"The iron horse" - читать интересную книгу автора (Marston Edward)

CHAPTER FOUR

Superintendent Edward Tallis was pushed to the verge of apoplexy.

'Ireland?' he said. 'You want to go to Ireland?'

'With your permission, sir,' said Robert Colbeck.

'Denied.'

'I haven't given you my reasons yet.'

'Save your breath, Inspector.'

'I'm not making this request lightly, sir.'

'And I'm not turning it down lightly,' said Tallis, glaring at him. 'Here you are, in the middle of a murder investigation, and you come up with some hare-brained scheme about crossing the Irish Sea.'

'That's where the answer may lie, Superintendent.'

'Poppycock! When a severed head is found in Crewe and when the hatbox in which it was being transported was bought in London by someone who lives near Reigate, then I'd say we were dealing with an exclusively English murder.'

'That's one way of looking at it,' said Colbeck.

'It's the only way of looking at it, Inspector.'

Arms folded, Tallis sat back heavily in his chair. They were in his office at Scotland Yard and he was not in an accommodating mood. If Colbeck had suggested sailing to America, he could not have met with a more resounding rebuff. It was time to delve into the murky reservoir of their past disagreements.

'Do you happen to recall a murder that took place aboard a train in Twyford a couple of years ago?' asked Colbeck.

'Vividly.'

'Then you may also recall how obstructive you were when I argued that the only way to solve a crime that took place in Berkshire was to travel to Ashford in Kent.'

'I was not obstructive,' said Tallis indignantly. 'I was simply being cautious. When further evidence emerged, I saw the virtue of sending you to Kent.'

'Where two separate murders were successfully solved.'

'We can both take credit from that, Inspector.'

'Let's move on to the Sankey Viaduct, if we may,' said Colbeck smoothly. 'When a man was hurled over the viaduct from a moving train, you thought I was mad to insist that my investigations should begin in France.'

'It seemed a lunatic course of action at the time.'

'What was the result, sir?'

'The killer was eventually tracked down and caught.'

'You did everything in your power to stop me from sailing to France,' said Colbeck. 'The only way I finally wrung a concession out of you was by threatening to resign from the Detective Department.'

Tallis's face darkened. 'Where is all this leading?'

'To the present situation – it's comparable to the two cases I've just mentioned. When you trust my judgement, I secure arrests. When you block my initiatives, guilty men go free.'

'The cases bear no resemblance to each other,' Tallis said, waving a hand. 'The murder victim at the Sankey Viaduct was a Parisian. There was a reasonable argument for moving the inquiry to France. As for the other victim, he was so closely linked to an execution at Maidstone Prison that I encouraged you to go to Kent.'

Colbeck's memories were very different. In both instances, Tallis had hampered him at every stage of the investigation and only the inspector's single-mindedness had enabled him to solve the respective crimes. The superintendent had deliberately rewritten history.

'We have no proof whatsoever,' Tallis continued, 'that the murder victim discovered at Crewe has any discernible link with Ireland. You might just as well charge off to the Hebrides.'

'I'd not find many racehorses there, sir.'

'What?'

'This crime is somehow connected to the Turf,' said Colbeck with obvious conviction. 'I feel it in my bones, Superintendent.'

'Sciatica.'

'It's no accident that the hatbox in question was one purchased by Lord Hendry. He owns the favourite for the Derby.'

'That information is irrelevant. I'm not a betting man.'

'It might be advantageous for you to take an interest in this year's race, sir. Three horses stand out from the listed starters – Odysseus, Merry Legs and – the one that fascinates me – Limerick Lad, an Irish horse.'

'I abhor gambling in all its forms,' said Tallis coldly, 'and that's not the only thing I have against the Derby. It's a magnet for every criminal within a hundred miles. Year after year, pickpockets, prostitutes, fraudsters, ruffians and villains of every kind flock to Epsom Downs in search of rich pickings. Only a veritable army of policemen could keep them under control and we do not, alas, have such an army at our disposal. Don't mention the Derby to me, Inspector,' he went on, curling his lip. 'If it was left to me, I'd cancel the whole disgraceful event.'

'You'd cancel most things that people enjoy, sir.'

'Large crowds mean constant crime.'

'Abide by that argument and you'd stop every circus, fair and public celebration in London – not to mention royal processions.'

'You're being facetious.'

