Now that her emotional outburst had subsided, Mrs Darrell was becoming coherent. Cribb needed more infor-mation.
‘If the trainer was to blame,’ he said, ‘I need to know why. Why so clumsy this time? Man’s got a reputation. Best trainer in England, he’s said to be. Should know about ton-ics. Why should he go wrong this time?’
‘I only know that he drinks more than he should.’
‘Tipped in too much when he’d been on the beer? Possible. We’re having the bottle tested, of course.’ He tapped his chin pensively. ‘Now suppose Monk didn’t make any mistake. Your husband wasn’t suicidal, was he?’
‘Goodness no!’ Cora exclaimed in indignation, taking this as a personal slur. ‘Charles had everything to live for. A suc-cessful career, happy marriage, a fortune to be won.’
‘No debts, then? Have to ask, you see.’
‘No debts,’ she repeated, coolly.
‘And his state of mind when the race started?’
‘He was confident of winning. Monk had worked him hard. I’ve never known him so well-prepared.’
‘Makes it even stranger that Mr Monk should slip up, doesn’t it? Now I see from the newspaper that you visited the Hall Monday afternoon. Made quite a stir, by this account.’
Cora blushed with pleasure, clearly wondering which paper Cribb had read. She couldn’t really ask him.
‘Yes, I wanted to watch Charles. He was running very well. I’m sure he wasn’t worried by anything.’
‘You spoke to him?’
‘No. Not to Charles. He was running, you see. I wasn’t there to interrupt his performance.’
‘You did speak to Mr Monk, I believe.’
‘Yes.’ She had coloured again, only slightly, but Cribb noticed. ‘He showed me the living arrangements.’
‘You haven’t always been opposed to Mr Monk?’
She had recovered her poise.
‘I was civil to the man. I asked to see the tent. I wanted to be sure it was comfortable.’
‘Of course,’ said Cribb. ‘And was it?’
He had not forgotten his own short retirement in the tent. But he, too, could be evasive when it suited him.
‘I was impressed by the accommodation.’
‘Tell me, Mrs Darrell,’ Cribb asked. ‘Was there any bot-tle or container visible in the tent?’
‘None-except when I asked to see the cupboard. There were a number of bottles in there. I noticed the one that Monk uses for his tonic-a large green one.’
‘Oh, you did? What time would this have been?’
‘I can’t really recall. It must have been about four o’clock.’
‘Mr Monk-was he acting normally?’
‘As far as I know, yes.’
Cribb got to his feet.
‘Well, Mrs Darrell. Thank you for your help. I’m sorry that my news was distressing. We’re making tests to dis-cover how he got the poison. I can let you know-’
‘You are so kind.’ Cora rang for the maid. ‘One other matter, Sergeant. My husband’s personal things-his watch, his cuff-links and things. I wouldn’t want them to be lost.’
‘No worry, ma’am,’ Cribb reassured her. ‘There are con-stables guarding the tent. No one goes in there but me or my assistant.’
‘Then I could collect these things?’
‘If you wish. Otherwise I could put them in the office.’
‘I shall come this afternoon.’ She spoke decisively.
‘Begging your pardon, I should make it this evening if you can, ma’am. If you get there quite late there should be no crowds. You won’t want to be bothered by extra public-ity. The newspaper people would pester you. Best about ten, if you can get someone to drive you down to Islington.’
‘You are right, of course. I shall come late, as you suggest.’ ‘I’ll tell my man to expect you. May be around myself.’
The maid, who had entered with Cribb’s overcoat, hat and umbrella was surprised by a theatrical wink from Cribb, out of her mistress’s view, as he made the last remark. She returned a half-smothered smile and handed him the coat.
When the morning-room door was closed on Cora, and the maid stood in the hallway with Cribb he winked again, and pointed a thumb at the door.
‘Keeps you busy, answering doors, does she? Plenty of visitors?’
A second less disguised giggle told Cribb what he sus-pected.
‘When the master’s in training, eh?’
A hand flew to her mouth and suppressed more laughter. In the narrow passage as she opened the door Cribb nudged her gently in the ribs.
‘When’s your night off?’
‘Monday-night before last.’
The girl sounded despondent, but Cribb, with the infor-mation he wanted, gave a third broad wink, took his umbrella and bowler, and stepped away down the street.
CHAPTER 9
Constable Thackeray, brisk and important, strode through the afternoon crowd gathering at the turnstiles. He nodded curtly to the uniformed policeman on duty and was admitted through the ‘officials only’ gate. Without cutting his stride in the least he marched to the stand entrance, was recognised by an official and waved on. Across the tracks he stepped, without a glance at the entertainment being pro-vided. He was the bearer of news. The morning had been dull, even humiliating. While brown-coated scientists had toyed with their apparatus, testing the contents of the crate, Thackeray had been compelled to sit, waiting outside, unfit to be admitted to their researches. Now he was elevated; nobody in that Hall had the information that he did.
The sergeant was standing alone at one end of the cen-tral area, observing the race. Thackeray crunched to a too-formal halt a yard away. He moved his right arm through the beginning of a salute, and then, collecting himself, snapped it down again. Cribb continued to look in the other direction.
‘Defeats me,’ he said, as much to himself as the constable, ‘what makes a man watch these antics. Sport? Not racing thoroughbreds, this bunch, now are they? A lame cove limp-ing round in boots ain’t poetry in motion, to my eyes.’
Thackeray coughed meaningfully. Cribb turned his eyes briefly to him and then back to the race. The walkers, mostly old troupers, were giving a restrained matinee per-formance.
‘Could be the chink of coin, I suppose. Plenty of betting men here. But six days! I like a result in five minutes, no more. When you back a runner, Thackeray, see he’s got a tail. And if that tail ain’t straight in the wind as he runs, the race is too long. Remember that. You’ve not backed any of this lot, have you?’
Thackeray shook his head, too preoccupied with his news to take this conversation further.
‘How d’you get on, then?’ Cribb inquired, as though the reason for Thackeray’s air of urgency had just entered his brain. ‘How’s the Bunsen and beaker brigade? You got ’em hopping about, I hope.’
Thackeray banished small-talk with his confidential tone. ‘The strychnine, Sarge. It was all in the bottle.’
‘Monk’s bracer?’
‘All in that. Enough to kill Darrell and a dozen more. He must have ladled in the stuff, they said.’
‘What about the food? Anything there?’
‘None at all, Sarge. And none in the other bottles.’
‘They definitely confirm strychnine?’
‘A large amount, they told me. More than Monk said he bought. Darrell stood no chance after one mugful.’
‘Hm. Looks bad for Monk. Widow threatens to sue as well. We’ll keep this close. You’ve spoken to no one?’
Thackeray jerked his head upwards like an affronted cockerel.
‘Not a living soul.’
‘Very good. Now, Constable. There’s more important work to be done. We must check Monk’s statement. That chemist-Hayward of Bethnal Green. I want you to see him. Find out what he sold Monk. Ask to see the book. Check the signature. Ask when he sold strychnine to Monk before, and how much. And Thackeray…’
‘Sergeant?’
‘Treat him gentle. Man might lie if he thinks he’s in deep.’ ‘I will, Sarge.’
‘When you’ve done that,’ Cribb continued, ‘go to Monk’s lodging-house. You’ll need to see him first. Get the key. Write yourself a pass for him to sign. Whatever’s necessary. Find the phial of strychnine and bring it back. Search the room for more. Thorough, mind. Could have hidden it. He hasn’t the look of a Charlie Peace, but we have to check. Any bottle, empty or not, we’ll have for analysis. Got all that?’