Ask Me No Questions

by Shelley Noble

  “That’s also true. We have to discover Reggie’s killer first.”

  Phil slipped her arm in Bev’s. “That’s not what I meant at all.” But they both knew it was true. None of them could get on with their lives until the killer was caught.

  23

  “I didn’t place a penny on any of the races,” Bev said as they made their way back toward the clubhouse.

  “It’s not too late,” Phil said. “We can go mix with the hoi polloi beneath the grandstand seats.”

  “I suppose so. But it’s just not the same without Reggie.”

  “I was thinking it would get us closer to the race.”

  “Oh, Phil, are you sure about this? How can we ever stop it, if Rico pulls short? And if we tell the judges, Holly Farm’s reputation will be ruined. I need champagne.”

  By the time they reached the clubhouse, the bugle blared announcing the first race, and Phil and Bev hurriedly took their seats.

  The horses were led from the paddock, parading past the crowd as they headed for the starting line, their jockeys clad in the colors of the individual stables.

  Some went docilely, walked straight for the starting line without hesitation. Others danced, reared back with nostrils flaring, or balked altogether as the trainers pulled on their leads.

  It took a bit of maneuvering before all were standing behind the line.

  Below the clubhouse, people gathered along the rail in order to get a closer view and witness firsthand as the horses crossed the finish line. Bev reminded her that the horses would be starting at their right instead of left, running the “wrong way” around the track. To Phil that was the “correct” way, since in England the races were always held in a clockwise direction.

  The tape was stretched across the track, the flag was raised, the jockeys crouched forward, knees bent as if they were about to soar over their horse’s head. The flag sliced downward through the air and the race began.

  Phil watched through her opera glasses as they thundered down the stretch, followed them into the first curve.

  The spectators were all focused on the race, most quiet, but some urging their favorites on with yells and waving arms. A few became so animated that they looked as if they were trying to ride the horses themselves.

  It was amazing to watch, the strong gleaming flanks of the horses as they rounded the turn, their power propelled by delicate ankles. The jockeys leaning as far forward as they might, looking like colorful birds that had alit briefly only to find a journey already in progress.

  Bev had stood and watched intently as horses took the lead or fell behind. Phil was almost as entertained by her friend’s absorption as she was by the race itself.

  A few minutes later, it was over. The favorite passed over the finish line a good two lengths ahead of the nearest competitor.

  Spectators below them crowded around the judges’ stand to get a close look at the presentation of awards or hurried to collect their winnings or put money on the next race.

  In the clubhouse, conversations took up where they’d left off, drinks were ordered, laughter abounded. At most of the tables, ladies and gentlemen were chatting among themselves and sipping on punch or champagne or tea, their fashion as varied as the jockeys’ colors. The hats alone could rival Ascot.

  There were a few faces Phil recognized from the ball or from the Tappington-Joneses’ dinner. Arthur Tappington-Jones was talking to a group of men. Hilda Tappington-Jones was sitting with Mrs. Osbourne and her friends, and next to Hilda was Daniel Sloane.

  Phil didn’t see Herr Schimmer anywhere. But if he wasn’t in the clubhouse, where was he? Actually, who might he be today? He could be anyone. Anywhere.

  She also didn’t see John Atkins, not that he would be a member of the clubhouse. She lifted her opera glasses and turned her attention to the rail, where men and women stood three or four deep as they prepared for the next race. She spotted Lily and Preswick crowded in among the crowd in front. Still no Atkins or anyone who might be Mr. X.

  The hum of the crowd grew, and people began to return to their places as the next race was called. The names of horses and riders were placed on the result board in front of the clubhouse. The next heat of horses were paraded past the spectators to take their places for the next race.

  The race began; Phil sat forward to watch. This race was almost neck and neck to the finish, when at the last minute a bay filly named Lady Linda pulled out a nose to cross ahead of a chestnut named Filodo.

  Phil looked back to where Lily and Preswick had been standing. They were no longer there. She searched the surrounding area. Maybe they’d put a few dollars on the winner. That should make their day. She looked toward the grandstand and caught a glimpse of them, but they weren’t going to the grandstand and they were not alone.