'I'm questioning your prejudice against racing.'

'I have no prejudice – I just oppose it wholeheartedly.'

'Then I beg you to assign this case to someone else,' said Colbeck abruptly. 'Find someone who doesn't have wild impulses like mine. Someone who believes that the crime has nothing whatsoever to do with the forthcoming Derby and who would therefore never imagine in a million years that a severed head found in Cheshire might be destined for Brian Dowd in Ireland.'

'Who?'

'Brian Dowd is the owner of Limerick Lad, sir. Unlike the vast majority of owners – Lord Hendry among them – he is also the horse's trainer. However,' he went on, getting to his feet, 'none of this is germane to the investigation. The person who replaces me will conduct his enquiries exclusively on English soil.'

Edward Tallis glowered at him. Resisting the temptation to reach for a cigar, he weighed up the implications of what Colbeck had said. To replace the inspector would be as rash as it was foolish. Nobody commanded the respect of the London and North West Railway in the way that Colbeck did. He was revered and his knowledge of railway lore was unmatched. But that did not make him infallible. Colbeck had made mistakes in the past and Tallis was convinced that he was making the biggest of all now. He flung out a challenge.

'Give me one good reason why I should send you to Ireland.'

'Look at my copy of Bradshaw,' suggested Colbeck.

'Why?'

'You'd see the choice of trains confronting the person who travelled with that stolen hatbox. One destination would catch your eye, sir – Holyhead. Fifteen minutes after leaving the train at Crewe, the man could have caught another to North Wales.'

'This is idle supposition.'

'Humour me, Superintendent.'

'I've made that mistake before.'

'Let me go to Ireland.'

'It's an unwarranted use of police money.'

'Then I'll pay for the trip myself,' said Colbeck earnestly. 'As long as you reimburse me when you discover that idle supposition can sometimes produce benefits.'

'Not in this case,' Tallis promised, asserting his authority. 'Sound, solid, unrelenting detective work is the only way to achieve a good result and it must be done here in England where the crime occurred.' When Colbeck tried to speak, he was silenced with a peremptory gesture. 'I'll hear no more, Inspector. Get out there and find me a killer – and don't you dare mention Ireland to me again.'

There was a tap on the door. In response to a barked command from the superintendent, a young detective constable came in with a letter. After giving Colbeck a deferential smile, the newcomer handed the letter to Tallis.

'This came from the coroner, sir,' he said. 'Marked urgent.'

'Thank you.'

While the messenger went out, Tallis tore open the letter and took out the missive. His eyes widened with interest.

'A headless body was hauled out of the Thames this morning,' he explained, still reading it. 'From its condition, it appears that it was in the water for a couple of days at least. Although it was hideously bloated, the coroner is certain that the body and the severed head belong to the same person.'

'May I hazard a guess, Superintendent?' asked Colbeck.

'If you must.'

'Is the man's height given?'

'Yes, it is.'

'Then I guarantee that he'll be no taller than five feet.'

Tallis blinked. 'How did you know that?'

'I suspect that he might be a jockey.'

'His height is approximately four foot ten.'

After studying the letter again, Tallis put it aside and reached for a cigar. Deep in thought, he did not light it but rolled it slowly between his palms. He was reluctant to change his mind at the best of times, particularly where Robert Colbeck was involved, but he came to see that he had no choice. His voice dripped with rancour.

'You did say you'd pay your own fare to Ireland, didn't you?'

Colbeck beamed. 'There and back, Superintendent.'

'I'm still not persuaded, however,' warned Tallis.

'Then I'd better find the evidence that will bring you around to my point of view. Thank you, superintendent,' he went on, moving happily to the door. 'You won't regret this decision.'

'I wasn't aware that I'd made one,' grumbled the other.

Then he lit his cigar and puffed on it with a vengeance.

Victor Leeming surprised himself. For the first time in his life, he almost enjoyed a train journey. Though he was travelling away from London, he had the comfort of knowing that he would be able to return to his family that night and shake off the memory of his two unsought trips on the railway. Cambridge was within comparatively easy reach of the capital and he realised how beautiful the scenery was on the way there. As the train maintained a steady speed through open country, Leeming observed how effortlessly it overtook coaches and carts rumbling along roads that, from time to time, ran parallel with the line. By the time he reached his destination, he was compelled to admit that the railway did, after all, have its advantages.

