Murder at the Bayswater Bicycle Club

by Linda Stratmann

  Opposite the pavilion was a large signboard painted black, with slots where boards marked with numbers could be inserted to show the scores of cricket matches. Since it would not be required that day, a Bayswater man was busily unfurling a club banner with the intention of draping it from the board. Frances, who was continuing to survey the field, suddenly saw a flicker of impulsive movement out of the corner of her eye, and glanced back to see that the clubman had abandoned the banner and was striding away from another man. From the jerky determined gestures of his arms he looked angry. Even at a distance Frances felt sure that the clubman was Rufus Goring. The other man, plainly dressed and rather shorter with a bull neck, gesticulated and said something, but after a quick look about him, decided not to go in pursuit. A moment later, however, Goring turned about, and it was obvious that hard words were being said. He gestured towards the entrance to the grounds in an insistent manner, and it was clear that he was ordering the man to leave.

  They were too far away for Frances to overhear what was being said or gather a great deal from facial expressions, and it would have been too obvious for her to move closer. The attitudes of the speakers left her in little doubt, however. Goring was outraged by the presence of the smaller man, who remained obdurate and unmoved.

  Frances signed to Sarah, who was far closer to the confrontation, and she and Pounder surreptitiously moved into earshot, while Ratty lurked nearby. Once again, Goring turned his back on the unwelcome visitor, and, obviously eager to place a good distance between himself and the other man, strode rapidly to the club’s bicycle tent where Ross-Fielder was in charge. A conversation ensued and Ross-Fielder glanced at the object of Goring’s annoyance, who remained in the vicinity of the scoreboard, looking unconcerned. Ross-Fielder nodded and sent another club member to take over the duty of unfurling the banner. Whoever it was seemed not to be worth approaching and performed the task unimpeded.

  ‘What man is that?’ asked Frances, ‘the one who was talking to Mr Goring just now.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Cedric. ‘I have seen him about before – I think he’s the same fellow who made a nuisance of himself at the last race meeting. He’s a bookmaker. I expect there’s nothing much happening on the turf today, which is why he is here. His business is legal at the racetrack but this doesn’t count, as he well knows, since this is not Ascot and we are not horses.’

  Tom, enterprising as ever, had found himself an occupation handing out advertising leaflets for a bicycle manufacturer, and as he passed Cedric he said, ‘I know ’im. That’s Archie ’Opper. Runs a bettin’ book. Track, street, any place ’e can. If I had ter place a bet on anythin’ I’d say ’e’d just offered money to that bicyclist to lose a race.’

  ‘Whatever his scheme, Mr Goring was having none of it and has warned his fellow club members,’ said Frances. As she glanced that way again, a strongly built youth on a battered velocipede rode up to Hopper and the two began to talk in a manner that suggested private business. The youth looked as down-at-heel as his machine, in rough serviceable clothes that had been made for a smaller person, perhaps himself when younger, or another boy. Although he towered over Hopper, there was no doubt that the older man was in charge.

  ‘Who is that other person?’ asked Frances.

  ‘That’s Peters, ’is number one bully. Good for anythin’ bad that one.’ Tom scurried away.

  Their business done, Peters nodded to Hopper and rode away, circling around the field, taking very little notice of the convenience or safety of those on foot. As he passed near to Frances she saw hard features almost bereft of sensibility, arms thick with muscle, meaty hands with dirty bruised knuckles.

  Hopper remained on the field, meandering alone, but not going far, his eyes flickering about watchfully. Here was a man who cared nothing as to how he was turned out or what face he put to the world. He had an ill-natured look and his clothes seemed to be of the general kind that went to all places in all seasons. Every so often he ducked behind the scoreboard, which Frances guessed was his place of business.

  ‘We can trust Pounder to keep an eye on Mr Hopper and do the necessary if he tries it again,’ said Cedric. ‘I have no doubt he is running an illegal book on the afternoon, and was hoping to profit from some skulduggery. The committee would never stand for that. The trick, of course, is to catch him at it.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘What about Pounder and that Peters fellow in the ring – bare knuckles for choice. Now that would be a match. Both big and strong but I know who’s the cleverer man. Five guineas on Pounder.’

