‘That’s a murderer!’ O’Flaherty blurted out. ‘He tried to poison me-’
‘You didn’t say that,’ snapped Cribb. ‘Did he give you any food or drink?’
‘Well, no.’
‘Did he warn you of possible danger?’
‘Yes, but-’
‘Hold your tongue, then!’ snapped Cribb. ‘You’ll need all the strength you’ve got left to catch Chadwick. Thackeray, fetch his spare boots and socks. They’re lying somewhere in the hut, are they? We’ll check them before he puts ’em on. And for God’s sake, O’Flaherty, take care what you eat and drink.’
As Thackeray left there was a general move from the bystanders to gain admittance. Cribb stood squarely at the entrance and addressed them.
‘If you’ll be silent, gentlemen? Thank you. Mr O’Flaherty will shortly return to the track. He stopped because his feet were inflamed. They’ve now been soaked and he’s in better shape. In justice, gentlemen, let him get back to the track as soon as possible. He hasn’t the time to answer questions.’
The bubble had been pricked. In disappointment, the reporters began to disperse. Several hopefully questioned Cribb on the murder, but he declined to comment. Inside the tent O’Flaherty hastily prepared to set off again after Chadwick. Thackeray soon returned with the boots and socks and without more words being spoken the Stag put them on and quit the tent.
‘Probably scotched any chance he had,’ commented Cribb, as they watched him set off again. ‘Walnut shells! We’ve picked up a wrinkle or two these last few days.’
‘He’ll never catch Chadwick now,’ agreed Thackeray. ‘Been going like a three year old this last hour. They might as well hand him the prize tonight, and then everyone could get home for a decent sleep.’
‘Leaving us without our killer,’ Cribb added sardonically.
‘Do you reckon the walnut-shell merchant is the same one?’ asked Thackeray.
‘Could be. It lets out Cora Darrell if that’s the case. She’s not been in here since the night Monk was killed. May be a false trail, though. Mustn’t lose sight of the real matter-the killings.’
‘Don’t you think it’s worth finding out who nobbled O’Flaherty, Sarge?’
Cribb breathed out noisily in some impatience.
‘I thought I’d made it clear. We’re on the look-out for a killer. Not a bloody fixer of races. If it turns out to be the same party, that’s fine. But I’m not cutting into a murder inquiry to chase a nut-cracking oddboy. Understand?’
Thackeray understood. None the less he was personally convinced that there was a better chance of clearing up the main case if they could solve this lesser mystery. Sergeant Cribb was well known for the number of successful inquiries he had conducted, yet there had been occasions when he had acted precipitately. But for these blemishes on an impressive record he might have risen higher by now… Mindful of his own rank, Thackeray kept his thoughts to himself.
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.’
CHAPTER 15
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.’