It was clear from the outset of the two-mile race that Cedric was outclassed; however, he made a good attempt at it and bravely waved his hat to the crowds as he reached the finish in sixth place. Once he had taken his machine back to the members’ enclosure he joined Frances at the boundary rope.
‘Well that was a jolly run! Sorry I couldn’t do better but I think I was a winner in the matter of style.’ Cedric took a ribbon from his pocket. ‘A gift from that foolish girl, saying that she wished I might have won. She is hoping to engage my heart, but I fear the colour yellow does not match my complexion.’
There was a growing sense of excitement as the professionals’ race was announced. The crowds began to surge forward, some making their way across the grassy track while they could, and hurrying around the inner perimeter vying for the best position from which to view the contest. Others struggled to find the best places from the outside.
‘This contest certainly attracts the biggest crowds,’ said Frances.
‘I suppose they believe that the professionals are the best riders, which is not always the case. It’s an attraction for the spectators, mainly. Not all amateur wheelmen care for the professional races. Some think they are not truly sporting. If a man was to compete for money just once, he would be instantly damned as a professional and drummed out of the Bicycle Touring Club. A sad fate.’
‘What do you think?’ asked Frances.
Cedric shrugged. ‘Oh, a man must make a living somehow, and if he can do it bicycling, why not?’
‘All the same, I think some of the interest must be attributed to the enmity between Iliffe and Babbit.’
‘That does add a little spice to the occasion, there is no doubt about that!’
The riders were taking their places. Apart from Iliffe and Babbit, there were three competitors from other clubs: the Chiswick club, in racing colours of chocolate brown with light blue hose; West Kensington, in dark blue with a blue helmet; and Mill Hill, in navy with a school cap. Paul Iliffe stood out by his height and broad shoulders, but Babbit was hardly less impressive in size.
The bicycles ridden by the professionals were of the most expensive variety, painted with hard shiny enamel colours, and highly polished. The riders displayed them proudly, making a great show of examining the machines to ensure that they were at the very peak of mechanical excellence. From time to time they also looked about to see if they were being admired and paused to stretch their arms and flex their leg muscles, which made the watching ladies giggle from behind their fingers.
Miss Jepson, a small, timid figure, approached the line of riders and offered a single flower to Iliffe, who accepted it with a smile and a bow, then tucked it into his pocket, so the flower head poked out at the top. Babbit, his face creased into a scowl, watched but did not interfere, and only polished his bicycle more savagely than before.
‘What do you think of the other contestants?’ Frances asked Cedric.
‘Oh, it’s a two-horse race,’ he replied, ‘the others won’t be able to keep up the pace.’
Frances glanced at her schedule. ‘I see this too is a handicap.’
‘Yes, and it will be a hard one to decide,’ said Cedric, as the bicyclists took up their positions. ‘I can see they’ve brought in a man from the Hammersmith club to do it to ensure fairness. It’s a specialised business when there is money at stake. He has to take into account the wheel size but also the experience and past wins of the competitor. The idea is to arrange things so that all the men have an equal chance. I expect that Babbit and Iliffe will go off last, but which one is ahead of the other is anyone’s guess.’
‘If the two are equal they could start together,’ suggested Frances.
‘They could, but that would lead to an early confrontation to get the best position. You might think that the man in the lead has the advantage but that is not necessarily the case. He has to ride into the wind and the man behind him gets the benefit of that. Also, the man ahead can’t keep an eye on the man behind who can then choose his moment to overtake and surprise his rival.’
The handicapper, watch in hand, was speaking to the competitors and allocating them their places. The three more junior racers seemed content with his decision, but Iliffe and Babbit contested theirs loudly with much waving of arms, and had to be told to desist. The delay caused some unrest in the crowd, but not a little anticipation that it would be a hard-fought battle.
‘Well now this is interestin’,’ said Tom, appearing by Frances’ side. He gave her a handbill advertising enamel coatings and she pretended to read it. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve put a wager on the race?’ he asked quietly.
Given the crush of people it seemed safe to hold a conversation unnoticed. ‘I have not,’ said Frances, ‘but I expect many have.’
