‘What was Feeny doing in England?’
‘Trying to become a jockey,’ said Colbeck. ‘But I couldn’t rely wholly on Mr Dowd’s identification. It was, after all, only based on a rough drawing of the deceased. When I got back to London, therefore, I took John Feeny’s uncle to the morgue where he was shown his nephew’s head. It shook him badly but we have what we needed – a positive identification from a family member.’
‘Good,’ said Tallis grudgingly. ‘We now have a head, a body and a name – a degree of progress at last. What else did you learn in Ireland?’
Colbeck had carefully planned what he was going to say so that his report was concise yet filled with all the relevant detail. While in Ireland, he had been shown around the stables and talked at length about Limerick Lad’s chances in the Derby.
‘His trainer thinks he’s a certain winner,’ he said.
‘I hope you’re not suggesting that I place a bet on the Irish horse, Inspector. Gambling is hateful to me. I had to talk Sergeant Leeming out of falling under its wicked spell.’
‘My major concern is to ensure that it’s a fair race, sir.’
‘Mine is to solve a murder.’
‘The two things go together,’ Colbeck reasoned. ‘That severed head was destined for Brian Dowd as a warning of how desperate one of his rivals is to prevent Limerick Lad from winning.’
‘Then you must arrest the man immediately,’ said Tallis.
‘Who?’
‘Hamilton Fido, of course – his guilt is undeniable.’
‘I think he’s entitled to a presumption of innocence before we accuse him of the crime. Mr Dowd may have pointed the finger at him but we have to bear in mind that the two of them are sworn enemies. The villain may be someone else entirely.’
‘What conceivable motive could he have?’
‘The most obvious one, Superintendent,’ said Colbeck, ‘and that’s financial gain. If someone has bet heavily on one horse, the best way to protect his investment is to impede any other runner who’s likely to be a serious contender.’
‘You told me that the Derby was a three-horse race.’
‘That’s the received wisdom, sir, but one should never rule out the possibility that an outsider could win. It’s happened in the past. It only needs the favoured horses to have an off day, or for their jockeys to make bad tactical mistakes. Look at the evidence we’ve collected so far, sir,’ said Colbeck. ‘A severed head is found in a hatbox belonging to the mistress of the man who owns the Derby favourite, Odysseus. The head was destined for Brian Dowd, owner and trainer of another fancied runner, Limerick Lad. The murder victim worked at stables owned by Hamilton Fido, whose filly, Merry Legs, also features well in the betting. The three most dangerous horses have been singled out.’
‘What do you conclude, Inspector?’
‘That we may have seen the opening moves in a campaign to set the respective owners at each other’s throats. If they feel they’ve been abused, they’ll seek retribution. No quarter will be given. It’s possible that of the three horses – Odysseus, Merry Legs and Limerick Lad – one or two might not even make the starting post at Epsom.’
‘Do you predict more skulduggery?’ asked Tallis.
‘No, sir,’ replied Colbeck calmly. ‘I don’t predict it – I guarantee it. In my considered opinion, the worst is yet to come.’
Hidden in the trees, he kept the stables under surveillance all morning and bided his time. From his elevated position, he had a good view of the yard through his telescope. When the colt appeared, he recognised Odysseus immediately and knew that his moment was at hand. The travelling box was hauled into the yard by a cart drawn by a pair of matching grey dray-horses. It was time for him to move. Mounting his horse, he rode off until he reached the steepest part of the incline. Then he tethered his horse behind some thick bushes and took up his position. Five minutes later, the travelling box was pulled out of the stables to begin the long, slow climb up the hill.
The man was taking no chances. In case he was seen, he was wearing a wide-brimmed hat pulled down low over his forehead and a scarf that covered the lower half of his face. His clothing was nondescript. Even close friends would not have been able to identify him. He remained concealed in the undergrowth until he could hear the clatter of hooves and the rattle of the cart and the travelling box getting closer and closer.
