Ay t= E Wobble

uw to Death

A Classic Novel Uncovered: Murder at a Six-Day Race: Part IV

by Peter Lovesey

Editor’s note: The first three parts of Wobble to Death appeared in the January/February, March/April, and May/June issues, respectively.

CHAPTER 7

The boardroom still contained the bedstead which had been installed there eighteen hours earlier. It now served as a coatrack. When he was seated Herriott offered cigars to the other three, lit one for himself (he badly needed it), and studied the policemen, envying their vitality at this late hour. Sergeant Cribb remained standing, tall, spare in frame, too spry in his movements ever to put on much weight. His head, which switched positions with a birdlike suddenness, was burdened with an overlong nose. He had compensated for this by cultivating the bushiest Piccadilly Weepers that Herriott had seen. These, and his heavy eyebrows, were deep-brown, flecked with grey. He looked in his forties.

Jacobson asked, “What do you want us to do?”

“Do, sir? Do nothing. Talk to us. That’s all.”

Cribb fastened his attention on Herriott.

“The late Mr. Darrell—tell me what you can about him.”

“T can’t say that I knew very much about him at all, poor fellow. A first-class distance runner—I had that on expert advice, or I’d never have matched him with Chadwick. He trained uncommon hard for this race. Looked a cert when I watched him at Hackney Wick. His trainer was the best in England—Sam Monk.”

A nod to Constable Thackeray, who was busy with a notebook.

“So you take him on. Give him any cash at this stage?”

“That isn’t the practice. The prize money is generous enough. If Darrell won he would net five hundred, plus sidestakes.”

“And if he didn’t?”

“A hundred for second place. Fifty for third. The opposition didn’t amount to much.”

Cribb paused, while his assistant, a burly, middle-aged man with a fine grey beard, caught up with his note-taking.

“This newspaper.” He produced a copy of that day’s Star. “Read it?”

“Some of it.”

“The report on your affair?”

“Yes. I read that.”

“Substantially correct?” asked Cribb.

The pace of his questioning was straining Herriott, who faltered. The question was flashed at Jacobson.

“The details are right, yes. Some of the allusions to Mr. Herriott—”

“No matter. Darrell takes the lead after six hours. Right?”

“Yes.”

“Chadwick falls behind, and takes to running?”

Jacobson nodded.

“Not much resting till twenty-four hours are up?”

“Only for light meals.”

“Darrell’s wife—says here she visits him. He doesn’t stop?”

It seemed a very long time ago. Herriott took over the answers.

“T showed Mrs. Darrell around the arena. She didn’t want to interfere with the running.”

“You show her around? She wants to see his tent, I expect?”

“T simply introduced her to some of the officials. She knows most of us. We didn’t look into Darrell’s tent.”

Jacobson remembered. “Monk—that’s Darrell’s trainer—took Mrs. Darrell in there.”

The eyebrows jerked higher. “For long?”

“Oh, not much longer than five minutes.”

Constable Thackeray, finding the standing position awkward for writing, sat on the bed.

“Then she leaves?”

“As far as I can remember, yes.”

Cribb ran his finger down the newspaper which he was holding.

“The last hour. Darrell in poor shape. Foxing, is he?”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Jacobson answered. “His feet were troubling him. He took off his shoes before the end. Several of the runners were limping.”

“Monk attends him, I suppose? Gets him back in the tent at one o’clock?”

“Yes. Most of the competitors chose to rest at that stage.”

“Now then.” Cribb had dissected the report to his satisfaction, and tossed the paper in Thackeray’s direction. “Darrell comes out again. What time?”

“Soon after four.”

“How’s he looking?”

“Very good at that stage,” Herriott recalled. “He set off at a clinking pace. The feet seemed to have improved a lot.”

“Erratic?”

“T don’t think so. He seemed well in command, but full of energy.”

Cribb’s face lit into a momentary smile.

“Not surprising. Full of strychnine. Acts as a stimulant. The first spasm, now. When does that come?”

“That would have been about six.”

“Six. Is it now? Thought it might come earlier. Maybe the running makes a difference. Must check that.”

He patted the tip of his nose several times with his index finger.

“Time of death? No matter. I’ve got that.”

Herriott took the opportunity of a lull in the interrogation to raise a point that was troubling him deeply.

