a man’s liable to break down. If Charlie ain’t learned by now that you don’t bolt like a goose at Christmas on the second morning of a six-day wobble, then he deserves a few hours’ struggling. I got no sympathy, Mr Jacobson.’
‘You’re not worried about blistering? How are his feet?’
Monk nonchalantly buttered a piece of toast.
‘Seen ’em worse-a lot worse. He won’t give up on that account.’
‘I sincerely hope he won’t give up on any account. There’s a deal of public interest in this duel with Chadwick. It would be disastrous to our promotion if the race didn’t come to a finish.’
‘Then you’d better see Chadwick’s trainer, Mr Jacobson. We ain’t the party that’ll seize up, if any does. Charlie’s record is clean.’
‘Quite so,’ agreed Jacobson, who still held private reser-vations about Darrell’s staying powers. ‘But, like you, I like to see a man run to his best form.’
A voice unexpectedly hailed Monk from the restaurant door.
‘You’re wanted on track, mate. Your feller’s down with cramp!’
‘I bloody knew it,’ the trainer told Jacobson. ‘He was ask-ing for this, running himself into a lather. D’you know how long we spent on his breathings? Six weeks! He was better prepared than any in this race.’
Grumbling profusely, Monk made for the door and marched out past the stands to the competitors’ entrance. At the side of the inner track a cluster of officials and a consta-ble had gathered around Darrell. He lay on his side with knees bent, arms tensed and moaning. His face was ghastly pale. Monk knelt at his side and began manipulating his legs.
‘That’s the second to go inside an hour,’ cheerfully com-mented one of the onlookers. ‘That boy Reid fell like a stone-and his brother couldn’t be found, neither. By the looks of him he won’t see the track for a couple of hours.’
Darrell allowed Monk to work at his aching legs. The pain was easing. Chadwick jogged by, regarding these oper-ations with interest.
Darrell spoke. ‘It was soft to go off like that, I own it. Just get me back on the path.’
‘How are your feet?’ Monk asked.
‘No trouble really. Pins and needles. Part of the cramp, I suppose.’
‘Try to stand up.’
Applause broke out in the enclosure as Darrell was seen to be vertical again. A crowd of several hundred had paid their shillings, many before commencing the day’s work.
‘Now put your weight on the leg. Move around. Are you game to go on? I wouldn’t come off yet, or the cramp might take a hold. I’ll bring a jacket. Must keep your blood warm.’ Darrell freed himself from the hands supporting him, and stepped on to the track. A little unsteadily he forced himself to trot away. There was cheering from the stands.
Monk slipped into the tent and brought out a Norfolk jacket. He caught up with Darrell and wrapped it around him.
‘Just keep on the move, Charlie, and you’ll run yourself back on form.’
The runner worked the jacket on and seemed to quicken his pace as he rounded the bend at the Liverpool Road end. Sol Herriott, who was holding a Press conference at one end of the arena, was visibly affected by Darrell’s break-down.
‘Shall we adjourn for a few moments, gentlemen, to watch this dramatic development?’
They clustered on one of the bends, a wall of dark over-coats turreted with bowler hats, behind which Darrell was lost to view for seconds as he hobbled past. Monk walked anxiously at his side, encouraging him from inside the ropes. Then the reporters rearranged themselves around Herriott. Questions bombarded him.
‘What happens if he throws in his hand?’
‘Where’s your doctors, Mr Herriott?’
‘Will you call the race off if he pulls out?’
‘What’s happened to young Reid?’
The promotor held up a hand and fixed his mouth and eyebrows in the grimace of a long-suffering schoolmaster. The questions subsided. Herriott, with deliberate slowness, lit a cigar, and resumed the conference.
‘Cramp is nothing unusual in a six-day race, gentlemen. Shall we keep our perspective? If there is any question of this man retiring from the race I have no doubt that he’ll try the remedy of a few hours’ sleep before giving up. And I may remind you that Mr Darrell is a professional sportsman of uncommon long experience. There are stratagems in this business of pedestrianism, gentlemen. Need I say more?’
‘You’re telling us Darrell’s a good actor, Mr Herriott?’
‘Merely suggesting a possibility, Mr Martin. You are from the Sporting and Dramatic, aren’t you? Your opinion is doubtless more valuable than mine.’
He simpered at the skill of his repartee.
The questions lasted another five minutes. Herriott’s the-sis (that the promotion was so impeccably staged that it could not fail to produce record performances and a momentous finish) took some knocks, but he defended it stoutly. The pity was that when he was beginning to con-vince some of his listeners a series of screams rang echoing across the Hall and the conference dispersed in seconds.