When the vehicles finally drew level with him, he acted swiftly. Leaping out of his hiding place, he ran to the coupling pin that held the cart and travelling box together. He grabbed it, yanked it out and flung it into the long grass. The vehicles parted dramatically. As the cart was driven forward, the travelling box rolled crazily backward down the hill, swaying from side to side and gathering speed all the time. Reaching a bend, it left the road altogether and spun wildly out of control until it turned over with a sickening crash.
The man did not linger. His mission had been completed. Before the driver of the cart even realised what had happened, the man was already back in the saddle, riding off to report the good news.
CHAPTER SIX
Victor Leeming was relieved to be going on a journey that did not involve a railway. Instead, he and Robert Colbeck sat side by side in a hansom cab as it picked its way through a labyrinth of streets in east London. There was something about the gentle swaying of the vehicle that the sergeant found reassuring. It was like being rocked in a giant cradle with the rhythmical trot of the horse providing a soothing lullaby. Even when they turned down a narrow lane, bouncing and sliding over a cobbled surface, Leeming felt snug and unthreatened.
‘This is better than hurtling along in a train,’ he opined.
‘It’s an agreeable alternative on a short journey,’ said Colbeck, ‘but I’d hate to have gone all the way to Anglesey by cab. Horses and railways are not mutually exclusive, Victor. They’re complementary.’
‘Give me horses every time, sir.’
‘You’ll have a wide choice of those today.’
‘Will I?’
‘Yes,’ said Colbeck. ‘We’re going to see a bookmaker. He’ll offer you whole cavalry regiments. Horses are Hamilton Fido’s business. Judging by the success he’s had, I’d say that he was an expert.’
‘Does he know who’s going to win the Derby?’
‘I’m sure that he’ll tell us.’
‘Why does such a rich man live in one of the poorest districts of London?’ asked Leeming. ‘Since the weaving industry fell on hard times, Bethnal Green is starting to look like a graveyard.’
‘Mr Fido only works here, Victor. His house is in a far more salubrious part of the city. Some of his more questionable activities would not be allowed there whereas they suit the character of Bethnal Green perfectly.’
‘Milling and cock-fighting, you mean?’
‘It’s not only boxers and birds who entertain the crowds here,’ said Colbeck. ‘Hamilton Fido will arrange any contest in which blood can be drawn and on which bets can be laid.’
‘Why has he never been arrested?’
‘That, I suspect, will become obvious when we meet him.’
The cab eventually came to a halt outside the Green Dragon, a large, rambling, double-fronted tavern built with an eye to Gothic extravagance but now badly besmirched. As he alighted and paid the driver, Colbeck glanced around him. Signs of extreme poverty were unmistakable. Small, dark, mean, neglected houses and tenements were clustered together in the filthy street. Emaciated and unwashed children in tattered clothes were playing games. Old people sat on stools outside their dwellings and looked on with vacant stares. Filling the air with their strident cries, street vendors sold wares from their handcarts. Dogs and cats had ear-splitting disputes over territory. Hulking men with darting eyes sauntered past. There was a hint of danger in the air.
Victor Leeming was troubled by the stink from the accumulated litter and open drains. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. Within seconds, he and Colbeck were approached by a couple of ancient beggars with t
hreadbare suits, battered hats and ingratiating smiles. From other denizens of the area the visitors collected only hostile stares and muttered curses. They went into the tavern and found it full of rowdy patrons. In the boisterous atmosphere, Colbeck had to raise his voice to be heard by the barman. In answer to the inspector’s enquiry, they were directed upstairs.
Hamilton Fido’s office occupied the front room on the first floor. What surprised them as they were invited in was how little of the hubbub below rose up through the floorboards. A thick oriental carpet helped to insulate the room against the noise from the bar. The office walls were adorned with sporting prints and every shelf was covered with silver cups and other trophies. Yet there was no sense of clutter. Everything was neatly in place. Hamilton Fido was clearly a man who valued order.
He rose swiftly from his seat as the introductions were made.
‘How fortunate!’ he exclaimed, beaming at Colbeck. ‘I’ve always wanted to meet the famous Railway Detective.’