“Sergeant, this investigation. Does it mean that you will want me to cancel the race?”

“Cancel? Whatever for? Keep it going, Mr. Herriott. Keep it going as long as you can. Perfect for investigating a poisoning. Everyone’s here, you see. Might ask you to extend it into next week if I’m held up.”

Neither Jacobson nor Herriott was equal at this hour to the sergeant’s style of humour, so he turned to other matters.

“This man Monk. He’s the cove I’ve got to see.”

“You won’tlearn much from him,” commented Herriott. “The man is drunk. He took to the bottle this afternoon, drinking alone. He seemed to be doing it with the idea of getting stoned out of his mind. He fell into a stupor eventually, and then woke up and made a scene out there in the arena. I hauled him over to a spare hut. He’s sleeping it off there.”

“We’ll have him out, then. Must grill him at once. Get him sobered up and bring him to Darrell’s tent. ’Il see him there.”

Herriott had hoped for a chance to sleep after the questioning, but clearly he and Jacobson had been co-opted as members of the Detective Branch. Sergeant Cribb’s tone stifled protest.

“Another thing,” he snapped. “The second doctor, Mostyn-Smith. Hook him out of bed. We’ll hear his story while you dowse Monk.”

“Mostyn-Smith won’t be in bed,” said Jacobson. “He doesn’t normally rest for more than a half-hour. They say he gets his best walking done when the rest are sleeping. After this morning he’ll have a long stretch to make up.”

Cribb was not inconsiderate quite to the point of brutality.

“Lost some ground, did he? Can’t have him losing more, then. How long since you finished beat-bashing, Thackeray?”

The constable returned the look of a trapped bear.

“Three years, Sarge. The feet, you know.”

“Splendid. Should hold you up for a mile. Get out there with the Doc. You know the line of questioning. Not a word about the strychnine. We’ II keep that close at present. Understood, gents? Off you go, then.”

He passed each of the others his coat, and then tested the mattress of Darrell’s death-bed, heaved his long legs on to it and reclined there.

“T’ll have that cigar before you go, Mr. Herriott,” he said.

The gas had been turned down soon after midnight, perhaps to encourage competitors to retire for their short sleep, and so release the late shift of officials. By one-fifteen, only Mostyn-Smith, his long-suffering lap-scorer and a somnolent judge slumped in his chair occupied the arena. When the light in Chadwick’s tent was extinguished, the stunted blue flames on the chandeliers gave the scene a positively gloomy aspect. The little walker, at times hardly distinguishable in his black costume, strode busily around the white-edged circuit, as though performing some gnomic ritual.

Constable Edward Thackeray was not a man to be troubled by atmospheres, sinister or otherwise. His long career in the Force was blemished here and there by other shortcomings, but in situations that required a steady pulse he was exemplary. It had become accepted in every station at which he served (he was often moved) that Thackeray was the constable who attended the most gruesome occasions; he was a tower of strength at exhumations. This gift unhappily did not bring the promotion that he once expected, but it had, early in 1878, brought him on to the fringe of a murder investigation, leading to the arrest of the notorious Charles Peace. The formation of the Detective Branch soon afterwards, and the call for constables experienced in serious crimes, led to Thackeray’s present appointment. He was justly proud.

He approached the track and watched the solitary pedestrian for a full lap, assessing the rate of progress as a cautious swimmer tests the water. At length he recognized Cribb’s brisk step somewhere behind him, and this encouraged him to cross the arena to await Mostyn-Smith on the track itself. He stepped smartly away at the right moment, pace for pace with the walker, exchanged identities and then gave all his attention to the walk. The rate of progress was not excessive, but he found that to maintain it comfortably he had to swing his arms across his chest. That, in ulster and bowler-hat, embarrassed him a little. Somewhere in the shadows Cribb would be savouring the spectacle.

At length, inhibitions conquered, he opened the questioning.

“You are the doctor who attended the man that died?”

“T assisted. The official doctor was always in charge of the patient,” answered MostynSmith, speaking without strain.

“You was with him till the © end, though?”

“Yes, that is true.”

“What we need to know, Doctor, is whether he made statements of any sort while you attended him.”

There was a pause while they passed close to the lap-scorer.

