Wobble to Death (10 page)

Herriott stood with Jacobson, basking in the sweet din of several thousand voices. A uniformed attendant touched his arm.

‘Pardon me, Mr Herriott. Lady at the entrance, asking to speak to you, sir.’

Cora Darrell, now in full mourning, was waiting with her maid-servant. Herriott guided them into an office at the entrance.

‘I need hardly say—’ began Herriott.

She cut him short.

‘Yes. The shock has been very hard to bear. I am afraid I said things yesterday that I now regret. You understand I didn’t know the full circumstances. I was not myself.’

‘Of course,’ he conceded. ‘You were exceedingly dis-tressed. I could see that. The incident is quite forgiven, quite forgotten. And now tell me how I can assist you.’

‘I came to collect Charles’s personal things,’ Cora explained. ‘The detective said that I should come late to avoid the newspaper people. I want to go out to the tent without attracting public attention. Would you escort me, Sol?’

‘I shall be most honoured. Is there much to collect? Could I bring the things here for you?’

‘No. I want to go myself. Taylor shall carry the suitcase for me. I have a cab calling again in an hour to convey us back to the house.’ She paused, hesitating over a question. ‘Is Sam Monk still in the building? I cannot face him.’

He touched her forearm reassuringly.

‘You shall not see the man, Cora. He has not been allowed near the tent since . . . I saw him early this evening, drinking liquor heavily. He is probably quite inebriated by now. Shall we go at once? This is a time when we will not be noticed.’

They were able to pass easily and discreetly through the crowd, who were moving homewards and unlikely to connect a veiled widow with the mirthful entertainment that they had just left. In one respect, however, Herriott had miscalcu-lated. As they turned into the passageway between two stands, leading to the tracks, Sam Monk faced them. He was reaching for support from the side of the stand, and miscal-culating the distance. His other hand gripped a half-empty bottle and the contents slopped each time he moved. Although he stood across the passage a yard or two from them, his eyes were held fish-like, unable to vary their focus. Cora automatically stopped short, and drew back behind Herriott’s ample form.

Fortunately there was no confrontation. Behind Monk, silhouetted in the square of light at the arena entrance, appeared Walter Jacobson. Finding himself alone in the cen-tre, he was making a strategic move to more obscure regions of the Hall. The snap of Herriott’s fingers halted him.

‘Walter! Good fellow. Get this man into his hut, will you? He has to stay here. Police orders. I gave him the end hut, farthest from the others being used. You can manage? Good.’

Cursing himself for choosing that exit at that moment, Jacobson took a firm grip on Monk’s jacket-collar, and led him, unprotesting, towards the Liverpool Road end. Herriott apologised to Cora, and they moved on, into the arena. Cora’s entrance, shrinking between her maid, Taylor, and Herriott, was so unrelated to her arrival in the stadium two days ago that if the band had broken into a fanfare she could have moved on unrecognised. As it was, the little group stepped across the tracks and up to the constable at the tent. After a word of explanation Cora and Taylor were admitted and the lamp inside was ignited for them. Herriott returned to the lap-takers, to settle the next day’s roster.

The band were now taking longer rests, wishing away the minutes remaining until midnight, when their stint finished. And in these intervals between light operatic selections and waltzes (marches had been abandoned at the manager’s request when the pace of the baton outstripped the com-petitors) the shouts from the crowd began to echo with increasing resonance. The Hall was emptying steadily. The walkers themselves kept moving, but without the same impetus. Young Reid, who had been much encouraged by reaching the ‘halfway mark’ drew level with Williams, now wincing with each step. His attempt to open a conversation was repudiated with an obscenity, so he stepped out towards Chalk, who was in better shape.

‘Good crowd tonight, wasn’t they?’

Chalk nodded. ‘You’ll find that, young’un. If you can keep on your feet through the first three days, the crowd carries you ’ome.’

‘You think they’ll still come?’

