“And I have heard, young man,” said the magistrate, “that your methods of questioning her were highly suspect.” I demanded to know what was wrong with our questioning of Alice Plummer, and he explained what I myself should have realized: One does not fill a witness with gin whilst interrogating him or her. At best, you would be drawing from her unconsidered responses, and, at worst, she would tend to agree with all that was said to her.
Where could he have heard that? Why, of course! Stephen would have remembered that Mr. Patley and I had announced ourselves as guests at the Good Queen Bess. He must have headed there as soon as he was free to leave the stable—and then into the tap-room, where he would have heard the serving woman on the matter of the two glasses of gin, and the innkeeper, of course, must have tipped young Applegate on just where he might find his Alice.
I attempted to defend my methods, telling the magistrate that she was drunk before ever we asked a question of her.
“And so you attempted to make her drunker, did you? No, young sir, I fear that won’t do at all. Not only did Stephen Applegate present a good case against you and your methods, he is also from a very old family here in Newmarket. They’ve owned and run that stable for as long as anyone can remember. Of course I would take his word over yours. He paid her fine, and he took her out of here. That was about an hour or two after you left last evening.”
“But—”
“No buts! Out of here now, or I’ll throw you into the same cell she had.”
I had no choice but to leave. But, I believe, I ran all the way up to the Good Queen Bess without stopping. Indeed, I’m sure I did, for I remember that when I attempted to explain the situation to Mr. Patley in our room, I was so out of breath that I could do naught but begin again after I had properly caught my breath. I ended with a shout: “We must find her again!”
“Well, the first place to look,” said the ever-practical Mr. Patley, “would be where we found her in the first place.”
And so, as soon as Patley had dressed and made himself otherwise presentable, we started up the hill to Applegate’s stable. Stephen seemed to be waiting for us, so sure that we would be coming round to see him that he had not even sought the darkness at the rear of the place. He was leaning upon the door as we approached, his pitchfork within easy reach (just the thing for driving away the unwanted). He had a proper smirk upon his face.
“Good morning to you,” said he. “I’m sure I know who you’re looking for and why you’re here.”
“Well,” said I, “where is she?”
“She ought to be in London by now.”
“You sure about that?”
“Just about as sure as I can be at this distance.”
“You have any objection to us taking a look around?”
“No, go ahead, but you’d do better to check the list of passengers on the post coach that left last evening around nine. But go ahead, suit yourself. I’ll wait right here.”
We looked, of course. If we had not, we would not have seemed to be searching seriously for her. We even climbed the ladder in the rear and tramped through the hay in the loft—without success, of course. Nor was I surprised at that, for Stephen’s indifference was not feigned. It was plain that he was confident we would find no trace of her. Mr. Patley was of the same mind.
“It don’t look like she’s here, does it?” said he.
I shook my head. “No, it doesn’t. We should go and check the passenger list as he dared us to do, but I’m sure she’ll be on it.”
We climbed down from the loft and headed out of the place.
Stephen silently watched us go. But then, thinking better of it, he called after us as we started down the hill.
“I tried to get her to stay. Told her I could hide her so you’d never find her. But she said no. There was something she had to do in London.”
I turned and nodded, yet I certainly would not thank him.
“No reason not to go to the big race now,” said Mr. Patley. “Come to think of it, I’d better go and place my bet whilst I still can.”
I didn’t ask him how much he was betting, nor on which horse, yet I was greatly curious about one thing: “Mr. Patley, are you hedging your bet?”
He looked at me a bit sheepishly. “No, I’m not. The little fellow’s got me convinced that the two of them can really do it. I’ve got ten pounds, the last of my mustering out pay, on Pegasus to win. But what about you?”
’Twas then my time to look embarrassed. “No, he’s convinced me, too—and those odds!”
“I know,” said he. “They’re just irresistible.”
Again, just as at Shepherd’s Bush, there were so many horses entered that it was necessary to run the race in heats. Pegasus was in the first heat of the day, which meant that he was running against a field of horses that, the odds said, had no chance in the final race of the day. Still, Mr. Deuteronomy held him so in check that Pegasus did not win outright but rather placed second. (Three from each heat would compete for the King’s Plate in the last race.) Yet Pegasus had qualified, and that was all that had been asked of him, and the horse had more than two hours in which to recover himself.
The course was oval and about a mile in length. It was proper to walk a horse once round it after he had run. Deuteronomy walked Pegasus thus much at least, then trotted him round a time or two. It seemed that in the next couple of hours the horse was never completely still except when Mr. Bennett was massaging his legs.
“You see what they’re doing, don’t you?” said Mr. Patley, as always my guide in this new world.
“I think so,” said I. “Deuteronomy seems to be running exactly the same sort of race that they ran last week at Shepherd’s Bush.”
“That’s right. And he’s keeping Pegasus warm and loose without tiring him.”
No one else had seemed to notice the technique they employed, yet once it was explained to me, it appeared to be both sensible and necessary.