“Not strictly statements,” Mostyn-Smith said. “The spasms were set off by the slightest movement, you see. Although he was fully conscious, we tried to discourage him from speech, even early in the condition. He did, however, make it clear, by the briefest utterances, that he could not understand the reason for his condition.”

“What was they, sir?”

Thackeray instinctively felt for his notebook, thought again, and let it drop back into the pocket.

“Oh, odd fragments. I remember that he said, ‘Never happened to me before.’ And later, ‘What causes this?’ Otherwise they were mostly exclamations of pain.”

The constable inhaled a gulp of air, committing the phrases to memory.

ANDY YELENAK

“Did you give the man anything to drink?”

“Warm tea, Officer. It sometimes helps.”

“Nobody else visited the room, I suppose?”

“Nobody else.”

“Thank you, sir. You didn’t know Mr. Darrell before the race?”

“Not at all.”

“T think that’s all then, sir. You carrying on like this for long?”

“Until Saturday. Good night to you.”

Thackeray eased his stride, and Mostyn-Smith padded cheerfully away into the gloom. The constable raised a leg and massaged his aching shin. At Cribb’s voice, immediately behind him, he dropped it like a guardsman.

“Watch it, Thackeray. Next event the high jump.”

A bleak smile greeted the sergeant.

“Right, then. What did you get while you were footing it?”

“Just as you thought, Sarge. Victim said very little, but enough to put suicide out of the question.”

They approached Darrell’s tent. Thackeray was moving forward to open the flap, when Cribb restrained him, raising a hand for silence. With the stealth of a brave he crept to the opening, loosened the flap and flung it open. Someone inside scrambled to his feet. It was a uniformed policeman.

“Never rest on duty,” Cribb advised him. “I might have held a knife, lad.”

The young constable sheepishly emerged to face a withering look from Thackeray. Cribb dismissed him to the Hall’s police office where the detectives had first swooped on him as he was drinking cocoa, earlier in the evening.

With the lamp ignited, Darrell’s tent made a passable interviewing room. As well as two chairs and a bedside table, which Thackeray at once rearranged, there was a gas-ring and kettle. Milk and a teapot were found in a small foodcupboard, which also contained bread, whisky, a tin of liniment, various potions, aleathery remnant of calf-bladder anda slice of strong-smelling cod. Still on the table were the bottle and mug from which Darrell had taken Monk’s “bracer.” Cribb sniffed at them charily and removed them to the cupboard.

“We’ll have every liquid analysed,” he announced. “Your job, Thackeray. Get ’em out at daybreak to a lab. Now where’s this trainer? Monk . . . Monk; heard of him, have you?”

“Can’t say that I have, Sarge. But that don’t mean a lot. On my earnings I ain’t what you’d call one of the Fancy.”

“Just as well,” Cribb reassured him. “But if you ever do lay a bet, remember this: four legs support a body better than two. I’ll trade foot-racing for a Newmarket sweep any day.”

There was the sound outside of scuffled footsteps. Walter Jacobson entered, half-supporting Sam Monk, a bedraggled figure, damp about the head and

shoulders. He deposited him in the waiting chair. He was about to seat himself on the still unmade bed when Cribb intervened.

“My thanks, sir. And now you—and Mr. Herriott” (the promoter had just heralded his entry by kicking a hip bath) “shall get some sleep. Busy day coming up, I dare say.”

After their exit, Thackeray fastened the flap and took a standing position behind Monk, resting his weight on the chair-back. The flickering light greatly magnified his shadow so that it loomed over the trainer like a shade from hell. It was not his intention to terrorize the man. He was there merely to see that Monk did not relapse into sleep. The worst that threatened was a timely prod.

“Your name Monk?” Cribb began, without much refinement.

“Yes.”

“You know who we are? Police officers.”

A wary glint in his eyes showed that the point had not escaped Monk.

“Making inquiries into the death of Charles Darrell.”

A pause, while Cribb studied his man.

“You’re fit to talk, are you?”

“Yes,” answered Monk without enthusiasm.

“Known him long, then?”

“Two year, off an on.”

“And took over his training . . . ?

“December, Seventy-seven. He managed himself up to then.”

“You made a better runner of him, though?”