‘See that lad, there?’ said Tom. ‘The one in the green cap?’
Frances looked up, to where a dishevelled reed-thin boy of about twelve was moving quickly about the field, threading his way through the crowds like an eel. ‘Yes, I – oh he’s slipped away. I think I know the one you mean.’
‘That’s Archie ’opper’s best lad. ’E’s a good ’un. Fast on ’is feet. You get that lad and you get ’opper.’
‘Do you mean he’s the one working the illegal betting business? Not Peters?’
‘That’s right. You see, everyone knows the big bully boy Peters, you can’t miss ’im. Stands right out in the crowd, ’e does. But the police search ’im an’ what do they find? Nothin’. An’ all the time it’s the little lad doin’ the real business an’ disappearin’ like a puff o’ smoke. An’ I’ll tell yer another thing what no one else ’ere ’as seen. ’E takes messages between Mr Iliffe and Mr Babbit. Blink an eye and yer won’t know it’s ’appened. I like that lad, I’d ’ave ’im workin’ for me if I could.’
‘Iliffe and Babbit?’ said Frances in astonishment. ‘Exchanging messages? Are you sure?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘What sort of messages? Threats, I suppose. Challenges. Insults.’
‘Not a bit’ve it. I’ve seen ’ow they work. Notes back ’n forth an’ some’ve ’em to ’opper ’n all.’
‘Iliffe and Babbit and Hopper?’ Frances was incredulous.
‘Yes. Those two do a nice little act of ’atin’ each other, but I don’t think that’s the truth’ve it. They’re up ter summat, an’ it’s not what they might be proud of.’
‘What do you think it is?’
‘Well, from what I seen, I’d say they ’ad a tidy little bettin’ cheat goin’ on.’
Frances, concerned that they had spoken too long, pretended to write a message on the handbill. ‘Tom, I want you find rider number 6 and tell him what you just told me.’
‘Oh, the gent what useter ’ave the knife? ’E’s a rum ’un.’
‘And tell Sarah and Pounder as well.’
She gave him sixpence and he grinned and ran off.
‘What was that about?’ asked Cedric.
‘Tom has just told me that Iliffe and Babbit have been exchanging messages using one of Mr Hopper’s boys, and have sent messages to Hopper too.’
‘Surely not!’
‘If Tom can’t spot that no one can. He thinks the men are not rivals after all, more like collaborators.’
‘But —’ Cedric lapsed into an astounded silence.
Love or money, Frances wondered? In this case, she felt sure that Tom was right and it was money. Poor Miss Jepson, she thought, to be nothing more than a pawn in their masquerade. ‘I assume there is a great deal of betting on them?’
‘Oh yes, large sums,’ gasped Cedric when he had got his voice back. ‘Both men have got legions of supporters. I myself put five guineas on Iliffe to win. Not with Hopper, I wouldn’t trust him to pay out, but there are any number of private wagers amongst gentlemen.’
‘Perhaps before you placed your bet you should have first asked Mr Iliffe which one of them they have agreed between themselves should be the victor today,’ said Frances dri
ly.
‘But that’s – oh no!’
‘A gross betrayal of trust apart from anything else. If what they are up to could be proven they would probably find themselves in prison.’ Frances did not say so but she thought that men who could cheat their own friends for money were just the kind who might sell their country’s secrets to another nation.
‘I suppose it’s too late to warn people now,’ said Cedric, unhappily.
‘The wagers have been placed and the race is about to start,’ said Frances. ‘Far too late for today, I’m afraid. And all we have for now is Tom’s observation and no actual proof. If we denounced them they would simply deny it. Once the meeting is over I shall ask Tom to tell Inspector Sharrock what he has seen, and leave it to the police to deal with.’
The handicapper raised his flag, pointed to the Chiswick man, then brought the flag down smartly. The Chiswick racer quickly mounted his bicycle and rode away. A few more seconds on the watch and it was time for the West Kensington man, and shortly after it was Mill Hill’s turn. The handicapper stared at his watch for what seemed like a very long time, then he pointed to Babbit, flagged him away and almost immediately afterwards it was Iliffe’s turn.
