The Iron Horse

caught. The letter that Cheggin had tried to send to his paymaster was addressed to the office in Bethnal Green and Colbeck had dispatched his sergeant there, choosing himself to seek Hamilton Fido at the venue where the bookmaker would be working during the races. He was in luck. Fido was there. After making enquiries, he was directed towards the betting office.

Hamilton Fido was outside the grandstand, talking to Marcus Johnson with an affability that suggested a measure of friendship. The bookmaker was displeased to see Colbeck again but he performed the introductions with suave politeness.

‘I’ve read about you, Inspector,’ said Johnson, pumping his hand. ‘You are the celebrated Railway Detective.’

Colbeck was modest. ‘That’s not a title I ever use, sir.’

‘Have you come to place a bet on the Derby?’

‘Not yet, Mr Johnson.’

‘I’ve been trying to get some guidance from Hamilton but he’s too canny to give it. His only advice is to bet on the horse I fancy.’

‘Look at the odds I’ve set,’ said Fido. ‘They tell you everything.’

‘But they don’t,’ said Johnson, displaying his teeth. ‘They tell us enough to mislead us. Do you know what I think, Inspector?’

‘What, sir?’ said Colbeck.

‘I believe that Hamilton is playing a deep game. Merry Legs is only 8–1 but her chances are much better than that. Did you know that he has a second horse in the race?’

‘Yes, sir – Princess of Fire.’

‘One filly might not win against all those colts but two might. That’s his plan, I suspect,’ argued Johnson. ‘He’ll use Princess of Fire to set the pace so that Merry Legs can sit in behind her until the final couple of furlongs. Am I right, Hamilton?’

Fido’s smile was enigmatic. ‘Put your money where your mouth is, Marcus,’ he counselled. ‘Rely on your instinct.’

‘I did that two years ago,’ boasted Johnson, ‘when the favourite was Little Harry. My instinct told me that Daniel O’Rourke was a tempting bet at 25–1 and I walked off with a full wallet when he won by half a length. Little Harry, by the way, was unplaced.’

‘I remember it only too well,’ said Colbeck. ‘I had money on Little Harry that day. If my memory serves, there were over thirty runners in that race. Merry Legs will have fewer to contend with this year.’

‘Twenty other runners in all.’

‘Nineteen,’ corrected Fido.

‘Since when?’

‘Since this morning, Marcus.’

‘Oh?’

‘My spies tell me that Tambourine has sprained a tendon and been withdrawn. His owner, Sir Richard Duggleby, will be livid – he had high hopes of Tambourine.’

‘That means we only have twenty runners.’

‘A much smaller field than usual,’ observed Colbeck, ‘but it’s still infernally difficult to pick the winner.’

‘Not unless you’re a bookmaker,’ said Johnson, clapping Fido on the back. ‘However, I can see that the inspector wants a private word with you, Hamilton, so I’ll make myself scarce.’

There was a flurry of farewells then Johnson withdrew. Colbeck watched him bounding off with a spring in his step then raising his hat to two ladies who walked past.

‘A born gambler, by the sound of it,’ he said.

‘Marcus Johnson lives off his wits,’ observed Fido. ‘If he’s not at the races, he’ll be at the card table. If not there, he’ll be betting on something else.’

‘Illegal blood sports, for instance?’

Fido laughed. ‘You’ll have to ask him yourself, Inspector.’

‘You’re the only person who interests me at the moment, sir. It’s odd that you mentioned spies a moment ago because that’s exactly what I came to talk to you about. First,’ he went on, taking a letter from his pocket, ‘I’m delivering this on behalf of Detective Constable Peter Cheggin. He was unable to come here as he’s now in custody.’

‘I see,’ said Fido calmly, taking the envelope and opening it to read the letter. He grinned. ‘Is this some kind of joke, Inspector?’

‘I’m here to do exactly what he says – to arrest you.’

‘On what charge?’

‘Corrupting one of our detectives so that he passed on privileged information from Scotland Yard.’

‘Is that what I did?’

‘The letter is proof of that.’

‘I don’t think so, Inspector. Have you talked to Peter Cheggin?’

‘Of course.’

‘Did he say that I asked him to act as an informer?’

‘He didn’t need to do that.’

‘Did he claim that I paid him for information?’

‘Cheggin is being rather bloody-minded at the moment,’ said Colbeck. ‘He’ll admit nothing beyond the fact that he wrote that letter.’

‘I wish that it had arrived before you did, Inspector.’

‘So that you could take to your heels?’

‘On the contrary,’ said Fido. ‘I’d have saved you the trouble of coming here by giving myself up. Then I could have told you the story that lies behind this letter.’

‘That’s only too apparent, Mr Fido.’

‘Is it? How well do you know Peter Cheggin?’

‘Reasonably well. I judged him to be a good officer.’

‘I’ve no doubt that he is but Peter has two glaring problems. The first is that he loves to gamble and the second is that he doesn’t earn enough to cover his losses. Peter Cheggin owes me money,’ said Fido quietly. ‘A fair amount of money, as it happens. Most bookmakers are not as patient as I am, Inspector. If someone can’t settle his debts, he gets a visit from two strong men with the gift of persuasion. I prefer to do business on a more civilised basis.’

‘Very noble of you, sir,’ said Colbeck with light sarcasm.

‘Peter is obviously so grateful that he sends me the occasional nugget of information as a sign of goodwill. I don’t ask for it and I most certainly don’t pay for it. Did I corrupt one of your men?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘No, Inspector – he was already corrupted by the desire to gamble and that’s what landed him in debt.’

‘I only have your word for that, Mr Fido, and – if you’ll forgive my saying so – I don’t accept that at face value.’

‘In that case,’ said Fido, enjoying the situation, ‘you must do your duty and arrest me so that you can question me at Scotland Yard. But bear this is mind – the burden of proof lies with you. And there is no court in Creation that can prove I paid Peter Cheggin to act as a spy. He did it entirely of his own accord.’

His readiness to be arrested rang a warning bell for Colbeck. Before he had joined the Metropolitan Police Force, the inspector had been a successful barrister, spending every day in court and testing the limits of the English legal system with regularity. He knew how difficult it sometimes was to persuade juries of a malefactor’s guilt even when the evidence against him was fairly strong. In view of what Fido had just told him, the evidence against the bookmaker could look decidedly flimsy in court. Though he had certainly encouraged a detective to act as an informer, proving it would be difficult. Hamilton Fido was a wealthy man who would retain the ablest defence counsel he could find. The case against him would be ripped to shreds and Colbeck did not want that to happen.

‘How many of them are there, Mr Fido?’ he asked.

‘How many what?’