“You are one very managing woman, Penelope.”
“This is my province. We are not on board ship, Ernest.”
He relinquished his post with a surprising amount of regret.
*
Finding Beau and Tony in the library, he asked, “Has Gibson returned from Epsom Downs by any chance?”
“Yes,” said Tony. “He’s upstairs changing his kit. The jockey was murdered all right. Hit on the back of the head. Howie intends to go back to Epsom to investigate. He really can’t afford to be away right now, however. One of his client’s mares we are keeping is ready to foal, and another right behind her. As you can imagine, spring is a busy time on a stud farm.”
Ernest poured himself a whiskey at the mantel and thought for a moment. “I can handle the investigation for him. I need to feel of use. I’d be a lot more good at that than helping with the stud. Devilish boring things, furloughs.”
“We can’t ask that of you,” said Tony. “It’s bound to be dangerous.”
“No more dangerous than having French shot whistle past my ears. I know how to take care of myself even without a cutlass in my hand. And I doubt they have cannons at Epsom Downs.”
Tony gave him a half grin. “Well, in that case, it would be greatly appreciated. You always were one to seek out danger. Just remember that on land you’re not judge and jury. If you find the fellow responsible for whatever devilry is going on, your duty is to hand him over to the magistrate.”
*
The following day, Ernest attempted to visit Lady Deveridge before he went down to the stables but was informed that she was sleeping.
“I may be leaving today on a quest to find the bloke who did this to her. Tell her, won’t you?” he asked Penelope.
“I shall,” she promised.
The day was rainy and dark, which did not suit his restless energy. He was anxious to start his investigation. Visiting the stables, he sought out Gibson.
It smelled of dung and sour, wet hay, and Howard Gibson, who was a handsome man, had at least three days’ growth of beard. He was in the stall with Virginia’s Prize, cleaning out her feeding trough.
“Tony has given me leave to investigate this matter. You need not leave your mares,” Ernest said.
Gibson put a hand on his shoulder, “Thank you, Captain. This matter needs to be resolved. Tony said you suspect drugging. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it.”
“You’ve heard what happened to Lady Deveridge?”
“Yes. Tony told me.”
“If the jockey died from a blow to the head, she is very lucky to be alive, it seems. And there is reason to think the villain may come after her again when she is up and about. It is imperative that we stop this fellow.”
“I agree wholeheartedly. I only wish I knew more. There were dashed few clues at the scene, and I needed to get back here. Princess Caroline is ready to foal.”
Ernest asked, “What is the jockey’s name, and who should I speak with?”
“The jockey was Arnold Simpson. Virginia’s Prize trains with Greenwood. You might want to speak with some of the other jockeys and trainers. Also, Bert Huggins, the guard on the stable door, might have seen something. Everyone is getting ready to take their horses up to Newmarket, however. The King’s Plate is being run in two weeks. It’s the first important race of the Season, with the biggest purse except for the Derby.”
Ernest could read Gibson’s anxiety in his tense shoulders and the way he kept rubbing the back of his neck.
“Which owners benefit if Virginia’s Prize doesn’t run?”
“It may be more complicated than that. It could be a bettor who is doing this—trying to increase the odds against Virginia’s Prize and then suddenly having him back in racing form to win the King’s Plate at long odds.”
Ernest thought this over. “But how does anyone know the drugging won’t harm him in some way so that he’ll never come back?”
“They don’t. But it’s not their horse, so they don’t particularly care. Then there are undoubtedly those out there who think I’m doing this myself.”
“Nasty,” said Ernest. “Downright nasty. I certainly hope that the horse is going to be healthy again.”
Gibson’s brown eyes were dark, and the circles under them told of his worry. “I wish you the best of luck finding the devil.”
Ernest vowed, “I shall get to the bottom of this and make whoever is behind this pay with his life. Don’t worry.”
The man ran both hands through his unruly hair. “I appreciate this more than you know. Come into the office. I’ll give you that list of owners, and then we’ll see about fixing you up with a horse.”