  Some of the bicyclists were taking the opportunity to warm their muscles with a short ride around the course. It was also a chance for gentlemen supporters to wave them on and ladies to admire the flexing of male calves that resembled in shape and hardness those of a classical statue. ‘Ah, now there’s Iliffe,’ said Cedric, pointing out a tall broad-shouldered man rotating first one arm then the other in slow and determined callisthenic exercises. Frances judged him to be in his late twenties, and he had the sturdy assured air that came with experience and knowledge of his art. ‘Our professional wheelman. We expect him to win well today.’

  ‘This is the race against his great rival, Mr Babbit?’

  ‘Oh yes, there is some excitement on the boil about that.’

  ‘Have they raced against each other before?’

  ‘They have, several times, and are very well matched. The honours are even, I believe, although Iliffe’s adherents think he has the edge, and he has only ever lost to Babbit through bad luck.’

  A lady, accompanied by a young bicyclist in Bayswater uniform, walked up to Iliffe, the man smiling broadly, the lady with a softer, rather coy expression. She wore a pink gown with matching bonnet and pretty white lace mittens.

  ‘Ah, they are the Jepsons, brother and sister,’ said Cedric. ‘Miss Jepson is very much admired for her attractive features and good temper. She has no sweetheart that we know of, but it is thought that she has a fondness for Mr Iliffe and that he returns that feeling.’

  ‘Do you think there will be an engagement?’ asked Frances.

  ‘One day, perhaps, but not while Iliffe pursues his bicycling career.’ Cedric paused and glanced across at the entrance to the ground. Frances followed his gaze and saw that a group of uniformed wheelmen had arrived, their coats and knee britches in brown with rust-coloured stockings. ‘I see that Babbit has come with his friends from the Oakwood Club. Let us see what transpires.’

  ‘Why, what usually transpires?’

  ‘Oh a little drama, if we are fortunate. They usually stay at opposite ends of the field and fire barbs of hatred at each other with their eyes, but sometimes they move closer and utter growls like wild beasts. They should really go on the stage.’

  Mr Babbit was of similar age and build to Iliffe. Both were powerful and long in the leg. Both were surrounded by an atmosphere of self-confidence. Iliffe, however, looked to be the quieter man, while Babbit had an unattractive swagger in his walk. He led the little party of Oakwood men as if his friends were merely acolytes there to attend him.

  Babbit smiled when he saw Iliffe, as if already anticipating victory. He smiled still more broadly on seeing Miss Jepson, although the nature of the smile was not dissimilar. He paused and ran a forefinger over his moustache, first one way then the other. It was a glossy beast, much pomaded and turned up at either end, not quite of the order of the handsome Mr Goring’s appendage, but still very impressive.

  The Jepsons had also noticed the new arrival, and looked concerned. Iliffe merely shrugged and spoke reassuringly to Miss Jepson, then, in a gallant manner, took her hand and brought its lacy covering close to his lips. As he did so, he inhaled and smiled, as if imbibing a delicious perfume.

  Babbit saw this gesture as he was clearly intended to, and his eyes narrowed with displeasure. Iliffe ignored him, and directed his conversation almost entirely to the young lady, although he also exchanged some light-hearted words with her brother, who did not appear displeased at t
he attention paid to his sister by the celebrated wheelman. At last the Jepsons bid farewell to the champion, the young man going to get his bicycle, and Miss Jepson indicating that she had seen some lady friends and would join their party to accompany them to the pavilion. Iliffe reluctantly took his leave with a respectful salute, and made his way to the bicycle enclosure, while Miss Jepson began to walk towards her friends, who waved at her in greeting.

