Wobble to Death (11 page)

Inside the hut where Monk’s body was found, Cribb was grappling with blankets on the floor when Thackeray arrived.

‘Come on, man. Help me get this lot back on the bed,’ he said, a little breathlessly. ‘Had to have ’em off. Checking. Heard about Monk?’

‘I came as quick as I could, Sarge. Looks as if this ties it all up neat. Sad business, though.’

The two detectives between them deposited the blankets, and then themselves, on the bed.

‘Out of condition, both of us,’ declared Cribb. ‘Could do with a turn or two round the track.’ Abruptly becoming seri-ous, he added, ‘You saw Monk yesterday, after I left you. What was he like?’

‘Like?’ queried Thackeray.

‘His state. Drinking then, wasn’t he?’

‘Oh yes. He’d taken a glass or two, but he talked well enough, Sarge.’

‘Depressed?’

‘I didn’t think so at the time, but I’m not really a judge of such things. My wife always—’

‘You asked to search his place?’

‘Yes. He gave me a key at once. Said there wouldn’t be anyone else there. He also told me where to find the phial of strychnine, and it was there, exactly where he said.’

Thackeray produced the tube of glass from his pocket. Cribb took it carefully, held it in front of his face, and turned it slowly, watching the repositioning of the few crystals inside as though it was a water-snowstorm in a glass globe.

‘There they are then. He spoke truth,’ said Cribb.

‘I went on to the chemist he spoke of,’ continued the con-stable. ‘The man knew him by name. He remembered sup-plying the strychnine last Friday too. Said he does a bit of business with the trainers from around there. He knows they use the strychnine for making up tonics for the pedes-trians, but, as he says, he’s only supplying very small amounts, and he’s careful about telling them of its dangers. They all sign the book—’

‘Book? Monk had signed for it?’

Thackeray nodded.

‘Take a look at this, then.’ Cribb picked up the note that Jacobson had found. ‘Same signature?’

Thackeray squinted at it, scratching his beard.

‘Positively the same, Sarge.’

‘Hm.’ Cribb seemed suddenly elated. ‘Did you look through the book?’

Thackeray beamed virtuously.

‘I found seven previous entries in Monk’s name in the last four years. They was all for the same quantity, Sarge.’

‘Capital work. He was a regular customer, then?’

‘Yes—and each time he collected strychnine he was preparing a ped for a long walk or mix. The chemist told me he made sure of that.’

‘Did he now?’

‘And I questioned him about other sources of supply,’ continued the constable, stressing his efficiency, ‘and he told me he didn’t know of another chemist his side of London who would sell a man strychnine, unless he was a doctor.’

Cribb was in good humour now. He had quite recovered from being brought out so early.

‘Excellent, Thackeray! We’re making progress.’

The constable glowed.

‘Now! On your knees, man,’ Cribb continued. Thackeray’s mouth dipped at the sides, to underline exactly the shape of his moustache. ‘Look for a pencil. I’ve had no luck. Man like you should find it if it’s here.’

‘I’ve got one in my pocket,’ Thackeray replied, much deflated. ‘You can borrow that.’

The sergeant slowly shook his head.

‘Not your pencil, Thackeray, and not mine. I want Monk’s. Else what did he write this note with? There was none in his pockets, and I’ve been through everything else here.’

Slightly mollified, Thackeray stooped to search for the piece of evidence. Three unsuccessful minutes later he looked up again at Cribb.

‘Sarge, it ain’t here, I’m sure. You know, it could be that he wrote the note some time earlier. Wasn’t he drunk, any-way, when Jacobson brought him back here?’

‘True,’ said Cribb. ‘Staggering drunk. I had to confirm there’s no pencil here though. Means he wrote the letter some hours previous. Jacobson brings him in, too scuppered to stand straight, and dumps him on the bed. Some time after Jacobson’s left, he gets up, produces his note from somewhere, and puts it out on the cupboard. Then he shuts the air-vent, turns on the lamp and the gas-ring and gets back on the bed. D’you see it happening, Thackeray?’

The constable got to his feet.

‘Well, a man can come round quite quick, Sarge. He did that night we questioned him. He wasn’t found until after four. That’s five hours since Jacobson dumped him.’

‘All right. So it’s not impossible, even if we think it unlikely. Let’s assume that’s the way he did it. Now tell me why.’

‘Why, Sarge? Well, it’s in the note, ain’t it? He was so depressed after killing Darrell he took his own life.’

‘So you think Monk killed Darrell?’

Thackeray rubbed his forehead. Either the sergeant was being impossibly naive, or too subtle for him to follow.

