Peter Lovesey - Wobble to Death

The detectives walked back towards the track in silence. Thackeray had needled Cribb. He knew that nothing he said would help matters until the mood passed. Cribb, in turn, was laconic; not because he was studying Thackeray. He was mentally re-examining each suspect, searching for the motive he felt certain was waiting to be detected.

The silence was disturbed by a third person. As they waited indecisively at the track edge, watching O’Flaherty’s new display of energy, Mostyn-Smith reappeared a little breathlessly at their side.

‘You will forgive me, gentlemen? There is something else that I should tell you. I hesitated about mentioning the mat-ter when our Irish friend was present, because I seriously feared that he might be incited to violence.’

He peered about him, ensuring that he could not be over-heard. As they were inside the ropes at the end of the track farthest from the timekeepers there was no fear of eaves-droppers.

‘I believe that I know who tampered with O’Flaherty’s boots,’ he muttered confidentially. ‘At about mid-day-or twenty-seven minutes past to be specific-I approached his hut with a view to checking that his food and drink had not been poisoned. I had deduced that the murderer would attack O’Flaherty next, you understand, and it seemed to me obvious that he would employ some form of poisoning again. I approached the hut from the rear, and as I turned from the side of the building I saw someone come out of the hut, and move quickly away to the track.’

‘You recognised him?’

‘Most certainly. It was that trainer-fellow who works for Captain Chadwick.’

‘Harvey?’

‘That’s correct. He is plainly the perpetrator of these crimes.’

The press accounts of the race had followed a well-established pattern. For the first day or two it was described as the ‘Islington Mix’; by the third day, ‘Herriott’s Wobble’; and at the end of the week the ‘Cruelty Show at the Agricultural Hall’. As the eventual result became more cer-tain, reports dwelt instead on the state of the blistered sur-vivors. And the more harrowing the details, the larger the attendance. Londoners by the thousand flocked to Islington through fog and sodden streets as Romans once converged on the Colosseum.

In fact, the scenes on this Friday evening were less dis-tressing than they had been on the previous Monday, before an altogether smaller audience. Those remaining on the track were mostly experienced pedestrians, the ‘distance brigade,’ veterans of many campaigns. But in the race’s early stages there were novices to this type of race. Their greenness had been painfully evident after only a few hours. The one notable ‘tenderfoot’ to keep going was Billy Reid. By now he was half a day’s walking down on the leaders, but his spirit was indomitable.

‘A bloody sight pluckier than most lads,’ was Chalk’s comment, as he and Williams watched Billy hobbling back to the track from the tents. ‘When I’m done with this caper, and sets up as trainer, that’s the mettle of lad I want. ’E’s the wrong shape for a stayer, of course. You can’t carry too much top ’amper for very long. But blimey, ’e’s no namby-pamby.’

‘That’s true,’ agreed the Half-breed. ‘See some of them characters weeping buckets after only ten hours? Don’t mat-ter ’ow pretty a man’s shape is. You can’t do nothing with a party that pipes ’is eye.’

‘Beats me ’ow ’e does it, with that brother of ’is badger-ing ’im all bloody day. ’E give him an ’ot bath this morning to liven him up. Fairly made the boy sing out, that did. If any bloody trainer tried that with me I’d land one on ’im, I tell you.’

‘Never agreed with bathin’ meself,’ Williams confided. ‘Softens the soles of your feet, that does.’

The main interest on the track that evening was provided by Chadwick and O’Flaherty, who moved at a positive trot, the Irishman within a yard of the Captain. But the pace was being set, surprisingly, by Mostyn-Smith, determined to win back his lost time. This trio remained locked for lap upon lap, and the crowd urged them noisily to go faster, desperately hoping that one of the two leaders, both heavily backed, would crack. For the first of the field it was a chal-lenge to keep upright, mobile and awake. None had the strength or inclination to ‘mix’.

‘Nippy on his feet for a nark,’ Williams remarked, indicating Mostyn-Smith. ‘ ’E’ll bloody lick us on this showing. What’s ’e going full bat for? Still another ruddy day to go.’

‘ ’E’s no nark,’ Chalk corrected him contemptuously. ‘Bloody crank. That’s what ’e is.’

‘I seen ’im talking with the Law,’ maintained Williams. ‘That’s no ped. I never saw ’im on a track before in my life.’ ‘You ask Feargus about ’im, mate. ’E reckons Double-barrel fixed Charlie Darrell and Sam Monk, and ’ad a go at ’im.’

‘Feargus!’ Williams spat generously over his shoulder, not bothering to see who was following. ‘Squint-eyed bloody Irishman! Thinks anyone that comes near ’im’s after ’is blood.’

‘Come off it. O’Flaherty’s pretty near ’im right now. ’E don’t mind using ’im as pacemaker.’

‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Williams. ‘Only one reason why Feargus keeps close behind Double-barrel. Makes sure that way ’e won’t get stabbed in the back!’

They trudged on, amused, but a shade embittered by their colleague’s single-minded efforts. Earlier they had enjoyed delaying Chadwick so that O’Flaherty could gain ground. Now that the Irishman aspired to honours they felt resentful without admitting it to each other.

There were hoots of delighted derision from the stands as a portly figure in an overcoat joined the leading trio. It was Thackeray, as unmistakable a member of the Force as one of Punch’s plain-clothes constables. He had been instructed to talk with Chadwick, and since Chadwick had no intention of leaving the track, Thackeray had to conduct another inter-view in motion, only in less discreet circumstances than his last one. He could scarcely make himself audible above the whistles and mock applause as he lengthened his stride to keep pace with the leaders. A well-aimed apple dislodged his bowler and he snatched vainly in the air for it as it fell to the track. He decided to keep going without it.

‘Mr-Captain Chadwick, sir.’

Chadwick inclined his head towards him, but said nothing.

‘I’m Constable Thackeray, sir, of the detective police.’

There was no comment, so he went on, between gasps for breath.

‘I think-you may be able-to assist us, sir.’

Chadwick did not look as though he intended to.

‘Your trainer-’

‘I do not employ a trainer,’ Chadwick observed icily. ‘I presume that you mean my assistant.’

‘Mr Harvey, sir.’

‘Yes.’

‘We can’t find him-sir. The Sergeant-wants to- question him.’

‘Isn’t he in my tent?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then I cannot help you. I have no idea where he can be. I am not a detective.’

Thackeray drew up, and the crowd feigned a unified howl of disappointment. He ignored them, and walked back to retrieve his hat before it was trampled upon.

Sergeant Cribb had denied himself a second look at Thackeray in action. Time was desperately short, so he had sought out Sol Herriott while Thackeray performed for the crowd. The promoter was in his office with Jacobson, checking the previous day’s takings.

‘You don’t mind, sir?’ Cribb asked Jacobson. ‘A few dis-creet inquiries, you understand.’ He was already on his way out, characteristically withdrawing at the first opportunity. He nodded at Cribb, and left.

‘Doing well, sir?’ Cribb asked.