The Iron Horse irc-4

by Edward Marston

  ‘Does that mean he’ll be able to catch John’s killer?’ she said.

  ‘I have no doubt about it.’

  ‘What will happen to him?’

  ‘He’ll be hanged.’

  ‘I wish I was there to see it,’ said Bonny with unexpected anger. ‘He deserves terrible pain for what he did to John. I hate him. He’ll roast in Hell for this crime.’

  Madeleine was surprised by the outburst from such a placid girl but she understood the strain that Bonny Rimmer must be under. As they drank their tea, she moved the conversation to more neutral topics and her visitor calmed down. Before they left, however, Madeleine returned to the subject that had brought them together.

  ‘You told me that John had no enemies.’

  ‘None to speak of,’ said Bonny. ‘He always got on with people.’

  ‘He didn’t get on with Mr Dowd.’

  ‘That was because he ran out of patience. Mr Dowd made all sorts of promises to him about how he’d be a champion jockey one day but they were just lies. He never let him ride in a single race and John realised that he never would.’

  ‘Was that when they had their argument?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the other. ‘John used bad language towards Mr Dowd and that was that. He was thrown out of the stables without any pay. You know the rest, Miss Andrews.’

  ‘I can see why John was so grateful to meet a friend like you,’ said Madeleine. ‘For the first time in his life, he had something to look forward to.’

  ‘Oh, he did. John didn’t just want to prove to everyone that he could be a good jockey. He wanted to beat Mr Dowd’s horses in every race he could. That’s what kept him going,’ said Bonny. ‘He told me that he’d never be really happy until he could get his own back on Mr Dowd. It was like a mission.’

  Brian Dowd had had a more than satisfactory day at the races, One of his horses had come second in the opening race and Quicklime, as he had predicted, won the last race on the card. Wearing a frock coat and top hat, he sat among the privileged spectators in the grandstand and relished his position. Lord Hendry, by contrast, had had a miserable afternoon. All of his bets were misplaced, especially the one on his own horse, Darius, in the final race. After a promising start, the animal had pulled up lame three furlongs from home. It was irksome. As he made for the exit, the last person he wanted to encounter was the smirking Irishman.

  ‘It was a rehearsal for tomorrow,’ said Dowd.

  ‘What was?’

  ‘That last race – my horse winning by a mile from yours.’

  ‘Darius went lame,’ said Lord Hendry.

  ‘A sure sign of lack of fitness – he was badly trained.’

  ‘I need no advice from you about training horses, Dowd.’

  ‘Apparently, you do,’ taunted Dowd. ‘You can’t even train Odysseus to stay on your wall. He galloped off somewhere, I hear.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ snarled Lord Hendry.

  ‘You’d be surprised what I get to hear. The rumour is that the painting was stolen in the night. True or false?’

  ‘You ought to know the answer to that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s just the kind of thing you’d do. When you failed to cripple Odysseus in his travelling box, you paid someone to steal that portrait of him instead. It’s typical of your low Irish cunning.’

  ‘I wondered how long it would be before you started abusing my country,’ said Dowd cheerfully. ‘You English are so ungrateful. We dig your canals for you, we build your railways and we show you how to train racehorses properly yet you still sneer at us.’

  ‘Do you have my painting?’ demanded Lord Hendry.

  ‘I wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole.’

  ‘Do you know where it is?’

  ‘No, Lord Hendry, and, quite frankly, I don’t care. The only horse that interests me at the moment is Limerick Lad. When he runs in the Derby tomorrow, you’ll see why.’

  Dowd walked away before the other man could speak. Lord Hendry muttered a few obscenities under his breath then joined the queue at the exit. His first thought had been that Hamilton Fido was behind the theft of the painting but he now felt that Dowd was a likely suspect as well. He believed that the Irishman had deliberately sought him out to gloat over the loss of the portrait. Lord Hendry decided to report that fact to Robert Colbeck.

  Before he could do that, another shock awaited him. As he left the grandstand, an official walked across to him and handed Lord Hendry a letter.

