Wobble to Death sc-1 Read online

  ‘Three o’clock near enough, Sarge.’

  ‘Good. There’s time to write the statement before you take this lot away for testing. I saw pen and ink in the police office. You can check that the man there’s awake.’ He raised his legs on to the bed and yawned. ‘Turn out the lamp before you go.’

  Thackeray, wrestling with his private thoughts about a policeman’s lot, extinguished the flame. Before leaving, he addressed Cribb again.

  ‘In the morning, Sarge, when I’m back from the lab- who do we see next?’

  ‘Depends on the results. We have to find how he took the strychnine. Anyway, I must look up the man’s widow. I’ll do that before you get back.’

  ‘She’s been told?’

  ‘Oh yes. Told he’s dead. Thinks it was tetanus. Poor woman’s got a shock coming.’ He turned over in bed, yawn-ing again. ‘Wake me at four. I’ll have a coffee. For God’s sake watch what goes into it.’

  CHAPTER 8

  At four on Wednesday morning the lights were turned up and a bell was rung. This reveille had been arranged by Sol Herriott, before leaving for ‘a decent eight hours’ in a hotel nearby. Already, in near-darkness at the Liverpool Road end, loyal friends and trainers were moving about the area of the huts, rousing their inhabitants. Their method of restoring consciousness had been well proved in other insti-tutions. The door was thrust open. Blankets were yanked from resisting hands. In hard cases the dripping cold sponge was employed. Soon, to a chorus of protesting obscenities, the huts themselves were illuminated. The ministering angels flitted among them, bearing away buckets that steamed in the night air, returning for milk from the com-munal churn, igniting the gas-rings, and all the time growl-ing deterrents to further sleep.

  After clearing their tins of groats and broth, and submit-ting to painful reunions with their boots, the slit-eyed champions hobbled, stiff and shivering, towards the arena. Billy Reid led the parade; his brother made sure of that. Gaffney and Lawton, two silent northerners who had sur-vived so far, but without threatening the others, followed. Reid’s wily co-tenant, looking the freshest of the bunch, was just ahead of the final trio, Chalk, Williams and O’Flaherty, who were discussing tactics.

  ‘Chadwick wants nobblin’,’ Williams was suggesting, ‘and it wants to be when there ain’t no crowd about. ’E’s on our bloody track now. We’re soft as cheese if we don’t fix the bugger.’

  ‘You can’t,’ O’Flaherty told him. ‘There’s too many eyes on him all the time, mate. You’d be out of the race before you’d lifted your boot. That trainer of his never moves from the track. And there’s too many of the Fancy with a good book on Chadwick now that Darrell’s gone. They’d do bloody murder to you.’

  ‘Not if we got ’im now, before first light.’

  ‘No chance. I tell you the trainer sees everything. Now look at the crowd there already-dockers, lapmen, bloody Jacobson. We’d best keep it straight, I say. Warm it up for him. He might strain a sinew.’

  The Half-breed spat contemptuously.

  ‘That bugger ain’t crackin’ unless we stop ’im.’

  Chalk now intervened.

  ‘Yes, you fix ’im this mornin’ and what bloody ’appens? I’ll tell you. They call off the bloody show, and you and me get blistered dogs for nothing. Don’t be so soft. They’d never keep the race going another four days for us to scoop the bloody pool. If Chadwick goes before Saturday so do the rest of us.’

  There was a convincing ring to this argument, and Williams lapsed into gloomy silence.

  ‘Good sleep, Feargus?’ Chalk airily continued.

  ‘Better than the first night. The smell of carbolic gets into me, though. Stops me breathing right.’

  ‘Did you see Double-barrel?’

  ‘Not at all. I don’t think he’d dare come near while I’m there. I’m going to pole-axe the little devil when I catch him. What sort of doctor is he, anyway? Tetanus, says he and gets every hut scrubbed so’s you can’t exercise your nos-trils decently. Then when it’s all done and stinking like the workhouse they tell us Darrell died of the poison. Doctor? I shouldn’t wonder if he dosed the man with strychnine himself. Look at him there now. Can you see that in frock-coat and spats?’

  They watched Mostyn-Smith, red-faced and shaggy-bearded, complete another circuit in his eccentric style. It was indeed difficult to visualise him sitting dignified in a doctor’s gig, visiting the sick.

