Peter Lovesey - Wobble to Death

‘So Mostyn-Smith takes a cut from Paddy’s winnings? It’s plausible, Thackeray, it’s plausible. Far as I can discover, it was Mostyn-Smith that got the tetanus scare started.’

The constable nodded sagely. The more they considered it, the better his theory seemed.

‘Two things don’t fit,’ said Cribb. ‘If the Doc killed Monk why crack him on the head? Too crude for a medical man. And if it was O’Flaherty that clonked him, why report the gas escape?’

‘That’s the cunning of the Irish, Sarge.’

Cribb shook his head.

‘Not for my money. Nothing deep about our Dublin friend. No, Thackeray. Time we finished with theories. Let’s stick to facts.’

The constable returned to his meal. If Cribb wanted to work with facts that was his business. But Thackeray was privately convinced that the same facts would lead them to his own two suspects.

‘Take Darrell’s murder first,’ Cribb went on. ‘We agree someone fixed the bracer after Monk brought it here. Must have got into the tent. Right. Tent’s in full view of every-body. Couldn’t be more central. So what time’s the best?’

‘When there’s no crowd, Sarge.’

‘Correct. Now, right from the start the Press are about. Crowd begins arriving at first light. Eyes on the tents all the time, you see. People come and go, too, looking in the tent. Herriott and the Press. Cora Darrell and Monk. When’s our poisoner going to get in there?’

Thackeray saw the point.

‘He must have waited till near midnight, when the crowd had left, but while Darrell was still on the track. The light would be poorer then, too.’

‘Fine. All he has to look out for is Monk. Now suppose Monk goes off for a drink. He liked his liquor. Our poisoner gets into the tent with time to do what he wants. Poor per-ishers on the track wouldn’t notice much. He can slip in when Darrell’s round the other side of the track.’

‘That lets out Mrs Darrell, don’t it?’

‘Not really,’ said Cribb. ‘But if she puts in the crystals it’s done in the afternoon. Monk has to be an accomplice. Motive’s there, of course. Kill the old man and make off with your lover.’

‘I’d have gone for that until Monk was killed,’ reflected Thackeray. ‘But that changed everything. She wouldn’t want to fix Monk.’

‘Except when she knew they’d both swing for it,’ said Cribb caustically. ‘I wouldn’t count her out yet.’ He pushed away the now-empty plate. ‘Now let’s talk about Monk’s murder. When was he bashed, d’you think?’

‘Wednesday night-’ Thackeray’s eyes widened in reali-sation. ‘About midnight, Sarge. The same blinking time!’

Cribb received this observation with a patient nod.

‘May be significant. May not. Now what I need to know-What’s that?’

Shouts were coming from the main Hall, shouts that were loud to penetrate to where they were. And these were not jeers or roars of encouragement. There were voices raised in alarm, and screams.

‘Someone’s in trouble!’

Cribb jerked to attention, and the chair behind him over-turned with the vigour of his movement. He stood listening. A voice in the Hall clearly called, ‘Get a doctor!’

The sergeant moved at an astonishing rate. He had cursed himself the day before for being out of the Hall when Monk was murdered. If another crime had been committed… He ran from the restaurant, and the door swung into Thackeray as he lumbered after.

The Hall was not very full, but it rang with shouts-of concern, anger, panic. The uproar was directed at a small group on the opposite side of the track. Dodging between passing competitors, Cribb sprinted across the centre, and forced his way through the close-packed officials.

Mostyn-Smith was kneeling by the jack-knifed body of O’Flaherty, who lay groaning in obvious distress. Timekeep-ers, reporters and others leaned over them, demanding infor-mation, urging advice. Cribb acted decisively.

‘Police!’ he shouted in a voice that silenced even the Press. ‘Doctor, can this man be moved?’

Mostyn-Smith spoke without looking up.

‘He is trying to speak. I cannot help him unless I can hear what he says. Will you all kindly go away?’

The request was futile, and Cribb realised it. Already the babel around O’Flaherty had restarted. The sergeant touched the arms of two burly officials.

‘Help us get him to that tent.’

He yanked Mostyn-Smith to his feet and to one side as though he were a straying child. Then he stooped to O’Flaherty and with the help of Thackeray and the others lifted him to the tent that Darrell had used when he was alive. When the still-groaning Irishman was deposited on the mattress inside, Cribb waved out the others and instructed Thackeray to stand guard.

‘You can let the Doc in. No one else.’

Mostyn-Smith was admitted. His face was eloquent of affronted dignity, but his generous shorts over legs like lamp-standards rather undermined the effect. He ignored Cribb, and went to the patient. O’Flaherty was speaking:

‘Couldn’t go on. My feet… burning. Can’t understand it. Never had trouble like this.’

Mostyn-Smith unlaced the boots, pulled off the socks and examined the runner’s feet. They were red and swollen, but so were his own, as anyone’s would be after five days of walking.

‘Do you have any additional pains? Are your muscles at all troublesome?’

‘Not really. I’m stiff, but I expect to be. It’s the bloody feet. God in Heaven, what’s happening to them?’

Cribb was examining one of the discarded boots, feeling inside it.

‘Got another pair of boots, have you?’

‘Yes,’ answered O’Flaherty.

‘And socks?’

‘I think so.’

‘Good. I’m no doctor but I’ll give you my advice. Soak your feet in salt water. Get on those other socks and boots, and double back to the track. You’re losing all the ground you gained.’

‘I must protest!’ Mostyn-Smith rounded on Cribb. ‘You have no authority whatsoever to over-ride me in this way. I am a qualified practitioner and I intend to examine this man with the professional expertise-’

‘Please yourself,’ snapped Cribb. ‘It’ll save you both a bit of time if you take my advice. Look at this.’

He up-ended the boot that he was holding. A spray of sand-like grains flowed from it into his cupped right hand. ‘There’s your irritant. You’ve been nobbled, my friend. Some party slipped this inside your boots.’

O’Flaherty sat up, suddenly rallied.

‘Let me see.’

Cribb tipped some of the substance into the Irishman’s palm. He examined it, turning it over with his finger-tips.

‘By Jesus! I know what this is!’ blurted O’Flaherty, sud-denly on his feet.

‘Sit down, man!’ ordered Cribb, pushing him in the chest, so that he sank back on to the bed. ‘You’ll still have some embedded in your soles.’

‘Crushed walnut shells!’ exclaimed the disgusted pedes-trian. ‘The oldest bloody trick going, and I fell for it. Who would have done this?’

‘Anyone who didn’t want you to win,’ Cribb answered drily.

Mostyn-Smith was suddenly too interested to continue his display of pique.

‘May I see this? You say that it is manufactured by crush-ing walnut shells?’

As Mostyn-Smith peered at the tiny fragments which had been handed over, O’Flaherty jerked at Thackeray’s sleeve. ‘Do me a favour, bobby. Ask one of those reporters to bring me a bucket of water. I’ve got to get back.’

Cribb nodded his approval of this arrangement.

‘If the doctor doesn’t mind?’

‘No, no,’ concurred Mostyn-Smith. ‘Please carry on. This abrasive is unquestionably responsible for your col-lapse, O’Flaherty.’

The Irishman treated the diagnosis with contempt. He was preoccupied in extracting minute chips of shell from his inflamed soles. But at Cribb’s voice he looked up.