‘That’s exactly what I intend to be.’
‘I’ll importune you no more,’ he said apologetically. ‘Besides, I don’t need further capital. I’ve already placed a substantial bet on Odysseus.’ He glanced up at the painting. ‘I expect him to win by at least three clear lengths.’
‘Then I’ll be the first to congratulate you.’
‘Thank you, Caroline.’
He touched her hand with distant affection. Having no more money of his own to invest in Odysseus, he had hoped to be able to charm some additional cash from her even though he knew how unlikely that would be. He seethed inwardly at her rejection. Why could his wife have an urge to subsidise a lunatic asylum while denying her own husband the benefit of her wealth? It was unjust.
‘George,’ she said quietly.
‘Yes, my dear.’
‘That incident you told me about – it alarms me.’
‘I choose to see it as the ultimate seal of approval.’
She was puzzled. ‘Approval?’
‘It’s startling confirmation from one of my rivals that Odysseus is the undisputed favourite. Since he can’t be beaten in a fair race, someone did his best to take him out of it.’
‘I’m afraid that you might be in jeopardy.’
‘No, my dear – Odysseus and his jockey are the targets.’
‘And you say they’ll be protected by the police?’
‘Security will be very tight from now on.’
‘Good.’ Struggling to her feet, she crossed to the fireplace and looked up at Odysseus. Her husband came to stand beside her. She turned to him. ‘Do you really believe he can win?’
‘I do, Caroline,’ he replied, trying to keep a note of desperation out of his voice. ‘Odysseus must win. Everything depends upon it.’
‘Stay where you are!’ ordered the man. ‘Or I’ll blow your brains out.’
It was not the welcome that Victor Leeming had expected when he stepped down from the cab and walked up the drive. As soon as the sergeant reached one of the outbuildings, a burly individual jumped out to confront him with a shotgun. Staring at the gleaming barrels, Leeming elected to comply with the instruction. The guard ran an unflattering eye over him.
‘What’s your name, you ugly bugger?’ he demanded.
‘Detective Sergeant Leeming from Scotland Yard.’
The man sniggered. ‘Oh, is that right? Well, if you’re a detective, I’m the Angel Bleeding Gabriel.’ He jabbed the weapon at Leeming. ‘Tell me your real name, you lying devil.’
‘I just did.’
‘Now you’re provoking me, aren’t you?’
‘What’s going on, Seamus?’ called a voice.
Brian Dowd ambled down the drive to see what was causing the commotion. Leeming showed proof of his identity and explained that he had come at the instigation of Robert Colbeck.
‘Why didn’t he come himself?’ asked Dowd.
‘He had to make enquiries elsewhere – at Mr Fido’s stables.’
‘That’s where the trouble started, Sergeant. John Feeny was murdered by one of Hamilton Fido’s henchmen and they sent me the lad’s head to frighten me – but I don’t frighten that easy.’
‘I do,’ admitted Leeming, keenly aware that the shotgun was still pointed at him. ‘Could you please persuade your friend here to put his weapon away?’ Dowd gave a nod and Seamus withdrew into the nearest building. ‘Thank you, sir – I appreciate that.’
‘Nobody gets close to Limerick Lad,’ said Dowd.
‘I was hoping that I might.’
‘You?’
‘It’s one of the reasons I was glad to be sent here, sir. I know nothing about horses but I do like a flutter on the Derby. The problem is that I’m very confused,’ he went on. ‘Lord Hendry assured us that Odysseus would be first past the post but, when we met Mr Fido earlier today, I had the impression he felt his own horse would win.’
‘Merry Legs doesn’t have a prayer.’
‘What about Odysseus?’
Dowd was positive. ‘Second place behind Limerick Lad.’
‘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?’