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.’
‘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.