Wobble to Death

CHAPTER 6

By noon the runners were watched by a crowd of nearly a thousand. Boisterous and frequently insulting shouts echoed around the nine pedestrians who were circling the tracks at that stage. They were mostly too bored or weary to react. The arrival of the band, two hours before, had encouraged some horseplay from the Half-breed, who attempted to waltz with O’Flaherty against his will. But now the eleven green-jacketed ‘snake-charmers’ were repeating their medley of popular airs for the fourth time, and their performance was becoming as ritualised as the movement of the runners. Interest was revived, though, by Mostyn-Smith’s reappearance in the race, seconds after mid-day. With a wave to the lap-scorers he crossed the scratch-line and immediately resumed his characteristic four-mile-an-hour gait. Chalk, the Scythebearer, was the first to draw level with him, cutting his stride to keep pace.

‘You got called to Charlie Darrell, then.’

Mostyn-Smith had expected to be interrogated, and decided to provide the required information at once.

‘Yes. I am qualified in medicine. I did what I could to help. He was too far gone, though. Mr Darrell died about an hour ago.’

‘Died?’

‘Yes.’

‘You mean ’e ran ’imself to death?’

‘I did not say that. It is too early to say for certain what was the cause of death. The race-doctors have decided to hold a post-mortem examination. I shall be exceedingly sur-prised if overtaxing of the system proves to be the only cause.’

Williams, O’Flaherty and the veteran who shared Reid’s hut slowed to Mostyn-Smith’s pace and fell in behind. Chalk told them the essential facts.

‘And this is premature, of course,’ added Mostyn-Smith, ‘but I think it right as a doctor to warn you all-and I shall speak to the other contestants-that Mr Darrell’s last hours bore sev-eral of the symptoms of tetanus-a very vicious disease.’

‘Tetanus!’ Williams repeated. ‘That’s the ostlers’ disease, ain’t it?’

‘It has certainly been established that there is a tendency for workers in stables and farmyards to contract tetanus.’

‘But Darrell ain’t been near a farm. ’E took his breathings at ’Ackney Wick. Monk told me that.’

Mostyn-Smith was patient.

‘That may be so. However, gentlemen, if one needed to look for a building in London where tetanus might be con-tracted-’

He spread his hands, gazed upwards to the roof and looked resignedly at each troubled face.

‘You mean-this bloody ’ole! You’re right. The biggest stinking cow-shed in the country,’ Williams thundered.

‘But before you vacate the Hall, gentlemen, I think it unlikely that any of us will become infected. I have arranged for the area of the huts, which is the most fouled by animal excrement, to be washed and disinfected at once. I rather think that Mr Darrell, unfortunate man, may have become infected when he took off his boots on Monday night to run barefoot on blistered feet. It is through an open wound that the disease enters the body. I strongly advise you to retain your footwear at every stage of the race. If you have cuts or abrasions, have them covered. The doctors will help.’

‘I’m for quitting,’ Chalk said. ‘Tetanus. That’s something doctors can’t cure.’

‘That is perfectly true,’ Mostyn-Smith admitted. ‘But we know enough about it to take reasonable precautions. If I thought there was a real danger, I should have retired from this contest already. Of course, the decision is your own. Bear in mind that we shall not be certain until after the post-mortem examination. It may be that he died from other causes.’

He actually raised his pace a fraction to put a decent dis-tance between them and him. They conferred for several minutes as they walked. Apparently a group decision was to be made. Then O’Flaherty detached himself and approached Mostyn-Smith again.

‘You say we’re not likely to catch it if we keep our feet clean?’

‘Bearing in mind that you aren’t likely to suffer skin dam-age on any other part of your person, yes. Whether Mr Darrell died from tetanus or some other cause, it is still good advice. That is why I arranged for our hut to be scrubbed, Mr O’Flaherty.’

The Irishman accepted the point in silence.

‘And you’re going on with this tramp yourself?’

‘I fully intend to,’ Mostyn-Smith affirmed. ‘I shall make up the time that I lost this morning by increasing my stride-length.’

A little devilment made him add, ‘If you gentlemen with-draw, I should be among the leaders by Friday.’

This reminder that Darrell’s death had increased the chances of prize money tipped the scales in the pedestrians’ decision to continue. After another brief consultation the group broke into a run, and trotted away in step into a faster lap to celebrate their resolve. They raised dust, defined in pale beams of sunlight that had penetrated the grimy vaulting.

Erskine Chadwick sat at lunch in his tent, watched by Harvey. The meal was cold, but well prepared, and he con-sumed it noisily. The morning’s tragedy had not touched him. Darrell had scarcely existed, except as a yardstick. The poor fellow was dead, so Herriott would probably promote some other worthy trudger to the inner track and the race would continue. The tetanus scare had not bothered Chadwick either. That eccentric little medico from the outer path had made a point of mentioning the risk. But after army service the only risks that troubled Chadwick arose on the Stock Market.

The full blare of the band invaded the tent for an instant as the flap was drawn open. Walter Jacobson came in.