‘Oh yes. Long as we give ’em a show. Always get a lot of ’em at the end of a mix. Like ’errings in a barrel on the last day. You’ll see, if you’ve got any legs left.’

‘There’s a lot dropped out,’ agreed Reid. ‘Felt like it myself till tonight. Half the huts is empty now, you know.’ ‘I’ve seen. It’s time they let us ’ave one to ourselves. I’ve ’ad my fill of sharing. Got one of those bloody tykes with me. Don’t say much, and when ’e do I can’t make out a bloody word. Found him ’aving a nip of my grog last night. I could’ve bloody felled ’im if I’d been feeling right.’

‘You think we might get a chance of a hut each?’ asked Reid, suddenly seeing a prospect of relief from his own room-mate’s cynicism.

‘If they didn’t ’and ’em out to bloody trainers, we might. You see bloody Monk in the end one? Poisons Darrell and they give ’im a hut to ’imself for it. Should be sleeping in the gutter, a bastard like that.’

‘You think he meant to do Darrell in?’

‘Don’t bloody matter. Either way the man’s a bastard. If you can’t trust a bloody trainer to mix a drink he ought to be made to take a powder ’imself. Sam Monk!’ He spat, to punctuate the name. ‘If that bugger ever wants another job ’e’d better go round the stables. No ped in London’s going to ’ire a gimcrack bastard that killed one of the best path-men to put on a shoe.’

After that moving eulogy to their dead colleague both men continued in silence until the lights were lowered and they could return to their shared sleeping-berths.

The Pedestrian Contest at Islington

POSITIONS AT THE END OF THE THIRD DAY

M. Jenkins (200 miles), W. Holland (192 miles) and C.

Jones (188 miles) retired from the race.

CHAPTER
10

‘You will pardon me, O’Flaherty?’

The dreamer stirred, disturbed by the voice.

‘I think you should be rousing yourself, my friend. The race, you know. I have just left the track. Chadwick’s light is on . . .’

O’Flaherty parted his eyelids. Mostyn-Smith was sitting near by, still in his black outfit, eating a breakfast prepared from some herbal recipe. Harshly this unromantic scene displaced the one in O’Flaherty’s mind. He stretched, tugged the blankets away and rose, yawning.

‘I don’t know how you stay on your feet on half an hour’s rest,’ he said to Mostyn-Smith, half in admiration, half resentment.

‘If you think it out mathematically,’ came the answer, between spoonfuls, ‘you will realise that my half-hour is in fact only one hour less than your three. I rest, you see, for four half-hours in twenty-four, whereas you take a single rest-period of three hours, except when your natural func-tions otherwise compel you to stop.’

The logic of this was too sophisticated for the Irishman in his present state. He moved to the door, dimly recalling that the washing facilities were behind the huts. Mostyn-Smith raised a restraining hand.

‘Footwear, O’Flaherty. You should not walk barefoot in those fetid pools outside. I admit to being mistaken about poor Darrell’s demise, but the danger of tetanus remains.’

O’Flaherty returned without a word for his socks and boots. The experience of sharing with Double-barrel had not turned out as he once expected, with the little man jumping at the sound of his voice. O’Flaherty’s prestige would not easily recover from the incident of the carbolic. When his feet were safely shod, he ventured, shivering, outside.

The washing arrangements for the eight pedestrians still in residence at the huts consisted of four buckets and a tap, at knee-height. Two additional buckets were kept behind a wood-and-sacking construction.

O’Flaherty turned the tap to fill a bucket. The water was icy. He carried his bucket some yards from the tap, to escape the odour from nearby. He cupped his hands, and lifted some water to his face, leaning over the bucket with legs astride to avoid the drops that fell. The contact was chilling, but revived him too. It was the first wash he had given him-self in twenty-four hours. Such refinements as footbaths and shaves were impossible without an attendant to heat the water. He straightened, shaking the water from his eyes. Then he breathed in, deeply.

