‘The race finishes at ten-thirty Saturday night, I believe.’ ‘That’s so.’
‘You’ll make some kind of presentation to the winners?’
Herriott leaned back and tapped the safe.
‘I’ve over a thousand pounds in here, Sergeant, and a magnificent belt. Oh yes, I’ll have a presentation ceremony on Saturday night-if the winner can walk up for his prize, of course!’ He was convulsed with laughter at the prospect of a champion too exhausted to cover another step. ‘I hope you’ll be there to see it, Sergeant.’
‘Looks as though I shall, sir,’ Cribb confirmed, without much enthusiasm.
Thackeray was waiting in some perturbation for Cribb to leave Herriott’s office.
‘I’ve looked everywhere I know, Sarge. Harvey just ain’t to be found.’
‘You’ve asked Chadwick?’
‘He don’t seem interested.’
‘Don’t suppose he will be before one o’clock. Harvey should be here by then. Strict on their duties, these military men. Now how about the strychnine hunt? Any reports come in?’
If they had, Thackeray had been too preoccupied to collect them from the police office. The two detectives walked in that direction, past the arena, which had filled almost to capacity. Mostyn-Smith, rather redder in the face now, was still a yard in front of Chadwick, with O’Flaherty almost at his side. The strain was telling on all three. They clung to the pace more in desperation than determination. Whoever succumbed now would be men-tally accepting defeat.
The constable on duty had a sheaf of papers ready for Cribb. He thumbed them through rapidly, rejecting many, and then examined the rest more carefully.
‘No help here,’ he finally told Thackeray. ‘We’ll get some more in tomorrow. I’m not too confident though. Seems another dead end.’
‘Should we see Mrs Darrell again, and face her with the false statement about where she was last Monday evening?’ ‘Not much point. I don’t think she’d tell us much that we don’t know. Now what’s this? Ah!’
He picked up a report that he had at first rejected.
‘Our chemist, Sarge?’
‘No. The report on Monk’s note. I wanted the handwrit-ing analysed, compared with his signature in the poison-book.’
‘What’s their view, then?’ asked Thackeray.
‘As I thought, unfortunately. Monk definitely wrote the letter. No shadow of doubt.’
Thackeray was mystified.
‘I don’t follow, Sarge. That was a suicide note-must have been cooked up by the killer.’
Cribb shook his head. His constable had disappointed him again.
‘Not so, not so! Got a note of the wording of that note, have you?’
Thackeray embarrassedly delved for his notebook. He read out Monk’s message. ‘ “This is to show how sorry I am. I did not mean him to die. Samuel Monk.”-Was he forced to write it, do you think, Sarge?’
‘Not very likely. Poor fellow was too drunk to write any-thing, by Jacobson’s account. No. What we’ve got to work out is when he wrote it, Thackeray. That’s the key.’
Thackeray remained bewildered.
‘It don’t make any sort of sense, to me, Sarge. If Monk didn’t kill Darrell-and we know that he couldn’t have- why should he take the blame on himself? He was so sure of himself that night when we saw him in the tent. He knew his bracer had been mixed right.’
‘Of course he did!’ said Cribb. ‘So he couldn’t have taken the blame. You’re right. But give a thought to the timing, man. There was a time when Monk would have had a guilty conscience.’
‘I still don’t-’
‘Before he knew it was strychnine that killed Darrell! What did they think it was at first?’
‘Tetanus, Sarge.’
‘Right. And how do you contract tetanus?’
‘Through getting something into a wound-like the cow-dung this place stinks of.’
‘Exactly. Well, there’s the point. Darrell ran barefoot on blistered feet that Monday night, and Monk didn’t stop him. Wouldn’t he feel responsible and write a note like this?’
‘You mean he planned to kill himself then, Sarge?’
‘I didn’t say that. But that’s when he wrote it.’
‘Who to?’
‘Ain’t that obvious?’
Thackeray was not sure that it was, but prudently nodded agreement.
Harvey re-entered the Hall carrying a paper parcel soon after eleven that evening. He was instantly recognised by the constable on duty at the Islington Green gate and hus-tled to the police office where Cribb and Thackeray were waiting.
‘Thought you’d walked out on us, Mr Harvey,’ Cribb began. ‘Couldn’t find you anywhere. Not like you to leave Captain Chadwick to his own devices.’
‘I had good reason,’ answered Harvey.
‘No doubt of that, no doubt at all. You know why we want to talk with you?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘I’ll not wrap it in fancy words then. You were seen leav-ing O’Flaherty’s hut this morning. Later on he pulled out of the race with sore feet. Crushed nut-shells. Do you admit putting them in his boots?’
Harvey was admirably calm.
‘I did it, yes.’
‘Why then?’
‘Ain’t you worked that out, Sergeant? I’m on Captain Chadwick’s side, in case you don’t remember.’
‘Don’t you play smart with me,’ warned Cribb. ‘You might be in a lot of trouble.’
‘What’s the charge, then?’ asked Harvey confidently. ‘Trespassing-or assault?’
‘Could be a double charge of murder,’ Cribb answered, and Harvey’s manner changed at once.
‘You think that I-because I got at O’Flaherty’s boots- oh no, Sergeant! That ain’t true!’
‘You’ve got a clearer motive for killing Darrell than any-one in this Hall,’ said Cribb. ‘Your actions confirm you’ll take big chances to see Chadwick win. You care nothing for O’Flaherty. You’d cripple him for Chadwick’s sake. Why shouldn’t you have poisoned Darrell? Could have slipped in more strychnine than you meant, of course. Murder is deliberate, with malice aforethought. Might make it manslaughter on the first charge, if you’ll cough the full story-’
‘Look, I’m no murderer!’ protested Harvey. ‘I know nothing about Darrell’s death, or Monk’s. I’ve admitted fix-ing the Irishman’s boots, but that don’t make me a killer.’
Cribb pressed his advantage.
‘You’d better talk pretty quick, then, Mr Harvey. I want to know all about you and your gaffer, and I want to know your movements last Monday night. You’d better remember it right too. I’ve been given several accounts of that night, and I know what happened most of the time.’
Harvey collected his thoughts. Last Monday seemed an age ago. Thackeray took out his notebook.
‘Far as I can recall,’ Harvey began, ‘I was by the track all evening, following the race. The Captain was behaving strange-like-he was running, you see. He has always walked his races, even when the articles allow mixing. But he fell badly behind Darrell that first day. Even some of the slow mob were ahead of him and by two in the afternoon he’d taken to running. Now I knew this running would give him no end of trouble-’
‘Why didn’t you stop it, then?’
‘Stop it? I can’t stop the Captain. He don’t take orders from me, or anyone, come to that. No, I just had to be around in case he went down with cramp. There was some bad collapses that first day. Once a man’s gone down it’s a sure bet that others will follow.’
‘So you waited for the collapse.’
‘Well, I kept near, in case. As it happened, he suffered a bit, but he didn’t go down. And he won back a lot of the ground. Darrell was in some kind of trouble with his feet, and that gave a fillip to the Captain. He kept going until Darrell came off at one, and then we both went into the tent.’
‘What sort of mental state was he in?’
