friends would not have been able to identify him. He remained concealed in the undergrowth until he could hear the clatter of hooves and the rattle of the cart and the travelling box getting closer and closer.
When the vehicles finally drew level with him, he acted swiftly. Leaping out of his hiding place, he ran to the coupling pin that held the cart and travelling box together. He grabbed it, yanked it out and flung it into the long grass. The vehicles parted dramatically. As the cart was driven forward, the travelling box rolled crazily backward down the hill, swaying from side to side and gathering speed all the time. Reaching a bend, it left the road altogether and spun wildly out of control until it turned over with a sickening crash.
The man did not linger. His mission had been completed. Before the driver of the cart even realised what had happened, the man was already back in the saddle, riding off to report the good news.
CHAPTER SIX
Victor Leeming was relieved to be going on a journey that did not involve a railway. Instead, he and Robert Colbeck sat side by side in a hansom cab as it picked its way through a labyrinth of streets in east London. There was something about the gentle swaying of the vehicle that the sergeant found reassuring. It was like being rocked in a giant cradle with the rhythmical trot of the horse providing a soothing lullaby. Even when they turned down a narrow lane, bouncing and sliding over a cobbled surface, Leeming felt snug and unthreatened.
‘This is better than hurtling along in a train,’ he opined.
‘It’s an agreeable alternative on a short journey,’ said Colbeck, ‘but I’d hate to have gone all the way to Anglesey by cab. Horses and railways are not mutually exclusive, Victor. They’re complementary.’
‘Give me horses every time, sir.’
‘You’ll have a wide choice of those today.’
‘Will I?’
‘Yes,’ said Colbeck. ‘We’re going to see a bookmaker. He’ll offer you whole cavalry regiments. Horses are Hamilton Fido’s business. Judging by the success he’s had, I’d say that he was an expert.’
‘Does he know who’s going to win the Derby?’
‘I’m sure that he’ll tell us.’
‘Why does such a rich man live in one of the poorest districts of London?’ asked Leeming. ‘Since the weaving industry fell on hard times, Bethnal Green is starting to look like a graveyard.’
‘Mr Fido only works here, Victor. His house is in a far more salubrious part of the city. Some of his more questionable activities would not be allowed there whereas they suit the character of Bethnal Green perfectly.’
‘Milling and cock-fighting, you mean?’
‘It’s not only boxers and birds who entertain the crowds here,’ said Colbeck. ‘Hamilton Fido will arrange any contest in which blood can be drawn and on which bets can be laid.’
‘Why has he never been arrested?’
‘That, I suspect, will become obvious when we meet him.’
The cab eventually came to a halt outside the Green Dragon, a large, rambling, double-fronted tavern built with an eye to Gothic extravagance but now badly besmirched. As he alighted and paid the driver, Colbeck glanced around him. Signs of extreme poverty were unmistakable. Small, dark, mean, neglected houses and tenements were clustered together in the filthy street. Emaciated and unwashed children in tattered clothes were playing games. Old people sat on stools outside their dwellings and looked on with vacant stares. Filling the air with their strident cries, street vendors sold wares from their handcarts. Dogs and cats had ear-splitting disputes over territory. Hulking men with darting eyes sauntered past. There was a hint of danger in the air.
Victor Leeming was troubled by the stink from the accumulated litter and open drains. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. Within seconds, he and Colbeck were approached by a couple of ancient beggars with threadbare suits, battered hats and ingratiating smiles. From other denizens of the area the visitors collected only hostile stares and muttered curses. They went into the tavern and found it full of rowdy patrons. In the boisterous atmosphere, Colbeck had to raise his voice to be heard by the barman. In answer to the inspector’s enquiry, they were directed upstairs.
Hamilton Fido’s office occupied the front room on the first floor. What surprised them as they were invited in was how little of the hubbub below rose up through the floorboards. A thick oriental carpet helped to insulate the room against the noise from the bar. The office walls were adorned with sporting prints and every shelf was covered with silver cups and other trophies. Yet there was no sense of clutter. Everything was neatly in place. Hamilton Fido was clearly a man who valued order.
He rose swiftly from his seat as the introductions were made.
‘How fortunate!’ he exclaimed, beaming at Colbeck. ‘I’ve always wanted to meet the famous Railway Detective.’
‘And I’ve always wanted to meet the infamous bookmaker,’ Colbeck returned pleasantly. ‘You have a spacious and well-appointed office, Mr Fido. It’s the last thing one might expect to find in a place like Bethnal Green.’
‘I was born and brought up here,’ explained Fido, looking fondly through the window. ‘My father was a weaver – his loom took up most of the space on the ground floor. When he was too ill to work, we had no money coming in. When he recovered his health, the trade had declined and he could find no employment. Life was a daily struggle for us and, from an early age, I had to learn how to survive. Though I say so myself, I became very adept at survival.’ He held the lapels of his frock coat. ‘What you see before you is a self-educated man who was fortunate enough to make good. Most people in my position turn their backs on their humble origins but I rejoice in mine.’
‘That’s creditable, sir,’ said Leeming.
‘Bethnal Green folk are the salt of the earth. When I bought this tavern and set up my business here, I wanted to put something back into the district. But I forget my manners,’ he said, indicating the chairs. ‘Do make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen.’
The detectives sat down and Fido lowered himself into a seat opposite them. Like Colbeck, the bookmaker was impeccably dressed but he had a flamboyance that the inspector lacked. Gold rings shone on both hands and an ornate gold pin anchored his cravat. He produced a ready smile for the detectives.
‘What brought you here was that hatbox, I presume,’ he said helpfully. ‘There’s no need to tell me the name of the unfortunate young man whose head was found inside it. He was John Feeny.’
Colbeck was taken aback. ‘May I ask how you come to know?’
‘The fact was important to me.’
‘But the name of the deceased has not yet been released.’
‘It was released to
‘Even to the extent of bribing a police officer?’
Fido held up both hands in a comic gesture of surrender. ‘Inspector,
‘Then how did you find out?’ asked Leeming.
‘Not because I put the head in the hatbox, Sergeant.’
‘Then how, sir?’
‘An anonymous letter was slipped under my door,’ said Fido glibly. ‘It claimed that the dead man was John Feeny, a lad who used to work as a groom at my stables. Is that correct?’
‘It is, Mr Fido,’ conceded Leeming.
‘Of course, I never met him. My trainer employs several grooms. He’s always had a free hand in his choice of lads. Until this morning, I had no idea that someone called John Feeny even existed.’
‘And when you did discover his existence,’ said Colbeck, ‘and learnt of his bizarre murder, how did you react?’
‘With pity and apprehension,’ said Fido.
‘Apprehension?’
‘Feeny was Irish. According to my anonymous informant, he once worked at the stables owned by Brian Dowd. I was horrified.’
‘Why?’
‘Mr Dowd and I have exchanged hot words,’ said Fido sourly, ‘on and off the racecourse. He’s totally