‘Forgive this intrusion. I should like to speak with you about the race, and I don’t wish to delay you. The matter is of some importance.’

‘Please sit down, then. Our furniture is sparse, but if you don’t object to sitting on the bed…?’

Jacobson, ill at ease, fluttered his hand to decline the offer.

‘To come to the point, you will have heard of Mr Darrell’s tragic passing, and I think you will understand that this has thrown the whole future of the contest into uncertainty. We-that is, the management-would wish to continue with the race, providing that the participants feel able to go on.’

Chadwick felt totally able, but feigned a moment’s decent hesitation.

‘Of course,’ he ventured, ‘one feels reluctant in these unhappy circumstances…’

‘Quite, quite. Do continue your meal, won’t you?’

‘However, as a military man,’ Chadwick added with an air of fortitude, ‘I learned to accept such things philosophically. And as an athlete I have trained my body to persevere, even when the mind protests. I think that poor Darrell would wish us to continue the race.’

‘I am so glad that you feel this way. I hope that your fel-low-competitors are equally resolute.’ Jacobson produced a large handkerchief and dusted the back of his neck. ‘What we now have to settle is how we rearrange the race.’

Chadwick had prepared for this.

‘Yes. There was a good deal of interest in the duel between Darrell and me.’

‘We have a problem,’ Jacobson continued, ‘in that no sin-gle competitor seems worthy of consideration as your antagonist.’

He paused, allowing Chadwick to savour the flattery.

‘If, for example, I nominated Williams, who holds second place by a small margin, he might be overtaken tomorrow by O’Flaherty, or even Chalk.’

Suspicion dawned on Chadwick’s face.

‘So I have come to suggest,’ Jacobson said, speaking more quickly, ‘that instead of making the main contest a two-man race, we alter the conditions a little so that you are challenged by all-comers-which was in real terms always the case.’

‘But I do not exactly follow-’

‘In other words, we dispense with one of the tracks and all competitors run on the outer path, which is wider than the other.’

Having delivered his dart, Jacobson paused to study its effect.

Chadwick picked up a knife from the plate and held it poised on his fingers, pointing at Jacobson.

‘You are seriously suggesting,’ he said in a voice thick with menace, ‘that I appear on a track with the drunks and half-wits who are out there at the moment. Is that it, Mr Jacobson?’

‘Well-known pedestrians, many of them,’ Jacobson stam-mered.

‘Clowns or criminals, every one! Perhaps you aren’t aware, sir, that I hold the Queen’s Commission. I am not unused to dealing with the lower levels of society. I wouldn’t allow one of that rabble to clean my blasted boots!’ With an air of finality he snatched an orange that Harvey was holding and bisected it savagely.

Jacobson selected his next words with care.

‘So I must now inform Mr Herriott that you are retiring from the contest?’

‘That is not what I said.’

‘But the effect of what you said is the same, Mr Chadwick. First, you have no rival left. Second, you refuse to appear with the antagonists who are nominated. The conclusion is obvious.’

Chadwick was beginning to see he had no choice, but he continued to resist.

‘Nominate Williams and I shall permit him to share my path.’

Jacobson played his ace.

‘I doubt that Williams or any of his fellows would risk stepping on the inner track. The doctors’ suspicion is that Mr Darrell died of tetanus, contracted when he ran barefoot on that very path. The ground may be contaminated.’

Harvey had removed Chadwick’s boots and socks for air-ing purposes. The naked feet, resting squarely on the stone floor, were abruptly tilted so that only the heels remained in contact.

‘If I were to accept your proposal, and move to the outer path, I should expect some form of compensation. The sac-rifice, you see, would be all on my side. The benefit to the promotion and its public appeal would be immeasurable.’

This was capitulation. Jacobson was delighted.

‘I think you may be confident that Mr Herriott will make some recognition of this sporting gesture. Shall I suggest fifty?’

Chadwick reached for his socks.

‘Suggest a hundred and I’ll settle for that.’

Jacobson nodded assent and turned to leave.

‘One more thing,’ said Chadwick. ‘You will arrange for this floor to be disinfected?’

‘At once.’

Jacobson hurried away to secure Herriott’s agreement. It was quickly given, and when Chadwick rejoined the race at 12.30 p.m. he started on the outer circuit behind Billy Reid, whose brother had bullied him into resuming. On the other side of the track O’Flaherty and his friends were already devising tactics to ensure that Chadwick earned every penny of his hundred pounds.

Later in the afternoon Sol Herriott was preparing a statement for the newspapers about the altered race-arrangements. He sat near the starting area on a mahogany chair taken from the boardroom. The grey tip of his cigar grew, fell and disintegrated on his pin-stripes. Officials prat-tling behind him did not break his concentration; the urgency of the task preoccupied him. If Wednesday morn-ing’s Press suggested that the promotion might collapse, the effect could be disastrous. He was composing a piece to present Chadwick’s move to the second track as a sensation. The whole venture would be given an impetus.

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.