There was a familiar, unpleasant smell in the air that had nothing to do with the stench from the latrines.

O’Flaherty coughed to empty his lungs. He inhaled again, speculatively. He was certain now. Gas. But where was its source? He looked around him. He could see only water-piping. Then he wheeled round, and decided what had happened. The huts themselves had been fitted with gas for lighting and cooking. The escape was from the hut behind him, one of those left empty when runners had retired from the competition. The smell was penetrating the wooden sides.

There was no time to investigate; Chadwick might be on the track already, adding to his lead. O’Flaherty walked back to his hut.

Mostyn-Smith was already asleep. Like some weird fakir he seemed to go into and out of unconsciousness at will. He was a queer cove all right. O’Flaherty felt as uncomfortable when he was like this as when he was conscious. Without sitting, he bolted some ripe cheese and bread, swigged at a bottle which he had now taken to hiding among his spare boots, and left for the track.

It was not so late as he feared. Chadwick was still in the tent being fussed over by his trainer. Only Billy Reid was in action so far; his brother usually made sure he was the first. From behind O’Flaherty came the voices of other competi-tors returning without enthusiasm, donkeys to the tread-mill. Several officials were in the centre, commiserating with each other over their inhuman hours of duty. To their left, Jacobson stood alone. The early start was equally repel-lent to him, but as manager he could hardly join the com-plainers. So he stood alone with hands deep in his overcoat pockets, collar turned up to hide unshaven jowls, and legs flexing to combat the draughts. O’Flaherty approached him. ‘There’s an unholy smell of gas coming from one of the huts. Someone left a tap on, I should say.’

Jacobson responded without much interest.

‘Where?’

‘The end one. In front of the wash-place. Smelt it when I was there a few moments back.’

‘Very well. I’ll take a walk that way in a moment.’

O’Flaherty nodded and returned to the track. Chadwick had still not appeared, so he set off at a jog-trot. At this rate he might cut back the eight miles by Friday.

Jacobson consulted his watch, and nodded to Chadwick as he made his appearance. Then he strolled away towards the hut the Irishman had indicated. Only when he was a few yards away did his lethargic thought-processes seize on the significance of that particular hovel. He hurried towards the closed door. The whiff of gas was strong around it. The door was stiff, and he used his shoulder. As it swung inwards, an outrush of gas hit his face as firmly as a baize drape. He drew back for air, gulped, and stumbled inside.

Sam Monk’s body lay where Jacobson had last seen it, inert on the bed. The gas-ring and the lamp were hissing into the darkness. He silenced them and quit the place, hun-gry for air. The glimpse he had taken of Monk’s appearance told him it would be futile to try to revive him.

His mind seething with half-realised conclusions, Jacobson ran to the constable seated outside Darrell’s tent, and alerted him. The Law took over.

Sergeant Cribb questioned Jacobson as they approached the hut containing Monk’s body.

‘Yes. That was a few minutes after four.’

‘And you opened up?’

‘I did. The gas reeked all round the hut. You can still smell it, can’t you?’

Cribb sniffed, and grimaced.

‘You had to force the door?’

‘Well, it was stiff. I put my shoulder to it.’

They stepped inside. The sergeant bent over the body to examine it. Jacobson swung the door back and forth, encouraging a draught. When it was safe, he lit the lamp.

‘There’s something written here,’ he said, taking up a sheet of paper from the top of the bedside cupboard. He handed it to Cribb, who replaced it on the cupboard with-out glancing at it.

‘Whisky,’ he said, finally standing up.

‘Oh yes,’ Jacobson confirmed. ‘The man had been imbib-ing heavily. I brought him back here about half past ten last night. He was drunk all right.’

The sergeant was interested.

‘You brought him, Mr Jacobson?’

‘Well yes.’ The manager hesitated. ‘Mr Herriott asked me to. Monk was getting in the way. There was a lady. Mrs Darrell. I think Mr Herriott wanted Monk where he could cause her no embarrassment.’

