‘Inspector Colbeck said that you’d commend your horse.’
‘I don’t commend him, Sergeant – I believe in him.’
Turning on his heel, he led his visitor round to the yard. There were a dozen stalls in all and most of them seemed to be occupied. Outside one of them, a groom was cleaning a racing saddle. As the lad bent forward, Leeming noticed that he had a gun tucked into his belt.
‘Are all your employees armed, sir?’ he asked.
‘After what happened with John Feeny, I’m taking no chances.’
‘Very wise.’
‘Did Inspector Colbeck manage to find the boy’s uncle?’
‘Yes – the deceased was formally identified by a blood relation.’
‘It’s not the deceased who needs to be identified but the fiend who killed him and the man who paid him to do it.’
‘We know your opinion on that subject, sir.’
‘Then arrest Mr Fido and beat the truth out of him.’
He stopped beside one of the stalls and his manner changed at once. Limerick Lad was a bay colt with a yellowish tinge to his coat. Dowd looked at him with paternal pride.
‘There he is – the next winner of the Derby.’
Hearing the trainer’s voice, the animal raised his head from the bucket of water and came across to the door. He nuzzled up against Dowd then let out a loud whinny. Leeming was fascinated. He had never been so close to a thoroughbred horse before and he marvelled at the colt’s sleek lines and perfect proportions. The sense of latent power in Limerick Lad was thrilling. Leeming had only heard about the other two potential winners of the Derby. Now he was inches away from the one horse who could challenge them and it made him think again about where he should place his money. He was touched by the affection between horse and trainer. Brian Dowd patently loved his colt but it was equally obvious that he had subjected it to a strict training regime. Limerick Lad was in prime condition.
‘Breeding,’ said Dowd, stroking the animal’s neck. ‘That’s what’s paramount in horseracing – good breeding. Limerick Lad is by Piscator out of Cornish Lass, who ran second in the Oaks. Piscator won the Derby and the St Leger. Do you see what I mean, Sergeant?’ he said. ‘There’s a family tradition to maintain. Limerick Lad comes from the very best stock.’
Leeming was entranced. ‘I can see that, Mr Dowd.’
‘He won’t let us down.’
‘I’m sure he won’t, sir.’
The trainer gave his horse a final pat on the neck before leading his visitor a few paces away. Then he looked Leeming in the eye.
‘Why exactly did you come here?’ he asked.
‘Inspector Colbeck thought that, as a courtesy, you should be kept up to date with our investigation.’
‘That was very considerate of him. I’ll be interested to hear what progress you’ve made so far.’
‘It’s been slow but steady, Mr Dowd.’
Leeming explained what the Detective Department had been doing. On the journey back from Bethnal Green, he had been schooled by Colbeck to release certain facts while holding others back. At the mention of Hamilton Fido’s name, Dowd scowled but held his tongue. The sergeant gauged his reactions throughout.
‘Inspector Colbeck made one suggestion,’ he said, ‘and I must confess that it would never have occurred to me.’
‘What might that be?’
‘That, in fact, Mr Fido is in no way implicated in the murder.’
‘He has to be!’ cried Dowd. ‘John Feeny worked at his stables.’
‘You’ve jumped to the obvious conclusion, sir, as you were meant to do. But supposing that both you and Mr Fido are incidental victims of this crime?’
‘Fido as a victim – impossible!’
‘The inspector thinks otherwise,’ said Leeming. ‘Since there’s bad blood between you and Mr Fido, he wonders if someone is trying to heat it up even more. A third party might have set out to stoke up the mutual antagonism in order to have you snarling insults at each other. That would distract the pair of you from the important job of preparing your horses for the Derby.’
Dowd was adamant. ‘The man you want is Hamilton Fido,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Over the last couple of years, my horses have consistently beaten his. He’s not the kind of man to take that lying down. He had to hit back and he used John Feeny to do it. There’s something you ought to know, Sergeant,’ he continued. ‘The reason that Limerick Lad will win the Derby is not simply because he’s the finest horse in the field. He has the best jockey on his back – Tim Maguire. I’ve lost count of the number of times that Mr Fido has tried to poach Tim so that he’ll ride in his colours.’