‘And I’ve always wanted to meet the infamous bookmaker,’ Colbeck returned pleasantly. ‘You have a spacious and well-appointed office, Mr Fido. It’s the last thing one might expect to find in a place like Bethnal Green.’
‘I was born and brought up here,’ explained Fido, looking fondly through the window. ‘My father was a weaver – his loom took up most of the space on the ground floor. When he was too ill to work, we had no money coming in. When he recovered his health, the trade had declined and he could find no employment. Life was a daily struggle for us and, from an early age, I had to learn how to survive. Though I say so myself, I became very adept at survival.’ He held the lapels of his frock coat. ‘What you see before you is a self-educated man who was fortunate enough to make good. Most people in my position turn their backs on their humble origins but I rejoice in mine.’
‘That’s creditable, sir,’ said Leeming.
‘Bethnal Green folk are the salt of the earth. When I bought this tavern and set up my business here, I wanted to put something back into the district. But I forget my manners,’ he said, indicating the chairs. ‘Do make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen.’
The detectives sat down and Fido lowered himself into a seat opposite them. Like Colbeck, the bookmaker was impeccably dressed but he had a flamboyance that the inspector lacked. Gold rings shone on both hands and an ornate gold pin anchored his cravat. He produced a ready smile for the detectives.
‘What brought you here was that hatbox, I presume,’ he said helpfully. ‘There’s no need to tell me the name of the unfortunate young man whose head was found inside it. He was John Feeny.’
Colbeck was taken aback. ‘May I ask how you come to know?’
‘The fact was important to me.’
‘But the name of the deceased has not yet been released.’
‘It was released to me, Inspector,’ said Fido complacently. ‘In my walk of life, accurate information is vital so I employ every means of acquiring it.’
‘Even to the extent of bribing a police officer?’
Fido held up both hands in a comic gesture of surrender. ‘Inspector, please – I would never dare to do that.’
‘Then how did you find out?’ asked Leeming.
‘Not because I put the head in the hatbox, Sergeant.’
‘Then how, sir?’
‘An anonymous letter was slipped under my door,’ said Fido glibly. ‘It claimed that the dead man was John Feeny, a lad who used to work as a groom at my stables. Is that correct?’
‘It is, Mr Fido,’ conceded Leeming.
‘Of course, I never met him. My trainer employs several grooms. He’s always had a free hand in his choice of lads. Until this morning, I had no idea that someone called John Feeny even existed.’
‘And when you did discover his existence,’ said Colbeck, ‘and learnt of his bizarre murder, how did you react?’
‘With pity and apprehension,’ said Fido.
‘Apprehension?’
‘Feeny was Irish. According to my anonymous informant, he once worked at the stables owned by Brian Dowd. I was horrified.’
‘Why?’
‘Mr Dowd and I have exchanged hot words,’ said Fido sourly, ‘on and off the racecourse. He’s totally unscrupulous. All that the public sees is the endless stream of success that he’s enjoyed. What’s hidden from them is the deep-dyed villainy behind that success.’
‘You sound as if you’re accusing Brian Dowd,’ said Colbeck.
‘He deliberately infiltrated my stables.’
‘Is that what you believe, sir?’
‘It’s obvious, Inspector,’ argued Fido. ‘My filly, Merry Legs, has an excellent chance of winning the Derby. John Feeny was sent over to England to make sure that Merry Legs did not even run in the race.’
‘Then it would have been in your interests to stop him.’
‘I’d never have employed him in the first place.’
‘Why did your trainer take the lad on?’
‘I mean to ask him that selfsame question when I meet him later today. Who killed John Feeny, I’m unable to tell you, but the person who dispatched him to England to spy on my filly was Brian Dowd.’
‘Could it be that someone at the stables took the law into his own hands?’ wondered Colbeck. ‘When he suspected that the lad had been deliberately planted on them, he struck back.’
Fido was fuming. ‘I do not employ killers, Inspector.’
‘How do you know?’ said Leeming. ‘Until today, you didn’t even know that John Feeny worked at your stables.’
‘Do you have any proof that that is where he was murdered?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Or any evidence to connect the crime to me?’
