Crowned and Dangerous (A Royal Spyness Mystery)

by Rhys Bowen

  “Old Harry? I think he’s around today. He works for the Sullivan stables these days and I know they’ve got horses running in the novice stakes tomorrow.”

  “Thank you.” Darcy switched off the motor then came around to help us from the vehicle. “It’s a bit muddy. Are you sure you’d not rather stay in the motorcar? I won’t be long.”

  “We don’t want to miss out on the fun,” Zou Zou said. “Of course we’re not staying put. Come on, Georgie.” And she set off bravely slithering through the mud. I followed. There was plenty of activity in this stable area. Horse boxes were arriving and their passengers led carefully down ramps to waiting stalls. Other horses were standing outside, while stable hands brushed them or attended to their hooves. Nobody stopped us or even asked us what we wanted as we walked down the lines of stalls. Perhaps they were used to owners paying a surprise visit. We were almost at the end when Darcy exclaimed, “There he is. That’s Harry.” And he hurried forward as an old man came out of the end stall, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He was small and wiry and I wondered if he had started life as a jockey. He was scowling, but his face broke into a grin as he saw Darcy and took the cigarette from his mouth, throwing it down into the mud.

  “Well, well. This is a surprise. What are you doing here, Mr. Darcy?”

  “Come to see you, Harry.” Darcy shook the man’s hand. “I’m glad to see you’re working.”

  “No thanks to that devil Roach,” he said. “Dismissed me just like that, for no reason at all. Me, who had given the best years of my life to that stable. And in my place I hear he’s brought in a nobody with no experience at all. A flat racing man. Never trained for the jumps.”

  Darcy nodded with understanding. Harry pushed his cap back on his head.

  “Look, I’m awfully sorry to hear about your father. He was a good man. Knew his horses. Treated them like his children.”

  “Better than his children,” Darcy said and they laughed.

  “That may be true. I won’t say he was always an easy man but he was fair, and he knew his stuff. And I can’t say I blame him for killing that man. Such rudeness and ignorance. You’ve never seen the likes of it.”

  “That’s what I heard,” Darcy said. “Apparently his loves were horses and books but this new man, Ted Benson, told me he actually knew precious little about horses.”

  “Didn’t know a thing,” Harry said, “except how to bet on them.” He moved closer to Darcy, looking around before he spoke. “It’s my belief that’s why he was so angry when Gladiator died. Not that he’d lost his best horse, but that he’d bet heavily on it and he lost a lot of money.”

  “He bet on the horse?”

  Harry nodded. “Oh, he didn’t put the money on himself but he got someone to do it for him. At least that’s what I heard from a bookmaker pal of mine.”

  “You were there that day, Harry,” Darcy said. “What do you think happened?”

  “What happened?” Harry asked angrily. “Someone injected the horse with a powerful stimulant and it was too much for the poor creature’s heart.”

  “And do you think the person who did that was my father?”

  “Of course I don’t,” he said. “Like I told you, your father treated those horses like his children. He’d never have risked a horse’s life to make him run faster and win races. Never.”

  “So do you have any idea who did dope the horse? Roach himself?”

  “I’d give you ten to one that it was him. Right before the race I saw him coming out of the stall and he spotted me and he looked startled and said he’d just wanted to check Gladiator’s girth. Well, I think he’d just drugged the horse himself then and he thought that I’d seen him do it. That’s why he got rid of me. Not because I was too old or not good enough at my job, but because I knew the truth.”

  “Very interesting,” Darcy said. “And he put the syringe into my father’s drawer to place the blame on him.”

  Harry nodded. “That’s what he did. And made an almighty fuss and dismissed your father on the spot. No wonder your father finally gave him what he deserved.”

  “You think my father killed him?”

  “Didn’t he? And if he didn’t, then who did?” Harry asked.

  “That’s what we aim to find out,” Darcy said. “So tell me, all the time you worked at Kilhenny stables, did Roach have any visitors? Did he ever talk about friends or family in America?”