A woman was in a state of hysteria in the shilling enclosure. Officials sprinted across the tracks, the newsmen converged there and the shrieking creature was subdued. What had escaped most of the Press was the reason for her outburst. On the inner track Darrell had collapsed again. He lay full length on the track, his face contorted with pain, turned towards the section of the crowd where the woman had been watching. The attention switched to him. Monk ran on to the track and began working at the contracted leg-muscles. A blanket was thrown over Darrell’s shoulders. After some seconds of silence the crowd began shouting that he should be taken off, and whistles of approval greeted two stretcher-bearers, who moved the runner, still gasping with pain, to his tent.
A doctor, summoned by Herriott, joined Monk inside the tent, where Darrell lay on the bed, breathing more regularly and with some relaxation.
‘A devil of a cramp,’ the trainer diagnosed as
he contin-ued to massage the legs.
‘Keep the man warm, then, and massage upwards, with the course of circulation. We must get those boots off.’
In a matter of minutes Darrell was free of pain, but the experience had left him considerably weaker. His pulse-rate and heart-beat were taken.
‘This man is not to run again today,’ the doctor stated, perhaps without realising its full implications.
Darrell spoke for the first time.
‘You can’t-I must. You can’t stop me.’
His shoulders were pressed back on to the bed.
‘Take a sleep, my man. You are in no state to think of con-tinuing. When you’ve rested you’ll be twice the runner.’
With a nod to Monk, the doctor withdrew to report to Herriott.
‘The man obviously has a saline deficiency, and he is now totally exhausted. There is no question of his running for another twelve hours.’
‘Twelve? You can’t mean this. He’s one of the principals. These men recover quickly-’
‘Twelve hours, sir, or I won’t answer for the man’s health. The pulse is racing dangerously.’
Herriott sought for words to influence the doctor. Twelve hours meant the ruin of his promotion. All the publicity, all the interest, had focused on the Darrell-Chadwick duel.
‘Perhaps… another opinion. Your colleague, when he comes in, may see the possibility of a faster recovery?’
‘That is for him to decide, Mr Herriott. You have my opinion. I am sorry-’
The conversation was severed by a groan of appalling desperation from Darrell’s tent. For a shocked instant, both men stood immobile. Then they ran to the tent.
Charles Darrell lay pinned to the mattress by Monk’s straining arms. Beneath the blankets his lower body jerked woodenly in convulsions. Pain had transformed his face. His mouth gaped, struggling to shout again, but instead repeat-edly gasped for breath.
The doctor pulled Monk from the restraining position which he had instinctively taken up, and allowed Darrell to roll on to his side, where he at last gave vent to agonised moaning. The spasms lessened in number and intensity as the seconds passed.
‘Stretcher! We must move him out at once,’ the doctor shouted. ‘I need a room for him, away from this row.’
Herriott, to his credit, was equal to the urgency of the sit-uation. While the stretcher-bearers were recalled to the tent, he ordered other attendants to erect a spare bed in the boardroom. In minutes, Darrell, still conscious, but moan-ing with an involuntary rhythm, was carried out of the tent and across the tracks.
As the party moved towards the corridor which led to the offices, a figure in black running costume followed and caught up with the doctor.
‘You will excuse me. My name is Mostyn-Smith. Possibly I can assist. I have a degree in medicine.’
The doctor received this information as calmly as though Mostyn-Smith were dressed in frock-coat and spats.
‘My thanks, Doctor. I shall be much in your debt if you will give an opinion.’
Darrell was borne into the boardroom where the bed was almost ready.
‘And now, Mr Herriott, and you, sir,’ the doctor said addressing Monk, ‘if you will leave us with the patient? Please do not go far away, as we may need urgent medical supplies.’
When the door had closed, Herriott turned to face a dozen reporters, eager for statements. He recovered a little of his poise.
‘Mr Darrell has been removed from the area of the tracks in order that he may rest, gentlemen. As you saw for your-selves, he was suffering from severe cramp-a sign of over-tiredness. Please do him the kindness now of leaving him to rest. A doctor is with him as an extra precaution, and if there is any comment on his condition I shall recall you.’
For almost an hour, interrupted only when Mostyn-Smith came out briefly to ask for warm, strong tea for the patient, Herriott paced the corridor, trying to devise ways of salvaging something from this setback. The Press, he knew would not be stalled for long. If Darrell were forced to with-draw from the race, and the newspapers published the infor-mation, the attendance for the second part of the week would plummet. Nobody wanted to see an exhibition by Chadwick, famous as he was; and the rest of the field could run for a year without attracting anyone to the Hall.
At length the door of the bedroom opened, and Mostyn-Smith, saying nothing, indicated with his eyes that they were ready for Herriott to enter. He understood the silence a moment later. He stood in the doorway and looked at the bed on the opposite side, where the lifeless body of Charles Darrell lay, covered by a blanket.