As Mr. Patley amplified his earlier comments, he pointed out that the favored horses raced in the last heat before the final run, so they were warmed up and ready to go when the last race of the day came. If Pegasus were to have a chance at the King’s Plate, he would have to be as properly warmed up as any that had run in the previous heat; and it appeared that he was. Yet he would also have to achieve this racing peak without having tired himself out. Mr. Deuteronomy, in his green and white racing colors, was proving—to us, at least—that there was more to jockeying than sitting on a horse.
Charade, the Duke of Queensberry’s entry, was the favorite in every way—not only the favorite of the bettors, but also with the rail-birds who crowded around us at the first pole. The reason for this was quite evident: there was probably never before or after a more beautiful horse than Charade. Big, strong-looking, and generally handsome—if races were beauty competitions, he would have won every time.
Pegasus, on the other hand, was simply smarter than the rest. He and his rider, Mr. Deuteronomy, demonstrated that very early on. Of the nine horses at the line, three reared, and two otherwise shied at the starting gun, and so Pegasus, taking off as smoothly as a ship launched into the sea, had an immediate advantage over half the field. He kept it up to the brook, which flowed across the course at that point. All four of the leaders cleared it without difficulty, yet Deuteronomy was finding it hard to find a path through the leaders. He shouted something and somehow seemed to relax his grip on the reins, giving Pegasus his head. The horse broke to the outside, and, in this way, worked past the others, one by one, up to second place—behind Charade. Both those fine animals were galloping apparently for all they were worth. The crowd, many more than five thousand in number, cheered loudly at the sight of them beating their way down the stretch. And again, Deuteronomy shouted at Pegasus, and then, little by little, Pegasus began to move up and away from Charade.
Pegasus won by a full length. There could be no disputing it. As that single, stunning fact was communicated to the vast assemblage of
people all round us, they fell silent. To my ears, it seemed that Mr. Patley and I were the only two who rejoiced. And why should we not? We had suddenly become rich men.
NINE
In which we go back to London and find Elizabeth returned
We narrowly made the post coach to London. What with collecting our winnings and storing banknotes in our luggage that we might travel with them without calling undue attention to ourselves, it was just on five in the afternoon when we came running up to the coach.
“Here,” said the footman, reaching for my portmanteau, “you’ll want your bags up top, I’m sure.”
Mr. Patley and I exchanged glances and thus found ourselves in agreement. I jerked it back from his grasp and politely declined.
“I’ll hold it upon my lap, thank you.”
He gave me a queer look, then turned to Mr. Patley. “And you?”
“I’ll keep mine, too.”
“All right, then. Into the coach with you both. We’ve got a schedule to keep.”
Jumping inside, we arranged ourselves as best we could among the four other passengers (all of them quite respectable-looking) and made ready to go. After the footman had climbed up to his place beside the driver, there was no delay. A rowdy call, a crack of the whip, and we were off through the streets of Newmarket. It took only a few minutes for us to be out in the country on the road to Cambridge.
Unlike the trip up to Newmarket, the return journey to London was spent by us in a state of intense wakefulness. I, for one, learned in the course of that one night alone what a remarkable burden a large amount of money can be. Yet no matter how heavy, we preferred to keep our baggage right there in our hands. I’ll not pretend that supporting the weight of our good fortune, as we were, ours was—or could have been—a comfortable trip. Nevertheless, that is how we made the trip, and no complaint was heard from either of us.
We arrived at the Post Coach House in London well before sunrise, our legs so stiff and our backsides so battered that we could scarce walk. Yet as our muscles loosened a bit, we were able to pick up the pace, and it was not long till we found ourselves crossing Covent Garden. It occurred to me then that we might be on the very path taken by Elizabeth Hooker in the riskful company of her two young gallants. I wondered then—alas, for the first time!—what Sir John had turned up in his investigation of that odd situation. What had the girl at heart? Would we ever know? I realized then how glad I was to be back in London, working once again with Sir John. A life in the law was a life I had never dreamed of till I came here, to the city—and now I could imagine none other for me. Such thoughts never failed to put a smile upon my face. Yet then I thought of the report that I brought back with me—how we had found Alice Plummer and then lost her. In all truth, I was properly ashamed of how little we could claim for all the time we had spent there.
Even in the dim dawn light, Bow Street appeared the same, and as we entered through the door of Number 4, I noted that the place even smelled the same—rock oil and strong soap. Catching first glimpse of us, Mr. Baker called out a greeting.
“Which horse won at Newmarket?” he asked.
“Ah well,” answered Mr. Patley, “we’ve a story ’twill shock you and delight you.”
But I begged off: “Mr. Patley knows the story well as I. He’ll tell it better. I’m for a bit of a nap.”
With that, I staggered up the stairs, hauling my portmanteau behind. I did not knock upon the door, which would have admitted me to our kitchen; rather, did I throw it open and, unintended, send Clarissa jumping from her chair in surprise.
“Jeremy,” said she, “it’s you!”
“Who else but me? And I sat up the entire night long on the bumpiest mail coach that I might see you a few hours earlier.”
