by Josie Brown
“Why would you do this?” Jack asks. “Why not get it yourself?”
“Power is a younger man’s game, for those who wish to make their mark, or leave behind a legacy. I have no family and no heirs. I have all the money I will need for several lifetimes. Most of all, I have no need to destroy the world. I much prefer living in it, and enjoying it. With Carl out of the way, I’ll do more of it.” Eric beckons us on down the hill. “Come now, I’ll show you my private cellar, where we will share a glass of my best champagne, and toast the downfall of my Peter, and your Carl.”
Chapter 12
They Shoot Horses, Don't They?
“I may not know a winner when I see one, but I sure as hell can spot a loser.”
—Gig Young, as “Rocky”
Before you win your Academy Award for the role of a lifetime, you must first be cast in a movie. (Yes, I know—a small detail; still I felt it wise to mention.) To that end, here are a few tips to help launch you into the firmament of stardom:
Tip #1: Don’t just memorize the lines—embody the role! If you’re to be a teen dream queen, look like a slut and eat enough pizza to get a few zits on your face. If you’re to be a drug-addled prostitute, wear your roomie’s whore couture, hire a pimp to attend your audition with you, and shoot up before you go in to read for the part. Even if the pimp ends up robbing everyone in the place, you’ll certainly impress the casting director by the lengths you’ll go to just to get the part.
Tip #2: The fact that you didn’t get a callback doesn’t mean you should give up on the role. Go ahead and text the casting director to see if she lost your telephone number. Better yet, wait outside the front door of her house. By letting her know you know where she lives, even if the role goes to someone else, believe me, she’ll never forget your face—and neither will the local police.
Tip #3: If you don’t get the role, be philosophical about it by remembering there are other ones out there better suited for your talents. You know, like the role of waiter. Or dog walker. Or as a personal assistant to the star whose life you covet. Just remember—the whole world is your stage!
“Ah! I love the smell of fox urine in the morning!” Dominic Fleming inhales deeply. He has been tapped as a consultant for the day. With his nose still up in the air—granted, a permanent position for it—he scans the woods just beyond Castle Drogo, in Devon, England, where the film crew has set up for a fox hunt scene.
In it, the fox is not the hunters’ true prey. Soon, all guns will be turned on our heroine and her hero. Thank goodness they’re loaded with blanks.
To escape, they will gallop over hill, dale, and hedge. When the hero’s horse is shot and the heroine’s mare goes lame, they’ll have to put it out if its misery before running for their lives.
But viewers need not worry. The movie will carry a disclaimer insisting no animals were injured in the making of this movie, including the fox, which will never leave its cage other than for a few shots in front of the camera. Instead, the hounds will chase a rag soaked with fox urine dragged through open fields and woods.
Having been chased through the wild myself—albeit by pygmies with poison arrows—I don’t envy any animal in this predicament.
I still don’t know how Willow plans on doing her scenes in Louboutin booties without breaking a leg. If so, will someone please shoot her to put her out of her misery? I’d gladly offer to do so, since no disclaimer regarding human injuries is required.
Having been to numerous jaunts of this ilk, besides passing along much-needed intel on a local asset with a lead on the Quorum, Dominic is also to be an extra. As such, he is properly turned out in the colors of a hunt master during the formal season: a black brimmed-helmet, ribbons points-down; a white four-fold stock tie pinned into place with a three-inch gold pin; buff leather gloves; black boots, buff breeches, and a canary-hued vest under his five-buttoned scarlet jacket.
The Devon hunt master is livid that Dominic’s chumminess with Whitford has gotten him booted from his rightful position. To add insult to injury, Dominic gets to deliver the scene’s sole line spoken by any extra, which is, “Tally-ho, away!”
Another thing that isn’t quite winning him friends or influencing enemies among the hunters and the movie’s production crew is the horse he’s brought with him. Appropriately named Mr. Big, this bucking, snorting black stallion stands twenty-and-a-half hands. Needless to say, it dwarfs all the other horses, including the one to be ridden by Reed, who claims he’ll look ridiculous on his own horse, and refuses to mount it.
