Murder at the Races

by Carmen Radtke

  ‘How was the doctor?’ Pauline asked. ‘A dish or a crook?’ She fluttered her eyelashes at Tony.

  ‘Were you planning on handing me back my ring?’ he asked.

  She snuggled up against his shoulder. ‘Never. I was just thinking, if he’s a dish, Miss Barden might want a crack at him. She’s missing out on all the fun.’ Pauline stopped herself, aghast. ‘Not that there’s anything funny about Rob’s being in prison now, but once he’s cleared -’

  Tony shut his sweetheart’s mouth with a firm hand.

  Jack was busy with his accounts, when they arrived, but Marie waved at them with a handful of newspaper clippings.

  Jack glanced up and pushed his ledger aside. ‘You’re early.’

  ‘Fast work today, boss,’ Bluey said.

  Frances fished out her illicitly gotten list and added it to Marie’s notes.

  ‘So, you got them,’ Jack said.

  ‘It wasn’t that hard.’ She pulled out the pins hat held her wig in place. ‘At least, the lock-picking wasn’t. Mr Henry almost caught me.’

  Jack’s jawline tightened.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll be more careful next time.’ Scary as it had been, she’d also felt invigorated.

  ‘And the doctor?’

  ‘He likes his drink,’ Bluey said. ‘Not a heavy boozer, I’d say, but close.’

  ‘He had a bottle of sly-grog hidden in his medicine cabinet, and he’s chewing gum to mask the smell.’ Uncle Sal grimaced.

  ‘I didn’t notice that,’ Frances said.

  ‘How could you?’ Uncle Sal stroked her hand. ‘Well-stocked cabinet too, and he had the key in the lock.’

  ‘But the blacksmith was killed with things from Rob’s bag,’ Frances said.

  ‘Which were easy to get hold of because Rob had a patient. If he hadn’t, a sedative in his tea would have worked.’

  ‘You’re saying the doctor stays on our suspect list.’ Jack made a note on Frances’s list.

  ‘He wore expensive shoes,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘Hand-made, is my guess.’

  ‘We haven’t been sitting around either,’ Marie said. Her eyes sparkled with excitement.

  ‘The newspaper?’ Frances picked up the clippings. They all dealt with races, and Marie had underlined some names.

  ‘The horse in question is called Miss Molly and was supposed to be a novice. Nothing remarkable during the one training session the sports reporter saw, and the jockey is described as being as surprised as the rest when she took off like the clappers.’ Marie made a dramatic pause. ‘According to the articles, the owner of this remarkable racer is an old lady called Josephine Cowper, in Hobart. Same as with Alfie.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘You realise what that means?’ A slow, lazy grin spread over Jack’s face. ‘We have a pattern, and a name, Mrs Cowper.’ He and Marie exchanged a triumphant look.

  Frances had trouble figuring out the importance.

  Marie took pity on her. ‘There is no way a woman in her eighties is running a game with the fillies. But since her name and address appear to be real, our crims must be closely connected to her. Either they forged her signature, or they do business for her.’

  Now Frances understood. ‘There’ll be paperwork in Mr Lucca’s office. Maybe it gives us more information.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Uncle Sal said.

  ‘No. It’s easier for me, as the secretary, in case we trip up.’

  ‘We might not even need that,’ Marie said. ‘I grew up in Tassie, and my aunt promised me to do a bit of digging. Hobart’s a small enough place.’

  ‘Then we didn’t need my list?’

  Jack touched her cheek. ‘It’s our best shot yet to see if there are connections between people and racecourses. Trainers, stable hands, jockeys, all the people who have easy access and information. And then there’s the vet. It’ll be interesting to see who your brother replaced.’

  ‘Maybe he retired,’ Frances said. ‘Or the travelling became too much.’

  ‘Possible, kiddo. But it could also be a case of the jitters. If he talks, that’s fine. But I don’t think he will, which will tell us a lot more.’

  ‘Because he’d be afraid of what happens.’

  Jack nodded. ‘We’ll leave the name checking to Marie while you and Uncle Sal rehearse, and I keep the Top Note humming.’

  Frances spun around in a figure of eight. Her skating skills came back, but not fast enough for her liking. She needed to shut out thoughts about anything else or she stumbled. That might end with skinned knees during rehearsals but would ruin the performance if it happened on stage.

  Uncle Sal clapped in sync with the speed they’d have to use for the show as she spun, circled, reversed and finally came to a halt in front of him.

  Pauline eyed Frances’s skates with fond nostalgia. ‘Wouldn’t it be bonzer if we could do that routine in the Top Note too? It’s too much fun for just one night.’

  ‘Then you’d have to give up working for Dolores,’ Frances reminded her friend.

  ‘No way.’ Pauline adored doing the singer’s hair and acting as her dresser.

  Uncle Sal glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve got half an hour left. Even if it’s for one night only, you need to take your place.’

  Frances broke into a sweat as she twirled Uncle Sal’s chair around. Despite the fan, her clothes clung to her skin as the air grew soggier.