‘I was looking forward to this race,’ groaned Cedric. ‘Now I can hardly bear to watch.’
‘I’d rather you did,’ said Frances. ‘You know what to look out for. Signs of cheating, of some pre-arranged plan.’
‘Yes, of course. If they are blackguards then I will be the first to expose them. One cannot have cheating in bicycling, whether amateur or professional, it’s not to be tolerated.’
Frances, after watching the amateur races, was astonished to see the speed the professionals could bring to riding, even on a grass track, the vigour of their powerfully pumping legs moving like tireless machines. The three less experienced men in the lead were well matched, and she saw the determination on their faces not to be caught by the seniors, at least for as long as possible. Despite their best efforts, however, Iliffe and Babbit were gaining, and after the first three laps of the course were hard on the heels of their opponents. More importantly they made it clear from their manner that they were not taking the others seriously and were purely riding against each other. As they passed, the crowds roared, and there were eager supporters for both men, some of the ladies waving handkerchiefs at their favourites, like a little forest of lacy flags.
‘Well you can’t say they’re not putting all they can into it,’ said Cedric. ‘No sign of either of them holding back.’
‘Perhaps they’ll wait for the last lap,’ suggested Frances.
‘Ah, yes, build up the maximum excitement. At least the crowds are having their value,’ he added miserably.
The three junior racers were almost level with each other, and needed to take care at the turns, not daring to look behind them and see the danger creeping steadily up. Then one, the Chiswick man, made a sprint and moved inside the others, and began to draw away. In so doing he opened up a space that Iliffe and Babbit could take advantage of. The Kensington and Mill Hill men, almost nose to nose, laboured hard to catch up, but their efforts were fading. Mill Hill began to fall behind and now the three were in a single line.
It was halfway through the race, and Iliffe and Babbit could smell the scent of victory. With bared teeth and staring eyes, they focussed on the course ahead, Babbit just a little in front, but Iliffe waiting on his heels and far from beaten.
‘I think Iliffe will take it,’ said Cedric. ‘He’s looking for his chance and he’s still fresh. He will keep up until the last lap and then pull ahead.’
With three laps to go, Babbit and Iliffe made their move. Babbit, doubling his efforts, began to overtake the junior riders, and Iliffe, too, found reserves of strength and kept up with his opponent. Before long, and to the rapturous roars of the crowds, the two jousting riders had swept past the three lesser men and were out in front. It was now, as Cedric had predicted, a two-man race. As Babbit and Iliffe passed by, roars turned to shrieks and several ladies fanned themselves briskly and appeared to be in danger of fainting away.
Two more laps and the rivals were almost level, with Babbit having a slight advantage on the turns and Iliffe threatening his position on the straight.
‘Iliffe will take the inside position for the final run and pull ahead,’ said Cedric, and, as predicted, on the last turn Iliffe made his bid for the lead. As he did so, however, he seemed to lose command of his bicycle, and it shifted away from his chosen line just for a moment. He managed to steady himself, but in so doing his front wheel collided with Babbit’s back wheel and the two of them began to veer wildly off course. There were screams from the crowd as the riders fought for control of their machines. For a few horrible moments all was chaos. There was danger to both the riders, danger to the watching crowds and danger to the men following on behind. The three juniors had just enough time to adjust their direction and avoid a collision, but for Babbit and Iliffe it was too late. In a tangle of arms and legs and wheels and spinning cranks, they collapsed in the middle of the course and lay winded on the ground as the others sped past them, the Chiswick rider taking the victory.
There was an immediate rush of frantic persons who ducked under the roped-off barriers and ran to the fallen men in a wild hubbub.
‘Well if they’re not already dead they’ll be trampled now,’ said Cedric. He didn’t sound too worried by either eventuality.
