“That I did. The fellow who ran out on the racecourse.”
“What?” Higgins couldn’t hide his surprise.
“I saw the man this morning as soon as the course opened. I caught him wandering about the stalls. He weren’t dressed fine enough to be an owner, and he didn’t look like any trainer I’d ever seen. Seemed a bit off, too. Writing in some fool book, talking to himself. Had a bad feeling about him. I told one of the grooms to toss him out.”
“You’re certain this was the same man who ran out onto the field?”
“No doubt, Inspector. I saw that madman when they brought him in on a stretcher. It was him, all right.” Brody frowned. “I wish I’d told a racing official this morning. Because of the trouble at the Derby, they would have thrown him out of Ascot altogether.” He paused. “Is he the one who killed Miss Price?”
“We don’t know yet,” Jack said. “Were you here when Miss Price came to the stables?”
“I never saw her. Of course, I’d never met her before, but I didn’t see any ladies in here after the race.” Brody shook his head in disgust. “It’s not right that strangers who have no business being in the stable come here and wander about. This sort of thing wouldn’t have happened last year.”
“Are you referring to the horse thieves?”
“Yes. For a time, we kept a close eye on anyone coming to the stables, but we’ve gotten lazy. That means it’s sure to happen again.”
“Someone’s kidnapping racehorses?” Eliza asked.
“The first horse was stolen five years ago,” the Duchess said. “Then a little over three years ago, thieves took a champion mare called Red Glory right off the Sussex farm where she was stabled. Even worse, the horse carried a foal at the time. No ordinary foal, either.”
“I remember,” Higgins broke in. “It was in all the papers. She had been bred with some great racing champion a few months earlier.”
“Maximus,” Sir Walter said. “No greater champion has graced the Turf since. Any foal with the bloodline of Maximus and Red Glory would be worth a fortune.”
“But they found the mare, didn’t they?” Higgins said.
“A year later, wandering along a country road in Yorkshire.” The Duchess looked somber. “Thank heaven Red Glory was alive and well. However, she had already given birth. And there’s been no sign of that filly or colt since.” She frowned. “I suspect the foal died, or was sold off for breeding purposes. Not that it will do them any good. If you can’t prove the bloodlines, a horse’s offspring are worth little.”
“Some racehorse owners have claimed their horse was born to Red Glory,” added Brody. “But like Her Ladyship says, they can’t prove it.”
Doolittle leaned forward in excitement. “What if that foal was our own Dancer?”
“Alfred, you know perfectly well Calypso and Lady Carlin are the sire and dam of the Donegal Dancer,” the Duchess said, not bothering to conceal her exasperation.
“Whatever happened to these horse thieves?” Eliza asked.
“Never caught,” Sir Walter said. “The following year, they stole another champion racehorse called Sea Wind. Such a tragedy. Because no one could pay the outrageous ransom, the horse was found dead a month later. Another attempt was made to steal a prize mare this past April down near Lincolnshire, but the grooms scared the thieves off.”
“This is awful,” Eliza said. “Jack, you must find these horrible people.”
“The Yard is working on it, along with a few other cases. Now getting back to today’s events.” Jack gestured at the jockey’s coat. “The Donegal Dancer’s racing colors are purple and green, the same colors of the suffragette movement. Who registered them?”
“I registered the silks, Detective Inspector,” Sir Walter said. “After all, I am the Wrexham Racing Syndicate’s agent. But the Duchess of Carbrey chose those colors.”
Jonathon Turnbull glared at the older woman. “She never asked our permission, either. Not that I would have given it. She knows how I feel about those infernal women.”
“Exactly,” the Duchess said with a cool smile. “I am aware of your backward attitude about women’s suffrage, which Miss Price inexplicably shared.”
“I wonder if Hewitt knew they were the suffragette colors,” Eliza said.
“I saw a small flag in his satchel. Was it a suffragette flag?” Higgins glanced up at Jack, who nodded.
“If Miss Price was opposed to women’s suffrage, and Mr. Hewitt was a champion of it…” Eliza looked over at Higgins.
“But how would he know she opposed the movement?” Higgins asked.