Chapter Five
Marianne woke in a haze of happiness. She had been dreaming of Ian. She was aboard ship with him, and they were sailing off to Africa together. Gweet and Warrie and Bertie’s golden dogs were with them. In the absurd way of dreams, she and her husband were locked together in each other’s arms while the entire crew applauded. Gweet kept saying, “When will we be in Africa? When can I see the lions?”
Letting the dream go with a deep sigh, she opened her eyes. The room was dark, and she did not know where she was. Turning her head, she suffered excruciating pain. Foster was nodding in the chair beside the bed.
Slowly she became aware of her circumstances. Concussion. Southbrooke Manor. Captain Saunders.
The thought jarred her.
Oh my heavens. It was not Ian in my dream. It was Captain Saunders.
Memories came flooding back, but she had the sense that she was viewing them through a wavy old pane of glass: She was in the downstairs sitting room. The captain was by her bedside. A warm, nurturing air of intimacy surrounded them as though they were in their own little cloud. He was telling her that he had rescued her, that she had almost died. Waves of possessiveness emanated from the man.
Accompanying the pain in her head was a feeling of warmth and belonging. It was beyond sense and beyond reason, but she did not want to let the feelings go.
Gradually, she felt the cold of the room steal away her inner warmth. A single candle burned on the mantel. A cold wet lump lay under her head. Melting ice.
Where had Penelope been? Why was it Captain Saunders and not she who had been by her bedside?
It must be the middle of the night. She had a raging thirst, but she did not want to wake anyone.
Now that the dream was fading, she did not really know how she felt about a man, particularly that man, standing guard over her while she was unconscious. For how long had he been at her bedside? She had the sense that many hours had passed.
Foster stirred and came awake. “Oh, my lady! How long have you been awake? Are you in much pain?”
“Never mind, Foster. I am well. All I need is just a few sips of water.”
The maid got up and went to a table by the door. There Marianne could vaguely make out a pitcher and a glass. She struggled to raise herself on her elbows and finally succeeded. After gulping down the water, she lay back on the pillows.
Foster asked, “Should I take the ice, my lady? It has almost melted away.”
“Yes please.”
Her maid removed the ice, replaced the wet pillow with a dry one, and, at Marianne’s request, added another quilt. Pain threatened to split her head. Suddenly she was exhausted. Closing her eyes, she drifted back to sleep.
Chapter Six
Epsom Downs Racecourse lay in a magnificent green valley situated in Surrey. Ernest had never been there before. He had ridden down on the black yearling, and after gawking a bit like any tourist, he rode up to the large stable he guessed housed the race horses.
There was a tough-looking fellow in work clothes with a red bandanna tied around his neck standing at the door. He walked up to Ernest.
“Ain’t no use in your getting down. The stable’s closed to visitors.”
In spite of this advice, Ernest dismounted. “I’ve never been to Epsom Downs before. Visiting some folks up on
the hill. Thought I’d have a look.”
“Well, you can take yourself off. April Meetings is over. Ain’t nothing to see.”
“Heard there was a murder here.”
“Yeah. Poor Simpson’s number came up. God rest his soul.” The man proceeded to clean his grubby-looking fingernails with a penknife.
“Any idea what happened? My friends speculate that he was in collusion with the bettors to throw his races.”
“Don’t know nothin’ about that. Simpson was an honorable jockey. None better.” He looked Ernest directly in the eye, as though offering a challenge. “If I was bettin,’ I’d lay any odds that he’d never go along with anything like that. What’s more, the owner, Mr. Gibson, he ain’t in it for the bettin’ money. He sets a store by his horses, and he wants them to win. He wouldn’t risk nothin’ that would hurt Ginny’s Prize.”
Ernest decided to try a bit of flattery. “Seems like no one could get by you to the horses anyway.”
“Only the trainers, the jockeys, and the owners, and I know ’em all.”
“Bad business.”