In a way, I can see his point, since, technically, his horse is a pony.
Like its master, Mr. Big does not wait for a formal invitation to court the mares in his presence, but boldly mounts any of them within target of his extended sex organ. Those hunters riding atop the objects of his lust must leap off their steeds posthaste or risk finding themselves in the most unusual ménage-a-trois.
No surprise, Dominic is oblivious to the havoc around him.
On the other hand, Willow’s animal instincts must be visually and odorously stimulated by it because she sidles up to Dominic and murmurs, “Well hung!”
He graces her with a smile. “So kind of you to notice. And you are?”
This should be a match made in heaven, so I might as well have dibs on playing yenta. “Lord Dominic Fleming, I’d like to introduce you to Willow Higginbotham, the star of The Housewife Assassin’s Handbook—you know, the movie based on my life story. Sort of.” I had to get that jibe in.
“Ah, so this little lady is your supposed doppelganger, is she?” His eyes roam approvingly over Willow’s lithe physique. When he turns back to me, admiration morphs into doubt. “Oh! …Well, I’m sure the likeness is in the splendid performance. I say, old girl, the craft table certainly agrees with you!”
Any joke at another’s expense—especially mine—sends Willow into a fit of giggles.
Yes, they should get along famously.
“Does it ever calm down?” Willow purrs, her eyes fixated on Mr. Big.
He raises a brow. “What would be the fun in that?”
Okay, I’ve had enough of this malarkey. I smack his arm. “Dominic, may I speak to you in private?”
He bows slightly to Willow before following me to a small copse of trees beyond the gathering. His manners are for naught. She hasn’t taken her eyes off of Mr. Big. By the way her head is cocked, I’m sure she’s making mental notes of the horse’s mounting techniques.
“Dominic, you didn’t come here to run a stud service for your horse. You’re here to pass on information regarding a British asset.”
“One doesn’t preclude the other, now does it, my dear? And besides, if Acme goes under, both Mr. Big and I may be reduced to studding if I’m to make the mortgage on the Fleming ancestral estate.” He shrugs. “No, no, you’re right. Business before pleasure, eh?” He leans in conspiratorially. “The asset in question—Roger Cavanaugh—insisted on meeting you face to face before relaying his intel. As you can imagine, he’s quite a nervous chap. But as it turns out, he hunts with the hounds—and has done so here, in fact, in Devon—so my bringing him along has not raised suspicions in the least.”
I nod. “Smart thinking. Where is he now?”
“I left him with Jack, at the tavern down in the village—the Railway Inn, on Beach Street.”
I know it well. Like most of the cast, Jack and I have been put up in bungalows within the scenic little seaside town of Dawlish, just down the road from Castle Drogo. Some crew members, including Emma, have rooms there at the inn, above the pub.
On the other hand, since catching her in a clinch with Reed, Arnie has elected to bunk up the hill, at the South Devon Inn.
I can’t say I blame him.
The wind has kicked up substantially in the past twenty minutes. Dominic glances skyward, where clouds are twirling around like bumper cars. “If Whitford wants to get any footage at all, he’d better get his cameras rolling now.”
“Then
I take it a hunt is called off when it rains?”
“My dear, of course not!” Dominic’s look of pity makes me blush. “Granted, mud is a given, and silks are ruined in a rainstorm—not to mention a horse can break a leg if it slips. But it’s all part and parcel of the sport. All the more reason to have a good seat, eh?” He angles his head to view my backside. “And you’re more than amply covered in that regard. So, as we say, ‘tally-ho!’”
A veddy, veddy smart move on his part—heading out before I wrench the whip out of his hand and use it on his own well-regarded rump.
The wind practically blows the car down the hill. If they cancel the shoot today, the production will be further behind schedule than it already is, what with the explosion in Venezuela.
At least our time here has been without incident. One could get used to living in this pastorally beautiful country.
For the first time since we’ve been on the run, I’m feeling homesick.
Maybe Mr. Cavanaugh’s news will be our ticket home.
