This race was to blame for everything. It had been cursed from the start. Two men had died. Another, finer man, was being broken. And all around was squalor, squalid people, squalid sounds, squalid smells.
Harvey turned away from the track, and went into the tent.
EARLY THAT AFTERNOON a message arrived for Cribb ask-ing him to attend urgently at Islington Mortuary. A doctor was waiting there for him.
‘The body of a man was brought here early this morning from the Agricultural Hall, Sergeant. I believe that you are in charge of the investigation.’
‘Already there on another case, Doctor. This death appears to be connected with the death of Charles Darrell, a professional runner. I shall investigate both, unless I’m otherwise ordered.’
‘There is a matter that you should know, then, relat-ing to the body of Samuel Monk. I have not yet made a full examination, but what I discovered is sufficiently important, I think, for you to be informed at once. The head, Sergeant, bears the sign of a blow inflicted before death, but not long before. I think you should see this for yourself.’
Cribb was ushered into the chill room where the body lay, stripped of clothing, on a bench, attended by a mortu-ary official, well wrapped in an ulster and scarf.
‘The hair appears to have been arranged to cover the wound,’ explained the doctor, ‘but, as you can observe here, there is blood and considerable discoloration. I would esti-mate that a blow of such force, here below the crown, would render a man senseless.’
‘Could he have fallen?’ asked Cribb. ‘We know he was drunk.’
‘I think not. There are no secondary bruises on other areas of the body. By the shape of the wound I would sug-gest that the poor fellow was struck from behind with a bar-shaped implement, somewhat thicker than a poker.’
‘And died soon after, of gas-poisoning,’ added Cribb.
‘That I shall confirm when I have made a full examination, Sergeant. The wound seemed to suggest foul play, and I thought it correct to inform you at the earliest opportunity.’
‘I’m deeply obliged.’
Cribb replaced his hat, and hurried out to hail a cab.
At the Islington Green end of the Hall, farthest from the row of huts, it was possible to pass through to a minor hall, about a hundred feet square. When the main build-ing was used for its appointed purpose the smaller hall was where the pigs were exhibited. For very pungent reasons it was seldom hired for other functions. Midway through this afternoon, however, a move was made in that direction by the Press representatives. Sol Herriott had agreed to meet them to make a statement, and answer questions.
This meeting was staged with some formality. Chairs and a table had been set out in the centre of the hall, and it was not long before the thirty seats were taken. Expectation buzzed about the gathering, but there was silence when Herriott and Jacobson walked in, and took their positions at the table.
‘I shall not keep you long, gentlemen,’ Herriott began, hitching his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets, ‘for I am as sensitive to atmospheres as you.’
He ventured a laugh, which was not taken up. The Press were there for a statement, not amusement.
‘I am here with Mr Jacobson, the manager of this event, to make an announcement of some importance. You will have heard no doubt-indeed, you will have reported in your newspapers by now-that a trainer, Mr Sam Monk, the attendant of the late Mr Darrell, was himself found dead in one of the huts early this morning. He died of the effects of gas. A note was found in the hut suggesting that he had taken his own life.
‘These tragedies, gentlemen-one following so swiftly on the other-have shocked and saddened us all. Jacobson and I have given much thought to the future of the race, in the light of these misfortunes. We are not insensitive to the sug-gestions which have been made, not least by some of your-selves, that the race should now be called off, out of respect to the so recently deceased.
‘But we have another obligation which we are bound to consider, gentlemen. That is our obligation to the living- to the nine plucky travellers who are at the moment more than halfway through the journey that they commenced last Monday morning. We had to decide whether we could bring ourselves to tell these gallant sportsmen that their efforts were to be terminated, and the race cancelled. I ask you now, gentlemen. Would Charles Darrell or Sam Monk have asked for the race to be terminated? I think not. I think they would wish to see a conclusion. And that is the reason why I now announce that the Six-Day Race will con-tinue as planned. But out of respect to their two colleagues the remaining competitors will be asked to wear black arm-bands. That is all I have to say at this time, but possibly you have some questions for us?’