Jack turned to the jockey. “You’re free to go, Mr. Brody. I believe you’re scheduled to ride in the next race.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I need to change my silks.”
After Brody hurried off, Jonathon Turnbull banged his fist on the table. “We’ve told you what we can, Inspector. Now what have you found out about this dead fool who ran in front of the horses?”
“Oh, Mr. Hewitt is still alive,” Jack said. “He was only unconscious when taken to hospital. His injuries are severe but not fatal. Once Mr. Hewitt is able to speak, we intend to find out everything possible. In the meantime, I need to know why there are so many owners of the Donegal Dancer. This is a racing syndicate, I presume?”
“Indeed it is,” Doolittle said. “The Wrexham Racing Syndicate.”
“Why Wrexham?”
“You should know that, Jack.” Doolittle wagged a finger at his nephew. “Wrexham is the Welsh town where I was born and raised.”
Jack gave a rueful grin. “You’re right, I should have remembered. But how did you become part of it?”
Doolittle thumbed his waistcoat. “Turnbull and I met at a boxing match this spring. Since we were such sporting men, we got to talkin’ about horse racing. Sounded like a right bit of fun, owning a racehorse. And seeing how I came into money this year, Turnbull suggested I join the syndicate. Glad I am of it, too.”
“Owning a racehorse is expensive,” Turnbull added. “Sharing expenses through a syndicate reduces the share of the winnings, but it also reduces the risk. I formed the syndicate after Diana and the Saxtons bought a share of the horse. It was a wise business decision.”
“The only wise one he’s ever made,” Lady Saxton said under her breath.
Turnbull ignored her. “And I was the one who initially bought the horse. I learned through an acquaintance of Ahearn Griffith’s death. He ran Derryfield Farm in Kildare. The estate was selling off his whole lot of horses, and at quite reasonable prices. I sent an agent to scout his stock, and he recommended buying the colt.”
“And how could I not buy a share of a horse called the Donegal Dancer?” Doolittle turned to Eliza. “After all, your mum came from Donegal. And she loved to dance, too. Seemed like a sign, it did.”
She reached over and squeezed his hand.
“The Duchess spoke of the horse’s sire and dam,” Higgins said. “I assume their bloodlines are impressive.”
“Lady Carlin was a champion in her own right. A blood bay like the Dancer, but without the star,” Sir Walter said. “And Calypso won a fair number of races himself in his day.”
“How many members are in the syndicate?” Jack asked.
“Six. No, wait. Five, now that Miss Price is gone,” Doolittle said.
“Jonathon was first, and he asked Miss Price. She brought in Saxton. I became an owner after watching a few of Dancer’s practice runs.” The Duchess gestured at Doolittle. “Alfred joined us in March. The name was the Turnbull/Price Syndicate, but that wouldn’t suffice once more of us joined. So we came up with Wrexham.”
“I was the last one to become a member,” Sir Walter added.
The Duchess smiled at him. “Since Sir Walter is Senior Steward of the Jockey Club, we asked him to act as our agent. He handles all the syndicate’s legal and financial transactions.”
“You own a string of successful horses already, Your Ladyship,” Jack said. “Why jo
in a syndicate?”
“The colt is as fine a horse as I’ve seen,” she said. “Fine enough that I tried to buy him outright, but the others refused. I had no choice but to join.”
Jack wrote in his notebook before looking up. “How are the prize winnings doled out to syndicate members?”
“We have a meeting either once a month or two weeks after a race,” Sir Walter said. “After all the costs have been totaled, each member receives his or her share of the winnings. Our next meeting takes place at the Henley Royal Regatta.”
“What do you mean by costs?” Jack asked.
“Trainer and jockey fees, transporting the horse to and from races, veterinarian and stabling costs, including a farrier, feed, and insurance.” Sir Walter held up his forefinger. “Plus track fees and the Jockey Club fees, of course. We also pay a percentage of the prize winnings to both the trainer and the jockey.”
“I’m surprised there’s any money left after all that,” Eliza said.
The Duchess shrugged. “It’s expensive owning a racehorse. Not an enterprise to be taken on alone, unless you have the capital to sustain it.”