‘There’s nothing illegal in that, sir. Every owner would like to have the best jockey riding for him.’
‘Only one would offer a huge bribe to make sure that my colt lost the race. That’s what was dangled in front of Tim Maguire – five hundred pounds to pull Limerick Lad out of the reckoning.’
‘Five hundred!’ Leeming whistled in amazement. ‘Do you know who made the offer?’
‘Hamilton Fido.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘The letter was unsigned,’ said Dowd, reaching inside his coat, ‘but I’m sure it had Mr Fido’s name on it in invisible ink. Since he couldn’t have Tim in the saddle on Merry Legs, he wanted to make use of him another way.’
‘That’s a very serious allegation, Mr Dowd.’
‘Read the letter for yourself.’
‘Thank you,’ said Leeming, taking it from him and unfolding the paper. The letter was short but explicit. He read it in seconds. ‘This is evidence, sir – may I keep it?’
‘Please do, Sergeant.’
‘I take it that Maguire was not tempted.’
‘Tim rides for me and nobody else,’ boasted Dowd. ‘When he sent that letter, there was something about my jockey that Hamilton Fido obviously didn’t know.’
‘And what was that, sir?’
‘He has the same problem as John Feeny.’
‘Problem?’
‘He’s illiterate. You don’t need to be able to read in order to ride a horse. All you have to do is to recognise a winning post when you see one. The joke is on Mr Fido,’ said Dowd with a grim chuckle. ‘When he received that letter, Tim Maguire didn’t have a clue that he was being offered a bribe.’
When he saw Hamilton Fido for the second time that day, Robert Colbeck was not given as cordial a welcome. The bookmaker was at his stables, talking to his trainer, Alfred Stenton, a bear-like man in his forties with a grizzled beard and tiny deep-set eyes. They looked up as the detective approached them across the yard. Stenton showed curiosity but Fido’s face registered annoyance until he concealed it behind his practised smile.
‘We meet again, Inspector,’ he said.
‘I remembered your saying that you’d be coming here this afternoon,’ said Colbeck. ‘Have you established yet how John Feeny got a job here when he’d been in the employ of your fiercest rival?’
‘Alfred explained that to me.’
He introduced the trainer and Stenton took over. He had a deep voice, a slow delivery and a bluff manner. Hands on hips, he stood with his legs planted wide apart.
‘Don’t blame me,’ he said stoutly. ‘I’d no idea that the lad had worked for Brian Dowd. He told me he came from Cork where he’d been a groom for three years. One of my boys had a nasty accident so I needed a replacement. John Feeny came along at the right time.’
Colbeck wanted to hear more. ‘A nasty accident?’
‘He was kicked by a horse, Inspector – broke his leg.’
‘Was there anything suspicious about it?’
The trainer shook his head. ‘If you want to know the truth, the lad deserved what he got. He’d been drinking heavily and he knew I didn’t allow beer at the stables. You need a clear head when you’re dealing with racehorses,’ said Stenton. ‘They can be a real handful if you get on the wrong side of them. He was grooming Bold Buccaneer and slapped
him on the rump. That was asking for trouble.’
‘How did John Feeny know there was a vacancy here?’
‘A friend recommended him.’
‘Someone from the stables?’ said Colbeck.
‘Yes, Inspector,’ replied Stenton. ‘Ned Kyle, one of my jockeys, spoke up for him. They grew up together in Cork.’
‘Why didn’t Kyle warn you?’ asked Fido angrily. ‘He must have known about Feeny’s link with Dowd.’
‘He swears that he didn’t,’ said the trainer, ‘and I took him at his word. Ned is as honest as the day is long. He’d not deceive me. In any case, he and John Feeny hadn’t seen each other for years. How could Ned possibly know where he’d been working?’
‘Feeny was unlikely to tell him,’ observed Colbeck. ‘He knew he’d never get a job here if Brian Dowd’s name was mentioned.’
Stenton snorted. ‘I’d have thrown him out on his ear.’
‘He winkled his way in here to spy,’ said Fido.