‘Think back to yesterday morning, when we questioned Monk,’ explained Cribb. ‘If the man killed Darrell acciden-tally, then he was lying to us. He swore that he put no more strychnine into that bottle than would have helped revive a tired man. You checked the phial and it contains the num-ber of crystals he said it would. The rest, as he told us, had gone into the tonic. Yet somehow the tonic gets a monstrous helping of strychnine—much more than Monk collected from the chemist this time, or in four years together. Now then,’ and Cribb’s voice was raised in enthusiasm, ‘if Monk added more strychnine it wasn’t an accident. It was murder, Thackeray.’

‘But the note,’ protested Thackeray. He picked it up. ‘“This is to show how sorry I am. I did not mean him to die”—and that’s in Monk’s own hand.’

Cribb rubbed his hands vigorously.

‘Exactly! We’ve got a case, man—double murder very likely. Don’t look depressed. Murder and suicide at the very worst.’

CHAPTER
11

They had taken protective measures. Chadwick’s shins had been badly bruised, and cut in places. Now they were well-padded under his stockings. It was difficult to do much for his ribs, which had taken a buffeting, but he had learned to adapt his arm-action to protect them. And little could be done about the baulking each time he tried to overtake one of the others. Three or four times they had almost forced him into the crowd. Of course, the mob applauded all this; it was not often that one of the upper classes was exposed to public ridicule.

And that confounded Irishman was getting through each time, picking up a few yards every lap. He seemed not to tire, or blister, and he took only the shortest rests.

Of one thing Harvey was certain: it was the last race that Chadwick would run. Each time the Captain returned to his tent he was more defeated in spirit. The zest for sheer phys-ical mobility, the joy of clipping along the Bath Road through a summer night, had been killed absolutely. Chadwick would take his money and retire. They had been fine times for both of them: Harvey mounted, with sponge, vinegar and a change of clothes, and the Captain out there ahead, conquering the mile-posts.

This race was to blame for everything. It had been cursed from the start. Two men had died. Another, finer man, was being broken. And all around was squalor, squalid people, squalid sounds, squalid smells.

Harvey turned away from the track, and went into the tent.

‘The body of a man was brought here early this morning from the Agricultural Hall, Sergeant. I believe that you are in charge of the investigation.’

‘Already there on another case, Doctor. This death appears to be connected with the death of Charles Darrell, a professional runner. I shall investigate both, unless I’m otherwise ordered.’

‘There is a matter that you should know, then, relat-ing to the body of Samuel Monk. I have not yet made a full examination, but what I discovered is sufficiently important, I think, for you to be informed at once. The head, Sergeant, bears the sign of a blow inflicted before death, but not long before. I think you should see this for yourself.’

Cribb was ushered into the chill room where the body lay, stripped of clothing, on a bench, attended by a mortu-ary official, well wrapped in an ulster and scarf.

‘The hair appears to have been arranged to cover the wound,’ explained the doctor, ‘but, as you can observe here, there is blood and considerable discoloration. I would esti-mate that a blow of such force, here below the crown, would render a man senseless.’

‘Could he have fallen?’ asked Cribb. ‘We know he was drunk.’

‘I think not. There are no secondary bruises on other areas of the body. By the shape of the wound I would sug-gest that the poor fellow was struck from behind with a bar-shaped implement, somewhat thicker than a poker.’

‘And died soon after, of gas-poisoning,’ added Cribb.

‘That I shall confirm when I have made a full examination, Sergeant. The wound seemed to suggest foul play, and I thought it correct to inform you at the earliest opportunity.’

‘I’m deeply obliged.’

Cribb replaced his hat, and hurried out to hail a cab.

This meeting was staged with some formality. Chairs and a table had been set out in the centre of the hall, and it was not long before the thirty seats were taken. Expectation buzzed about the gathering, but there was silence when Herriott and Jacobson walked in, and took their positions at the table.

‘I shall not keep you long, gentlemen,’ Herriott began, hitching his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets, ‘for I am as sensitive to atmospheres as you.’

He ventured a laugh, which was not taken up. The Press were there for a statement, not amusement.

‘I am here with Mr Jacobson, the manager of this event, to make an announcement of some importance. You will have heard no doubt—indeed, you will have reported in your newspapers by now—that a trainer, Mr Sam Monk, the attendant of the late Mr Darrell, was himself found dead in one of the huts early this morning. He died of the effects of gas. A note was found in the hut suggesting that he had taken his own life.

‘These tragedies, gentlemen—one following so swiftly on the other—have shocked and saddened us all. Jacobson and I have given much thought to the future of the race, in the light of these misfortunes. We are not insensitive to the sug-gestions which have been made, not least by some of your-selves, that the race should now be called off, out of respect to the so recently deceased.