  They were being pulled along by a boy. Phil lifted the opera glasses to get a better look. Not a boy, one of the jockeys.

  Phil tried to see which one it was. It couldn’t be Rico. There was one more race before the handicap-added race where Devil’s Thunder was favored to win. Rico would already be dressed in his silks, making his way to the saddling paddock.

  Sid? He was scheduled to ride Filly’s Cert in the ninth. One of the others? And what could he possibly want with her servants?

  Her first instinct was to go after them, but what could be amiss that Preswick couldn’t take care of? Still, she trained her opera glasses on them as they moved farther away. They must be going to the stables. But why? What could be wrong that involved her two servants?

  Phil craned her neck, but Preswick and Lily disappeared as the crowd swelled and traffic increased between the stands, the lawn, and the betting ring.

  Bev handed Phil a glass of champagne. “Maybe we’re wrong about this.”

  Phil took the glass, nodded to one of the ladies she’d met as she passed by their table. “Do you really think that?”

  “I don’t know. Why is all this happening? Why would Henry and the others jeopardize their jobs and their futures for one race?”

  “Bev, I’m sorry, but you can’t wish this away. “Your husband is dead, your main jockey is missing, and a murderer is still on the loose. Henry—or someone else—may not think he has a choice.”

  “But it might not have anything to do with murder. Just greed.”

  And if it was? If it turned out that Reggie’s death actually had nothing to do with racing at all, they would return to Bev and Mildred Potts as suspects. And none of them could afford that.

  The next post parade began at last.

  Bev put down her champagne glass and picked up her field glasses. “Those are our colors, purple and gold. Embarrassingly regal, but that was Reggie for you. Do you see? There’s Devil’s Thunder. Number Eight.”

  Phil raised her opera glasses and leaned forward to get a better look. She scanned along the horses until she found Thunder. He was certainly a beauty, but among all those other prime specimens, he didn’t stand out as much as Phil had expected. Then she found the jockey. He was looking the other way, but even from where she sat, even with the distance, and through the lens of the opera glasses, she could tell it wasn’t Rico.

  “Bev—”

  “Hush. Come on, Thunder,” Bev breathed.

  They weren’t even up to the starting tape and already Bev was fixated. So was Phil, but for another reason.

  The jockey wasn’t Rico, or any of the other jockeys she’d seen at the farm. Had they brought in an outsider at the last minute?

  “Bev, who is the jockey?”

  “Rico, I presume.”

  “Look again.”

  Bev raised her binoculars. Lowered them again. “I think … that’s Eddie Johnson. But they’ll arrest him for sure, once the race is over, if not before. And look, there’s Freddy. At the rail. Do you think he knows? He really should have warned us.”

  And where were Lily and Preswick? Phil scanned the crowd, stopped, came back to where Freddy and Arthur Tappington-Jones stood at the rail.
They were facing each other, not the track. Tappington-Jones was gesticulating. Freddie was fumbling with something in his hand.

  His hand came to his mouth, then he crumpled something and it dropped to the ground. One of his dratted peppermints.

  The peppermints. Reggie never let him drive the Packard. With sudden blinding clarity, she knew what he had done.

  “I’ll be back directly,” Phil said.

  “But the race is starting. Where are you going?”

  Phil just waved; she was walking as quickly as possible toward the exit.

  She reached the rail near where Freddy had been standing, but he’d moved closer to the finish line. The horses thundered past her on the first turn.

  Keeping one eye on the track, she sidled closer to the two men. She didn’t have a plan; she just knew she couldn’t let Freddy out of her sight.

  Whether Eddie won the race or not, they were bound to arrest him before he left the track. He’d go to jail if she was wrong.

  The horses were coming around the last turn into the straightaway. Freddy and Tappington-Jones were standing shoulder to shoulder, eyes fixed on the approaching horses.

  Phil could see the purple and gold colors in the lead, and excitement raced through her. “Come on, Devil’s Thunder,” she said sotto voce. “Win this for Bev.”