  As the pedestrians reached the track they signalled to the lap-takers that they were ready. Erskine Chadwick left his tent suitably groomed (he was the one man in the race who was shaved each morning) and looking deceptively alert in freshly laundered kit. Only when he took up his starting stance automatically on the inner track was his tiredness betrayed. Raucous reminders from his fellow-travellers caused Harvey, who was also yawning, to re-route the Captain. By the time he had caught a lap-taker’s eye he was the last to get away.

  Sergeant Cribb at about this time fell victim to his own efficiency. He had been awakened at four exactly by Thackeray, bearing a coffee made as he liked it, with a mere trace of milk and sugar. It was his plan to spend an hour in bed reviewing Monk’s statement and deciding how the investigation should proceed. But Thackeray returned with a crate from the police office and began noisily packing it with the contents of the food cupboard. When the job was completed, Cribb’s concentration was shattered. Resignedly, he reached for his boots.

  ‘Finished, then? Hump the stuff back to the office. We’ll get some breakfast if they serve it here. Restaurant’s near the office.’

  ‘I’ve got to get to the lab at Saville Street, Sarge.’

  ‘That’s easily done. I’ve to see the widow. Drop you off on the way.’

  Cribb was obliged to wait in the hall of the Darrell res-idence at Finsbury Park. Mrs Darrell, the servant told him, would not be a few moments. Twelve minutes later (he cyn-ically tested her estimate on the watch) he was shown into the morning-room. Cora Darrell was seated in an upright armchair, sewing a black veil on to a hat. Formalities were exchanged. Cribb expressed his sympathy.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, too. Visitors aren’t wanted at these times. However-’

  As though she shared his wish to get to the point, Cora interrupted:

  ‘It’s that man Monk, isn’t it? He has been to you, has he? I thought he might, when he heard I was taking a lawyer’s advice. Well it makes no difference, no difference at all. We shall prepare a case and sue for negligence. It isn’t only the loss of my husband, tragic as that is. There is money-a great deal of money-involved. Except for Monk and his disgusting carelessness, we should have been richer by almost a thousand pounds. What does he hope to gain by speaking to you people? I shan’t say any-thing, you know.’

  A comment crossed Cribb’s mind. In other circumstances he might have made it. Before the thought shifted, Cora began again.

  ‘It isn’t a police matter, anyway. The man failed in his duty as a trainer. Have you seen the newspapers? He allowed my Charles to run barefoot around that disgraceful track. That was inviting tetanus. How could Charles have realised the danger, after twenty-four hours of running? It was Monk’s job, and he failed. If I get nothing back in com-pensation I’ll still see that he never works as trainer again. Do they have licences, that can be taken away?’

  ‘I think you should hear what I have to say,’ Cribb replied. ‘The reason I came-it wasn’t tetanus, madam. The tests last night showed up something else. Your husband died of strychnine poisoning.’

  Cribb’s statement stunned her into silence. For a moment he thought she would faint. He looked round for the bell-rope, but her colour returned.

  ‘I cannot begin to understand. You mean he ate-’

  ‘Or drank, ma’am. We are testing all the food and drink in the tent.’

  She drew in her breath, seizing on a conclusion.

  ‘This is wicked! Wicked! That trainer killed my husband! It’s worse now, far worse. He had the feeding of Charles. Nobody else touched the food. Poi
son, you say. Did he let poison get into the food that Charles ate? I thought it was dangerous, the stuff he gave him. Charles wouldn’t admit it, oh no. Everybody took some, he said.’

  ‘What do you mean, Mrs Darrell?’

  ‘Drinks to restore their strength-dangerous drinks. You know it’s the practice among pedestrians to take them. Oh, I warned Charles, but what was the use? If Monk only once made a mistake-he drinks heavily, you know-it could turn a tonic into a fatal dose. You’ve talked to him, have you? I suppose he denies it. I shall sue him, though. Criminal neg-ligence- that’s what it is. I shall see my solicitor.’

  ‘You knew Mr Monk had prepared something for your husband to drink during the race?’

  ‘Well yes. It was his practice.’

  ‘Your husband. He was content to leave this to Monk?’

  Cora’s bitterness was turning to remorse. She dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

  ‘So often I asked him to be careful.’