The response was immediate.
‘Is it not a fact, Mr Herriott,’ asked a reporter who had not been seen in the Hall before that afternoon, ‘that you are persisting with your promotion at the command of the detective police, so that they may investigate certain irregu-larities in the two deaths?’
Herriott instantly disliked the man.
‘I do not know your name, sir-’
‘Pincher, of the New Examiner. ’
‘Thank you, Mr Pincher. The answer to your question is that the police have agreed to allow the race to go on. They have certain routine investigations to complete, and it will be convenient for them to conduct these here as the race continues.’
Pincher was still on his feet.
‘You say “routine investigations”. Do you deny absolutely the rumour at present circulating that Mr Darrell’s death was not an accident, but manslaughter, or even murder?’
‘That is for the police to decide, sir. Does any other gen-tleman have a question?’
‘Yes.’ A reporter in the front row spoke. ‘Is it true that Mr Monk steadfastly denied being responsible for Charles Darrell’s death?’
‘I believe that is so.’ Herriott did not like the drift of the questions.
‘Then do you have the right to ask the pedestrians in your promotion to honour the memory of a man who now appears to have lied about the death of one of their col-leagues?’
It was a difficult point. But Herriott was at his best.
‘Gentlemen, we are not detectives. We are not competent to judge Mr Monk. If negligence is proved, that may alter our opinion. But until that is the case, I shall respect his memory as I respect Mr Darrell’s. Our system of justice is founded on similar principles. Shall we now confine our dis-cussion to the world of the living? Are there any inquiries from you about the progress of the race, which, I need hardly remind you, is now entering a most interesting phase?’
The Press were not so easily deflected. Pincher stood up again.
‘Since you do not propose to discuss the two deaths that have occurred during your promotion, perhaps you will say something about your arrangements for the’-he paused- ‘safety and health of the participants.’
Herriott did not recognise the trap.
‘Certainly-’
‘In that case,’ snapped Pincher, ‘would you explain how the two doctors who are allegedly in attendance during this event failed to recognise the symptoms of strychnine poi-soning when Charles Darrell collapsed?’
It was a neat manoeuvre. Herriott did not disguise his annoyance.
‘Gentlemen. Mr Darrell’s collapse was fully discussed when you questioned me yesterday. If some of you were not then present’ (he glared at Pincher) ‘I do not regard it as my duty to apprise you now of matters which were disposed of then. Is there another question, please?’
Clearly, Herriott would not be drawn.
‘I have a question for Mr Jacobson.’ The speaker was another newcomer.
Herriott turned towards the manager, hoping he was equal to the inquisition. Jacobson got to his feet.
‘I believe, sir,’ said the reporter, ‘that you were the last to see Mr Monk alive.’
‘That is true.’
‘It would be interesting to know whether he made any confession of negligence in the ma
tter of Mr Darrell’s death.’ ‘He made none, sir, beyond what was written in the note.’ ‘Ah yes. Is it true, Mr Jacobson, that the trainer was-not to mince words-in a drunken state when you left him?’
‘He had been drinking, I think, yes.’
There was laughter.
‘We have it on good evidence, sir, that you were holding him up.’
Jacobson nodded uncomfortably.
‘I provided some support.’
Herriott was on his feet, and shouting. ‘I refuse to allow this cross-examination to continue. If you want it in plain words, Monk was blind to the world, and Jacobson got him to bed. He was found in the morning, five hours later, when gas was smelt by one of the competitors. That is all that we have to say on this matter.’
