He nuzzled up against Dowd then let out a loud whinny. Leeming was fascinated. He had never been so close to a thoroughbred horse before and he marvelled at the colt’s sleek lines and perfect proportions. The sense of latent power in Limerick Lad was thrilling. Leeming had only heard about the other two potential winners of the Derby. Now he was inches away from the one horse who could challenge them and it made him think again about where he should place his money. He was touched by the affection between horse and trainer. Brian Dowd patently loved his colt but it was equally obvious that he had subjected it to a strict training regime. Limerick Lad was in prime condition.
‘Breeding,’ said Dowd, stroking the animal’s neck. ‘That’s what’s paramount in horseracing – good breeding. Limerick Lad is by Piscator out of Cornish Lass, who ran second in the Oaks. Piscator won the Derby and the St Leger. Do you see what I mean, Sergeant?’ he said. ‘There’s a family tradition to maintain. Limerick Lad comes from the very best stock.’
Leeming was entranced. ‘I can see that, Mr Dowd.’
‘He won’t let us down.’
‘I’m sure he won’t, sir.’
The trainer gave his horse a final pat on the neck before leading his visitor a few paces away. Then he looked Leeming in the eye.
‘Why exactly did you come here?’ he asked.
‘Inspector Colbeck thought that, as a courtesy, you should be kept up to date with our investigation.’
‘That was very considerate of him. I’ll be interested to hear what progress you’ve made so far.’
‘It’s been slow but steady, Mr Dowd.’
Leeming explained what the Detective Department had been doing. On the journey back from Bethnal Green, he had been schooled by Colbeck to release certain facts while holding others back. At the mention of Hamilton Fido’s name, Dowd scowled but held his tongue. The sergeant gauged his reactions throughout.
‘Inspector Colbeck made one suggestion,’ he said, ‘and I must confess that it would never have occurred to me.’
‘What might that be?’
‘That, in fact, Mr Fido is in no way implicated in the murder.’
‘He has to be!’ cried Dowd. ‘John Feeny worked at his stables.’
‘You’ve jumped to the obvious conclusion, sir, as you were meant to do. But supposing that both you and Mr Fido are incidental victims of this crime?’
‘Fido as a
‘The inspector thinks otherwise,’ said Leeming. ‘Since there’s bad blood between you and Mr Fido, he wonders if someone is trying to heat it up even more. A third party might have set out to stoke up the mutual antagonism in order to have you snarling insults at each other. That would distract the pair of you from the important job of preparing your horses for the Derby.’
Dowd was adamant. ‘The man you want is Hamilton Fido,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Over the last couple of years, my horses have consistently beaten his. He’s not the kind of man to take that lying down. He had to hit back and he used John Feeny to do it. There’s something you ought to know, Sergeant,’ he continued. ‘The reason that Limerick Lad will win the Derby is not simply because he’s the finest horse in the field. He has the best jockey on his back – Tim Maguire. I’ve lost count of the number of times that Mr Fido has tried to poach Tim so that he’ll ride in his colours.’
‘There’s nothing illegal in that, sir. Every owner would like to have the best jockey riding for him.’
‘Only one would offer a huge bribe to make sure that my colt lost the race. That’s what was dangled in front of Tim Maguire – five hundred pounds to pull Limerick Lad out of the reckoning.’
‘Five hundred!’ Leeming whistled in amazement. ‘Do you know who made the offer?’
‘Hamilton Fido.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘The letter was unsigned,’ said Dowd, reaching inside his coat, ‘but I’m sure it had Mr Fido’s name on it in invisible ink. Since he couldn’t have Tim in the saddle on Merry Legs, he wanted to make use of him another way.’
‘That’s a very serious allegation, Mr Dowd.’
‘Read the letter for yourself.’
‘Thank you,’ said Leeming, taking it from him and unfolding the paper. The letter was short but explicit. He read it in seconds. ‘This is evidence, sir – may I keep it?’
‘Please do, Sergeant.’
‘I take it that Maguire was not tempted.’
‘Tim rides for me and nobody else,’ boasted Dowd. ‘When he sent that letter, there was something about my jockey that Hamilton Fido obviously didn’t know.’
‘And what was that, sir?’
‘He has the same problem as John Feeny.’
‘Problem?’
‘He’s illiterate. You don’t need to be able to read in order to ride a horse. All you have to do is to recognise a winning post when you see one. The joke is on Mr Fido,’ said Dowd with a grim chuckle. ‘When he received that letter, Tim Maguire didn’t have a clue that he was being offered a bribe.’
When he saw Hamilton Fido for the second time that day, Robert Colbeck was not given as cordial a welcome. The bookmaker was at his stables, talking to his trainer, Alfred Stenton, a bear-like man in his forties with a grizzled beard and tiny deep-set eyes. They looked up as the detective approached them across the yard. Stenton showed curiosity but Fido’s face registered annoyance until he concealed it behind his practised smile.
‘We meet again, Inspector,’ he said.
‘I remembered your saying that you’d be coming here this afternoon,’ said Colbeck. ‘Have you established yet how John Feeny got a job here when he’d been in the employ of your fiercest rival?’
‘Alfred explained that to me.’
He introduced the trainer and Stenton took over. He had a deep voice, a slow delivery and a bluff manner. Hands on hips, he stood with his legs planted wide apart.
‘Don’t blame me,’ he said stoutly. ‘I’d no idea that the lad had worked for Brian Dowd. He told me he came from Cork where he’d been a groom for three years. One of my boys had a nasty accident so I needed a replacement. John Feeny came along at the right time.’
Colbeck wanted to hear more. ‘A nasty accident?’
‘He was kicked by a horse, Inspector – broke his leg.’
‘Was there anything suspicious about it?’
The trainer shook his head. ‘If you want to know the truth, the lad deserved what he got. He’d been drinking heavily and he knew I didn’t allow beer at the stables. You need a clear head when you’re dealing with racehorses,’ said Stenton. ‘They can be a real handful if you get on the wrong side of them. He was grooming Bold Buccaneer and slapped him on the rump. That was asking for trouble.’
‘How did John Feeny know there was a vacancy here?’
‘A friend recommended him.’
‘Someone from the stables?’ said Colbeck.
‘Yes, Inspector,’ replied Stenton. ‘Ned Kyle, one of my jockeys, spoke up for him. They grew up together in Cork.’
‘Why didn’t Kyle warn you?’ asked Fido angrily. ‘He must have known about Feeny’s link with Dowd.’
‘He swears that he didn’t,’ said the trainer, ‘and I took him at his word. Ned is as honest as the day is long. He’d not deceive me. In any case, he and John Feeny hadn’t seen each other for years. How could Ned possibly know where he’d been working?’
‘Feeny was unlikely to tell him,’ observed Colbeck. ‘He knew he’d never get a job here if Brian Dowd’s name was mentioned.’
Stenton snorted. ‘I’d have thrown him out on his ear.’
‘He winkled his way in here to spy,’ said Fido.
‘It doesn’t look that way,’ said Colbeck. ‘It seems that he only got the job by default. If another groom hadn’t been kicked by a horse, John Feeny would still be looking for work.’