  Harry made a disparaging grunt. “Hardly ever showed his face at the stables and certainly didn’t chat with the likes of us.”

  Standing well back while Darcy and Harry chatted, I had just had a brilliant thought. I couldn’t wait to share this insight. I watched while Darcy shook hands with the old man, then came back to join us. “I suppose you heard everything, didn’t you?”

  “We did,” I said. “And it confirmed what you suspected, didn’t it?”

  Darcy nodded. “Interesting that Roach had bet heavily on his horse.”

  “That’s what I wanted to tell you,” I said. “Remember we were told that Roach was a reclusive gentleman whose interests were horses and books? Well, someone was having a laugh at our expense. His interests were horses and books—but only in the sense of betting on them.”

  “Bookmakers, you mean?” Darcy’s eyes lit up. “That’s clever, Georgie. So much for our impression of a reclusive gentleman in the old sense. He might have been reclusive, but not a gentleman.”

  “How do you know that?” Zou Zou demanded.

  “From what we’ve been told of his behavior. From my impression of the valet he hired, and from the fact that he knew nothing about horses. How many gentlemen do you know who have not grown up with horses as a part of their lives?”

  “You’re talking about the word ‘gentlemen’ as it applies to the English and Irish,” Zou Zou said. “It may be different in America.”

  “And he might have started life quite humbly,” I said. “He might have been a bank clerk or something until he inherited a fortune as the last surviving relative of a rich family. Remember when you were sent to Australia to locate the heir to the Duke of Eynsford and he turned out to be a boy from the Outback?”

  “I do remember,” he agreed. “I suppose that’s perfectly plausible. But if you inherit money, why shut yourself away in Ireland? Why not enjoy it in America? With the depression still lingering on over there I’d imagine one could snap up some good pieces of property for a song.”

  “He was a shy and retiring sort of chap and he’d always had a dream of living as his Irish ancestors had done?” I suggested.

  “Delusions of grandeur,” the princess chimed in. “Pictured himself as an aristocrat.”

  “In which case why not act the part?” I countered. “Why not show yourself as the benevolent new landowner, not shut yourself away.”

  “I find it all most perplexing,” Darcy said. “I’m dying to hear what the American embassy has to say. Someone must know something about him.”

  We were approaching the outskirts of Dublin, streets of humble houses and factories such as one finds on the outskirts of any big town.

  “Where is the American embassy?” I asked.

  “In Phoenix Park,” Darcy said. “Lovely old house. Have you never been in Phoenix Park?”

  “I’ve never been to Dublin before,” I answered.

  “Have you not? Then your education is sadly lacking, my lady,” Darcy said. “Unfortunately this is not the time for a guided tour, but you’ll see a bit of the park as we drive through.”

  We passed old brick buildings, an old jail, a barracks—not the most attractive of areas. I was keeping quiet about what I thought of Dublin until we came out to the River Liffey. As we crossed the water on a bridge I caught a glimpse of the city center with its spires and domes off to our right. We followed a rough stone wall for quite a while before we came to a gateway. Darcy swung the motorcar and we entered an area of parkland. I was expecting a city park to be an ordered affair with rose gardens
, flower beds, arbors, but this was wild enough to make one feel one was out in the country. We drove across a vast expanse of trees and grass. In the distance we spotted deer. Then we came upon a large gray building that Darcy said was the headquarters of the Garda. It certainly was in a nice setting for a police station. Then as we drove on, Darcy pointed out the entrance to the zoo, off to our right among the trees.

  “A zoo!” the princess exclaimed with delight. “I adore animals, don’t you? When this is all over and settled we must come back and feed the giraffes. They have the longest tongues you’ve ever seen. So impressive! You have no idea what they can do with them.” She somehow managed to make this remark sound sexy and she followed it up with a glance at Darcy, making me wonder again exactly what those two had been up to and how long ago. Still, it didn’t do to torture myself with questions like this about Darcy. He loved me now, I reminded myself. That was all that mattered.