At once a dozen of the audience hurried from the Hall. Fleet Street’s crime division had got its statement on the Islington Deaths Mystery, and the genuine sporting corre-spondents were left to extract what they could for their columns. By stages, Herriott became less hostile, and answered questions on the daily attendances, the status of Chadwick, and the plans for the victory ceremony. Only when a question was put to him about the cramped accom-modation did another outburst threaten. Fortunately, Jacobson tugged at Herriott’s arm, and after a short consul-tation, the promoter announced:
‘This is a matter which has been our concern since the commencement of the race. Happily I can now disclose that we shall be able this evening to re-allocate the vacated huts. It will no longer be necessary for the competitors to share accommodation.’
Feeling this was a positive achievement, Herriott closed the meeting.
‘One of these, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Sergeant Cribb was standing with Thackeray by the huts, which were unoccupied. The tenants were all away at the track. A large afternoon audience was in the Hall, making itself heard above the band’s blare. The competitors were out there, entertaining them.
Cribb had picked up one of a pile of iron struts of various lengths, that had been used in the construction of the hut roofs. This one was about eighteen inches long, and the thickness of a walking-cane. It could make an ugly weapon.
‘Heavy enough to do the job, and the right size. One good swing at the back of his skull when he’s lying there, turned over towards the wall. Child could have done it with a bar like this.’ He swung it sharply through the air, bring-ing it down hard into his other palm. ‘I bungled, Thackeray. Should have looked closer for signs of foul play.’
‘It seems to me,’ Thackeray consoled him, ‘that as the party that bashed him pulled the hair neat over the wound you couldn’t be expected to find it, Sarge.’
‘Hm. Should’ve checked. Whole thing was too neat. Still, that’s past. Lesson to us both. Point is, Thackeray, the man was bashed and left to die.’
‘To make it seem he took his own life.’
‘Yes. With a note in his own handwriting beside him. How that was done bothers me. I’m having it looked at, compared with other writings from his hand. He could have planned on suicide anyway, of course. I don’t think so, though. No, Mr Monk knew he was clear the moment we suggested checking his lodging. And men of his sort don’t take to suicide unless the hangman threatens.’
‘So we’re left with two murders,’ commented Thackeray. Cribb tossed down the bar and brought his hands up to grip the constable’s arms.
‘That’s the sum of it, Thackeray. Name your suspects.’
Thackeray looked about him cautiously. The din behind them continued. Everyone else was absorbed in the race.
‘It’s hard to know which to start with. I suppose Jacobson’s the prime suspect. He’s deep under the hatches, you found out, and he was the last to see Monk alive. He could have fixed a heavy bet somewhere on Chadwick, and downed Darrell to settle his debts. Then he’d fake the sui-cide to put the rap on Monk.’
‘Good. We’ll watch him. Who else?’
‘Chadwick himself. He stands to make a mint of money out of this, and Darrell was his only rival-but going too well that first day. It wouldn’t do for a nob like Chadwick to get beat by one of Darrell’s class.’
‘Motive-honour of the regiment. Right. Any other nominations?’
‘I’ve got a queer fancy about Herriott, Sarge. Suppose he backed Chadwick to win so that his bets would cover any loss on the promotion. Darrell’s form on that first day might have panicked Herriott into trying to nobble him. He could have tipped in more strychnine than he realised. A purler or two among the runners is good business, too. Listen to that crowd.’
‘Sol Herriott, then. You’re doing famously. Who else?’
Thackeray was encouraged. He expanded on his theories, shaping the whiskers under his chin to a point as he spoke. ‘Ah. Outsiders, mostly. Who stands to gain most? O’Flaherty, I reckon; Chadwick, of course; maybe Chadwick’s trainer. I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen the man around. He keeps to himself.’
‘Harvey.’
‘Him, then. And this doctor bloke-Mostyn-Smith. I can’t make out what he’s doing in this affair. I suppose, if you look at it logical, anyone here after ten-thirty last night could have fixed Monk. Then we’ve got to find which of them had a motive for killing Darrell. Perhaps we ought to know more about him, Sarge.’
‘First-rate suggestion,’ declared Cribb. He was beginning to form an affectionate respect for Thackeray’s painstaking deductions. ‘We’ll go and see the one suspect you missed. Should tell us more about Darrell, and might clear up a few mysteries about herself.’