  Thunder crossed the line easily, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Phil stuttered to a stop. He’d won. He hadn’t lost. Rico hadn’t pulled him short. Stupid, because Rico wasn’t riding him.

  Had the plan been foiled?

  Freddy was standing totally still, his hands gripping the rail, staring at the finish line almost as if he couldn’t believe what had just happened.

  Tappington-Jones gave Freddy a look so full of malice that Phil couldn’t have missed it even at the distance they were separated. He moved in closer and Freddy cowered back.

  Tappington-Jones strode away. Freddy just watched him, then turned from the rail, weaving fast through the crowd, mindless of those he jostled and pushing those who didn’t move quickly enough out of his way.

  Phil didn’t think twice about following him. She held out little hope that he was headed to the betting ring to collect his winnings with the rest of the crowd. He didn’t look like a man who had just won. He looked like a man who had just been threatened and might be running for his life.

  Pieces of information were beginning to fall into place, but most were still swirling around in her mind. They would have to wait. Phil couldn’t concentrate on the puzzle because keeping Freddy in sight was becoming more and more difficult as people surged toward the grandstand.

  For a frantic moment, Phil lost sight of him, but she was pretty sure where he was going. She kept moving toward the stables.

  She spied him up ahead. Freddy began to run. She had no choice; she sped after him.

  He turned down the alleyway between two stable rows. And Phil slowed down in order not to be seen if he turned around. She intended to follow this to its conclusion no matter what it was.

  Freddy was two buildings ahead when a man stepped out of a side pathway in front of her. Phil threw herself back against the wall, out of sight.

  Not just any man. It was Herr Schimmer. She hadn’t seen him all day, until now. It looked like she might have an ally after all. Or an additional enemy.

  She quickly unpinned her hat and snatched it from her head, letting it fall to the ground, then she pulled back her hair and carefully peeked around the building.

  Freddy had reached the far end of the pathway; Herr Schimmer was half a building behind him.

  Phil took off after them, then was stopped as several horses were led from the stable blocking her view of the two men. She tried to get around them, but they seemed intent on barring her way.

  A hand grasped her elbow. “This way.” She was being propelled along and pushed into an empty stall.

  Damn and her hatpin was on the straw-covered ground along with her hat.

  She whirled around and let out a sigh of relief. “Detective Sergeant Atkins. I’ve never been so glad to see you in my life.”

  “The pleasure is mine. What the hell are you doing?”

  “Following Freddy Beecham, who is headed to the stables, I assume to accost whoever substituted Eddie Johnson in the race. Or to kill him.”

  “What?”

  “Eddie Johnson just rode Devil’s Thunder in that race.”

  “We know this, and he will most likely be arrested before he even dismounts.”

  “Eddie didn’t kill Reggie.”

  “Is that why you are following Beecham?”

  “Don’t be dimwitted. They planned to put in another jockey to ride Devil’s Thunder. I think to make him throw the race. But Eddie somehow managed to get on that horse and win. This isn’t over yet. Plus my maid and butler may be in danger. So I suggest you don’t dally.”

  She slipped past him, and finding the horses and men gone, she lifted her skirts and ran.

  She rounded the corner to the Holly Farm stable and ran headlong into Rico, who was running toward them.

  “Hurry, miss. He’s going to kill Eddie.”

  “Freddy?” Phil demanded.

  “Yes.”

  “Where is Lily?”

  “In the stable. Come please.” Rico turned back to the stable.

  “Go back and wait at the clubhouse,” Atkins ordered.

  “Don’t thwart me. I just got this maid trained.” Phil ran after Rico.

  “Dammit, Lady Dunbridge.” A few strides and he’d caught up to her.

  Rico didn’t slow down when they reached the stable but ran headlong into the interior just as a shot rang out. Phil followed but came to an astonished stop. Eddie was lying on the stable floor. Two men were scuffling, fighting over a pistol that waved wildly in the air. One of them was Freddy Beecham and the other was—

  “Preswick?”

  “My lady.” Preswick dropped his fists as he automatically assumed butler mode. And in that second, Freddy grabbed the gun and turned it on him.

