was-not to mince words-in a drunken state when you left him?’
‘He had been drinking, I think, yes.’
There was laughter.
‘We have it on good evidence, sir, that you were holding him up.’
Jacobson nodded uncomfortably.
‘I provided some support.’
Herriott was on his feet, and shouting. ‘I refuse to allow this cross-examination to continue. If you want it in plain words, Monk was blind to the world, and Jacobson got him to bed. He was found in the morning, five hours later, when gas was smelt by one of the competitors. That is all that we have to say on this matter.’
At once a dozen of the audience hurried from the Hall. Fleet Street’s crime division had got its statement on the Islington Deaths Mystery, and the genuine sporting corre-spondents were left to extract what they could for their columns. By stages, Herriott became less hostile, and answered questions on the daily attendances, the status of Chadwick, and the plans for the victory ceremony. Only when a question was put to him about the cramped accom-modation did another outburst threaten. Fortunately, Jacobson tugged at Herriott’s arm, and after a short consul-tation, the promoter announced:
‘This is a matter which has been our concern since the commencement of the race. Happily I can now disclose that we shall be able this evening to re-allocate the vacated huts. It will no longer be necessary for the competitors to share accommodation.’
Feeling this was a positive achievement, Herriott closed the meeting.
‘One of these, I shouldn’t wonder.’
Sergeant Cribb was standing with Thackeray by the huts, which were unoccupied. The tenants were all away at the track. A large afternoon audience was in the Hall, making itself heard above the band’s blare. The competitors were out there, entertaining them.
Cribb had picked up one of a pile of iron struts of various lengths, that had been used in the construction of the hut roofs. This one was about eighteen inches long, and the thickness of a walking-cane. It could make an ugly weapon.
‘Heavy enough to do the job, and the right size. One good swing at the back of his skull when he’s lying there, turned over towards the wall. Child could have done it with a bar like this.’ He swung it sharply through the air, bring-ing it down hard into his other palm. ‘I bungled, Thackeray. Should have looked closer for signs of foul play.’
‘It seems to me,’ Thackeray consoled him, ‘that as the party that bashed him pulled the hair neat over the wound you couldn’t be expected to find it, Sarge.’
‘Hm. Should’ve checked. Whole thing was too neat. Still, that’s past. Lesson to us both. Point is, Thackeray, the man was bashed and left to die.’
‘To make it seem he took his own life.’
‘Yes. With a note in his own handwriting beside him. How that was done bothers me. I’m having it looked at, compared with other writings from his hand. He could have planned on suicide anyway, of course. I don’t think so, though. No, Mr Monk knew he was clear the moment we suggested checking his lodging. And men of his sort don’t take to suicide unless the hangman threatens.’
‘So we’re left with two murders,’ commented Thackeray. Cribb tossed down the bar and brought his hands up to grip the constable’s arms.
‘That’s the sum of it, Thackeray. Name your suspects.’
Thackeray looked about him cautiously. The din behind them continued. Everyone else was absorbed in the race.
‘It’s hard to know which to start with. I suppose Jacobson’s the prime suspect. He’s deep under the hatches, you found out, and he was the last to see Monk alive. He could have fixed a heavy bet somewhere on Chadwick, and downed Darrell to settle his debts. Then he’d fake the sui-cide to put the rap on Monk.’
‘Good. We’ll watch him. Who else?’
‘Chadwick himself. He stands to make a mint of money out of this, and Darrell was his only rival-but going too well that first day. It wouldn’t do for a nob like Chadwick to get beat by one of Darrell’s class.’
‘Motive-honour of the regiment. Right. Any other nominations?’
‘I’ve got a queer fancy about Herriott, Sarge. Suppose he backed Chadwick to win so that his bets would cover any loss on the promotion. Darrell’s form on that first day might have panicked Herriott into trying to nobble him. He could have tipped in more strychnine than he realised. A purler or two among the runners is good business, too. Listen to that crowd.’
‘Sol Herriott, then. You’re doing famously. Who else?’
Thackeray was encouraged. He expanded on his theories, shaping the whiskers under his chin to a point as he spoke. ‘Ah. Outsiders, mostly. Who stands to gain most? O’Flaherty, I reckon; Chadwick, of course; maybe Chadwick’s trainer. I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen the man around. He keeps to himself.’
‘Harvey.’
‘Him, then. And this doctor bloke-Mostyn-Smith. I can’t make out what he’s doing in this affair. I suppose, if you look at it logical, anyone here after ten-thirty last night could have fixed Monk. Then we’ve got to find which of them had a motive for killing Darrell. Perhaps we ought to know more about him, Sarge.’
‘First-rate suggestion,’ declared Cribb. He was beginning to form an affectionate respect for Thackeray’s painstaking deductions. ‘We’ll go and see the one suspect you missed. Should tell us more about Darrell, and might clear up a few mysteries about herself.’
‘Herself?’
‘Mrs Darrell, Constable. Never discount the lady.’
‘But I don’t see how-’
‘She’s visited this Hall twice. First time, the afternoon before Darrell went down. Second time, last night.’
CHAPTER 12
Mrs Darrell was not at home. The detectives explained to Taylor, who opened the door of the Finsbury Park house no more than the distance between her eyes, that they were aware of the time. It was dusk, and misty at that, and too late to be calling on a lady. But they were officers of the law, and their visit was essential to their inquiries. It could not be postponed. If Taylor would be so kind as to pass this on to her mistress, might she not agree to seeing them? Cribb summoned a winning smile. Thackeray stamped the tiled path and flapped his arms to emphasise the cold. Taylor closed the gap until only one eye was visible. Mrs Darrell was not at home.
Cribb fixed the eye with a look of authority.
‘This is police business. Important business. We must see Mrs Darrell tonight. If she’s out, I must insist that you tell me where she is and when you expect her to return.’
The response was immediate.
‘The Mistress is at Highbury, visiting friends-the Darbys. She always goes there for tea on Thursdays. I expect she’ll get back before seven.’
‘We’ll wait,’ announced Cribb. ‘Inside, if we may.’
After a moment’s hesitation the eye disappeared, and there was the sound of a door-chain being released. Then Taylor admitted them.
‘That’s better, love,’ said Cribb. ‘Doesn’t do to keep Mr Robert standing on the doorstep, does it? This is Constable Thackeray-good man to have in the house on a lonely November night. You remember me?’
The twitch of her lips showed that she did. She seemed uncertain what to do with her visitors now they had gained entrance.
‘We’ll not trouble with the drawing-room,’ Cribb went on. ‘Thackeray here’s a burly fellow. Likely as not he’ll tumble over the small tables she’s got in there. We’ll come in the kitchen with you. Smells good to me. What’s on the stove?’