Cribb’s brief study of Darrell’s career was helpful. The praise loosened Monk’s tongue a little.

“T taught him a bit. We was a good partnership, me and Charlie. He would have won this mix, no doubt of that. Bloody tragic, this is.”

“You prepared him well, then?”

“Never better. When Charlie toed the scratch last Sunday night he was set for six hundred. No doubt of it.”

Cribb shifted suddenly to the attack.

“What went wrong, then?”

“What d’ you mean, mister?”

“The man was limping by Monday night. That’s no champion.”

“Ah, foot trouble. Nought you can do about that. Blisters. I had ’em fixed, though. Likely he looked worse than he was. Charlie could be tricky, you know.”

“Right! Tuesday morning, one o’clock. He comes in here to sleep. What state is he in?”

The switch of tense and the sudden reminder where they were proved effective. From Monk’s expression it was clear that the scene flashed vividly into his mind’s eye.

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“Worried about them blisters. I said I’d fix them before he ran again, and then he was more content.”

“He doesn’t eat anything, or take a drink?”

“Not then. You see he’d taken the odd hunk of bread as he walked. All he needed was sleep.”

“Right. So what do you do then?”

“Me? Why, I left him, once he was comfy.”

“And then?”

“He slept.”

“And you?”

Monk’s eyes took on an opaque glaze.

“T passed the time till he woke.”

“How?” The point was not to be evaded.

“With a friend.”

“Tn here?”

“No. Finsbury Park. I took a cab. I went back by four, when Charlie needed to wake.”

“Lady?”

Monk confirmed the fact with a twitch of his features.

“Look, you can’t need her name. It ain’t important,” he appealed.

Out of his sight Thackeray removed one hand from the chairback and raised an inquiring eyebrow at Cribb. A nudge was imminent, but Cribb gave no consenting nod.

“We’ll leave her out of it for now. May need the name later, mind.”

He allowed Monk to relax, coaxing him out of his defensive stand.

“Tt’s coming up to four, then, and you go back to the Hall. Straight to Darrell?”

He tried to remember.

“T think . . . yes, I drank a coffee first, and talked to Chadwick’s trainer.”

“Small-talk?”

“Well, yes, trainers’ talk. I tried to get him to come to terms on an easy second day, but he wouldn’t. It would have helped Charlie’s feet, you see. Chadwick was a sight groggy on his pins after running, and I thought he’d see the sense of it.”

“You didn’t wrangle over it?”

“Oh no. I got back to Charlie to wake him sharp at four.”

“With a drink?” The query was slipped in, almost disinterestedly.

“T gave him a drop of something, yes.”

“That would be this.” Cribb reached to the cupboard and took out the bottle. “What’s in it?”

Monk shot a suspicious glance at the sergeant.

“Tt’s a kind of tonic. I make it myself, from sugar, brandy and liquorice. Helps them to stir themselves, you see. Every ped takes a bracer now and then.”

Cribb took a sniff at the liquid. Sediment at the base clouded the contents as the bottle was moved.

“What else is there in this?”

“That’s all,” Monk said.

Without any warning, Cribb snatched at Monk’s throat, grasped his muffler and pulled him forward.

“What else?”

The lamp above them, jerked by the movement, sent their shadows leaping about the tent.

“T don’t —”

Constable Thackeray leaned over Monk, his face so close that his beard rasped the trainer’s ear.

“Speak up!”

“Stimulants,” Cribb breathed at him. “Stimulants. We’ re not green, Monk.”

The grip tightened.

“All right, yes. I gave him a crystal.”

“Of what?”

“Some chemical. It never did no harm to him. I swear that.”

“What chemical?”

“The usual—strychnine. It livens up a man wonderful.”

There was something in the naivety of Monk’s answer that made Cribb relax his hold.

“You’ve used strychnine before?”

“Used it for years. I took it myself in my time. Small doses, mind.”

Cribb sat back in his chair, beating a tattoo with his boot as he weighed the effect of what had been said. Here was a complication—a development that irritated and intrigued him. He ought to have remembered that sportsmen, the real professionals who engaged in endurance contests, whether in pedestrianism, pugilism or the new craze of bicycling, were known to take stimulants. Vegetable alkaloids like atropine and strychnine, if taken in minute amounts, would revitalize flagging muscles.