‘It doesn’t look that way,’ said Colbeck. ‘It seems that he only got the job by default. If another groom hadn’t been kicked by a horse, John Feeny would still be looking for work.’
‘That’s my view as well,’ said Stenton.
‘On the other hand, someone knew about Feeny’s past.’
‘What do you mean, Inspector?’
‘A couple of letters were sent to Jerry Doyle, a lad at Mr Dowd’s stables. Since Feeny couldn’t write, he must have got a friend to pen the letters for him.’
‘Someone from here,’ said Fido vengefully. ‘Ned Kyle, perhaps.’
‘He’d never do such a thing,’ argued Stenton.
‘Maybe we have another spy in the camp.’
‘I’d like a word with Kyle, if I may,’ said Colbeck.
‘I’ll see if I can find him for you, Inspector,’ said Stenton, moving off. ‘But I’ll tell you right now – Ned is as clean as a whistle.’
The trainer walked away and left the two men alone.
‘It looks as if someone let you down, Mr Fido,’ began Colbeck. ‘When I arrived here, you were patently surprised to see me. Nobody warned you of my visit this time.’
‘After this morning’s meeting,’ said Fido, ‘I didn’t think that we had anything more to say to each other.’
‘There have been developments, sir.’
‘Oh?’
‘Your informant at Scotland Yard is obviously unaware of them so I felt it my duty to pass on the information myself. Lord Hendry reported an incident related to the Derby.’
‘In what way?’
‘Someone did his best to cause Odysseus serious injury.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Fido blandly.
‘Luckily, the attempt was thwarted.’
‘Why are you telling me, Inspector? You surely can’t believe that I’m in any way culpable.’
‘I make no assumptions, sir.’
‘Lord Hendry pointed the finger at me – is that it?’
‘Your name was mentioned to the superintendent.’
‘I’m astounded that he didn’t have posters printed with a picture of me as the wanted man,’ said Fido with a laugh. ‘Every time there’s a crime or a misdemeanour on a racecourse, Lord Hendry accuses me.’
‘Brian Dowd was also named as a suspect.’
‘Then he’s nearer the mark there.’
‘There doesn’t appear to be any mutual respect in the world of horseracing,’ said Colbeck with disapproval. ‘Does the concept of friendly rivalry mean nothing to you?’
Fido was amused. ‘Not if you want to be a winner,’ he said flatly. ‘All’s fair in love and racing, Inspector. What about your world? Do you regard criminals as no more than friendly rivals?’
‘I take your point, sir.’
‘There’s no virtue in being a gallant loser.’
‘Let me change the subject,’ said Colbeck, glancing around the yard where several people were busy at work. ‘Though you might wish to continue this discussion where we can have a little more privacy.’
‘Why?’
‘I have to touch on a more personal matter.’
‘Touch away,’ said Fido, spreading his arms invitingly. ‘I’ve nothing to hide.’
‘Then perhaps you’d be good enough to confirm that you stayed at the Wyvern Hotel in London recently.’
Fido bristled. ‘What sort of question is that, Inspector?’
‘A pertinent one, sir.’
‘I often stay at hotels in the city.’
‘The one that interests me is the Wyvern – just off the Strand.’
‘I can’t say that I remember staying there,’ said Fido.
‘You’re a very distinctive figure,’ Colbeck pointed out. ‘Had you visited the hotel, the staff would doubtless recognise you again. And, of course,’ he went on, ‘your name would be in the hotel register. In fact, I have it on good authority that that is so.’
‘In that case, I suppose I must have spent a night there.’
‘You and your companion, sir.’
Fido smiled. ‘I’ve always been a sociable fellow.’
‘You were not very sociable on this occasion, it seems. When a hatbox was stolen from your room, you upbraided the hotel staff and demanded restitution.’ The bookmaker’s smile froze. ‘The hatbox later turned up at Crewe with John Feeny’s head in it, so you’ll understand why we have such an interest in your hotel accommodation on that particular night.’
‘What are you after, Inspector?’
‘The name of the lady with whom you were staying, sir.’