  It was a matter of moments for Babbit to dart forward and intercept Miss Jepson. He bowed, doffed his cap, and offered her his arm. She hesitated, looking confused as to what she ought to do. Frances could understand the lady’s difficulty. The interloper was being polite and courteous, but at the same time he was a bitter rival of the man she clearly admired.

  All might have gone without incident if Iliffe had not observed Babbit’s attentions to Miss Jepson, but at that moment he happened to look around, and his face convulsed with rage. He turned on his heel and strode back. ‘Babbit, you are here to meet my challenge on the course and not to annoy the ladies!’

  ‘There is no annoyance given or received, if you would only observe, but I suppose I cannot expect an ill-educated oaf like you to recognise polite behaviour!’ snapped Babbit.

  ‘Oh my word,’ declared Cedric. ‘This has gone up a notch or two.’

  ‘Miss Jepson,’ said Iliffe, turning to the young lady, ‘please take my arm and I will conduct you away from this impudent fellow and to your friends.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Babbit. ‘I made the first offer, and it has not been refused.’

  ‘But neither has it been accepted.’

  Miss Jepson, in evident distress, placed a white mittened hand to her face. ‘Please, both of you, settle your differences but do not make me your plaything!’ She walked away alone, and one of her female friends ran up to offer comfort and accompany her to join the little group of sympathetic ladies.

  Babbit and Iliffe squared up to each other like pugilists coming up to the mark. Their raised voices had attracted considerable attention, and a crowd was beginning to gather, although those gentlemen visitors who were accompanied by ladies were starting to ensure that their female companions were conducted to a safer if less interesting distance.

  Mr Toop, his forehead glistening with nervous perspiration, hurried up. ‘Please, I beg of you gentlemen, this is no way to conduct yourselves! There are ladies present! If you cannot shake hands and agree to be friends then at least part without rancour. There will be time enough today for you to prove yourselves by the wheel.’

  Fortunately this was sufficient to end the confrontation, and the two adversaries, after fierce glares, turned their backs on each other and walked away. Toop uttered a sigh of relief. ‘So it is more than just a sporting rivalry,’ said Frances.

  ‘It seems so,’ said Cedric. ‘Unless Babbit has been paying attention to Miss Jepson solely in order to spite Iliffe, which would be a disgraceful way to behave.’

  ‘I can see one person who is delighted by the confrontation,’ said Frances, noticing that Mr Hopper, who was leaning against the scoreboard, was chuckling to himself. ‘That argument will be sure to increase interest in the race. Is there much prize money to be won?’

  ‘There is, since it is the only professional race at the meeting. There are five men entered, and a pot of fifty guineas, half of which goes to the winner. These are the celebrities of the wheel world, much lauded and admired. Bicycle makers give them machines gratis so they can be seen riding them. They have a thousand little ways of making a fortune from their expertise, but of course it can only be a short career, and they must have another string to their bow. The amateurs race for medals, their names engraved on the club cups, and a mention in the Wheel World, which in my opinion is enough glory for any man.’

  ‘How is Mr Iliffe progressing with his second string?’

  ‘The sports ground? I have heard he is casting about for investors, and his name should enable him to attract them. He certainly needs an assured income if he is to make an offer to Miss Jepson. But that is all in the future. In the meantime, Mr Hopper is probably the man making the most money out of the meeting. I am sure he is infringing any number of laws, but he is very careful not to be seen doing so.’

  This, thought Frances, was the type of individual Sir Hugo Daffin would doubtlessly want watched and escorted away at the first sign of dubious behaviour, but as she glanced about the field she found that she was unable to see the club’s prominent patron, and that, she thought, was more than a little strange.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘When will Sir Hugo be here?’ she asked.

  Cedric looked around. ‘He ought to be here already.’

  Frances silently berated herself. She had been so concerned with seeing what was there that she had given no thought to what was not there but should be.

  ‘At the spring race meeting, what time did Sir Hugo arrive, and what did he do?’