He picked up the bottle.

“How much strychnine in here?”

“Enough to make a tired man nimble. I crushed a crystal and used half the powder.”

“And how much of this did Darrell drink?”

Monk reflected.

“He had a second mug. Well, you can see. The bottle was full up to there.”

“And this was the only lot he took?”

“That’s so.”

The sergeant paused again, studying Monk’s reactions, judging whether his calm was due to sluggishness, the alcohol in his veins, or whether he had rehearsed himself for questions like this.

“T’ll speak plainly, Monk. You’re in trouble. This could be manslaughter, and if it is, ?1l have you.”

For the first time, genuine alarm showed in the trainer’s eyes.

“You can’t get me for that! It’s not true. You can’t nail a man for a bloody illness! Tetanus ain’t my doing, no more than yours.”

Cribb opened the cupboard and replaced the bottle there.

“Ever heard of artificial tetanus?”

“What?”

“Artificial tetanus, Monk. That’s what killed Darrell. Strychnine poisoning.”

The trainer’s face twitched with shock, repeatedly.

Cribb continued: “The body of the man you livened up with strychnine was opened earlier today. Specimens were taken—fluids from the body. You understand? Some was fed to a rat. It was convulsed in minutes, and died very soon after. That man’s body contained strychnine, Monk. Not small amounts. Not half a powdered crystal. A massive dose. You tipped it in like sugar, did you?”

Monk was shaking his head, incapable of words.

Cribb persisted. “Where d’ you buy it?”

“Bethnal Green. Hayward—small chemist there.”

“How much?”

“Five crystals. No more, I swear it. I paid heavy for that.”

“T don’t doubt it. You signed for it?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s the rest, then?”

“Tn my room. I lodge at Hackney Wick. It’s in a phial there. That’s where I made up the bracer. Believe me mister.”

“We don’t need to. We can check. Address?”

“Rupert Street. 118.”

“Got that, Thackeray? Now, Monk. I want this straight. You’re telling us what’s in that bottle is not enough to kill a man. You gave him two mugfuls—”

“He asked for a second.”

“You gave him two. He drank nothing else?”

“Nor ate a thing. God’s truth.”

“You’re sure of this? We’ll get this down for you to sign. You made no mistake in mixing the liquid?”

“None. I done it careful.”

“T hope so for your sake. We’ll get it analysed in the morning. One other thing. When did you bring the bottle into the Hall?”

“Sunday night. Same day as I made the stuff. We was allowed in at ten to inspect the tents and dump our baggage.”

“Where did you put the bottle?”

“Tn the cupboard with the other stuff.”

“So it was there till the next night, when you took it out to revive Darrell?”

“Yes.”

There was no longer any hint of incoherence about Monk. The realization of his position had honed his reactions to razor sharpness.

Sergeant Cribb got to his feet. For the first time he spoke slowly, enunciating each word.

“We’ll check what you’ve said. I hope it’s gospel truth. Frankly, Monk, I know enough to hold you on suspicion of manslaughter. What I’ll do instead is ask you to stay in this building until I tell you otherwise. You’ ve been given a hut to sleep in, have you?”

“Some of the boys gave up in the first twenty-four hours. Mr. Herriott put me in a spare hut. I could ask to stay there.”

“Good. Get back to bed then. Keep off the liquor. There’s ways of sobering aman that act quicker than cold water. Don’t forget that. And don’t try leaving the Hall. I’ve men on the doors.” There were always police on duty at the Hall’s functions, but Cribb emphasized the point as though they had been brought in to act as warders for Monk.

Without speaking, Monk left the tent.

Thackeray, stiff after his exercise, took the vacant chair. Cribb sat on the bed, removing his boots.

“How’s the time?”

There was a music hall joke that constables on the beat, used to dealing with drunks in dark streets, acquired handsome watches early in their careers. Thackeray referred to his gold half-hunter.

“Three o’clock near enough, Sarge.”

“Good. There’s time to write the statement before you take this lot away for testing. Isaw pen and ink in the police office. You can check that the man there’s awake.” He raised his legs on to the bed and yawned. “Turn out the lamp before you go.”

Thackeray, wrestling with his private thoughts about a policeman’s lot, extinguished the flame. Before leaving, he addressed Cribb again.

