‘Out of condition, both of us,’ declared Cribb. ‘Could do with a turn or two round the track.’ Abruptly becoming seri-ous, he added, ‘You saw Monk yesterday, after I left you. What was he like?’
‘Like?’ queried Thackeray.
‘His state. Drinking then, wasn’t he?’
‘Oh yes. He’d taken a glass or two, but he talked well enough, Sarge.’
‘Depressed?’
‘I didn’t think so at the time, but I’m not really a judge of such things. My wife always-’
‘You asked to search his place?’
‘Yes. He gave me a key at once. Said there wouldn’t be anyone else there. He also told me where to find the phial of strychnine, and it was there, exactly where he said.’
Thackeray produced the tube of glass from his pocket. Cribb took it carefully, held it in front of his face, and turned it slowly, watching the repositioning of the few crystals inside as though it was a water-snowstorm in a glass globe.
‘There they are then. He spoke truth,’ said Cribb.
‘I went on to the chemist he spoke of,’ continued the con-stable. ‘The man knew him by name. He remembered sup-plying the strychnine last Friday too. Said he does a bit of business with the trainers from around there. He knows they use the strychnine for making up tonics for the pedes-trians, but, as he says, he’s only supplying very small amounts, and he’s careful about telling them of its dangers. They all sign the book-’
‘Book? Monk had signed for it?’
Thackeray nodded.
‘Take a look at this, then.’ Cribb picked up the note that Jacobson had found. ‘Same signature?’
Thackeray squinted at it, scratching his beard.
‘Positively the same, Sarge.’
‘Hm.’ Cribb seemed suddenly elated. ‘Did you look through the book?’
Thackeray beamed virtuously.
‘I found seven previous entries in Monk’s name in the last four years. They was all for the same quantity, Sarge.’
‘Capital work. He was a regular customer, then?’
‘Yes-and each time he collected strychnine he was preparing a ped for a long walk or mix. The chemist told me he made sure of that.’
‘Did he now?’
‘And I questioned him about other sources of supply,’ continued the constable, stressing his efficiency, ‘and he told me he didn’t know of another chemist his side of London who would sell a man strychnine, unless he was a doctor.’
Cribb was in good humour now. He had quite recovered from being brought out so early.
‘Excellent, Thackeray! We’re making progress.’
The constable glowed.
‘Now! On your knees, man,’ Cribb continued. Thackeray’s mouth dipped at the sides, to underline exactly the shape of his moustache. ‘Look for a pencil. I’ve had no luck. Man like you should find it if it’s here.’
‘I’ve got one in my pocket,’ Thackeray replied, much deflated. ‘You can borrow that.’
The sergeant slowly shook his head.
‘Not your pencil, Thackeray, and not mine. I want Monk’s. Else what did he write this note with? There was none in his pockets, and I’ve been through everything else here.’
Slightly mollified, Thackeray stooped to search for the piece of evidence. Three unsuccessful minutes later he looked up again at Cribb.
‘Sarge, it ain’t here, I’m sure. You know, it could be that he wrote the note some time earlier. Wasn’t he drunk, any-way, when Jacobson brought him back here?’
‘True,’ said Cribb. ‘Staggering drunk. I had to confirm there’s no pencil here though. Means he wrote the letter some hours previous. Jacobson brings him in, too scuppered to stand straight, and dumps him on the bed. Some time after Jacobson’s left, he gets up, produces his note from somewhere, and puts it out on the cupboard. Then he shuts the air-vent, turns on the lamp and the gas-ring and gets back on the bed. D’you see it happening, Thackeray?’
The constable got to his feet.
‘Well, a man can come round quite quick, Sarge. He did that night we questioned him. He wasn’t found until after four. That’s five hours since Jacobson dumped him.’
‘All right. So it’s not impossible, even if we think it unlikely. Let’s assume that’s the way he did it. Now tell me why.’
‘Why, Sarge? Well, it’s in the note, ain’t it? He was so depressed after killing Darrell he took his own life.’
‘So you think Monk killed Darrell?’
Thackeray rubbed his forehead. Either the sergeant was being impossibly naive, or too subtle for him to follow.
‘Think back to yesterday morning, when we questioned Monk,’ explained Cribb. ‘If the man killed Darrell acciden-tally, then he was lying to us. He swore that he put no more strychnine into that bottle than would have helped revive a tired man. You checked the phial and it contains the num-ber of crystals he said it would. The rest, as he told us, had gone into the tonic. Yet somehow the tonic gets a monstrous helping of strychnine-much more than Monk collected from the chemist this time, or in four years together. Now then,’ and Cribb’s voice was raised in enthusiasm, ‘if Monk added more strychnine it wasn’t an accident. It was murder, Thackeray.’
‘But the note,’ protested Thackeray. He picked it up. ‘“This is to show how sorry I am. I did not mean him to die”-and that’s in Monk’s own hand.’
Cribb rubbed his hands vigorously.
‘Exactly! We’ve got a case, man-double murder very likely. Don’t look depressed. Murder and suicide at the very worst.’
CHAPTER 11
Harvey stood alone by the tent, studying the progress of the race. Chadwick had been mistaken in agreeing to make his way with the others on the outer track; he was sure of that. These were toughened professionals; they had clawed through a jungle in which genuine races were unknown, real talent trampled down and every performer the prey of touts and bet-ting gangs. For them, if they survived and developed the nec-essary cunning, it brought a living; more than they could expect. They were not athletes, any more than street-bears were entertainers. A pedestrian of Chadwick’s ability could defeat any of them by fifty miles in fair conditions. But his experience was totally different: he had run only in two-man races since he began as a professional. Before that he had com-peted as a gentleman amateur in military sports, watching the non-commissioned ranks scrap for pewter, and then outshin-ing their efforts in the officers’ race. Good for personal morale, but poor preparation for the outer track at Islington.
They had taken protective measures. Chadwick’s shins had been badly bruised, and cut in places. Now they were well-padded under his stockings. It was difficult to do much for his ribs, which had taken a buffeting, but he had learned to adapt his arm-action to protect them. And little could be done about the baulking each time he tried to overtake one of the others. Three or four times they had almost forced him into the crowd. Of course, the mob applauded all this; it was not often that one of the upper classes was exposed to public ridicule.
And that confounded Irishman was getting through each time, picking up a few yards every lap. He seemed not to tire, or blister, and he took only the shortest rests.
Of one thing Harvey was certain: it was the last race that Chadwick would run. Each time the Captain returned to his tent he was more defeated in spirit. The zest for sheer phys-ical mobility, the joy of clipping along the Bath Road through a summer night, had been killed absolutely. Chadwick would take his money and retire. They had been fine times for both of them: Harvey mounted, with sponge, vinegar and a change of clothes, and the