“The worst. Race fixin’ is one thing, but I’m sure I don’t know anyone in the business that holds with murder.”
Ernest removed his hat and made a show of scratching his head. “I don’t even know how a jockey would throw a race. I’ve been at sea most of my life. Haven’t had the time for racing.”
“Wouldn’t have to be the jockey. Could be the trainer. Could be a competitor. Somethin’ in the stallion’s feed or water. Somethin’ to slow the horse. Mayhap laudanum or the like. I’ve heard it done.”
“Why would anyone want to slow their own horse? Couldn’t it be a rival who wanted his horse to win?”
“The racing business ain’t so simple as you might think. Could be what you say. Or it could be they are working a lay.” The guard leaned forward as though imparting a secret. “You see, a winning horse like Virginia’s Prize only pays out short odds. But since he hasn’t done well at the April Meetings, that would lengthen the odds that he would win at the King’s Plate race in Newmarket. A horse that wins in spite of long odds pays out more money.”
“See what you mean. If they don’t drug him, or whatever they’ve been doing, he’ll revert to his winning ways, and the bettors will make more money on him.”
“Right. I has my suspicions. Nobody ain’t going to listen to me, though. Not ol’ Bert Huggins.”
“Where’s your favorite pub?” He flipped the man a sixpence as he spoke. “Buy yourself a pint.”
“Horse and Crown on the High Street.”
“Thanks for giving the scene some life for me. Maybe I’ll come for the Derby.”
“Now that’s a fine race, that is. Regent will be here for certain.”
Ernest climbed back on his horse and rode off toward the town. The Horse and Crown wasn’t a grand pub but rather a small building covered with vines. As he entered he almost collided with a short man who looked quite pleased with himself.
“Good ale here?” Ernest inquired.
“Can’t beat it,” the fellow said.
He went to the bar and ordered a pint of the local brew. As he squinted in the gloom, he made out the features of a longtime acquaintance.
“Captain!” he said, walking over to the man who sat next to the fire in a cozy booth.
“Saunders!” the man replied, rising and extending a hand. “Come join me. What a surprise!”
After shaking hands, Ernest seated himself across from his friend. “Have you business in town, Abernathy?”
“Actually, I make my home here now. Left the navy right after the Peace.”
“Splendid. I’ve never been here before. It’s a beautiful spot.”
Ernest’s old friend was looking older than he ought. He wondered whether he had an illness or an injury that had put him into retirement earlier than he would have liked. His plenteous brown hair was threaded with silver, and his brown eyes were rheumy. But his dress was bang up to the mark. No longer in uniform, he wore a bottle-green jacket over a gold-figured waistcoat and brown leather breeches.
“What brings you into my corner of the world?” Abernathy asked.
Ernest hesitated, and then decided there would be no harm in leveling with his old friend. “You might be able to help me, actually. I’m a friend of the Viscount Strangeways and his brother, Mr. Howard Gibson.”
“Ah! The owners of Virginia’s Prize. Beautiful horse. Been a bit off lately, though. Was favored to take the King’s Plate this year. Of course, there is that superstition about naming a horse after your wife.”
His friend had always been a bit of a gambler, he remembered. “What superstition is that?” Ernest asked.
“A horse named after your wife is bound to let you down.” The man laughed. “Never does to completely disregard superstition.”
Ernest grinned. “Have you met Strangeways’s viscountess? She’s a stunner. American, you know.”
“Haven’t had the pleasure.” He sipped from his flagon. “Are you on leave now, or have you been decommissioned?”
“Just on leave. A long one this time. Six months. Keep expecting I’ll be bored beyond bearing, but so far I’m doing well. I’ve got my land legs.”
“What is it you need help with?”
“I’m looking into the business of the murder of Strangeways’s jockey, Simpson. The viscount and his brother, Gibson, who runs the racing stud, think it may have to do with Virginia’s Prize being put off her game. Have you heard anything?”