“In the morning, Sarge, when I’m back from the lab—who do we see next?”

“Depends on the results. We have to find how he took the strychnine. Anyway, I must look up the man’s widow. I’ll do that before you get back.”

“She’s been told?”

“Oh yes. Told he’s dead. Thinks it was tetanus. Poor woman’s got a shock coming.” He turned over in bed, yawning again. “Wake me at four. I’ll have a coffee. For God’s sake watch what goes into it.”

CHAPTER 8

At four on Wednesday morning the lights were turned up and a bell was rung. This reveille had been arranged by Sol Herriott, before leaving for “a decent eight hours” in a hotel nearby. Already, in near-darkness at the Liverpool Road end, loyal friends and trainers were moving about the area of the huts, rousing their inhabitants. Their method of restoring consciousness had been well yanked from resisting hands. In hard cases the dripping cold sponge was employed. Soon, to a chorus of protesting obscenities, the huts themselves were illuminated. The ministering angels flitted among them, bearing away buckets that steamed in the night air, returning for milk from the communal churn, igniting the gas-rings, and all the time growling deterrents to further sleep.

After clearing their tins of groats and broth, and submitting to painful reunions with their boots, the slit-eyed champions hobbled, stiff and shivering, towards the arena. Billy Reid led the parade; his brother made sure of that. Gaffney and Lawton, two silent northerners who had survived so far, but without threatening the others, followed. Reid’s wily co-tenant, looking the freshest of the bunch, was just ahead of the final trio, Chalk, Williams and O’ Flaherty, who were discussing tactics.

“Chadwick wants nobblin’,” Williams was suggesting, “and it wants to be when there ain’t no crowd about. ’E’s on our bloody track now. We’ re soft as cheese if we don’t fix the bugger.”

“You can’t,” O’Flaherty told him. “There’s too many eyes on him all the time, mate. You’d be out of the race before you’d lifted your boot. That trainer of his never moves from the track. And there’s too many of the Fancy witha good book on Chadwick now that Darrell’s gone. They’d do bloody murder to you.”

“Not if we got ’im now, before first light.”

“No chance. I tell you the trainer sees everything. Now look at the crowd there already—clockers, lapmen, bloody Jacobson. We’ d best keep it straight, I say. Warm it up for him. He might strain a sinew.”

The Half-breed spat contemptuously.

“That bugger ain’t crackin’ unless we stop *im.”

Chalk now intervened.

“Yes, you fix ’im this mornin’ and what bloody ’appens? I’ll tell you. They call off the bloody show, and you get blistered dogs for nothing. Don’t be so soft. They’d never keep the race going another four days for us to scoop the bloody pool. If Chadwick goes before Saturday so do the rest of us.”

There was a convincing ring to this argument, and Williams lapsed into gloomy silence.

“Good sleep, Feargus?” Chalk airily continued.

“Better than the first night. The smell of carbolic gets into me, though. Stops me breathing right.”

“Did you see Double-barrell?”

“Not at all. I don’t think he’d dare come near while I’m there. I’m going to pole-axe the little devil when I catch him. What sort of doctor is he, anyway? Tetanus, says he, and gets every hut scrubbed so’s you can’t exercise your nostrils decently. Then when it’s all done and stinking like the workhouse they tell us Darrell died of the poison. Doctor? I shouldn’t wonder if he dosed the man with strychnine himself. Look at him there now. Can you see that in frockcoat and spats?”

They watched Mostyn-Smith, red-faced and shaggy-bearded, complete another circuit in his eccentric style. It was indeed difficult to visualize him sitting dignified in a doctor’s gig; visiting the sick.

As the pedestrians reached the track they signalled to the lap-takers that they were ready. Erskine Chadwick left his tent suitably groomed (he was the one man in the race who was shaved each morning) and looking deceptively alert in freshly laundered kit. Only when he took up his starting stance automatically on the inner track was his tiredness betrayed. Raucous reminders from his fellow-travellers caused Harvey, who was also yawning, to re-route the Captain. By the time he had caught a lap-taker’s eye he was the last to get away.