‘Herself?’
‘Mrs Darrell, Constable. Never discount the lady.’
‘But I don’t see how-’
‘She’s visited this Hall twice. First time, the afternoon before Darrell went down. Second time, last night.’
CHAPTER 12
Mrs Darrell was not at home. The detectives explained to Taylor, who opened the door of the Finsbury Park house no more than the distance between her eyes, that they were aware of the time. It was dusk, and misty at that, and too late to be calling on a lady. But they were officers of the law, and their visit was essential to their inquiries. It could not be postponed. If Taylor would be so kind as to pass this on to her mistress, might she not agree to seeing them? Cribb summoned a winning smile. Thackeray stamped the tiled path and flapped his arms to emphasise the cold. Taylor closed the gap until only one eye was visible. Mrs Darrell was not at home.
Cribb fixed the eye with a look of authority.
‘This is police business. Important business. We must see Mrs Darrell tonight. If she’s out, I must insist that you tell me where she is and when you expect her to return.’
The response was immediate.
‘The Mistress is at Highbury, visiting friends-the Darbys. She always goes there for tea on Thursdays. I expect she’ll get back before seven.’
‘We’ll wait,’ announced Cribb. ‘Inside, if we may.’
After a moment’s hesitation the eye disappeared, and there was the sound of a door-chain being released. Then Taylor admitted them.
‘That’s better, love,’ said Cribb. ‘Doesn’t do to keep Mr Robert standing on the doorstep, does it? This is Constable Thackeray-good man to have in the house on a lonely November night. You remember me?’
The twitch of her lips showed that she did. She seemed uncertain what to do with her visitors now they had gained entrance.
‘We’ll not trouble with the drawing-room,’ Cribb went on. ‘Thackeray here’s a burly fellow. Likely as not he’ll tumble over the small tables she’s got in there. We’ll come in the kitchen with you. Smells good to me. What’s on the stove?’
Without protesting, Taylor led them through a curtained archway and down some steps to the kitchen. She was a bright-eyed girl in her twenties, without the deportment of a girl of better class. But her figure was so generously pro-portioned that any movement in the close-cut black dress was attractive to the visitors.
Cribb marched into the kitchen with the air of a prospec-ti
ve purchaser.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Chance to prove our credentials.’ He picked up a bowl from the table-top. ‘What d’you make of this, Thackeray?’
The constable saw the point of the game. He sniffed pro-fessionally at the bowl.
‘Chicken-broth, I’d say, Sarge. Probably made up from Sunday’s joint.’
‘Good,’ said Cribb. ‘Followed by…?’
‘An orange, peeled by hand.’
Taylor’s eyes gaped wide.
‘Not so difficult,’ commented Thackeray in a superior tone. ‘You threw all the peel on the fire, but look at your fin-ger-nails-right hand.’
‘Oh, very smart,’ said Taylor without much admiration in her voice. ‘Now tell me what else I had for tea.’
‘One large muffin,’ answered Thackeray, unperturbed. He lifted a toasting-fork from a patch of crumbs at one end of the table. ‘Very fattening that.’
‘And you finished it all off with a cigarette-ah, now you blush!’ declared Cribb. ‘Taken from the late Master’s rooms, I dare say-or is the Mistress a secret smoker herself?’
‘How d’you know that?’ Taylor demanded.
‘The smoke,’ Cribb explained. ‘Even the orange can’t stop that from lingering. Like me to open a window?’
Giggling at the discovery of her secret, Taylor lit the gas under the kettle. Cribb judged that the time was right for serious questions.
‘Your evening off, Monday, you said?’
She turned from the stove.
‘That’s right,’ and added archly, ‘I’m courting steady, though.’
‘Pretty lass like you would be. Simple deduction that. You were out with your young man last Monday, then?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Quite late, I expect?’
Wobble to Death sc-1 Page 11