‘Does that mean he’ll be able to catch John’s killer?’ she said.
‘I have no doubt about it.’
‘What will happen to him?’
‘He’ll be hanged.’
‘I wish I was there to see it,’ said Bonny with unexpected anger. ‘He deserves terrible pain for what he did to John. I hate him. He’ll roast in Hell for this crime.’
Madeleine was surprised by the outburst from such a placid girl but she understood the strain that Bonny Rimmer must be under. As they drank their tea, she moved the conversation to more neutral topics and her visitor calmed down. Before they left, however, Madeleine returned to the subject that had brought them together.
‘You told me that John had no enemies.’
‘None to speak of,’ said Bonny. ‘He always got on with people.’
‘He didn’t get on with Mr Dowd.’
‘That was because he ran out of patience. Mr Dowd made all sorts of promises to him about how he’d be a champion jockey one day but they were just lies. He never let him ride in a single race and John realised that he never would.’
‘Was that when they had their argument?’
‘Yes,’ said the other. ‘John used bad language towards Mr Dowd and that was that. He was thrown out of the stables without any pay. You know the rest, Miss Andrews.’
‘I can see why John was so grateful to meet a friend like you,’ said Madeleine. ‘For the first time in his life, he had something to look forward to.’
‘Oh, he did. John didn’t just want to prove to everyone that he could be a good jockey. He wanted to beat Mr Dowd’s horses in every race he could. That’s what kept him going,’ said Bonny. ‘He told me that he’d never be really happy until he could get his own back on Mr Dowd. It was like a mission.’
Brian Dowd had had a more than satisfactory day at the races, One of his horses had come second in the opening race and Quicklime, as he had predicted, won the last race on the card. Wearing a frock coat and top hat, he sat among the privileged spectators in the grandstand and relished his position. Lord Hendry, by contrast, had had a miserable afternoon. All of his bets were misplaced, especially the one on his own horse, Darius, in the final race. After a promising start, the animal had pulled up lame three furlongs from home. It was irksome. As he made for the exit, the last person he wanted to encounter was the smirking Irishman.
‘It was a rehearsal for tomorrow,’ said Dowd.
‘What was?’
‘That last race – my horse winning by a mile from yours.’
‘Darius went lame,’ said Lord Hendry.
‘A sure sign of lack of fitness – he was badly trained.’
‘I need no advice from you about training horses, Dowd.’
‘Apparently, you do,’ taunted Dowd. ‘You can’t even train Odysseus to stay on your wall. He galloped off somewhere, I hear.’
‘Who told you that?’ snarled Lord Hendry.
‘You’d be surprised what I get to hear. The rumour is that the painting was stolen in the night. True or false?’
‘You ought to know the answer to that.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s just the kind of thing you’d do. When you failed to cripple Odysseus in his travelling box, you paid someone to steal that portrait of him instead. It’s typical of your low Irish cunning.’
‘I wondered how long it would be before you started abusing my country,’ said Dowd cheerfully. ‘You English are so ungrateful. We dig your canals for you, we build your railways and we show you how to train racehorses properly yet you still sneer at us.’
‘Do you have my painting?’ demanded Lord Hendry.
‘I wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole.’
‘Do you know where it is?’
‘No, Lord Hendry, and, quite frankly, I don’t care. The only horse that interests me at the moment is Limerick Lad. When he runs in the Derby tomorrow, you’ll see why.’
Dowd walked away before the other man could speak. Lord Hendry muttered a few obscenities under his breath then joined the queue at the exit. His first thought had been that Hamilton Fido was behind the theft of the painting but he now felt that Dowd was a likely suspect as well. He believed that the Irishman had deliberately sought him out to gloat over the loss of the portrait. Lord Hendry decided to report that fact to Robert Colbeck.
Before he could do that, another shock awaited him. As he left the grandstand, an official walked across to him and handed Lord Hendry a letter.
‘This was left for you in the office, my lord,’ he said.
‘By whom?’
‘I’ve no idea. It just appeared.’
Without even thanking the man, Lord Hendry tore open the envelope. His blood froze as he read the single sentence inside.
Victor Leeming was smiling complacently. Having taken Brian Dowd’s advice, he had bet on Quicklime and won himself over twenty pounds. He planned to spend it on gifts for his wife and children but, before he could decide what they would be, he saw that Hamilton Fido was about to leave at last. There had been no point in watching the man while he was in the betting room. Leeming waited until all the races had been run and all bets paid off. Then he lurked behind a coach and waited for the bookmaker to appear. Fido came out with a group of acquaintances but they soon dispersed.
Leeming trailed his man from a reasonable distance, close enough to keep him in sight but far enough behind him to eliminate any risk of being seen by Fido if he suddenly turned round. The thick crowd was both a hazard and help, impeding his progress yet offering him a welcome screen should he need it. The bookmaker seemed to be heading for a line of cabs that stood waiting for business. Leeming was pleased. Once Fido had taken a cab, he could easily be followed in a second one.
As the crowd began to thin out, Leeming got a better view of his quarry. He saw him go to the front of the queue and talk to a cab driver. Before Fido got into the vehicle, a young woman in a light-blue silk dress and straw hat approached him. From the effusive welcome she was given, he surmised that she must be Kitty Lavender. He was thrilled with his discovery but his pursuit came to an abrupt end. Intent on trailing someone else, he did not realise that he had also been followed. Leeming’s hat was knocked off from behind and he felt a sharp blow on the back of his skull. At the moment that the cab was drawing away, Leeming was plunging into unconsciousness.
‘What is it like? Did you see any races? Was there anybody famous there today? What time do we leave tomorrow? From where will we watch the Derby?’
Robert Colbeck was met with such a battery of questions that it was minutes before he was able to claim a kiss of welcome. When he got to the house late that evening, Madeleine Andrews was in a state of anticipatory delight. The joy of being able to see the Derby was compounded by the pleasure of being at the racecourse with Colbeck. As the questions continued to come, he held up a hand.
‘That’s enough, Madeleine,’ he said. ‘When you get to Epsom tomorrow, you’ll be able to see for yourself what it’s like. But you must bear in mind that it’s not merely an excursion for me. While you are watching the races, I’ll still be looking for John Feeny’s killer.’
‘Will he be there?’
‘Oh, I think so. The Derby was supposed to be the culmination of his criminal acts. Even though some of those acts were frustrated, I don’t believe he’d dare to miss the event.’ He was saddened. ‘I see that Bonny Rimmer did not, after all, turn up.’
‘Oh, but she did,’ said Madeleine. ‘How silly of me! All I could think about was myself. Yes, she did come, Robert.’
‘Did she tell you anything of interest?’
‘I think so.’
‘Did she bring anything? The girl talked about keepsakes.’