“Really?” She ran to me, threw her arms about my neck, and quite covered my face with kisses. I confess that I rather liked it.
“Sit down, sit down,” said she. “You must be quite perishing with hunger. The breakfast tea is still hot, and I’ve just cut into a pan of Molly’s soda bread. Do sit down, Jeremy, and I’ll serve you.”
I did as she urged and watched her whiz round the kitchen, throwing together my breakfast. Only moments before, she had been writing in her journal. There, indeed, it was, open, with quill and ink pot beside it. I wondered what she had written in my absence, though I suspected that she would never again be quite so free in allowing me opportunity to view its contents as she had been before, so that I might never know.
Though hastily improvised, my breakfast was in no wise inferior: the tea was warm and tasty; Molly’s soda bread was beyond compare; and the butter I daubed upon it was as fine as could be. She took her place at the table just opposite me, and, with a hand propped beneath her chin, she stared at me for an interminable length of time. I felt embarrassed to be studied so. At last she spoke.
“You’re back,” said she. “I’ve missed you even more than I expected.”
“Things seem much as they were when I left, though. Not much changed?”
“Oh no, on the contrary. Much has changed.”
My first thought was to the case at hand: “Has Sir John got to the bottom of this perplexing matter with your friend Elizabeth?”
“No, no, nothing of that. So far as I know, it remains unchanged. The news is much closer to us.” She looked up and about the room, as if seeking a place to start. Then, beginning again, she said, “Molly and Mr. Donnelly have made plain their intentions. They’ve announced to all their wish to marry. This was, I hasten to add, after he and Sir John had discussed the matter thoroughly—not exactly asking Sir John’s permission, but . . . well, you understand.”
“Not entirely, no, but I certainly catch the drift of it.”
“Well, she’s a widow, this would be her second marriage, and all that Sir John could or would say is that he had no objection to it at all. He congratulated Mr. Donnelly and offered her a kiss upon the cheek and his best wishes for a long and fruitful union. It’s rather a delicate matter, after all.”
“Oh? How so?”
“The religion matter, of course. They must be married by a Roman Catholic priest—but of course officially there are none here in England. So they must either marry in secret or go off to Ireland to have it done. They favor having it done in Dublin, so that his family may meet her and all. But to me, marrying in a secret ceremony seems so much better—more romantic, literary, poetical.”
“Oh,” said I, “you would view it so, I’m sure, but just imagine all of the complications, having to prove time after time that you are truly married.”
Clarissa’s mouth flew open, as if she were about to argue the point with me. But then her expression softened, and she smiled a little smile.
“Oh, Jeremy,” said she, “must you always be so practical?” Then did she sigh. “You’re right, of course.”
“How did Lady Fielding take all this?”
She lowered her voice to a whisper: “Not so well at first. She seemed to feel that Molly is somehow beneath him. She talked around all this just yesterday whilst we were at the Magdalene Home. Oh, but what does it matter? Mr. Goldsmith thinks it to be a fine idea. So does Benjamin Bailey. There seems to be some family relation there that I don’t quite understand . . .”
“Oh well, no matter,” said I.
There discussion ended rather abruptly. Yet, the frown upon her face told me that there was a good deal more that she wished to say. It seemed to me that she was merely trying to decide if now were the right time for it to be said. Still, when had she ever shown herself to be faint of heart?
“You realize, don’t you, Jeremy, what this means?”
“It means a good many things, doesn’t it? We shall be getting a new cook, I suppose, and—”
“Oh, Jeremy, you’re often just impossible! Do you not realize that an obstacle to our own wedding plans has just been removed?”
I was teasing her, of course. “An obstacle,” said I, “but there are others.”
“Better move that inkpot,” said I to her as I unbuckled the straps to the portmanteau. Then, holding it together, I added, “As I recall, you were so deeply concerned about our financial situation that you entrusted your own paltry savings to me and urged me to bet them where the odds were most favorable. Isn’t that correct?”
“Oh yes—that.” She seemed embarrassed that I had remembered. “Not one of my more reasonable ideas, I fear. I sometimes have these harebrained notions that Divine Intervention will rescue us. I hope that you did not put your money with mine, as I asked you to do.”
“Truth to tell, I did,” said I. “And this, dear Clarissa, was the result.”
I then threw open the portmanteau and revealed to her a profusion of banknotes, as impressive an array as I myself had ever seen. “Would you not say that Divine Intervention has struck?”
She was open-mouthed with awe, speechless, breathless. At last, she did manage to say, “Dear God, Jeremy, is all of this ours?”
“Unfortunately, no,” said I, “but one hundred fifty-one pounds and thirteen shillings of it is, which is more than you or I ever expected. I thought I would give you a glimpse of the full swack just to dazzle you proper before Mr. Deuteronomy takes his larger share.”
“How much larger?” she asked in a small voice. “How much is here exactly?”
“Well, there’s our hundred fifty-one pounds and Deuteronomy’s three thousand.”
“Three thousand? But that’s a fortune!”
The Price of Murder Page 20