  ‘This was left for you in the office, my lord,’ he said.

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. It just appeared.’

  Without even thanking the man, Lord Hendry tore open the envelope. His blood froze as he read the single sentence inside.

  ‘Your painting will be returned for £3000.’

  Victor Leeming was smiling complacently. Having taken Brian Dowd’s advice, he had bet on Quicklime and won himself over twenty pounds. He planned to spend it on gifts for his wife and children but, before he could decide what they would be, he saw that Hamilton Fido was about to leave at last. There had been no point in watching the man while he was in the betting room. Leeming waited until all the races had been run and all bets paid off. Then he lurked behind a coach and waited for the bookmaker to appear. Fido came out with a group of acquaintances but they soon dispersed.

  Leeming trailed his man from a reasonable distance, close enough to keep him in sight but far enough behind him to eliminate any risk of being seen by Fido if he suddenly turned round. The thick crowd was both a hazard and help, impeding his progress yet offering him a welcome screen should he need it. The bookmaker seemed to be heading for a line of cabs that stood waiting for business. Leeming was pleased. Once Fido had taken a cab, he could easily be followed in a second one.

  As the crowd began to thin out, Leeming got a better view of his quarry. He saw him go to the front of the queue and talk to a cab driver. Before Fido got into the vehicle, a young woman in a light-blue silk dress and straw hat approached him. From the effusive welcome she was given, he surmised that she must be Kitty Lavender. He was thrilled with his discovery but his pursuit came to an abrupt end. Intent on trailing someone else, he did not realise that he had also been followed. Leeming’s hat was knocked off from behind and he felt a sharp blow on the back of his skull. At the moment that the cab was drawing away, Leeming was plunging into unconsciousness.

  ‘What is it like? Did you see any races? Was there anybody famous there today? What time do we leave tomorrow? From where will we watch the Derby?’

  Robert Colbeck was met with such a battery of questions that it was minutes before he was able to claim a kiss of welcome. When he got to the house late that evening, Madeleine Andrews was in a state of anticipatory delight. The joy of being able to see the Derby was compounded by the pleasure of being at the racecourse with Colbeck. As the questions continued to come, he held up a hand.

  ‘That’s enough, Madeleine,’ he said. ‘When you get to Epsom tomorrow, you’ll be able to see for yourself what it’s like. But you must bear in mind that it’s not merely an excursion for me. While you are watching the races, I’ll still be looking for John Feeny’s killer.’

  ‘Will he be there?’

  ‘Oh, I think so. The Derby was supposed to be the culmination of his criminal acts. Even though some of those acts were frustrated, I don’t believe he’d dare to miss the event.’ He was saddened. ‘I see that Bonny Rimmer did not, after all, turn up.’

  ‘Oh, but she did,’ said Madeleine. ‘How silly of me! All I could think about was myself. Yes, she did come, Robert.’

  ‘Did she tell you anything of interest?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Did she bring anything? The girl talked about keepsakes.’

  ‘Those were gifts that John Feeny bought her and the wedding ring that had belonged to his mother. Apart from that, all she had were a few letters from that friend of Feeny’s in Ireland.’
<
br />   ‘Jerry Doyle?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Madeleine, opening the drawer of the sideboard. ‘I asked if I could show them to you but they won’t be of any real use. The writing is spidery and there’s just gossip about the stables.’ She took out the items and handed them over. ‘See for yourself, Robert.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. He read the note. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Something that Mr Dowd gave to him when he started there,’ she replied. ‘It was proof that he’d worked at one of the leading Irish stables and he wanted to hang on to that. It was a form of certificate.’

  Colbeck scrutinised the note. ‘Dowd wrote this himself?’

  ‘Yes, Robert.’

  ‘Are you certain of that?’

  ‘That’s what Bonny told me,’ she said. ‘I had such hopes that she might bring something that turned out to be valuable evidence but she didn’t – just two badly written letters and that short note.’

  ‘Come here,’ he said, taking her in his arms.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to give you a kiss.’