The man looked as though he were meditating on his ale. “Rumors only,” he said at last. “The chief constable is a friend of mine, but he doesn’t seem to be getting anywhere with the case. Most people seem to think some bettor or group of bettors hired that jockey, Simpson, to drug his own horse. The theory is that he developed a conscience and decided to confess to Strangeways and had to be removed before he could do so.”
This did not march with Bert Huggins’s theory, but more than likely that man was a close friend of Simpson’s. Or, Ernest thought suddenly, Huggins could have done the deed himself. He had access to the horses when everyone else was gone.
“Do you know anything about this Bert Huggins?” Ernest asked.
“Never heard of him.” Ernest noticed that his friend seemed to have developed a twitch in his right eye.
“The chap who minds the stable door.”
Captain Abernathy put his head to one side, narrowing his eyes. “I can’t say that I do. You think he might have a hand in this?”
“It’s a possibility. What about Greenwood?” asked Ernest.
“Greenwood?” Eye twitch.
“The trainer. What do you know about him?”
“Haven’t heard of him by name, but I do know that Stangeways always has the best trainers working for him. Clearly, I’m not much help to you.”
“Oh well. It was too much to expect that you might have all the answers for me. At least now I know the dramatis personae and all the rumors. Strangeways just got home from America, and his brother has been concerned with all the usual spring happenings on a stud farm. They’ve got another jockey for the King’s Plate, but they’re most concerned about Virginia’s Prize.”
“Horses that have been drugged don’t often recover entirely, even after the drugging ceases,” Abernathy remarked.
“Are you putting money on him?”
Another eye twitch. “I wouldn’t. Let me know what you find out about this murder, eh?”
Ernest took out his diary and a pencil. “Perhaps you can give me the names of some of biggest bettors. Men that might win big if Virginia’s Prize recovers her form.” Abernathy finished off his ale. “This is thirsty work. I’m going to get another. May I bring you one?”
Ernest laid some coins on the table. “No thanks. Yours is on me.”
After his friend returned with his pint, he began dictating the names of several bettors he thought might be culpable. “Most of them are in London, I imagine,
for the Season.”
“Good,” Ernest said, his thoughts drifting to the lovely Lady Deveridge. “I have business in London.”
A smile crossed Abernathy’s face, making him look young again. “Me too. I hope to have an announcement in the Morning Post soon. Keep an eye out.”
His friend had always been one for the ladies, but this news surprised Ernest. “Don’t tell me you’re getting leg shackled!”
“If I can persuade my very self-righteous prospective father-in-law to accept my suit. He’s a Cit, but his daughter is a lovely thing.” Eye twitch. “You’ll probably see me in Town soon. I’ll be at Brooks’s.”
“Good. Call on us. I’m at Wellingham House with my brother. Don’t think you’ve ever met Wellingham, have you?”
“No, I’ve never had the pleasure.”
“Well, I could use any help I can get on this murder investigation, so be certain to call on me or write if anything occurs to you. Especially after the King’s Plate. Meanwhile, I’ll have a go at these names. I appreciate your help.”
“Thanks for the drink. I’ll see you in London, then.” They shook hands once more, and Ernest left the pub. He was going in search of an inn where he could lodge and have a meal. Then he’d have a go at talking to Greenwood, the trainer.
Unfortunately, by the time he had finished an excellent supper and called on the trainer, Greenwood, at his lodgings at the stable, the fellow wasn’t to be found.
“Has a girl in town,” Bert Huggins told him. “What do you want to see him for?”
“I’m a newspaper reporter,” said Ernest. “New to this beat. I want to interview him.”
Huggins looked at him in horror. “You’ll never be printing those things I told you!”
Grinning, Ernest flipped the man another coin and went back to his horse. With nothing on for the evening, he decided to mingle with the dart throwers at the Horse and Crown.
He learned nothing new. It seemed everyone thought the same as Abernathy: that Simpson had been paid off to drug Strangeways’s horse and then was murdered when the conspirator had no more use for him.
Love Unexpected_A Regency Romance Page 4
