Peter Lovesey - Wobble to Death

Minutes later Cora knelt before the fire while Monk began the tantalising work of disrobing her. She had slipped off her shoes, but the rest was left to him. His fingers coped haltingly with hooks and eyes and tiny buttons. The dress bodice eventually fell.

‘Warm your hands again before you touch my camisole,’ she commanded him between giggles, squealing as his hands gripped her shoulders and he buried his face in her neck.

‘Bows, Sam. They shouldn’t trouble you so much. Here, I’ll pull off a stocking while you untie them.’

The next layer presented its own problems.

‘Leave the corset, then, and I’ll manage my skirt and pet-ticoats,’ she offered. ‘Turn out the gas.’

When he turned she was stepping from a frothy moun-tain of petticoats. Monk gathered himself. There remained the corset. The rest would not be difficult.

She gasped with relief from constriction as the unlacing progressed. And finally corset, white chemise, lace drawers, black silk stockings and garters lay scattered.

‘If I had the patience and time,’ whispered Monk, ‘I’d make you undress me.’

Instead he stripped himself in seconds, and lifted her gen-tly back to the sofa.

‘I think you’re right,’ he said. ‘Much better in a warm room beside a fire.’

Feargus O’Flaherty grunted, turned on his side and sniffed again. He felt sure that he had not been sleeping long. It could not be one of his dreams, he was certain, for he remembered the race, his aching legs and the hut. Nothing was going to make him leave the warmth of that bed; not for three more hours, anyway. But what was that blasted smell, which had not been there before? He opened his eyes reluctantly and looked across to the bed that Mostyn-Smith had been allocated. It was still empty. That greenhorn would probably walk all night. He’d need to if he was going to make a hundred miles. Grinning contentedly, the Irishman closed his eyelids and began to drift back to unconsciousness.

Suddenly the warmth drained from his veins. His limbs tensed and he held his breath. In the hut he could distinctly hear the sound of breathing. And Mostyn-Smith’s bed lay undisturbed. O’Flaherty slowly lifted his head from the pile of clothes which served as a pillow and looked along the length of the bed towards the door, which was slightly open. His eyes swivelled to the right and left, but nobody was vis-ible. His head dropped heavily back on the pillow and he lis-tened again.

The breathing was still there, more urgently now, and the smell had returned. But what made O’Flaherty’s eyes bolt wide in horror was a second sound, a powerful scratching on the stone floor, the unmistakable movement of something large, heavy and alive, steadily towards his bed. With a yell of fear the Irishman leapt upright on the bed-or almost upright, for in rising he crashed his head on the hut roof, groaned and collapsed. The young girl who had been detailed by Jacobson to scrub the hut screamed, jumped to her feet and bolted for the doorway, crashing over her pail of liquid carbolic as she went. O’Flaherty lay dazed and groaning. When he recovered enough to open his eyes again they focused on a scrubbing-brush lying in a pool of carbolic. He crossed himself, swore violently and bundled the bedclothes over his shivering body and head.

Sam Monk returned to the Hall before four and hur-ried to the restaurant.

‘What did you want?’ asked the only other customer, who sat at the end of a long table with an empty cup and saucer in front of him. It was Chadwick’s man, Harvey.

‘Coffee. Is there anyone inside?’

‘Coffee’s all you will get. They’ve had a fire in there. Smell it?’

Monk went through the service door and shortly emerged with a steaming mug. He sat with Harvey.

‘Now’s the time the cold really finds you,’ observed Harvey, conversationally. Monk was silent, sipping from his mug.

‘I can’t think why they chose November for this bloom-ing race,’ Harvey continued. ‘A God-awful month for any-thing. Some maniac fancied it would draw the public, I suppose. A good chance of racing being fogged off and they have to go somewhere.’

Monk continued to brood, so Harvey tried again:

‘Of course, this place is a bad choice, if you want my opinion. A bloody bad choice. So big it is that you might as well be out in the open. Indoor sport, it’s called, and we sit here in blinking overcoats trying to keep our blood from freezing.’

Monk was emerging from his reverie. He studied Harvey.

‘You’re with Chadwick, ain’t you?’

Caution flickered across Harvey’s eyes.

‘Yes.’

‘My name’s Monk.’

‘I know. You’re Darrell’s trainer.’

‘I wanted to talk with you. This lick they set themselves today-it was bloody lunacy. They can’t keep at it like this for six days. They’ll burn each other off and leave the prize money to the second-raters.’

Harvey evaded Monk’s eyes.

‘You think so?’

‘Look, I’m not new to this game. I’ve seen mixes before, mate. Your man’s as far gone as mine or I wouldn’t speak of it. Now I ain’t suggesting we fix the result-nothing like that. All I’m saying is that it’s bad tactics to throw everything into a six-day too soon. Hold your man steady and I’ll tell mine the same. It’s the only chance the poor buggers have.’ Harvey pushed his cup aside.

‘Sorry, chum. That’s not our way. If Darrell’s lame and can’t keep up, my guv’nor ain’t waiting for him. No deal. But I’ll give you some advice gratis. If you’ve backed Darrell heavy, get some rhino on my man, as he’s never been more certain of winning. Ah well, time I got him on the track again.’

Elated by his display of loyalty, Harvey stood up, nod-ded to Monk, and made for the exit. From there he turned to watch the back view of the other trainer as he dispatched the coffee in gulps that visibly scalded his gul-let. Before Monk was on his feet Harvey slipped through the door.

Monk roughly tugged the blankets from around Darrell’s shoulders.

‘Four o’clock, Charlie. Good rest?’

Darrell moaned and lay inert.

‘Chadwick will be back on track in no time. Here, drink this. Make you stronger at once.’

He lifted himself on to an elbow, and swallowed the trainer’s concoction. It tasted like no drink on earth, but he knew enough about Monk’s bracers to value their potency above their flavour.

‘Fill it up again. God, I need a livener.’

Monk obliged, and began preparing the calf’s bladder covering for Darrell’s blistered heel. The runner was already reviving.

‘Where did you get to while I was sleeping? Get any rest yourself?’

‘I lay down a bit, but got no sleep to speak of,’ Monk replied candidly. ‘Now help me with this sock. Draw it slowly over the foot while I hold this in place.’

In a short time Darrell was dressed in his racing-kit.

‘I talked with Harvey, Chadwick’s trainer,’ continued Monk. ‘Tried to get some agreement about the pace, but he’d have none of it. Bastard. My guess is that Chadwick will try to break you in the next twelve hours. He’ll push hard for as long as he can hoping you’ll pull up lame if you’re stretched.’

‘What’s your plan, then?’

‘No plan, Charlie. Forget Chadwick. Simply find a pace that’s comfortable and stick to it. If you fall behind, don’t try to raise a gallop. Keep your stride.’

Darrell stood up.

‘I’m a sight sharper now, Sam. You’re a bloody wonder. Let’s get started, then.’

He marched out to the starting-line, shouted to the lap-scorers that he was ready to go, and set off on his second long stint.

Erskine Chadwick was on the track a few seconds later, the time that he had taken to groom his hair and moustache. He began at a run, stretching those stiff, lank legs into a vast stride which, coupled with the supe-rior expression on his face, suggested nothing so much as a runaway camel.