‘So you brought him here?’

‘Yes. He was far gone, Sergeant. You can see that by his features now. The drink has left him rosy-faced.’

Cribb shook his head.

‘Symptom of gassing. Was he conscious, would you say?’ ‘I suppose so. He was depressed, though. When I brought him in he just sank back on to the bed.’

‘Did you turn on the gas?’ Cribb was examining the piece of paper as he spoke.

‘No. I’m sure of that. I simply brought him in, watched him fall on to the bed and left.’

Cribb grunted, apparently accepting the statement. His eye picked out the ventilator, a small outlet which worked by a shutter mechanism. It was closed.

‘Pretty little suicide, eh?’ he said to Jacobson. ‘Gas soon fills a poky shack like this. Much cleaner than a wrist-slash-ing. This note . . .’

‘Yes?’ Jacobson was feeling relieved that there was a note. Events might have been interpreted to his disfavour otherwise. ‘You’ve read it?’

Jacobson shook his head, and Cribb obliged by reading it aloud, in the dull intonation traditionally used by police in giving evidence.

‘ “This is to show how sorry I am. I did not mean him to die. Samuel Monk”.’

‘His conscience killed him, then,’ commented Jacobson. ‘Poor fellow. I don’t know whether I myself could have car-ried on living after making the tragic mistake that he did.’

Cribb ignored this. He began feeling into the dead man’s pockets.

‘The note wasn’t here when you brought him in?’

‘Certainly not.’ Jacobson was puzzled.

‘You think it was written after that?’

‘Well, I assume it must have been.’

‘Capable of writing, was he?’ Cribb snapped at him.

Jacobson pursed his mouth irritably.

‘You’ve got the note there, Sergeant, so he must have been. I presume you will identify it as Monk’s handwriting.’ ‘You see the shutter there,’ Cribb continued. ‘Closed. Was it closed when you were here?’

‘I really cannot remember,’ protested the manager. ‘But if a man wanted to gas himself he would hardly leave a venti-lator open, now would he?’

Cribb was too taken up with the details of Monk’s death to crush this sarcasm. He said nothing more to Jacobson for a full minute.

‘Am I wanted any longer?’

‘Thank you. No.’

When Jacobson left, Cribb was on his knees, feeling the floor below the bed.

‘Monk done the proper thing,’ was Chalk’s verdict. ‘If a trainer tips bloody poison into a man’s drink ’e’s got no right to go on.’

‘Bugger ’ad a better ending than Charlie Darrell, come to that,’ Williams added. His rest had helped his feet consider-ably, and he was walking normally now. ‘Poor old Charlie. Why bloody Chadwick didn’t get it I don’t know. That nob’s set to take the bloody monkey now, and ’e never had the beatin’ of Darrell.’

‘O’Flaherty’s ’ot after him. There ain’t ten miles in it and Feargus is no small beer when there’s something to go for,’ Chalk observed hopefully.

‘Beat Chadwick? The day O’Flaherty does that I’ll swim the bloody channel.’

Chalk did not pursue the point. He was not quick-witted at his best, but even he could detect some professional jeal-ousy here. Fortunately a fresh arrival provided distraction.

‘ ’Ullo. Crushers arriving in force now,’ he commented, watching Thackeray’s advance on the hut, where Cribb was still at work. ‘I’ll tell you something about that one, mate. Master of disguise, ’e is. See them great feet of ’is and that belly? You wouldn’t credit that ’e’s been running on this path, now would you? Double-barrel reckons ’e goes round with him at night—’

A guffaw from Williams broke in.

‘You believe that? ’Im pussy-footing it with Double-barrel? What’s ’e supposed to be up to for God’s sake? That’s the only thing we ain’t got chasing round this bloody ring—a bobby on ’is beat!’ He continued to enjoy the prospect so heartily that Chalk gave up entirely.