‘It has no relevance whatsoever to your investigation.’
‘Let me be the judge of that, Mr Fido.’
‘The lady was the victim of a crime.’
‘Then it should have been reported to the police.’
‘There was no need,’ said Fido. ‘The manager had the sense to accept responsibility and offer compensation. As far as we were concerned, the matter was closed.’
Colbeck was tenacious. ‘It falls to me to reopen it,’ he said. ‘I believe that there may have been a specific reason why that particular hatbox was stolen. It’s therefore important that I know the name of the person who owned it.’
Fido lowered his voice. ‘Are you married, Inspector?’
‘No, sir, I’m a bachelor.’
‘So am I,’ confided the other. ‘We are two of a kind – single gentlemen who take their pleasures where they find them and who protect the identity of any lady involved. Such conduct will inevitably attract condemnation from those of more puritanical disposition but, I’m glad to say, it’s not an offence that’s found its way into the statute book. If it had, some of our most distinguished politicians – the late Duke of Wellington among them – would have been liable to arrest.’
‘I’m not here to discuss the duke’s indiscretions.’
‘Mine are equally outside your purview, Inspector.’
‘I require the name of that young lady.’
‘And I decline to give it to you.’
‘That’s tantamount to obstructing the police,’ warned Colbeck.
‘I prefer to see it as the act of a gentleman.’
‘Your definition of gentlemanly behaviour does not accord with mine, Mr Fido. I thought you were keen for this crime to be solved.’
‘I am,’ asserted the other. ‘I want the killer brought to justice.’
‘Then why refuse to cooperate? John Feeny lost his life in the most grisly way. My job,’ said Colbeck, ‘is to gather every conceivable scrap of evidence. Consequently, I would like to speak to the young lady with whom you stayed at the Wyvern Hotel.’
‘I can relay your questions to her, Inspector.’
‘That will not suffice.’
‘Then you are going to be disappointed.’
‘Are you ashamed of the lady for some reason?’
‘No,’ rejoined Fido, ‘and I resent your insinuation. I do not need to buy a lady’s favours, Inspecto
r Colbeck. Strange as it may seem, I happen to believe in romance. Do you know what that means?’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Colbeck, thinking fondly of Madeleine Andrews. ‘Being a member of the Metropolitan Police Force does not make us oblivious to emotion.’
‘Then see it from my point of view. If a young lady had put the ultimate trust in you, would you break that trust by revealing her identity?’
‘Probably not.’
‘We agree on something at last.’
‘Not exactly, sir,’ said Colbeck, ‘but I spy a way out of this dilemma. Approach the lady yourself and explain the situation in which we find ourselves. Tell her that she can contact me at Scotland Yard and that I will treat everything she says in strict confidence. Who knows?’ he asked meaningfully. ‘It may well be that she is more anxious for this murder to be solved than you seem to be.’
Kitty Lavender was in her bedroom, seated in front of the dressing table and looking in the mirror as she fastened her diamond earrings in place. When she heard a knock on the door, she went through to the drawing room to see who her visitor might be. Opening the door, she was taken aback to see Marcus Johnson standing there with a warm and mischievous smile.
‘I thought we were going to keep out of each other’s way for a while,’ she said. ‘What brought you here?’
‘A hansom cab.’
‘Don’t jest, Marcus.’
‘I came on the off-chance of catching you in,’ he said, doffing his hat. ‘Your landlady recognised me and let me into the house.’
‘In that case, you’d better come in.’
Kitty stood back so that he could go past her then she closed the door behind her. She was not sure if she was pleased to see him. Her half-brother tended to vanish from her life for long periods then surface when he needed money or help or both. Kitty wondered what he was after this time.
The drawing room was large, well proportioned and filled with exquisite Regency furniture. Long, gilt-framed mirrors had been artfully used to make the room seem even bigger than it was. Fresh flowers stood in a vase. Marcus Johnson looked around.
‘I always like coming here,’ he said. ‘I just wish that I could afford a suite of rooms like this.’
‘You’re a nomad. You never stay in one place long enough.’
‘That’s true – though this house would tempt me.’
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