I’m just a few blocks from the Railway Inn when my car passes Sebastian, just as he’s about to get into his car and drive up to Castle Drogo. He’s also in hunt attire, and carries a shotgun.
He waves to me, so I pull over to the curb.
“You’re joining Jack and his guest, I presume?” he asks.
I hesitate to answer—not because I feel he’s being nosy, but because no one is to know our covert assignations. But since he asks only out of politeness, the least I can do is answer in kind. “I’ve yet to meet the gentleman. He’s an acquaintance of a friend.”
“He and I have people in common, too. He’s Franklin Crain, the barrister, is he not?” He motions to his hunt duds. “I’ve been called onto the set, or I would have stopped to reintroduce myself.”
I shake my head. “No, his name is Roger Cavanaugh.”
“Ah! My mistake. He and the man I know could pass for twins.” He shakes his head, awed at the coincidence. “I presume the children are excited about the fox hunt.”
“Indeed, they are. It’s their first.”
His grin disappears. “I still remember mine. Used to enjoy playing with our pack of hounds”—his eyes darken at the memory—“until that day.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“The hunt ended when the hounds cornered the fox. Tore him to pieces.” He shudders. “My father insisted it is nature taking its course. ‘We’ll be overrun with the little buggers if they aren’t hunted and thinned out,’ he warned me. These days we drive the dogs crazy with a bit of fox scent on a rag. More humane, but he was right. Our farmers suffer for it. When the foxes take their chickens, they lose money.” He shrugs. “It always comes down to that, doesn’t it, money?”
I nod. “Sadly, yes. I’m always shocked at how indifferent we are to cruelty.”
“It’s the case they’ve made to reinstate the classic hunt, the animal rights activists be damned. Mark my words, the cruel always win.” He tips his hat and starts up the road to join the shooting party.
I don’t know why, but the conversation sent a shiver up my spine. Maybe it wasn’t a great idea for the children to see a fox hunt after all. Too late now.
I take the last few yards to the inn at a trot. The sooner I meet Mr. Cavanaugh, the sooner I’ll know if his lead pans out.
Like most British taverns, the Railway Inn is dark on the inside. After the moment it takes for my eyes to adjust to the lack of light, I spot Jack’s long legs jutting out of a back booth.
The man sitting opposite him is slight, pale, and balding. Like Sebastian, he is wearing hunt attire. He stands and touches his hat’s small brim as I take a seat beside Jack.
“Donna, Roger here was just telling me how he came to know our mutual friend, Carl.”
My soon-to-be ex-husband’s name causes the man to turn yet another shade closer to alabaster. “Well…not personally,” he stutters. “You see, until quite recently, I was the night manager at the Royal International Club.”
“It’s a private establishment, in Mayfair,” Jack explains. “By invitation only. You have to be referred, and seconded, by current members. Its membership is international in scope, primarily those who serve in some sort of diplomatic capacity.”
Roger nods. “The man you call Carl Stone was known to me under a different name—Howard Betz. He’d been a member of the club for years, and frequented the club a few times a year, until an incident occurring in May of last year.”
“What happened?” I ask.
Roger shifts uncomfortably on the booth’s hard bench. “It was Mr. Betz’s habit to arrive in the middle of the night. His other idiosyncrasies were to refuse housekeeping while in residence, and to demand the same room during each stay: on the top floor—the fourth—and on the side lacking the view most requested by guests. You see, the club is located on Cleveland Row, affording it an admirable view of the Green Park side of Buckingham Palace.”
“How nice,” I murmur.
Roger nods. “However, Mr. Betz’s—I mean, Mr. Stone’s desired room faces an alley. I presume it’s how he got away with it.”
“What do you mean?” Jack asks.
“He arrived around nine-thirty that evening, and retired promptly. At least, that was how it was to be presumed.” Roger glances beyond the booth. Satisfied we’re not being watched, he leans in. “However, I’ve come to believe he paid a visit to the room of another guest—a German gentleman who visited quite often.”
“Whom would that be?” I ask.