Sir Walter nodded. “Indeed, yes. I’ve known more than one man who has been ruined by the Turf. Although we have taken steps to see that it shouldn’t happen with our syndicate.”
“How so?”
“If a member does not pay his or her share of the monthly bills for the upkeep of the Donegal Dancer within ten weeks, the member’s share in the horse is forfeit,” Sir Walter replied. “That share is then sold to a new owner. This prevents a member from getting too mired in debt.”
Turnbull pushed himself away from the table, his chair legs screeching on the wood floor. “Are we done here?”
At that moment, a stable hand barged into the room. “Excuse me, but Her Ladyship asked for news of the other races.”
Jack stuffed the notebook into his suit pocket. “Go ahead.”
No one seemed to react after hearing about the winner of the Coventry Stakes, Tetrarch, and the two horses who came in second and third. Brody’s mount didn’t even place. Considering what had happened, Higgins wasn’t surprised. It was a marvel enough spectators still remained at the racetrack to care. Then again, few people outside this room knew about the murder in the stable.
The Duchess of Carbrey rose, prompting the men to scramble to their feet as well. “Is there anything further you require of us, Inspector?”
“Not at this time, Your Ladyship. I do appreciate everyone’s cooperation in what has been a difficult afternoon.”
“More banal observations,” Lady Saxton murmured, and swept out of the room.
“I hope she remembers that her husband is still here,” Higgins said.
Jack shot him a weary look. Sir Walter gave his arm to the Duchess, and the pair left.
“Let’s go, Rachel,” Turnbull ordered. His wife slowly got to her feet. When they walked past the detective, Turnbull deliberately bumped into him.
Higgins saw Jack fight to restrain himself from pushing back.
“Well, I’d best see if Rose has recovered,” Doolittle said. “I keep telling her to stick to gin. Champagne doesn’t agree with her.”
Once he left, Eliza turned to Higgins. “Maybe if she didn’t drink it by the bucketful.”
“So what do you think?” Higgins asked Jack.
“I don’t know who would be worse to meet in a dark alley: Jonathon Turnbull or Lady Saxton.”
Eliza smoothed her wrinkled dress. “You can’t expect her to be upset because her husband’s mistress got killed.”
“Why not?” Jack said. “Rachel Turnbull certainly seemed upset.”
“Mrs. Turnbull seems a tad more sensitive than Lady Saxton.”
“Professor Moriarty would be more sensitive than that young woman.”
“I doubt the owners or their wives had anything to do with the murder.” Higgins frowned. “I think Hewitt is the logical choice.”
“You may be right, but we’ve only begun to sift through the evidence and question suspects. We did retrieve Hewitt’s diary. The answers may be somewhere in that book.”
“What type of revolver was he waving around?”
“A Webley .38 caliber.” Jack pulled out a chair and sat. “Fully loaded, too.”
Eliza seemed puzzled. “If Hewitt did kill Diana, why not shoot her?”
“A gunshot would attract attention,” Jack said. “Even a madman might think twice before doing that. But the murder does appear premeditated. The victim was killed in a stall used as a spare tack room, which explains the pitchfork. No one would leave such a thing in a stall where a horse was stabled, for fear the animal might injure himself. If Longhurst hadn’t been looking for his wife, it might have been hours before her body was found.”
Higgins felt crushed again by guilt. Who else but a madman would murder Diana in the stables right in the middle of Royal Ascot? “I blame myself for this. I should have tracked down a policeman the moment I saw that gun in his bag.”
“Even if you’d told me earlier, I doubt we’d have found Hewitt in this crowd.”
Higgins appreciated his kindness, but he didn’t believe him.
“Can we change the subject for a moment? I’ve had enough of murder for one day,” Eliza said. Both men looked at her in surprise. “I hope you and Sybil still plan to brunch with us on Saturday. Mrs. Pearce will be most upset if you cancel again. She’s cooking all your favorite foods. Besides, I’ve been waiting to meet your fiancée for weeks.”
“I’ll try, Lizzie, but I’m in the middle of this new case. I barely sleep as it is. And once Miss Price’s murder hits the papers, I won’t have time to eat either.”