  ‘Had he taken strychnine on other occasions?’

  ‘Well yes. He was a professional, Sergeant. He ran for large amounts of money. If he wanted to compete on level terms with the others he had to resort to similar aids. The whole thing terrified me-I couldn’t sleep for worrying- but I couldn’t stop him. He always said it only made him feel better. If it hurt, he would stop.’

  Another tear trickled down.

  ‘How long had he been taking this stuff?’

  ‘He only took it in long-distance races. The first time was in Manchester, two years ago. Since then he must have run in a dozen really long races.’

  Now that her emotional outburst had subsided, Mrs Darrell was becoming coherent. Cribb needed more infor-mation.

  ‘If the trainer was to blame,’ he said, ‘I need to know why. Why so clumsy this time? Man’s got a reputation. Best trainer in England, he’s said to be. Should know about ton-ics. Why should he go wrong this time?’

  ‘I only know that he drinks more than he should.’

  ‘Tipped in too much when he’d been on the beer? Possible. We’re having the bottle tested, of course.’ He tapped his chin pensively. ‘Now suppose Monk didn’t make any mistake. Your husband wasn’t suicidal, was he?’

  ‘Goodness no!’ Cora exclaimed in indignation, taking this as a personal slur. ‘Charles had everything to live for. A suc-cessful career, happy marriage, a fortune to be won.’

  ‘No debts, then? Have to ask, you see.’

  ‘No debts,’ she repeated, coolly.

  ‘And his state of mind when the race started?’

  ‘He was confident of winning. Monk had worked him hard. I’ve never known him so well-prepared.’

  ‘Makes it even stranger that Mr Monk should slip up, doesn’t it? Now I see from the newspaper that you visited the Hall Monday afternoon. Made quite a stir, by this account.’

  Cora blushed with pleasure, clearly wondering which paper Cribb had read. She couldn’t really ask him.

  ‘Yes, I wanted to watch Charles. He was running very well. I’m sure he wasn’t worried by anything.’

  ‘You spoke to him?’

  ‘No. Not to Charles. He was running, you see. I wasn’t there to interrupt his performance.’

  ‘You did speak to Mr Monk, I believe.’

  ‘Yes.’ She had coloured again, only slightly, but Cribb noticed. ‘He showed me the living arrangements.’

  ‘You haven’t always been opposed to Mr Monk?’

  She had recovered her poise.

  ‘I was civil to the man. I asked to see the tent. I wanted to be sure it was comfortable.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Cribb. ‘And was it?’

  He had not forgotten his own short retirement in the tent. But he, too, could be evasive when it suited him.

  ‘I was impressed by the accommodation.’

  ‘Tell me, Mrs Darrell,’ Cribb asked. ‘Was there any bot-tle or container visible in the tent?’

  ‘None-except when I asked to see the cupboard. There were a number of bottles in there. I noticed the one that Monk uses for his tonic-a large green one.’

  ‘Oh, you did? What time would this have been?’

  ‘I can’t really recall. It must have been about four o’clock.’

  ‘Mr Monk-was he acting normally?’

  ‘As far as I know, yes.’

  Cribb got to his feet.

  ‘Well, Mrs Darrell. Thank you for your help. I’m sorry that my news was distressing. We’re making tests to dis-cover how he got the poison. I can let you know-’

  ‘You are so kind.’ Cora rang for the maid. ‘One other matter, Sergeant. My husband’s personal things-his watch, his cuff-links and things. I wouldn’t want them to be lost.’

  ‘No worry, ma’am,’ Cribb reassured her. ‘There are con-stables guarding the tent. No one goes in there but me or my assistant.’

  ‘Then I could collect these things?’

  ‘If you wish. Otherwise I could put them in the office.’

  ‘I shall come this afternoon.’ She spoke decisively.

  ‘Begging your pardon, I should make it this evening if you can, ma’am. If you get there quite late there should be no crowds. You won’t want to be bothered by extra public-ity. The newspaper people would pester you. Best about ten, if you can get someone to drive you down to Islington.’

  ‘You are right, of course. I shall come late, as you suggest.’ ‘I’ll tell my man to expect you. May be around myself.’