‘But we have another obligation which we are bound to consider, gentlemen. That is our obligation to the living— to the nine plucky travellers who are at the moment more than halfway through the journey that they commenced last Monday morning. We had to decide whether we could bring ourselves to tell these gallant sportsmen that their efforts were to be terminated, and the race cancelled. I ask you now, gentlemen. Would Charles Darrell or Sam Monk have asked for the race to be terminated? I think not. I think they would wish to see a conclusion. And that is the reason why I now announce that the Six-Day Race will con-tinue as planned. But out of respect to their two colleagues the remaining competitors will be asked to wear black arm-bands. That is all I have to say at this time, but possibly you have some questions for us?’

The response was immediate.

‘Is it not a fact, Mr Herriott,’ asked a reporter who had not been seen in the Hall before that afternoon, ‘that you are persisting with your promotion at the command of the detective police, so that they may investigate certain irregu-larities in the two deaths?’

Herriott instantly disliked the man.

‘I do not know your name, sir—’

‘Pincher, of the
New Examiner.

’

‘Thank you, Mr Pincher. The answer to your question is that the police have agreed to allow the race to go on. They have certain routine investigations to complete, and it will be convenient for them to conduct these here as the race continues.’

Pincher was still on his feet.

‘You say “routine investigations”. Do you deny absolutely the rumour at present circulating that Mr Darrell’s death was not an accident, but manslaughter, or even murder?’

‘That is for the police to decide, sir. Does any other gen-tleman have a question?’

‘Yes.’ A reporter in the front row spoke. ‘Is it true that Mr Monk steadfastly denied being responsible for Charles Darrell’s death?’

‘I believe that is so.’ Herriott did not like the drift of the questions.

‘Then do you have the right to ask the pedestrians in your promotion to honour the memory of a man who now appears to have lied about the death of one of their col-leagues?’

It was a difficult point. But Herriott was at his best.

‘Gentlemen, we are not detectives. We are not competent to judge Mr Monk. If negligence is proved, that may alter our opinion. But until that is the case, I shall respect his memory as I respect Mr Darrell’s. Our system of justice is founded on similar principles. Shall we now confine our dis-cussion to the world of the living? Are there any inquiries from you about the progress of the race, which, I need hardly remind you, is now entering a most interesting phase?’

The Press were not so easily deflected. Pincher stood up again.

‘Since you do not propose to discuss the two deaths that have occurred during your promotion, perhaps you will say something about your arrangements for the’—he paused— ‘safety and health of the participants.’

Herriott did not recognise the trap.

‘Certainly—’

‘In that case,’ snapped Pincher, ‘would you explain how the two doctors who are allegedly in attendance during this event failed to recognise the symptoms of strychnine poi-soning when Charles Darrell collapsed?’

It was a neat manoeuvre. Herriott did not disguise his annoyance.

‘Gentlemen. Mr Darrell’s collapse was fully discussed when you questioned me yesterday. If some of you were not then present’ (he glared at Pincher) ‘I do not regard it as my duty to apprise you now of matters which were disposed of then. Is there another question, please?’

Clearly, Herriott would not be drawn.

‘I have a question for Mr Jacobson.’ The speaker was another newcomer.

Herriott turned towards the manager, hoping he was equal to the inquisition. Jacobson got to his feet.

‘I believe, sir,’ said the reporter, ‘that you were the last to see Mr Monk alive.’

‘That is true.’

‘It would be interesting to know whether he made any confession of negligence in the matter of Mr Darrell’s death.’ ‘He made none, sir, beyond what was written in the note.’ ‘Ah yes. Is it true, Mr Jacobson, that the trainer was—not to mince words—in a drunken state when you left him?’

‘He had been drinking, I think, yes.’

There was laughter.

‘We have it on good evidence, sir, that you were holding him up.’

Jacobson nodded uncomfortably.

‘I provided some support.’

Herriott was on his feet, and shouting. ‘I refuse to allow this cross-examination to continue. If you want it in plain words, Monk was blind to the world, and Jacobson got him to bed. He was found in the morning, five hours later, when gas was smelt by one of the competitors. That is
all
that we have to say on this matter.’

At once a dozen of the audience hurried from the Hall. Fleet Street’s crime division had got its statement on the Islington Deaths Mystery, and the genuine sporting corre-spondents were left to extract what they could for their columns. By stages, Herriott became less hostile, and answered questions on the daily attendances, the status of Chadwick, and the plans for the victory ceremony. Only when a question was put to him about the cramped accom-modation did another outburst threaten. Fortunately, Jacobson tugged at Herriott’s arm, and after a short consul-tation, the promoter announced:

‘This is a matter which has been our concern since the commencement of the race. Happily I can now disclose that we shall be able this evening to re-allocate the vacated huts. It will no longer be necessary for the competitors to share accommodation.’

Feeling this was a positive achievement, Herriott closed the meeting.