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said, responding warmly then looking up at him in surprise. ‘What made you want to do that, Robert?’

  ‘This is much more than a mere note,’ he said, waving it triumphantly in the air. ‘It’s a confession.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The pilgrimage began at dawn. Derby Day was an unpaid holiday, a joyous release from the workaday world, a national celebration, a glorious opportunity for revelry. People descended on the racecourse from all directions. The road from London to Epsom was a scene of amiable chaos as tens of thousands made the journey on foot, on horseback or seated in an astonishing array of horse-drawn vehicles, ranging from the meanest donkey-cart to the finest carriage. The journey was as much a part of the carnival as the races and it produced all the excesses of which human beings were capable.

  There was constant beer-swilling, gormandising, cheering, jeering, good-humoured fighting, whirlwind flirtation, raucous singing and general ribaldry. The long trek was also punctuated by accidents, arguments and the inevitable collapse of overloaded carts or coaches. Musical instruments of all kinds added to the continuous din and self-appointed entertainers displayed their talents whether invited to do so or not. The endless procession was a thing of wonder in itself, watched by crowds who could not go to the Derby but who nevertheless wanted to be part of an unique annual experience.

  On the following day, newspapers would give accounts of the journey to Epsom as well as of the races themselves and reporters were busy collecting anecdotes or noting incidents along the way. In the shared joy of travel, there was enough material for a three-volume novel let alone for a column in a newspaper. Any hideous injuries incurred en route were always worth a mention and an overturned carriage would merit a whole paragraph. High drama marked every mile of the excursion. Wherever one looked, raw emotion was on display as racegoers merrily flung off the conventions of civilised behaviour and gave vent to their true feelings. Derby Day was a positive riot of uncontrolled human aspiration.

  Edward Tallis was at once shocked and mesmerised by it all, aghast at the air of wild abandon yet unable to take his eyes off it. Seated in a cab beside Victor Leeming, he found new reasons to issue arrest warrants at every turn.

  ‘Look at those delinquents throwing stones at each other,’ he said, pointing an index finger. ‘They should be taken into custody. So should that woman on top of the beer cart – she’s virtually naked! We can’t have females disporting themselves in public like that.’

  ‘Everything is tolerated on Derby Day, sir,’ said Leeming.

  ‘Not by me.’

  ‘People want some fun.’

  ‘That’s permissible,’ said Tallis, ‘as long as it stays within the bounds of decency and the embrace of the law.’

  From the moment they set out from London, the superintendent had regretted his decision to travel by cab. He had simply not realised how slow their progress would be or how beset by what he saw as rampant criminality. When a fat old lady hopped nimbly off a cart, lifting her skirt and spreading her legs to urinate, Tallis winced in disgust. Leeming, however, was savouring it all. Though he was obliged to travel with his superior and endure his ceaseless moaning, he was in relative comfort and spared a journey by rail that he would have hated. A bandage encircled his head but it was hidden beneath his hat. The cab came to a sudden halt.

  ‘What’s happening now?’ asked Tallis.

  ‘There’s a toll-gate ahead, sir,’ said Leeming.

  ‘We are from Scotland Yard – we should be waved through.’

  ‘We’d have to get there first and, as you see, we’re hemmed in on all sides. We just have to wait in the queue.’

  ‘I want to get to Epsom.’

  ‘Be patient, sir. They sometimes have a brawl or two at toll-gates and that always holds us up.’

  ‘Brawling in public? That must be stopped.’

  ‘Then you’ll need to speak to the owners of the toll roads,’ said Leeming, ‘for that’s the root of the problem. Whenever Derby Week comes round, they always put up the prices to make large profits. Somebody refuses to pay and a scuffle takes place.’ The cab jerked forward. ‘Ah, we’re on the move again.’

  They soon drew level with members of a brass band, marching in ragged formation and playing ear-splitting melodies that were hopelessly out of tune. The remorseless pounding of the bass drum made Tallis quake.

  ‘How long will the pandemonium last?’ he cried.

  ‘You may find it’s even noisier when we get there, sir.’