There were more screams and a sudden pulling back from the scene. Frances, standing on tiptoe, was able to see the two riders, now both on their feet, shouting incoherently at each other and starting to fight. In the middle of the melee members of both clubs were running forward, elbowing the teeming crowds aside. Reaching the furiously struggling rivals, they managed with an effort to pull them apart. Others took charge of the crowds and persuaded them to retire from the scene.
In the middle of the confusion, Mr Toop ran up, all of a sweat, and surveyed the mass of violent activity helplessly. He wisely avoided tackling the larger men, and instead decided to recover the tangled bicycles, trying to pick them up to see if they were damaged. He was lifting Babbit’s machine when the owner gave a roar of fury and snatched it away so suddenly that Toop gave a little scream.
‘I wonder how many people placed a wager on the Chiswick rider,’ pondered Frances.
‘Almost no one, I expect,’ said Cedric.
‘Mr Hopper will be very pleased with himself. How large a piece of his profits will he give to Babbit and Iliffe? Have they both made secret wagers against either of them winning?’
Frances looked about to see if Mr Hopper was in evidence, and at first was unable to see him, but at last he moved a little cautiously out of the shadow of the scoreboard, stuffing something into his pocket. He was scanning the field with narrowed eyes, and she wondered who he was looking for. Peters, his strong-arm man on the velocipede, was not in sight, but the boy in the green cap ran up and they ducked back into the shelter of the scoreboard for a brief conversation before the boy hurried away.
‘Oh this is too awful!’ exclaimed Cedric.
Frances realised that she had not seen Mr Grove for some time. She was beginning to get concerned in case another attempt had been made on him, then she chanced to see him further away, talking to some of the Bayswater club members.
‘Nice little earner,’ said Ratty, skimming up on his bicycle. ‘’Opper ain’t as ’appy, as ’e oughter be, though, dunno why. Sent ’is boy all over an’ aroun’ the place, lookin’ for summat.’ He rode away.
Eventually, Rufus Goring emerged from the crowds and mounted the platform. Taking up the speaking trumpet, he called out for calm, reassuring onlookers that neither of the riders had been injured and announcing that there would be a half-hour break for tea before the final race. It was several minutes before calm was more or less restored. The crowds went to get refreshments, the handicapper had hard words with all the riders, and the band struck up a popular dance melody. Mr Toop,
looking as if the cares of the world had all descended upon him at once, sat on the steps of the podium, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
‘This day is the last day we can count ourselves happy,’ said Cedric. ‘Tomorrow the scandal will break and then the world of bicycling will never be the same again. Everywhere there will be nothing but distrust and suspicion.’
‘Let us go and have tea,’ said Frances.
‘And after that, even I will want to go home,’ said Cedric sadly.
They strolled towards the pavilion, arm-in-arm, and on the way Frances paused to look at the cups and medals. ‘Who do you think will be awarded the most sporting rider?’
‘Well it certainly won’t be Iliffe or Babbit, not that either of them was eligible. No, we expect it will be Goring. Club captain, fine chap and all that.’
‘Is there a cup for the best turned-out bicycle?’
‘A medal. I’m sure Toop will get it. Expenditure always outshines taste, I am afraid.’
‘He would do better to exercise a little restraint in that area. I can see that since he will never be a racer he must do what he can to make his mark, but I fear if he had one more attachment to his bicycle he would be unable to ride it at all.’
‘Well we must allow him his little victories, I suppose. He has had many trials to bear what with his mother passing away, and that terrible business with his brother.’
‘His brother?’
‘Oh, I might not have mentioned it. A wild sort, apparently. Toop is the steady one of the family, but his brother could never settle to anything and joined the army for adventure. Went to war and was killed at Maiwand two years ago. The father has been bowed down with sorrow ever since and all the burden of management has fallen on Toop.’
‘That must have been hard for him. Has the business suffered as a result?’
Cedric smiled. ‘I see what you’re hinting at, but as far as I can see Toop has risen to the challenge, and the wheels of industry have not slowed. It’s curious how things turn out. I understand that the older brother was always the father’s favourite, which is never a happy thing to know, but now that Toop has shown his true value I would hope that things have been rather mended.’
Murder at the Bayswater Bicycle Club Page 18