  “Crazy old man,” he cried. “I was stopping this murderer from getting away.”

  Behind him, Devil’s Thunder calmly looked over the half wall. How had he gotten back to the stable so quickly? Surely they had a presentation ceremony after the biggest race of the day.

  Atkins skidded to a stop beside Phil, his police revolver in his hand.

  “Mr. Beecham, put down the pistol and go stand over there by the empty horse stall.” Atkins indicated the space opposite Devil Thunder’s stall and knelt by the motionless Eddie.

  “You killed him,” Rico cried. “You wanted Eddie to throw the race and he wouldn’t. He was going to tell.”

  “Balderdash,” Freddy said. “These boys were in cahoots to throw the race. When Reggie refused, they killed him.”

  “Eddie isn’t dead,” Atkins said. “Preswick, can you manage to run out and find a constable? Tell him to ring for an ambulance and send in some additional men.”

  “But of course.” Preswick straightened his tie and trotted out of the stable.

  Phil looked around. Several stable boys had taken cover in one of the empty stalls. Now their heads peered over the top of the stall door like ducks in a shooting gallery. Herr Schimmer was nowhere to be seen, but there were stairs going up to a loft where the jockeys stayed when they were at the track. Was he up there listening?

  As far as she could figure out, they were at an impasse. Did Eddie kill Reggie? Why was Tappington-Jones so angry at Freddy? And why had Freddy run straight here and shot Eddie, who wouldn’t have been able to run far wearing shiny purple and gold racing colors.The sound of hoofs … Bev appeared in the doorway leading Devil’s Thunder.

  Phil’s eyes widened. If Bev was leading Devil’s Thunder, the Devil’s Thunder in the stall had to be … Binkie’s Boy?

  Bev pulled up short. “What is going on here? Where’s Henry? I had to bring Thunder back by myself. Where’s Eddie? Oh, my goodness. What’s wrong with him? O
h, my God.”

  Bev screamed. Devil’s Thunder, the one she was leading, tossed his head and reared. Freddy grabbed Bev. But instead of pulling her out of harm’s way, he wrenched her arm and pulled her against his chest.

  Atkins moved, but Freddy pressed the pistol to her head. “Stay back. Just stay back, and no one will get hurt.”

  “Rather late for that, don’t you think, Beecham? Don’t make it any worse. Put the gun down.”

  Freddy shook his head. “It wasn’t my fault.”

  “All you and Henry and Sid,” Rico said.

  The gun barrel moved from Bev’s head to Rico.

  Rico threw himself to the side as the pistol went off. And with the explosion came a curdling cry from the rafters as Bobby Mullins hurtled through the air, his beefy form swinging from a bale wench. He hit Freddy full force, knocking him to the ground. Before he could recover, Bobby yanked him to his feet and hit him so hard that it knocked him into Devil’s Thunder, who shied. Freddy lost his balance, staggered back, and fell on his butt, just as Thunder’s right fore hoof came down on his leg.

  Freddy screamed. Atkins grabbed Thunder’s rein and backed him away.

  So the man knows his way around a horse, Phil thought. Impressive.

  Bobby wasn’t finished, but Atkins grabbed him by the coat collar as he rushed the writhing man and pulled him back. “Stop it or I’ll throw you in jail just for the hell of it.”

  “He killed Reggie!” Bobby said. “He killed him and then fired me so I couldn’t stop him cheating.”

  Bev had started toward Freddy but stopped. “Freddy? Is it true?”

  Freddy turned his face away.

  “Freddy?” Bev lunged for him. This time it was Phil who grabbed her gown to stop her.

  “I could kill you. I could—” Bev succumbed to tears.

  Freddy stretched out a beseeching hand. “I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill Reggie. I swear it, Bev, you’ve got to believe me.”

  “Liar,” Bev cried. “How could you? Reggie was good to you.”

  “I didn’t,” Freddy sobbed.

  Phil could almost believe him, he sounded so sincere. Then his eyes flicked toward the stalls. Not to the one where Binkie’s Boy was calmly munching on a pail of feed, but to the stall where the stable boys were cautiously watching.