Renowned for its university, Cambridge was also a thriving market town that brought people in from a wide area. While students inhabited the cloistered calm of the colleges or sought more boisterous pleasures on the playing fields, the narrow streets were thronged with local residents, visitors and the occasional beggar soliciting money from both. Having no inclination in that direction himself, Leeming had always been daunted by Cambridge's reputation for scholarship. In reality, it was not at all intimidating. To his relief, he found it a warm, welcoming, friendly place filled with what he deemed were refreshingly ordinary people.

Cambridge was small enough to explore on foot and replete with such wonderful medieval architecture that even the sergeant stopped to gape from time to time. There were a number of hotels but, as Colbeck had predicted, not all of them would have attracted someone like Lord Hendry, especially if he was there with someone other than his wife. Comfort and discretion would be the qualities he would expect from his accommodation. It took Leeming less than half an hour to find the establishment. After three failed attempts, he finally located the hotel he was after, a half-timbered building from the late Elizabethan period with a recently painted exterior and a sagging charm. Situated in a quiet street, the Angel Hotel offered a compound of luxury, tradition and quality service.

When he asked to see the manager, Leeming was taken to a low-ceilinged room that served as an office and obliged Neville Hindmarsh to duck as he rose to his feet behind his desk. Had the sergeant not already have removed his top hat, it would have been scythed from his head by one of the solid oak beams. Unsettled by a visit from a Scotland Yard detective, the manager waved him anxiously to a seat before resuming his own.

'What brings you all the way from London?' he inquired.

'We're involved in an investigation, sir,' replied Leeming, 'and the name of this hotel cropped up in the course of it.'

'And what exactly are you investigating?'

'A murder.'

Hindmarsh gulped. He was an exceptionally tall man in his forties, lean, long-faced and with a studious air. He looked less like the manager of a hotel than the Fellow of a nearby college who had wandered absent-mindedly into the building after mistaking it for the Senior Common Room. When the sergeant explained that he wanted to know more detail about the theft of a hatbox, Hindmarsh blushed as if being accused of the crime himself. He needed a moment to compose himself.

'I think you've been misinformed, Sergeant,' he said.

'Really?'

'No hatbox – or any other item, for that matter – was stolen from this hotel. We pride ourselves on the security we offer our guests. It's a major reason why many of them return to us again and again.'

Leeming was puzzled. 'Nothing was stolen?'

'If it had been, it would have been reported to the police.'

'Lord Hendry assured us that the theft occurred here and he would surely know. You do recall the recent visit he and his wife made here?'

'Very clearly.'

'Then why does his version of events differ from yours?'

'I can't answer that,' said Hindmarsh nervously. 'What I can tell you categorically is that the hatbox was not taken on these premises. I distinctly remember seeing Lady Hendry depart with it.'

'Oh?'

'I was standing by the door to bid her farewell when the porter carried it out to the cab. Lady Hendry arrived with one hatbox and left with it. I'd take my Bible oath on that.'

'I can't believe that her husband deliberately misled us.'

'I'm sure it was an honest mistake,' said Hindmarch, groping for an explanation. 'Perhaps the item was stolen at the railway station. Unfortunately, we've had luggage taken from there before. When he mentioned this hotel, Lord Hendry could have been hazarding a guess. After all, he was not here at the time.'

'That's odd,' said Leeming. 'Where else would he be?'

'At the races in Newmarket.'

'What about Lady Hendry?'

'She remained here for a while then left to catch an afternoon train. Lady Hendry had all of the luggage she had brought.'

'How long did they stay at the Angel?'

'They booked in for three nights, Sergeant Leeming. In the event, they only stayed for one.'

'Why was that, sir?'

'Not because of any shortcomings on our part,' said Hindmarsh quickly. 'Lady Hendry's sudden departure was quite unexpected. When her husband got back from Newmarket, he was astonished that she was not here. After paying the bill, he left immediately.'

'Did you find that behaviour rather strange?'

'It's not for me to say, Sergeant.'

'Have Lord and Lady Hendry ever stayed here before?'

'Yes,' said Hindmarsh. 'On two previous occasions.'

'When there were races at Newmarket?'

'Precisely.'

'Did his wife accompany Lord Hendry to the races?'

'No, sergeant – Lady Hendry always remained at the hotel.'

'Does she have no interest in the Turf?'

'Who knows, sir?'

