‘What have you been doing while I was gone, Victor?’
‘Trying to keep out of the superintendent’s way.’
Colbeck grinned. ‘I enjoy playing that game as well,’ he said. ‘Did you learn anything useful in Cambridge?’
‘I think so, sir.’
It was early morning and they were in an office at Scotland Yard. Leeming gave him a brief account of his visit to the Angel Hotel and passed on the description of Lady Hendry that he had drawn out of the manager. Colbeck was interested to hear that the hatbox had not been stolen on the occasion of the couple’s visit to Cambridge.
‘I’ve proved that it was not Lord Hendry’s wife,’ said Leeming.
‘That was my feeling from the outset.’
‘I mean, I’ve got evidence right here, Inspector.’ He pointed to a pile of newspapers on the desk. ‘Lord Hendry has a busy social life. I wondered if he’d ever been featured in
‘Very commendable, Victor.’
‘I found two drawings of him, both quite accurate. I recognised him immediately.’ He sifted through the papers. ‘One showed him at the races in Newmarket but this one,’ he went on, picking up a copy, ‘was more interesting. It shows his wife as well.’
Robert Colbeck took the newspaper from him and studied the illustration. The caption told him that he was looking at the wedding of Lord Hendry’s daughter but it was not the bride who caught his eye. It was Lady Caroline Hendry, standing beside her husband, who held his attention. In age, height and in every other way, she differed sharply from the description of the woman who had accompanied Lord Hendry to the Angel Hotel in Cambridge.
‘It says in the article,’ Leeming pointed out, ‘that Lady Hendry devotes all her time to charity.’
‘I don’t think even she would be charitable enough to lend her husband to another woman.’ Colbeck put the newspaper down. ‘If the artist is to be trusted, they have a beautiful daughter.’
‘What would
‘I hope that she never does, Victor.’
‘Will we have to speak to Lord Hendry again?’
‘I’m sure that we will, said Colbeck. ‘Before that, however, I’ll have to give my report to the superintendent. Did he say anything about my visit to Ireland?’
‘He felt it was a complete waste of time.’
Colbeck laughed. He went out, walked along the corridor and knocked on a door. The booming voice of Edward Tallis invited him in.
‘The prodigal returns,’ said the superintendent sardonically as his visitor entered. ‘When did you get back?’
‘Last evening, sir.’
‘Then why didn’t you come here? You know how late I work.’
‘I had some calls to make.’
‘Nothing should have taken precedence over me, Inspector.’
‘I felt that it did,’ Colbeck took the drawing from his pocket and unfolded it before putting it in front of Tallis. ‘His name is John Feeny,’ he explained. ‘His parents died years ago. His only living relative was the uncle with whom he’d been staying while he was in England. As next of kin, the uncle deserved to be told of his nephew’s death at the earliest opportunity.’
‘How did you get this uncle’s address?’
‘From a young man called Jerry Doyle, sir – Feeny was a good friend of his. They kept in touch.’
Tallis indicated the drawing. ‘Who identified this?’
‘Brian Dowd, sir – John Feeny used to work for him as a groom.’
‘What was Feeny doing in England?’
‘Trying to become a jockey,’ said Colbeck. ‘But I couldn’t rely wholly on Mr Dowd’s identification. It was, after all, only based on a rough drawing of the deceased. When I got back to London, therefore, I took John Feeny’s uncle to the morgue where he was shown his nephew’s head. It shook him badly but we have what we needed – a positive identification from a family member.’
‘Good,’ said Tallis grudgingly. ‘We now have a head, a body and a name – a degree of progress at last. What else did you learn in Ireland?’
Colbeck had carefully planned what he was going to say so that his report was concise yet filled with all the relevant detail. While in Ireland, he had been shown around the stables and talked at length about Limerick Lad’s chances in the Derby.
‘His trainer thinks he’s a certain winner,’ he said.
‘I hope you’re not suggesting that I place a bet on the Irish horse, Inspector. Gambling is hateful to me. I had to talk Sergeant Leeming out of falling under its wicked spell.’
‘My major concern is to ensure that it’s a fair race, sir.’
‘Mine is to solve a murder.’
‘The two things go together,’ Colbeck reasoned. ‘That severed head was destined for Brian Dowd as a warning of how desperate one of his rivals is to prevent Limerick Lad from winning.’
‘Then you must arrest the man immediately,’ said Tallis.
‘Who?’
‘Hamilton Fido, of course – his guilt is undeniable.’
‘I think he’s entitled to a presumption of innocence before we accuse him of the crime. Mr Dowd may have pointed the finger at him but we have to bear in mind that the two of them are sworn enemies. The villain may be someone else entirely.’
‘What conceivable motive could he have?’
‘The most obvious one, Superintendent,’ said Colbeck, ‘and that’s financial gain. If someone has bet heavily on one horse, the best way to protect his investment is to impede any other runner who’s likely to be a serious contender.’
‘You told me that the Derby was a three-horse race.’
‘That’s the received wisdom, sir, but one should never rule out the possibility that an outsider could win. It’s happened in the past. It only needs the favoured horses to have an off day, or for their jockeys to make bad tactical mistakes. Look at the evidence we’ve collected so far, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘A severed head is found in a hatbox belonging to the mistress of the man who owns the Derby favourite, Odysseus. The head was destined for Brian Dowd, owner and trainer of another fancied runner, Limerick Lad. The murder victim worked at stables owned by Hamilton Fido, whose filly, Merry Legs, also features well in the betting. The three most dangerous horses have been singled out.’
‘What do you conclude, Inspector?’
‘That we may have seen the opening moves in a campaign to set the respective owners at each other’s throats. If they feel they’ve been abused, they’ll seek retribution. No quarter will be given. It’s possible that of the three horses – Odysseus, Merry Legs and Limerick Lad – one or two might not even make the starting post at Epsom.’
‘Do you predict more skulduggery?’ asked Tallis.
‘No, sir,’ replied Colbeck calmly. ‘I don’t predict it – I guarantee it. In my considered opinion, the worst is yet to come.’
Hidden in the trees, he kept the stables under surveillance all morning and bided his time. From his elevated position, he had a good view of the yard through his telescope. When the colt appeared, he recognised Odysseus immediately and knew that his moment was at hand. The travelling box was hauled into the yard by a cart drawn by a pair of matching grey dray-horses. It was time for him to move. Mounting his horse, he rode off until he reached the steepest part of the incline. Then he tethered his horse behind some thick bushes and took up his position. Five minutes later, the travelling box was pulled out of the stables to begin the long, slow climb up the hill.
The man was taking no chances. In case he was seen, he was wearing a wide-brimmed hat pulled down low over his forehead and a scarf that covered the lower half of his face. His clothing was nondescript. Even close
