In general, he had been pleased by the morning editions, which appeared too late to carry the news of Darrell. The careers of the main entrants were fully described, and much was made of the different backgrounds of Chadwick and Darrell. The remainder of the field had been referred to as ‘the huddled-up division’-a slighting reference to their accommodation-but otherwise the comments were flip-pant, but uncritical. Herriott had liked ‘the Boss of the Hippodrome’, and ‘that staunch sportsman’. If tragedy had not intervened, he would have enjoyed this day.
One of the competitors, Reid, had twice tottered off course during the last hour, and fresh sawdust had been put down to mark the inner edge of the track. The rest, though, were in good shape. All of them now chose to walk, and the pace varied little from man to man. Chadwick undoubtedly showed the best form, but two knots of competitors contrived to impede him whenever he overtook. Chalk’s antics in cutting across the Captain’s path were hugely enjoyed, and Williams too delighted the crowd by dogging Chadwick’s steps for a full lap, aping the upthrust chin.
This mood of mirth was cut short by the entrance of a woman in dark clothes, heavily veiled and accompanied by an elderly man. She crossed the track to speak to Herriott. After a word to Jacobson, who took over the Press release, Herriott led them to his office.
‘It was a great shock,’ he began, when they were seated.
Cora Darrell had lifted her veil.
‘A wicked thing. Mr Herriott, may I introduce my father?’
‘McCarthy is my name.’
He offered his hand. ‘It was good of you to send word so quickly of my son-in-law’s death.’
He was mildly spoken, and dressed in a faded check over-coat. Repair-stitching showed on his shoes, which he had polished to a military standard.
‘I wish that we could have informed you when he first collapsed,’ Herriott answered, ‘but none of us suspected anything but cramp at that stage. After that, the attacks came so suddenly and so violently that we were totally taken up with his condition. The whole thing was over in less than two hours.’
‘These attacks,’ asked McCarthy. ‘Did they become steadily worse?’
‘I was not with him to the end,’ Herriott answered. ‘We had two doctors in attendance, and they told me that the attacks were in the nature of muscular spasms. He was con-scious until the last moments.’
Cora covered her face, sobbing. Her father rested a hand on her arm.
‘The doctors,’ he said. ‘Could I see them?’
‘The doctor mainly concerned left to conduct the post-mortem examination at Islington mortuary. I shall be pleased to arrange a meeting later. The other doctor volun-teered his help. He is a competitor in the race-Mostyn-Smith. If you would care to meet him-’
‘Not if he is on the track at present. We should not inter-rupt his running again. Did either of the doctors venture an opinion of the cause?’
‘They said that tetanus was a possibility.’
‘Tetanus? You don’t get that running, do you? I thought it entered the body through a wound. Don’t soldiers get that? I’m sure it is due to dirty wounds.’
Herriott looked down.
‘I’m sorry. I know very little-’
‘But I really don’t understand,’ McCarthy persisted. ‘My son-in-law apparently died in agony from a disease that has to infect the body through a wound.’
‘His feet,’ faltered Herriott. ‘The blisters had broken. There were cuts. He ran on the path without boots or socks.’
Cora Darrell suddenly veered from passive grief to hys-terical anger.
‘Cuts! Open wounds! And he ran on them, over this filthy ground! What was his trainer doing, to allow this? Where is Sam Monk? What kind of trainer is he? Oh, Charlie, Charlie, he killed you. Monk killed you.’
McCarthy, mumbling apologies, tried to calm his daugh-ter. But she controlled herself, pushing him away.
‘I demand to see Mr Monk. I am entitled to a proper explanation. Where is my husband’s trainer?’
‘I… don’t think you should see him today,’ Herriott answered. ‘Like you, Mrs… Cora, he is in a distracted state. He could give you no proper answers.’
He remembered seeing Monk in the restaurant at lunch-time, drinking alone, and heavily. By now he would be in a stupor.
‘Mr Herriott is right, my dear,’ added McCarthy. ‘It would serve no useful purpose.’
Cora was now calm, and spoke slowly.
‘We shall sue that man, for wicked negligence. And you, Sol. We are old friends, I know, but if I can prove that you are responsible in any way for Charles’s death, I shall sue. You and your ridiculous race robbed me of his love-my lawful right-for the last six weeks of his life.’
‘Now, Cora,’ protested her father, ‘you cannot-’
‘There are thousands of witnesses to the filth of this building,’ she continued, ignoring him. ‘Thousands, Sol. And if the law allows it, I’ll prove you responsible.’
Herriott remained silent, stunned by the suddenness of the young widow’s attack. Cora had said all that she wanted and stood ready to leave. Her father formed an apology on his lips but only uttered a meaningless sound. Nodding awkwardly, he motioned Cora to the door and they left Herriott alone.
That evening was not a comfortable one for Herriott. Although a fair crowd accumulated in the stands they were less animated than the band. The performers on the track gave a dreary show. Only Billy Reid provided occasional diversions by sitting, on strike, at the track-edge, while his brother’s appeals were taken up by those near by, ‘Go it, Billy! You’ve got ’em all beat, my beauty. Get up, Billy boy!’-until he roused himself for another laborious circuit. Mid-way through the evening Sam Monk awoke from a drunken slumber in the restaurant and tottered into the arena pestering the officials for money. Herriott cast about for Jacobson, but the manager, as usual, was elsewhere, and the job of evicting Monk had to be his own.
Most of the audience had left and the pedestrians them-selves were starting to retire when Jacobson reappeared. With him were two strangers.
‘These gentlemen asked to meet you. They are from the police. Sergeant-er-’
‘Cribb-and Police Constable Thackeray. You are Mr Herriott, manager of this show?’
‘Promoter. Jacobson here is the manager.’
‘Very good. I am from the Detective Branch. Here to investigate the death of Charles Frederick Darrell. Pedestrian, I believe?’
‘Yes. But why-’
‘Doctors’ report came in tonight. He died of poisoning, sir. Enough strychnine in the corpse to put down a dray-horse. Where shall we talk?’
The Pedestrian Contest at Islington
POSITIONS AT THE END OF THE SECOND DAY
C. Darrell (125 miles), and G. Stockwell (139 miles) retired from the race.
WEDNESDAY
CHAPTER 7
The boardroom still contained the bedstead which had been installed there eighteen hours earlier. It now served as a coat-rack. When he was seated, Herriott offered cigars to the other three, lit one for himself (he badly needed it), and studied the policemen, envying their vitality at this late hour. Sergeant Cribb remained standing, tall, spare in frame, too spry in his movements ever to put on much weight. His head, which switched positions with a birdlike suddenness, was burdened with an overlong nose. He had compensated for this by cultivating the bushiest Piccadilly Weepers that Herriott had seen. These, and his heavy eyebrows, were deep-brown, flecked with grey. He looked in his forties.