“Johan Richter,” Roger responds. “He was a member of the cabinet in his home country. That night, he’d been placed in a room on the third floor, also facing the alley, and immediately under that of Mr. Stone’s. But unlike Mr. Stone, Herr Richter went out for the evening. However, the maid who came to turn down his bed—her name is Charlotte—found a man in the room. The gentleman claimed to be the room’s registered occupant, allowed her to perform her duties, and tipped her on her way out.”
“But you think the man wasn’t Richter?”
“I know for a fact he wasn’t. I’d ordered Herr Richter a hackney and watched him drive off in it. I was also on duty when he arrived back to the club, four hours later.” He frowns. “The next morning, Herr Richter was found dead. The coroner ruled it a heart attack.”
Jack and I exchange glances. Having induced “heart attacks” ourselves, we know it’s a simple form of murder. The rapid injection of oxygen—say, one-hundred-and-fifty cc’s—would be enough to stop his heart. Or for that matter replacing high-blood-pressure pills with far stronger ones than prescribed. I can go on and on.
“Even if foul play was the cause of death, how do you know for certain the man who Charlotte saw was indeed Carl Stone?” Jack asks.
“Herr Richter was known to be a loud snorer—hence the back room—and a sound sleeper.” Roger gives the slightest of smiles. “He had requested a wake-up call for six. When he hadn’t responded to it, I went to his room to wake him with a knock on the door. He didn’t respond. I opened the room with the master key. I found him slumped in the chair, at the desk. He was still in evening attire. He succumbed while writing something. The handwriting was barely legible, but from what I could make out, it said, ‘Clapham Sect.’ Naturally, my first thought was that he’d succumbed to a heart attack. The coroner confirmed it. As is the club’s policy, we took the body out of the building by way of the servant’s elevator. The coroner’s lorry was waiting in the back alley.”
“Any idea what ‘Clapham Sect’ may mean? A neighborhood? Or perhaps another private club?” Jack asks.
Roger thinks for a moment. “No, I’m sorry I’m of no help to you there.”
“I’m sorry, Roger, but I still don’t see how any of this connects Carl to his death,” I point out.
Roger turns to me. “Mr. Stone vacated his room a half-hour before the body was found. Charlotte happened to be leaving another guest’s polished shoes outside his door on the fourth floor, when Mr. Stone
left his room and rang for the elevator. Our staff is trained to be polite to guests, and to call them by name, if they recognize them. She nodded to ‘Herr Richter,’ but he ignored her—in fact, he tilted his hat so that she’d have a hard time seeing his face.” Roger purses his lips. “She didn’t think it odd at all that he was on another floor. After all, he may have been visiting another guest. However the next night, upon hearing of Herr Richter’s untimely demise and that the time of death was put at two in the morning, she realized Mr. Stone wasn’t the dead man after all. She was upset enough to mention it to me.” Roger drops his head to study the pint of ale in front of him. “I told her she had to have been mistaken. In our positions we see a lot of people. And since there is no security footage of him leaving his room, let alone entering Herr Richter’s, I suggested she consider herself mistaken.”
To avoid detection, Carl would have climbed down from his window in order to enter Richter’s room. He would have also altered any security feeds.
My heart is beating fast now. “Is Charlotte willing to confirm your account?”
Sadness darkens his eyes. “She died a few days later. She was hit in the middle of Brompton Road, by a tour bus, of all things. The incident so unnerved me that I gave notice immediately. I’m the night manager now at another club.”
Frustrated, Jack taps the table with his fingertips. “Without her, we have nothing but hearsay and conjecture.”
“Perhaps not.” Roger pulls something from his vest pocket. “In his haste to leave the hotel, Mr. Stone left this in his room’s trash can.”
It is a clear, small plastic bag. The contents are a vial of pills. “It was already bagged, so no one else’s fingerprints should be on it, if, in fact, his are there.”
I pick up the bag. The vial has no label or markings. “The pills look like Digitalis, but we’ll have to have them examined to be sure. If Richter was taking the drug for his heart and Carl knew it, we have the proof we need that Carl replaced his pills with a higher dosage, which could have killed him.”