  “Ah, here we are.” Darcy slowed the motorcar as we approached a white gate, manned by two American soldiers, or maybe marines. An American flag fluttered above it. Darcy wound down the window and before he could say anything, one of the uniformed men saluted and opened the gate to let us through.

  “We must not look too disreputable.” Darcy turned to us with a grin.

  “I’ve always found that arriving in a Rolls does somehow dispel the notion that one is disreputable,” Zou Zou said dryly.

  As we came up a driveway and the bushes opened up, we got our first glimpse of the house, a handsome white Georgian building, surrounded by lawns. Darcy parked the Rolls in the forecourt then came around to open doors for us. “I think that maybe I should do the talking. We need to tread carefully here,” he said in a low voice. “And of course they may not tell us anything since we’re not official. Oh well. Here goes.” And he led us up to the front door.

  We were greeted by a tall serious young man who listened to Darcy and then bade us sit until someone had time to speak with us. We took leather armchairs in a pleasantly warm foyer and waited. After a few minutes we heard a door opening, the sound of deep voices and two men coming down the hall toward us.

  “So where do we go from here?” an Irish voice asked.

  “I can’t tell you that yet. Naturally we’ll alert the police in Illinois and have them follow up on this matter. I presume this will put your whole investigation on hold for the moment.”

  Darcy was on his feet as they approached. One of the men reacted with surprise as he saw Darcy.

  “What are you doing here, O’Mara?” he demanded.

  “Chief Inspector Callahan. What a surprise,” Darcy said. “I’m here for the same reason as you, I would guess. Wanting to know more about Mr. Timothy Roach.”

  “Who is this young man?” the other man asked. He had a distinctly American look to him and a rumbling transatlantic voice.

  The inspector started to say, “He is the son of—” but Darcy broke in at the same time. “Darcy O’Mara, sir,” he said. “Son of Lord Kilhenny and currently working on my father’s defense. Do I understand you’ve found some details for us about Mr. Timothy Roach?”

  “I see no reason to share any information with a member of the public,” Inspector Callahan said stiffly before the American could respond.

  “I’m not exactly a random member of the public,” Darcy said. “My father is on trial for his life, for the murder of Timothy Roach. I think we’re entitled to all facts pertaining to this case.”

  The American nodded. “I think he has a right to know. We have just learned from the Illinois state authorities that the only Timothy Roach with that date and place of birth is shown as having died in 1920 of the Spanish flu.”

  Chapter 22

  TUESDAY , DECEMBER 4

  IN DUBLIN , AT THE AMERI CAN EMBASSY .

  We learn an interesting piece of news. There may be a light for us at the end of this tunnel.

  There was complete silence in the foyer while we digested this. From the other end of the hallway came the clatter of a typewriter. Darcy exchanged a glance with me, then turned back to the American. “So you are telling us that this man was not Timothy Roach?”

  “So it would appear,” the American said.

  “He was traveling with a dead man’s credentials?” Darcy asked. “Are you currently looking into what his real name was and what he was doing in Ireland?”

  Inspector Callahan still looked as if he were fighting to control his annoyance. “I must object, Mr. Wexler. This is a criminal investigation. Whatever this man’s real name was does not alter the fact that he was murdered in Ireland and all evidence points to Mr. O’Mara’s father.”

  “I disagree.” Darcy turned to face Callahan. “It might have everything to do with the man’s murder. Since my father’s guilt has not yet been proven, then surely the case now opens up to a whole lot of motives and a whole lot of different suspects. If he wasn’t Timothy Roach, then who was he? And how did he come by his money, and who might have wanted to murder him?”

  “You have a point there, son,” the American said. “You can rest assured we will be asking the authorities in Illinois to follow up on this. Can you supply me with photographs of the dead man, Chief Inspector Callahan? We’ll need to circulate them to the appropriate people.”

  “And fingerprints,” I said. I had forgotten that Darcy had told us he wanted to do all the talking, and I was conscious that everyone was now looking at me. “It makes sense to check his fingerprints, surely,” I went on. “If he is not the man he claimed to be on his passport then he had to be hiding his true identity for a reason. You might find that his fingerprints are on file.”