'You must have speculated on the reason.'

'When guests book a room here,' said Hindmarsh tactfully, 'they can come and go as they wish. I do not keep an eye on them or pry into their private lives.'

Leeming was not hindered by any restraints. He was employed to pry. There was one obvious reason why the woman posing as Lady Hendry did not go to Newmarket. Lord Hendry was a familiar figure at any racecourse. Had he been seen flaunting his mistress, word would certainly have trickled back to his wife. Colbeck's theory about the Lady Hendry with the hatbox had now turned into hard fact. The sergeant took out his notebook then licked the end of his pencil.

'I need your assistance, Mr Hindmarsh,' he said with what he hoped was a disarming smile, 'and I don't think you'll be breaking a confidence in giving it to me.'

The manager was suspicious. 'What kind of assistance?'

'I want you to describe Lady Hendry to me.'

When he finished work that evening, Caleb Andrews paid his customary visit to a tavern frequented by railwaymen. He enjoyed an hour's badinage with friends, a couple of pints of beer and, by dint of winning two games of dominoes, he did not even have to pay for the alcohol. As he sauntered home towards Camden, therefore, he was cheerful and the mood continued when he reached his house and found that Madeleine had supper waiting for him.

'You're back early for a change,' she observed, giving him a token kiss of welcome. 'Did you have a good day?'

'Yes, Maddy – I've been to Crewe and back again.'

'You must know every inch of that line.'

'I could drive it in my sleep.'

'Well, I hope I'm not a passenger when you do it.' They shared a laugh and sat down at the table. 'And thank you for coming back while I'm still up. It makes a big difference.'

'I stopped playing dominoes while I was still winning.'

'We could have a game afterwards, if you like.'

'Oh, no,' said Andrews, raising both hands as if to ward her off. 'You have the luck of the devil whenever we play a game together. Cards, dominoes, draughts – it's always the same. You manage to beat me every time somehow.'

Madeleine grinned. 'I had an excellent teacher.'

'It was a mistake to teach you at all.' He forked some food into his mouth. 'What have you been doing all day, Maddy?'

'Working and reading.'

'Have you started your latest painting yet?'

'I've done a pen-and-ink sketch, that's all.'

'Will I be in this one?'

'No, Father – just the locomotive.'

'It has to have a driver,' he complained.

'Figures are my weak spot. I try to leave them out.'

He munched disconsolately. 'What have you been reading?'

'All sorts of interesting things,' she said chirpily. 'Robert lent me some books. He has hundreds of them in his library.'

'I'm glad you mentioned Inspector Colbeck,' he said, swallowing a piece of bread and washing it down with a sip of tea. 'Next time he gets in touch, tell him I need to speak to him.'

'What about?'

'That severed head, of course. I've been thinking about it a lot and I've got an idea of what might have happened.'

'Why not leave the detection to Robert?'

'He's always grateful for help from the public.'

'Only if it's useful to him.'

'Well, this will be, Maddy,' he argued. 'I've worked it out, see? It was a crime of passion. A married woman who lives in Crewe betrayed her husband with a young man from London. The husband was so angry that he took his wife's hatbox to London – I may even have been driving the train that took him there – and killed the lover before cutting his head off. Then he took it back to Crewe to give to his wife.'

Madeleine grimaced. 'That's a horrible story!'

'It could also be a true one.'

'I doubt that very much, Father.'

'Let the Inspector be the judge of that.'

'He already has been.'

'I know I'm right, Maddy. I've solved the crime for him.'

'If that were the case,' she said, 'Robert would be grateful. But he has his own notions about the murder. To start with, that hatbox was not going to Crewe at all.'

'It had to be – that's where it was unloaded.'

'Only so that it could be transferred to another train.'

'You know nothing,' he said, irritated at the way she dismissed his idea. 'I've put a lot of thought into this. It was a crime of passion.'

'Robert has discovered who owned that hatbox.'

'An unfaithful wife in Crewe.'

'Someone who lives in Surrey,' she explained. 'He gave me no details but he's picked up clues that are sending him off in another direction altogether.'

Andrews was hurt. 'You've discussed the case with him?'

'Not exactly.'

'Why didn't you keep him here until I came back? You know how keen I am to help, Maddy. I'm a bit of a detective myself.'