Sergeant Cribb at about this time fell victim to his own efficiency. He had been awakened at four exactly by Thackeray, bearing a coffee made as he liked it, with a mere trace of milk and sugar. It was his plan to spend an hour in bed reviewing Monk’s statement and deciding how the investigation should proceed. But Thackeray returned with a crate from the police office and began noisily packing it with the contents of the food cupboard. When the job was completed, Cribb’s concentration was shattered. Resignedly, he reached for his boots.

“Finished, then? Hump the stuff back to the office. We’ ll get some breakfast if they serve it here. Restaurant’s near the office.”

“T’ve got to get to the lab at Saville Street, Sarge.”

“That’s easily done. I’ve to see the widow. Drop you off on the way.”

Cribb was obliged to wait in the hall of the Darrell residence at Finsbury Park. Mrs. Darrell, the servant told him, would not be a few moments. Twelve minutes later (he cynically tested her estimate on the watch) he was shown into the morning-room. Cora Darrell was seated in an upright armchair, sewing a black veil on to a hat. Formalities were exchanged. Cribb expressed his sympathy.

Peter Lovesey WOBBLE TO DEATH ® 109

“Sorry to disturb you, too. Visitors aren’t wanted at these times. However—”

As though she shared his wish to get to the point, Cora interrupted:

“Tt’s that man Monk, isn’ tit? He has been to you, has he? I thought he might, when he heard I was taking a lawyer’s advice. Well it makes no difference, no difference at all. We shall prepare a case and sue for negligence. It isn’t only the loss of my husband, tragic as that is. There is money—a great deal of money— involved. Except for Monk and his disgusting carelessness, we should have been richer by almost a thousand pounds. What does he hope to gain by speaking to you people? I shan’t say anything, you know.”

A comment crossed Cribb’s mind. In other circumstances he might have made it. Before the thought shifted, Cora began again.

“Ttisn’t a police matter, anyway. The man failed in his duty as a trainer. Have you seen the newspapers? He allowed my Charles to run barefoot around that disgraceful track. That was inviting tetanus. How could Charles have realized the danger, after twenty-four hours of running? It was Monk’s job, and he failed. If I get nothing back in compensation I] still see that he never works as trainer again. Do they have licences, that can be taken away?”

“T think you should hear what I have to say,” Cribb replied. “The reason I came—it wasn’t tetanus, madam. The tests last night showed up something else. Your husband died of strychnine poisoning.”

Cribb’s statement stunned her into silence. For a moment he thought she would faint. He looked round for the bell-rope, but her colour returned.

“T cannot begin to understand. You mean he ate—”

“Or drank, ma’am. We are testing all the food and drink in the tent.”

She drew in her breath, seizing on a conclusion.

“This is wicked! Wicked! That trainer killed my husband! It’s worse now, far worse. He had the feeding of Charles. Nobody else touched the food. Poison, you say. Did he let poison get into the food that Charles ate? I thought it was dangerous, the stuff he gave him. Charles wouldn’t admit it, oh no. Everybody took some, he said.”

“What do you mean, Mrs. Darrell?”

“Drinks to restore their strength—dangerous drinks. You know it’s the practice among pedestrians to take them. Oh, I warned Charles, but what was the use? If Monk only once made a mistake—he drinks heavily, you know— itcould turn a tonic into a fatal dose. You’ ve talked to him, have you? I suppose he denies it. I shall sue him, though. Criminal negligence—that’s what it is. I shall see my solicitor.”

“You knew Mr. Monk had prepared something for your husband to drink during the race?”

“Well, yes. It was his practice.”

“Your husband. He was content to leave this to Monk?”

Cora’s bitterness was turning to remorse. She dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

“So often I asked him to be careful.”

“Had he taken strychnine on other occasions?”

“Well yes. He was a professional, Sergeant. He ran for large amounts of money. If he wanted to compete on level terms with the others he had to resort to similar aids. The whole thing terrified me—I couldn’t sleep for worrying— but I couldn’t stop him. He always said it only made him feel better. If it hurt, he would stop.”

Another tear trickled down.

“How long had he been taking this stuff?”

“He only took it in long-distance races. The first time was in Manchester, two years ago. Since then he must have run in a dozen really long races.”

Now that her emotional outburst had subsided, Mrs. Darrell was becoming coherent. Cribb needed more information.

