‘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. Poison, 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