'Robert didn't call here,' she said, 'but he sent me a short note to say that he'd be away for a few days and would speak to me when he came back.'

'Where has he gone – back to Crewe?'

'Yes, Father.'

He clapped his hands. 'I knew it!'

'But only to change trains, I'm afraid,' Madeleine went on. 'He was planning to spend the night at Holyhead before catching the morning tide tomorrow.'

He was startled. 'Where, in God's name, is the man going?'

'Ireland.'

Robert Colbeck's passionate interest in railways was not only based on the fact that they could get him from one place to another quicker than any other means of transport. They also gave him a privileged view of town and country that he would never have got from a coach, and he always saw something new to admire even on lines he had used many times. After leaving Euston on the LNWR, he changed trains at Crewe, had a few cheering words with Reginald Hibbert, now restored to his job as a porter at the station, then went along the North Wales coast by courtesy of the Chester and Holyhead Railway, a line built specifically to carry the Irish mail. Some of the panoramas that unfolded before him were stunning – dramatic seascapes, sweeping bays, craggy headland, sandy beaches and long, scenic stretches of unspoilt countryside. The train hugged the coast until it reached Bangor where it gave Colbeck an experience he had been looking forward to since the moment of his departure.

He had read a great deal about the Britannia Tubular Bridge over the Menai Straits and recognised it as one of the most significant advances in railway engineering. With only existing rock for intermediate support, the bridge had to span a gap of over 450 feet that could not be traversed by suspension techniques used elsewhere. Five years in construction, the Britannia Bridge comprised two very stiff rectangular wrought-iron tubes with cellular tops and bottoms to increase rigidity. With a novel application of beam action, the tubes were made to act as continuous girders over five spans. When it was finally opened in 1850, the bridge was daring, innovative and an instant success.

Colbeck was unable to appreciate its finer points as he crossed the bridge but he felt an excitement as they entered the tube and liked the way that the clamour of the train was suddenly amplified. By the time he reached Holyhead, he had travelled 84 miles on the CHR and had relished every moment of it. Having obtained the monopoly to carry mail by land, the company had hoped to extend this to sea and had secured the powers to own and operate steamships. To their utter dismay, however, the CHR failed to win the contract for taking the mail across the Irish Sea.

When he sailed on the following morning, therefore, Colbeck did so on a vessel owned by the City of Dublin Steam Packet Company. The first thing he noticed was that far more passengers poured off the incoming steamer than actually went aboard. Emigration from Ireland had reached its peak in the previous decade when a succession of disastrous harvests had driven hundreds of thousands out of their native land. Though the process had slowed markedly, it still continued as whole families left the poverty and hunger of Ireland in the hope of finding a better life in England or beyond its shores.

The sea was choppy and the crossing uncomfortable. Gulls accompanied them all the way and kept up a mocking chorus as they dived and wheeled incessantly around the vessel. Colbeck was glad when they eventually entered the relative calm of the harbour and when he was able to step onto dry land again. He would have been interested to travel on an Irish railway but it was not possible. The place he was visiting was not accessible by rail and was, in any case, only a twenty-minute ride by cab from Dublin.

Though vast numbers had fled Ireland, not all of those who remained lived in the squalor and penury that had driven the others away. The capital city was full of beautiful Georgian properties and fine civic buildings and there was ample evidence of prosperity at every turn. Ireland had its fair share of wealthy men and, judging by the mansion in which he lived, Brian Dowd was one of them. Set in a hundred acres of parkland, the house was an impressive piece of Regency architecture that stood four-square on a plateau and commanded inspiring views on every side. At its rear was the extensive stable block that Colbeck had come to visit.

He had no difficulty picking out Brian Dowd. Standing in the middle of the yard, the racehorse owner and trainer was a bull-necked man in his fifties with a solid frame and a gnarled face. He wore an old jacket, mud-spattered trousers and a bowler hat. Yelling orders to all and sundry, he had a natural authority that gained him unquestioning obedience. Colbeck ran an eye along the stalls and guessed that at least thirty racehorses were kept there. He walked across to Dowd and introduced himself. The Irishman laughed affably.

'Have you come to arrest me, then, Inspector?' he taunted. 'Since when has there been a law against breeding a Derby winner?'

'It doesn't exist, Mr Dowd. Over the years, Parliament has put many absurd pieces of legislation in the statute book but it's far too fond of racing even to contemplate such a ridiculous law as that.' He shook hands with Dowd and felt the strength of his grip. 'No, I come on a different errand.'