“Tf the trainer was to blame,” he said, “I need to know why. Why so clumsy this time? Man’s got a reputation. Best trainer in England, he’s said to be. Should know about tonics. Why should he go wrong this time?”

“I only know that he drinks more than he should.”

“Tipped in too much when he’d been on the beer? Possible. We’ re having the bottle tested, of course.” He tapped his chin pensively. “Now suppose Monk didn’t make any mistake. Your husband wasn’t suicidal, was he?”

“Goodness no!” Cora exclaimed in indignation, taking this as a personal slur. “Charles had everything to live for. A successful career, happy marriage, a fortune to be won.”

“No debts, then? Have to ask, you see.”

“No debts,” she replied, coolly.

“And his state of mind when the race started?”

“He was confident of winning. Monk had worked him hard. I’ve never known him so well-prepared.”

“Makes it even stranger that Mr. Monk should slip up, doesn’t it? Now Isee from the newspaper that you visited the Hall Monday afternoon. Made quite a stir, by this account.”

Cora blushed with pleasure, clearly wondering which paper Cribb had read. She couldn’t really ask him.

“Yes, I wanted to watch Charles. He was running very well. I’m sure he wasn’t worried by anything.”

“You spoke to him?”

“No. Not to Charles. He was running, you see. I wasn’t there to interrupt his performance.”

“You did speak to Mr. Monk, I believe.”

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“Yes.” She had coloured again, only slightly, but Cribb noticed. “He showed me the living arrangements.”

“You haven’t always been opposed to Mr. Monk?”

She had recovered her poise.

“T was civil to the man. I asked to see the tent. I wanted to be sure it was comfortable.”

“Of course,” said Cribb. ““And was it?”

He had not forgotten his own short retirement in the tent. But he, too, could be evasive when it suited him.

“T was surprised by the accommodation.”

“Tell me, Mrs. Darrell,” Cribb replied. “Was there any bottle or container visible in the tent?”

“None—except when I asked to see the cupboard. There were a number of bottles in there. I noticed the one that Monk uses for his tonic—a large green one.”

“Oh, you did? What time would this have been?”

“T can’t really recall. It must have been about four o’clock.”

“Mr. Monk—was he acting normally?”

“As far as I know, yes.”

Cribb got to his feet.

“Well, Mrs. Darrell. Thank you for your help. I’m sorry that my news was distressing. We’ re making tests to discover how he got the poison. I can let you know—”

“You are so kind.” Cora rang for the maid. “One other matter, Sergeant. My husband’s personal things—his watch, his cufflinks and things. I wouldn’t want them to be lost.”

“No worry, ma’am,” Cribb reassured her. “There are constables guarding the tent. No one goes in there but me or my assistant.”

“Then I could collect these things?”

“Tf you wish. Otherwise I could put them in the office.”

“T shall come this afternoon.” She spoke decisively.

“Begging your pardon, I should make it this evening if you can, ma’am. If you get there quite late there should be no crowds. You won’t want to be bothered by extra publicity. The newspaper people would pester you. Best about ten, if you can get someone to drive you down to Islington.”

“You are right, of course. I shall come late, as you suggest.”

“T’ll tell my man to expect you. May be around myself.”

The maid, who had entered with Cribb’s overcoat, hat and umbrella, was surprised by a theatrical wink from Cribb, out of her mistress’s view, as he made the last remark. She returned a half-smothered smile and handed him the coat.

When the morning-room door was closed on Cora, and the maid stood in the hallway with Cribb he winked again, and pointed a thumb at the door.

“Keeps you busy, answering doors, does she? Plenty of visitors?”

A second less disguised giggle told Cribb what he suspected.

“When the master’s in training, eh?”

A hand flew to her mouth and suppressed more laughter. In the narrow passage as she opened the door Cribb nudged her gently in the ribs.

“When’s your night off?”

“Monday—night before last.”

The girl sounded despondent, but Cribb, with the information he wanted, gave a third broad wink, took his umbrella and bowler, and stepped away down the street. ©1970 by Peter Lovesey. Reprinted with permission of the author and Gelfman Schneider Literary Agents, Inc.

Andy Yelenak’s drawings on pages 100 and 110 were created for this reprinting.

Part V of Wobble to Death will appear in the September/October issue.

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