  The maid, who had entered with Cribb’s overcoat, hat and umbrella was surprised by a theatrical wink from Cribb, out of her mistress’s view, as he made the last remark. She returned a half-smothered smile and handed him the coat.

  When the morning-room door was closed on Cora, and the maid stood in the hallway with Cribb he winked again, and pointed a thumb at the door.

  ‘Keeps you busy, answering doors, does she? Plenty of visitors?’

  A second less disguised giggle told Cribb what he sus-pected.

  ‘When the master’s in training, eh?’

  A hand flew to her mouth and suppressed more laughter. In the narrow passage as she opened the door Cribb nudged her gently in the ribs.

  ‘When’s your night off?’

  ‘Monday-night before last.’

  The girl sounded despondent, but Cribb, with the infor-mation he wanted, gave a third broad wink, took his umbrella and bowler, and stepped away down the street.

  CHAPTER 9

  Constable Thackeray, brisk and important, strode through the afternoon crowd gathering at the turnstiles. He nodded curtly to the uniformed policeman on duty and was admitted through the ‘officials only’ gate. Without cutting his stride in the least he marched to the stand entrance, was recognised by an official and waved on. Across the tracks he stepped, without a glance at the entertainment being pro-vided. He was the bearer of news. The morning had been dull, even humiliating. While brown-coated scientists had toyed with their apparatus, testing the contents of the crate, Thackeray had been compelled to sit, waiting outside, unfit to be admitted to their researches. Now he was elevated; nobody in that Hall had the information that he did.

  The sergeant was standing alone at one end of the cen-tral area, observing the race. Thackeray crunched to a too-formal halt a yard away. He moved his right arm through the beginning of a salute, and then, collecting himself, snapped it down again. Cribb continued to look in the other direction.

  ‘Defeats me,’ he said, as much to himself as the constable, ‘what makes a man watch these antics. Sport? Not racing thoroughbreds, this bunch, now are they? A lame cove limp-ing round in boots ain’t poetry in motion, to my eyes.’

  Thackeray coughed meaningfully. Cribb turned his eyes briefly to him and then back to the race. The walkers, mostly old troupers, were giving a restrained matinee per-formance.

  ‘Could be the chink of coin, I suppose. Plenty of betting men here. But six days! I like a result in five minutes, no more. When you back a runner, Thackeray, see he’s got a tail
. And if that tail ain’t straight in the wind as he runs, the race is too long. Remember that. You’ve not backed any of this lot, have you?’

  Thackeray shook his head, too preoccupied with his news to take this conversation further.

  ‘How d’you get on, then?’ Cribb inquired, as though the reason for Thackeray’s air of urgency had just entered his brain. ‘How’s the Bunsen and beaker brigade? You got ’em hopping about, I hope.’

  Thackeray banished small-talk with his confidential tone. ‘The strychnine, Sarge. It was all in the bottle.’

  ‘Monk’s bracer?’

  ‘All in that. Enough to kill Darrell and a dozen more. He must have ladled in the stuff, they said.’

  ‘What about the food? Anything there?’

  ‘None at all, Sarge. And none in the other bottles.’

  ‘They definitely confirm strychnine?’

  ‘A large amount, they told me. More than Monk said he bought. Darrell stood no chance after one mugful.’

  ‘Hm. Looks bad for Monk. Widow threatens to sue as well. We’ll keep this close. You’ve spoken to no one?’

  Thackeray jerked his head upwards like an affronted cockerel.

  ‘Not a living soul.’

  ‘Very good. Now, Constable. There’s more important work to be done. We must check Monk’s statement. That chemist-Hayward of Bethnal Green. I want you to see him. Find out what he sold Monk. Ask to see the book. Check the signature. Ask when he sold strychnine to Monk before, and how much. And Thackeray…’

  ‘Sergeant?’

  ‘Treat him gentle. Man might lie if he thinks he’s in deep.’ ‘I will, Sarge.’

  ‘When you’ve done that,’ Cribb continued, ‘go to Monk’s lodging-house. You’ll need to see him first. Get the key. Write yourself a pass for him to sign. Whatever’s necessary. Find the phial of strychnine and bring it back. Search the room for more. Thorough, mind. Could have hidden it. He hasn’t the look of a Charlie Peace, but we have to check. Any bottle, empty or not, we’ll have for analysis. Got all that?’