“You can spare an hour or two. I don’t see how you dare marry that poor girl if you’re going to leave her alone most of the time. You must find a way to mix murder and marriage.”
Higgins and Jack laughed.
“I’ve put away a few men who did just that, my girl,” Jack said.
She ruffled his hair. “You’ll come, won’t you?”
“I’ll be there, and with the lovely Sybil, too.”
Eliza suddenly shivered.
“What’s wrong?” Higgins asked.
“What sort of person runs a defenseless woman through with a pitchfork?” She looked at her cousin. “If Hewitt isn’t guilty, you have to catch whoever did it, Jack. A monster like that is sure to kill again.”
FOUR
“Damnation, man! The correct pronunciation is ee-lab-or-ate, not a-lab-rat!”
“I’m sorry, Professor.”
“Start again from the beginning, Mr. Wallace.”
Higgins scowled at his pupil, who was the recent heir to an uncle’s photographic supply company. Formerly a minor clerk, James Wallace needed to improve his speech and manners for his new elevated station in life. The young man once again pushed his wire-rimmed glasses farther up his nose. An annoying habit, Higgins thought. And the fellow was most unremarkable. Indeed, he was so average in height, features, and temperament, Wallace would make a fine plainclothes policeman. No one would notice him.
He oughtn’t complain about teaching Wallace. But poor Eliza needed the patience of a saint as she struggled to correct his wife’s screeching tones. Higgins closed his eyes and counted to twenty, trying to blot out the sound of the woman’s voice coming from the next room.
“’ow many ’airs would a ’airbrush brush if a ’airbrush could brush ’ares.” Mrs. Wallace looked confused. “It don’t make sense to me.”
“I shall light this candle for you to practice the aitch sound at the back of your throat, blowing air,” Eliza said. “Ha. Ha, ha, ha. There, do you hear it?”
“Aye, miss, I does!”
Higgins gripped a tuning fork until his knuckles whitened. The ambitious Ivy Wallace had married James a month after he’d come into his inheritance. While her speech was dreadful, she was clearly no fool. Before she met her husband, Ivy spent long hours working in a bottling factory.
Higgins did admire the desire to improve herself; however, her atrocious accent made his eyes cross.
He rubbed his forehead with a heavy sigh. Higgins had slept badly last night, unable to banish the sight of Harold Hewitt being trampled. Far worse was finding Diana’s lifeless body in that horse stall, along with the bloodstained pitchfork.
A quick glance at the mantel clock told Higgins the lesson was mercifully over. With a visible sigh of relief, he shooed Wallace into the foyer. Pickering arrived at that moment and brought in a hot breeze from the street. He set his hat on the rack by the door. When the young man caught sight of the Colonel, he automatically reached up to tug his forelock.
“No, no, no,” Higgins told Wallace. “You may not be his equal yet, but remember you own a business now. Act like it. And practice addressing your peers twice daily. Enunciate properly, or I shan’t bother to waste another minute teaching you anything.”
“Thanks, Professor. My missus will help. She’s a right corker.”
Higgins rolled his eyes upward. Thankfully, Eliza had also finished her lesson with Ivy Wallace. After the young couple left, Pickering followed Higgins into the laboratory, a newspaper tucked under one arm.
Eliza trailed after them and plopped down on the sofa. “I’m so happy we’re done until Monday.”
“I say, Henry, you two usually take Saturday morning off,” Pickering said.
“We made an exception. Mr. and Mrs. Wallace have much to learn.”
When the mantel clock chimed eleven, Eliza jumped to her feet. “Blimey, I have to change my dress. Jack and his fiancée will be here any minute for brunch.”
“What the devil is wrong with what you have on?”
“It’s a uniform in a way, much like your raggedy sweater.” At the sound of a loud knock on the front door, Eliza rushed out of the room. “Oh no, they’re here already. Do try and be sociable for a change, Professor. Promise me, please.” She took the stairs two at a time.
Higgins rocked back and forth on his heels while he tapped the ashes from his pipe.
“Pick, would you say my sweater is raggedy?”
“Hardly, old chap.”
“It’s comfortable. New enough, too.”
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