  ‘Nothing can be worse than this!’

  ‘They say there’ll be upwards of sixty thousand people on the Downs this afternoon. That means a real uproar. Don’t worry, sir. You’ll get used to it after a while.’

  ‘Never – this is purgatory!’

  Edward Tallis was not all bluster and protest. When Leeming had reported the attack on him at the racecourse, the superintendent had been sympathetic and suggested that they travel to Epsom together so that Leeming would be spared the violent jostling at the railway station. Tallis shot his companion a look of concern.

  ‘How does your head feel now, Sergeant?’

  ‘It still aches a bit,’ admitted Leeming, removing his hat to put a tender hand to the back of his skull. ‘Yesterday it was agony.’

  ‘I can well believe that.’

  ‘When I regained consciousness, I thought at first I’d been the victim of a robbery but nothing had been stolen. I was knocked out to stop me following Hamilton Fido.’

  ‘We’ll have that rogue behind bars before the day is out.’

  ‘It will be very difficult to prove, sir,’ said Leeming. ‘There were plenty of witnesses and they gave me a description of my attacker before he vanished into the crowd. All in vain, I fear. He’ll probably never be seen on the course again so there’s no way to link him to Mr Fido.’

  ‘We’ll find a way,’ said Tallis dourly. ‘I’m not having my men assaulted in broad daylight. Besides, the bookmaker lied to you and to Inspector Colbeck. Misleading the police is something of which I take a very dim view. Fido swore that he had no communication with Kitty Lavender yet you saw them embracing.’

  ‘I saw a woman I assumed was Miss Lavender, sir, but I could be wrong. Mr Fido is on familiar terms with many young ladies. We’ll have to ask him who that particular one was.’

  ‘Do you believe that he’ll give us a truthful answer?’

  ‘No, Superintendent.’

  ‘Nor me – an honest bookmaker is a contradiction in terms. But we won’t be deterred by that fact,’ said Tallis. ‘We’ll demand answers.’

  ‘What about Inspector Colbeck, sir?’

  ‘The inspector has another quarry in sight. He left a note on my desk to that effect because he knew that I would call in at my office before I set out this morning. He claims to have made a significant advance,’ he went on. ‘I look forward to hearing what it
is.’

  Special trains were intended to relieve the congestion on the road and get large numbers of people from London to Epsom much faster than any horse-drawn transport. Accordingly, thousands flocked to the railway station and boarded the succession of trains. Robert Colbeck and Madeleine Andrews were on one of the earliest to depart. Squashed together in a first-class carriage, both of them enjoyed the close proximity and thought how privileged they were compared to the masses in third class who were crammed into open-topped carriages.

  Not that anyone complained about the crush. A festive spirit informed the whole journey. As well as singing, storytelling and jollity, there was feverish speculation about the result of the Derby. The train sped through the morning sunshine with a cargo of happiness and high expectation. Colbeck and Madeleine were caught up in the general exhilaration, their pleasure heightened by the fact that they were seated deliciously close to each other. It was easy to forget that they were in pursuit of a callous murderer.

  When they reached Epsom Station, a human wave burst out of the train and swept across the platform. Borne along by the surge, Colbeck and Madeleine gradually eased their way to the back. It was almost possible to talk at last without having to shout above the continuous hullabaloo.

  ‘Are you sorry that you came?’ asked Colbeck.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘It’s wonderful!’

  ‘So you didn’t mind having to get up so early?’

  ‘I’m used to that, Robert.’

  ‘When we get to the racecourse,’ he warned, ‘I’ll have to leave you for a while. As you know, this is not only a social event for me.’

  ‘I can look after myself,’ she said.

  ‘You deserve to enjoy the fun of the fair, Madeleine. What you did has been of immense value to me.’

  ‘Talking to Bonny Rimmer was no effort.’

  ‘By winning her confidence, you gained information that would always have been beyond me. I now have a truer picture of the relationship between John Feeny and his former employer. You helped the girl cope in her bereavement as well,’ he said, ‘and that was important. You provided succour.’