‘None at all, Mr Fido.’
‘Then I’ll trouble you not to make any unfounded allegations. Instead of badgering me about this murder, you should be chasing that crooked Irishman, Brian Dowd.’
‘I’ve already spoken with Mr Dowd,’ said Colbeck.
‘You have?’ said Fido. ‘I didn’t realise that he was in this country yet.’
‘I went to Dublin to see him. What your anonymous informant failed to tell you was that the severed head was destined for Ireland. It was Mr Dowd who identified a rough portrait of the deceased and thus enabled us to move this investigation on to another stage.’
‘Don’t believe a word that liar told you!’ snarled Fido.
‘He said much the same about you, sir.’
‘Dowd set out to disable Merry Legs in some way.’
‘That’s pure supposition,’ said Colbeck. ‘According to Mr Dowd, the reason that Feeny left Ireland was that there were no prospects of his becoming a jockey there. That must have rankled with the lad. Why should he help a man who told him frankly that he had no future in the saddle?’
Hamilton Fido took a moment to absorb what he had been told. His face remained impassive but his mind was racing. He seized on one piece of information.
‘What makes you think the severed head was destined for Brian Dowd?’ he asked. ‘It was found in Crewe.’
‘Inspector Colbeck looked closely at the railway timetables,’ said Leeming. ‘Not long after that hatbox arrived in Crewe, there was a connecting train to Holyhead.’
Colbeck took over. ‘There was also the fact that Limerick Lad posed a serious challenge to your filly and to Lord Hendry’s Odysseus. Since I was certain that the crime was linked to the Derby,’ he went on, ‘I deduced that Mr Dowd was the most likely recipient of that ghastly present in the hatbox. He agreed with me.’
‘On what grounds?’ said Fido.
‘The false assumption already made by you, sir – namely, that Feeny was paid to report on the progress of Merry Legs and was thus seen as an enemy in the camp. The killer’s motive was revenge.’
‘You’re being fanciful, Inspector Colbeck.’
‘I am merely telling you how it looks to me.’
‘You made the mistake of listening to Brian Dowd.’
‘Then let me deny categorically that neither I – nor anyone in my employ – was involved in this murder. If that’s what Dowd is claiming, I’ll sue the bastard for slander.’
‘Some of the things you’ve said about Mr Dowd could be considered slanderous,’ noted Colbeck. ‘They are also very unhelpful. A shouting match between the pair of you will achieve nothing beyond giving you both a sore throat.’
‘Keep him away from me – that’s all I ask.’
The conversation had reached a natural end. Before he could stop himself, Leeming blurted out the question that had been on the tip of his tongue since they had entered the room. ‘Which horse will win the Derby, sir?’
‘The first past the winning post,’ replied Fido.
‘Will that be Odysseus, Merry Legs or Limerick Lad?’
‘Odysseus has to be favourite, Sergeant.’
‘But you want your own horse to win.’
‘I hope and pray that she does,’ said Fido guardedly. ‘But I draw back from overrating her chances. All I will say is that Merry Legs has a wonderful opportunity to beat the field.’
‘That’s not what tradition tells us,’ said Colbeck knowledgeably. ‘The only filly to win the Derby was Eleanor in 1801. Before and since that year, colts have always taken the honours. Why should it be any different this year?’
‘Speaking as a bookmaker, I’d say that Merry Legs was an unlikely winner even though, as a filly, she’ll have a slight weight advantage. Speaking as an owner, however,’ Fido continued, ‘I’m ruled by my heart rather than my head.’
‘Does that mean you’ll be betting on Merry Legs?’ said Leeming.
‘The odds I’m setting are well advertised. Odysseus is 5–2; Limerick Lad is 4–1; and Merry Legs is 8–1. But there are eighteen other runners in the race. One of them might surprise us all.’
‘Bookmakers are rarely surprised,’ observed Colbeck.
Fido smiled. ‘We know how to cover every eventuality.’
‘Even an attack on your own horse?’
‘Merry Legs is under armed guard day and night, Inspector.’
The Iron Horse Page 9