  “And who might you be, young lady?” Chief Inspector Callahan asked.

  I decided this was not a time for concealment. It was a time to pull rank. “Lady Georgiana Rannoch, cousin to His Majesty, King George,” I said. “And this is the Princess Zamanska. We are both old friends of Mr. O’Mara and we are over here to show our support for the O’Mara family, and to do a little preliminary work while a barrister is being chosen for the defense.”

  I think that Inspector Callahan swallowed hard. “It’s good to know that O’Mara has friends in such high places,” he said. “Not that it will do much good. Unfortunately we are no longer part of Great Britain here. You can have no influence on the outcome of Irish justice, however royal you are.”

  “Of course not,” Princess Zamanska said in a sweet, gentle tone. “But that doesn’t prevent us from helping a chum in need, does it? Especially now that the whole matter appears to have taken on a very different twist. I think your investigation should now focus on why this man was here and who might have paid him a visit recently, don’t you, Chief Inspector?”

  The chief inspector had now gone very red in the face. “I work with facts, madam,” he said, either not knowing that she should be addressed as “Your Highness” or choosing to ignore it. “The facts are that there was no sign of forced entry into the castle. There were no visitors that day. Lord Kilhenny’s fingerprints were the only ones found on the club and he admits that he was so drunk he remembers nothing of the evening in question. Those are facts and good enough for me to come to the conclusion that Lord Kilhenny struck Timothy Roach, or whoever he is now, over the head with the club during an argument and killed him. Now if you will excuse me, I need to get back to work. I will have the photographs sent over to you, Mr. Wexler, and please keep me informed of any further developments.” He nodded to the American, then turned back to us. “And may I suggest to you ladies that you confine yourselves to more suitable pursuits like dances and dressmakers. A little knowledge is a very dangerous thing and you could end up only making things worse for the man you are trying to help.”

  “Odious man,” Princess Zamanska muttered as he stalked out. “Even if I did not care so passionately about Darcy I should now feel compelled to throw myself into the fray on behalf of his father.”

  Darcy had retrieved a calling card from his pocket. “I am cu
rrently staying at the lodge with my father,” he said, handing it to the American, who looked rather uncomfortable following the heated scene he had just witnessed. “I would appreciate it if you would contact me as soon as you have any pertinent information.”

  “I certainly will, Mr. O’Mara.” The American held out a big hand and shook Darcy’s. “We could well find that someone is sent over from the States to assist in this investigation. And until I am advised how my government wishes to proceed, you can rest assured I will not allow any criminal trial to go forward.”

  “Thank you,” Darcy said.

  As we came out of the building the princess turned to Darcy. “Maybe one of us should go over and dig into this ourselves,” she said. “I’ve just been wondering whether my little aeroplane would make it across the Atlantic. It takes so horribly long by sea. Two weeks wasted in the crossings, and then trains and things. By then that boorish policeman will have your father convicted and hanged.”

  Darcy shook his head. “Zou Zou, there is no way you can fly across the Atlantic Ocean. Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not Lindbergh.”

  She shrugged. “I only wanted to do something useful, you know. I could buy a bigger plane. One that carries more fuel.”

  Darcy put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s a kind gesture, but I don’t think anyone needs to go over there. I’m going to telephone a certain chap in London and I think he’ll know who to contact in the States so that we have someone on our side over there.”

  “You’re such a spoilsport, Darcy,” the princess said. “I was looking forward to braving the elements and flying in to the rescue and earning your undying gratitude.”

  “You’re a hopeless romantic, Zou Zou,” Darcy said.

  “Just doing my bit to help a chum, as I told the horrid policeman,” she said. “So what do you propose doing next? We can’t just sit back and leave it to other people. If this man was here under an assumed name, then he had to be up to no good. He was probably hiding from someone, and that person found him, crept into the castle and finished him off.”