'Pleasant or unpleasant?'

'Unpleasant, I fear.'

'Then let's discuss this over a drink.'

He led Colbeck to an office at the edge of the stable block and took him in. Horses dominated the little room. Every wall was covered with paintings of them and their smell pervaded the whole place. Equine memorabilia covered the desk. While his visitor removed his top hat and looked around, Dowd produced a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from a cupboard. He poured the liquid out generously.

'Irish whiskey,' he said bluntly. 'Never touch any other.'

'That suits me, Mr Dowd,' said Colbeck, taking a glass from him with a nod of gratitude. 'We had a rough crossing. I need something to settle my stomach.' He sampled his drink. 'Excellent.'

'You'll not find better in the whole of the Emerald Isle.'

'It was worth the long journey just to taste this.'

'You're a good liar.'

Colbeck smiled. 'Part of my stock-in-trade.'

'Sit yourself down, Inspector.'

'Thank you.'

Putting his hat aside, Colbeck lowered himself into a chair and Dowd perched on the edge of his desk. As they sipped their drinks, each weighed the other man up. The Irishman had a friendly grin but his gaze was shrewd and calculating. Nobody as elegant and as quintessentially urban as Colbeck had ever been in the office before and he looked distinctly incongruous. That did not disturb the visitor in any way. He was relaxed and self-assured. Dowd had another sip of whiskey and savoured its taste before speaking.

'So what's this all about, Inspector Colbeck?' he asked.

'A murder, sir.'

'Murder? I don't like the sound of that.'

'I'm hoping that you may be able to help me solve the crime.'

'I'd gladly do so, my friend, but I don't rightly see how. I'm no policeman. This murder happened in England, I take it.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And who was the victim?'

'We're not certain,' said Colbeck, putting his glass on the desk so that he could take a sheet of paper from his pocket. 'I got an artist to draw a rough portrait of the young man.' He unfolded the paper and handed it over. 'I came here in search of his identity.'

Eyes gleaming and brow corrugated, Brian Dowd looked at the drawing with great concentration. He took a long time to reach a decision and even then he qualified it.

'I could be wrong, mind you,' he cautioned.

'But you think you recognise him?'

'I might do. It's like the lad in one way, then again it isn't.'

'Make allowances for the fact that the face was distorted in death,' said Colbeck. 'When the artist drew this, by the way, he only had the head to work from. The body was hauled out of the Thames long after he'd finished.'

Dowd was aghast. 'The lad was beheaded?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Dear God!' exclaimed the other. 'What monster did that?'

Colbeck explained the circumstances in which the head had been found and how the hatbox had been linked to Lord Hendry. The more the inspector spoke, the more convinced Dowd became that he knew the deceased. Folding the paper, he gave it back.

'His name is John Feeny.'

'Are you sure?' pressed Colbeck.

'Pretty sure – he used to work for me.'

'As a jockey?'

'No, Inspector,' replied Dowd, 'it was as a groom. That was the reason we fell out. John thought he had the makings of a jockey. I told him straight that he wasn't good enough.'

'What did he do?'

'What any lad with real mettle would've done – he went off in search of a job at another stables. He'd no family here to turn to so he sailed off to try his luck in England.'

'Did you keep in touch with him?'

'I'd no reason to, Inspector. One of my other lads did, though. John Feeny couldn't read or write but he got someone to send a letter or two on his behalf. Things were tough at first but he found a job in the end. He even boasted he'd soon be a jockey.'

'That will never happen now,' said Colbeck sadly.

'No – and it's a crying shame.' He smacked his thigh. 'Jesus, I feel so guilty! I wish I'd kept him here and given him a chance in the saddle. But,' he added with a deep sigh, 'it wouldn't have been fair to other lads with more talent as riders. John Feeny was never strong enough or ruthless enough to make a living as a jockey.'

'Could I speak to the person who kept in touch with him?'

'Of course – his name is Jerry Doyle.'

'Did he tell you which stables Feeny was working at?'

'He did, Inspector – I had a vested interest in knowing.'

'Did they happen to belong to Lord Hendry?' When the Irishman shook his head, Colbeck was disappointed. 'I obviously made the wrong assumption.'