CHAPTER 6
By noon the runners were watched by a crowd of nearly a thousand. Boisterous and frequently insulting shouts echoed around the nine pedestrians who were circling the tracks at that stage. They were mostly too bored or weary to react. The arrival of the band, two hours before, had encouraged some horseplay from the Half-breed, who attempted to waltz with O’Flaherty against his will. But now the eleven green-jacketed ‘snake-charmers’ were repeating their medley of popular airs for the fourth time, and their performance was becoming as ritualised as the movement of the runners. Interest was revived, though, by Mostyn-Smith’s reappearance in the race, seconds after mid-day. With a wave to the lap-scorers he crossed the scratch-line and immediately resumed his characteristic four-mile-an-hour gait. Chalk, the Scythebearer, was the first to draw level with him, cutting his stride to keep pace.
‘You got called to Charlie Darrell, then.’
Mostyn-Smith had expected to be interrogated, and decided to provide the required information at once.
‘Yes. I am qualified in medicine. I did what I could to help. He was too far gone, though. Mr Darrell died about an hour ago.’
‘Died?’
‘Yes.’
‘You mean ’e ran ’imself to death?’
‘I did not say that. It is too early to say for certain what was the cause of death. The race-doctors have decided to hold a post-mortem examination. I shall be exceedingly sur-prised if overtaxing of the system proves to be the only cause.’
Williams, O’Flaherty and the veteran who shared Reid’s hut slowed to Mostyn-Smith’s pace and fell in behind. Chalk told them the essential facts.
‘And this is premature, of course,’ added Mostyn-Smith, ‘but I think it right as a doctor to warn you all-and I shall speak to the other contestants-that Mr Darrell’s last hours bore sev-eral of the symptoms of tetanus-a very vicious disease.’
‘Tetanus!’ Williams repeated. ‘That’s the ostlers’ disease, ain’t it?’
‘It has certainly been established that there is a tendency for workers in stables and farmyards to contract tetanus.’
‘But Darrell ain’t been near a farm. ’E took his breathings at ’Ackney Wick. Monk told me that.’
Mostyn-Smith was patient.
‘That may be so. However, gentlemen, if one needed to look for a building in London where tetanus might be con-tracted-’
He spread his hands, gazed upwards to the roof and looked resignedly at each troubled face.
‘You mean-this bloody ’ole! You’re right. The biggest stinking cow-shed in the country,’ Williams thundered.
‘But before you vacate the Hall, gentlemen, I think it unlikely that any of us will become infected. I have arranged for the area of the huts, which is the most fouled by animal excrement, to be washed and disinfected at once. I rather think that Mr Darrell, unfortunate man, may have become infected when he took off his boots on Monday night to run barefoot on blistered feet. It is through an open wound that the disease enters the body. I strongly advise you to retain your footwear at every stage of the race. If you have cuts or abrasions, have them covered. The doctors will help.’
‘I’m for quitting,’ Chalk said. ‘Tetanus. That’s something doctors can’t cure.’
‘That is perfectly true,’ Mostyn-Smith admitted. ‘But we know enough about it to take reasonable precautions. If I thought there was a real danger, I should have r
etired from this contest already. Of course, the decision is your own. Bear in mind that we shall not be certain until after the post-mortem examination. It may be that he died from other causes.’
He actually raised his pace a fraction to put a decent dis-tance between them and him. They conferred for several minutes as they walked. Apparently a group decision was to be made. Then O’Flaherty detached himself and approached Mostyn-Smith again.
‘You say we’re not likely to catch it if we keep our feet clean?’
‘Bearing in mind that you aren’t likely to suffer skin dam-age on any other part of your person, yes. Whether Mr Darrell died from tetanus or some other cause, it is still good advice. That is why I arranged for our hut to be scrubbed, Mr O’Flaherty.’
The Irishman accepted the point in silence.
‘And you’re going on with this tramp yourself?’
‘I fully intend to,’ Mostyn-Smith affirmed. ‘I shall make up the time that I lost this morning by increasing my stride-length.’
A little devilment made him add, ‘If you gentlemen with-draw, I should be among the leaders by Friday.’
This reminder that Darrell’s death had increased the chances of prize money tipped the scales in the pedestrians’ decision to continue. After another brief consultation the group broke into a run, and trotted away in step into a faster lap to celebrate their resolve. They raised dust, defined in pale beams of sunlight that had penetrated the grimy vaulting.
Erskine Chadwick sat at lunch in his tent, watched by Harvey. The meal was cold, but well prepared, and he con-sumed it noisily. The morning’s tragedy had not touched him. Darrell had scarcely existed, except as a yardstick. The poor fellow was dead, so Herriott would probably promote some other worthy trudger to the inner track and the race would continue. The tetanus scare had not bothered Chadwick either. That eccentric little medico from the outer path had made a point of mentioning the risk. But after army service the only risks that troubled Chadwick arose on the Stock Market.
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