  ‘Oh, he was here from the start, well before the official opening. He inspected the stalls, supervised the layout of the course, consulted with members, that sort of thing. Then he made a speech, declaring the event open. Said what a wonderful day we had in store. The usual kind of speech, really.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Eleven o’clock. Then there were some races for boys and novices and ladies. And a parade of new bicycles and tricycles.’

  ‘He watched all of those?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  Frances glanced at her programme and her pocket watch. ‘Opening speech, eleven a.m. There’s still time. Even so …’ Ratty was inspecting the traveller’s bags on a nearby stall, and she went to look, with Cedric following.

  ‘Very well made,’ said Cedric, picking up one of the bags, ‘light and strong. How does it fasten?’ The stallholder obligingly provided a demonstration, and while this was under way Frances spoke quietly to Ratty.

  ‘I don’t see Sir Hugo Daffin about. Gentleman with long grey hair and beard who wears a monocle. Don’t ask anyone, but you and Tom must both look about you and if you see him, report back to me.’ Ratty nodded and set about it.

  ‘Perhaps Jack Linnett will know something?’ Frances suggested, when Cedric had made his purchase.

  ‘I’ll ask him,’ said Cedric. ‘It’s a natural enough question.’ They linked arms and strolled over to the smithy enclosure, where Jack Linnett was in charge of a tidy array of spare parts and tools that might be needed for the small repairs that could be carried out on the field.

  ‘Good morning, Linnett!’ said Cedric. ‘A busy day ahead, I expect.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I hope so. I like to keep all the machines running well.’

  ‘This is my cousin, Miss Williamson, who is very eager to see me race.’ Jack made a deferential nod. ‘Sir Hugo not about?’

  ‘No, sir, I haven’t seen him this morning.’

  ‘Really? He’s usually in the thick of things. Is he well? Not had another of his falls, I hope?’

  ‘Oh no, sir. We were working till eight last night and he was very well then.’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course, the new invention. The extra wheels. How are they progressing?’

  Jack looked pessimistic. ‘To be honest, sir, I’m not sure we can make them work the way we would want them to.’

  ‘Perhaps that is what is occupying him now,’ said Cedric, as he and Frances strolled away. ‘Getting his bicycle ready for the parade of new machines.’

  ‘I hope so, but I have been asked to look out for anything unusual and I would like this matter explained. If Jack hasn’t seen Sir Hugo since last night, who will have seen him this morning?’

  ‘The housekeeper, Mrs Pirrie, I expect, and the manservant, Waterfield.’

  ‘Very well, let us talk to Mrs Pirrie first and see what we can learn.’

  They walked to the pavilion, where a lady in her middle years, arrayed in a colourful summer gown overlaid by a large white apron and tightly curled hair controlled by a white cap, was o
verseeing the arrangements for serving refreshments.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Pirrie,’ said Cedric jovially. ‘Why you are looking so very charming today! What a fine gown! How well the colour matches your eyes!’

  Mrs Pirrie tried to look unmoved by the compliment but failed to do so by a wide margin. ‘I just thought as it was such a lovely day I would get into the spirit so to speak.’

  ‘Allow me to introduce my cousin, Miss Rose Williamson. She has never attended a race meeting before and is all agog to see the excitement.’

  ‘I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Williamson. I do hope you will enjoy one of our salad lunches and our teas. We have sandwiches, and cakes and scones, and Bakewell tart, all my own making.’

  ‘Mrs Pirrie does bake the best cakes,’ added Cedric. ‘Her refreshments always restore us beautifully after a club ride.’

  ‘I look forward to that very much,’ said Frances. ‘It must be hard work for you, with so many to provide for.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind that, and I’m not on my own – Mrs Hicks and her sister are giving me a hand.’

  ‘My cousin is especially eager to be introduced to Sir Hugo,’ Cedric continued. ‘Is he about?’

  ‘Not at present,’ said Mrs Pirrie, ‘but he should be here shortly. He went up to London on business this morning, but he said he would be back in time to make the opening speech.’

  Cedric looked at his watch. ‘Then we can expect him very soon. It must be important business to take him away from here at such a time.’