'In the world of racing,' said Dowd sagely before gulping down more whiskey, 'you should never make assumptions of any kind. It's far too dangerous, Inspector.'

'I can see that.'

'It was a big decision for someone like John to go to England but the lad seemed to have fallen on his feet.'

'For whom was he working?'

'Hamilton Fido.'

'The bookmaker?'

'There's only one Mr Fido in this game,' said Dowd bitterly, 'and that's one too many in my book. The man is as slippery as an eel and as vicious as a polecat. He gives racing a bad name. He ought to be drummed out of it in disgrace.'

'You and he are clearly not on the best of terms.'

'We're not on any kind of terms, Inspector.'

'Mr Fido has a horse running in the Derby – Merry Legs.'

'She'll be left standing by Limerick Lad.'

'Odysseus is the favourite.'

'Not from where I stand,' asserted Dowd, 'and I've spent my whole life around racehorses. I've seen both Odysseus and Merry Legs at their best. Neither of them cause me any worry.'

'Let's go back to John Feeny,' said Colbeck, reclaiming his glass from the desk. 'I believe that severed head was destined to come here. It could have been sent to you as a warning.'

'I agree, Inspector.'

'Someone is trying to frighten you off.'

'It was a message for me,' said Dowd grimly, 'no question about that. Because he used to work here at one time, John Feeny was suspected of being a spy. Someone thought he'd been planted in the stables so that he could feed back information to me about a leading Derby contender. Since I was seen as the villain, they tried to send a piece of the lad back here to give me a scare.'

'That means Hamilton Fido is somehow involved.'

'He's your killer, Inspector. He's such a cruel bastard that he'd enjoy cutting off someone's head. Go back and arrest him.'

'It may not be as simple as that, Mr Dowd,' said Colbeck. 'From what I've heard of Mr Fido, he's devious and manipulative. He'd get someone else to do his dirty work for him and make sure that he kept his hands clean. In any case, we've no proof that he's in any way connected to the crime. But let me return to this charge of spying,' he continued. 'When a major race is coming up, there must be a lot of that sort of thing going on.'

'We all like to know as much as we can about the competition.'

'How would you find out about Merry Legs and Odysseus?'

'Not by putting a lad like that in someone's stables,' retorted Dowd. 'I didn't send him off to his death, Inspector, so don't look to accuse me. I told you what happened. John Feeny left of his own accord. I wished him well before he went and gave him twice what I owed him. You can ask Jerry Doyle – or anyone else, for that matter.'

'I take your word for it, sir.'

'The man you're after is Hamilton Fido.'

'I'll speak with him at the earliest opportunity,' said Colbeck, taking a longer sip of his whiskey. 'If he's capable of murder, he'll clearly stop at nothing to win the Derby.'

'Nothing at all.'

'I hope you've taken extra precautions to protect Limerick Lad.'

'Don't trouble yourself on that score.'

'Mr Fido – or your other rivals – might have someone watching these stables and biding their time until they can strike.'

'We took that into account, Inspector Colbeck.'

'What do you mean?'

'As I told you,' said Dowd, looking him in the eye, 'racing has been my life. There's not a dirty trick or a clever ruse I haven't seen ten times over. On the night before a big race, I've often slept on the straw beside one of my horses with a loaded shotgun. Nobody has ever managed to cause serious injury to one of my animals.'

'They killed one of your former grooms.'

'John Feeny was an innocent victim – God save his soul!'

'How can you be sure they won't strike at Limerick Lad next?' said Colbeck. 'You've a long journey ahead of you. There'll be plenty of opportunities to attack him on the way. When do you leave?'

'Tomorrow.'

'I'll be happy to come with you to act as a guard.'

'Kind of you to offer, Inspector,' said Dowd, 'but it won't be necessary. We'll travel on our own, if you don't mind. And don't worry about my horse. It's quite impossible for anyone to get at Limerick Lad on the way to England.'

'Not if someone is desperate enough.'

'That'd make no difference.'

'Have you forgotten what happened to John Feeny?'

'No, I haven't,' said Dowd soulfully, 'and I'll do everything in my power to help you catch his killer. It's the least I can do for the boy. But I still have no concerns about Limerick Lad.'

'Why not?'

'For reasons of safety, he was taken to England days ago. Until the Derby, he's being kept in a secret location.' Dowd grinned broadly. 'I wouldn't tell my own mother where we've got him hidden.'