  For one crazy moment she toyed with the idea of changing into one of Dolores old frocks, don her wig and visit the prison, if only to see that they had some form of relief from the heat for the prisoners. But she couldn’t, and she had no way of knowing how Rob really fared.

  Tony might believe that her brother was in good spirits. She knew better. Their uncle was a policeman, and they had been raised in the knowledge that evil would be punished with all the might of the law. The only thing they hadn’t learned on their mother’s knees was that innocent people could just as easily be entangled as guilty ones.

  Every inch of Rob’s skin crawled. It was nerves, he told himself, and the heat that soaked his clothes in clammy sweat. He counted himself lucky his wife and small son couldn’t see him reduced to this. He tried to have faith in the system, and in his sister, but his hopes sank a little more with every passing hour. The evidence looked too convincing.

  As a schoolboy, he and Tony had listened to the tolls of the prison bell when convicted wife murderer Alexander Lee was taken to the gallows. The ringing went on for two minutes, and the two boys had mimed the slipping of the noose over the convict’s head and his slow choking to death. The memory of their own cruelty made him feel sick. Adelaide had stopped the ominous bell ringing, so if the worst happened, he had the small comfort that his family wouldn’t have that sound etched into their memories.

  He hugged his knees. If he wanted to stay sane, he needed to concentrate. Was there anything or anyone at Glen Yarra racecourse where he and the blacksmith had met? Maybe if he went over every step he could remember, it would help his case.

  Jack sent Uncle Sal and Frances home after a quick dinner. They both could do with a rest, especially Frances. Uncle Sal had promised to slip a mild sleeping draught into her tea, to stop her from tossing around half the night again.

  He toured the Top Note, half of his mind on making sure ball room, dining alcoves and everything else was up to his exacting standards, the other half occupied with solving the case in the week they still had access to Morphettville.

  ‘Wipe that frown off your face or you’ll scare the customers away.’

  Dolores’ appearance startled him. He should have noticed her, or the sharp clicking of her heels and the heady scent of her French perfume.

  He lifted the corners of his mouth. ‘You’re right.’

  ‘Is it that bad?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re dealing with a very smart person,’ Jack said. ‘Not too greedy, or he wouldn’t have been able to resist placing ridiculously high bets, and ruthless enough to develop a plan to ki
ll the blacksmith and have a patsy ready to take the fall.’

  ‘Would he have needed medical experience for the injection, or could he have just jabbed the needle into the skin?’

  Trust Dolores to come up with a question they hadn’t considered. Underneath all her glamour and artistic sensibility, Dolores possessed a warm heart and a remarkable amount of common sense.

  ‘Marie should be able to tell us that,’ he said. ‘That would point towards the doctor.’

  ‘Or anyone with nursing experience, like an orderly. Didn’t the ambulance drivers pitch in in emergencies too?’

  ‘Possible. Many ambulance drivers were conchies, though.’

  ‘If they were willing to save soldiers driving an ambulance, they surely would have been willing to save them with an injection.’ They sat at a table overlooking the stage from the upstairs balcony. Dolores watched with satisfaction as the band set up their instruments, before she turned her attention to the case in hand.

  ‘True,’ Jack said, ‘but most people wouldn’t hire a conchie.’

  ‘They might not have known.’ Dolores smoothed her dress over her knees. ‘He’d have to be an immigrant. You and Simon and all the rest of you volunteered. There was no need to plead you’re a conchie.’

  ‘But none of them would hurt a soul.’ The conscientious objectors Jack had met during the war had possessed no less courage than the men in the trenches. Driving an ambulance when shells and mortars exploded right around you or bearing stretchers was too often an undertaking as lethal as carrying a gun. The only difference was that the conchies refused to bear arms.

  Jack had heard of cases in England where the men were sent to prison for their refusal to join the army and having a conchie in the family was seen as a stain on your honour. Emigration would solve that problem, but still – ‘I can’t see these men change their conviction to such an extent,’ he said.

  Dolores gave him a quick sisterly peck. ‘I’ll need to get changed for my show,’ she said as she rubbed a lipstick smear off his cheek. ‘Let me know if there is anything I can do.’

  ‘I will.’

  She swayed away, in unconscious sync with the tune played downstairs.

  A happy, if unrelated, thought struck him. Dolores had been able to talk about the war without flinching. That was new. Her husband and Jack’s best friend, Simon Grant, had been killed shortly before the armistice, making Dolores a widow at seventeen. Maybe he should sound out Phil about his intentions, as soon as he’d sorted out the present mess.

  They arrived at the racecourse during a training session. The faint smell of horse sweat and manure infiltrated the building, thanks to the open windows.

  Jack inhaled deeply. ‘This takes me back to my childhood,’ he said. ‘Horse-drawn carriages and buses and hardly a car on the street.’

  ‘It was all swell in spring and autumn,’ Uncle Sal said. ‘But I remember a summer so hot, the horses dropped dead in their tracks, and the bluebottles were buzzing around in huge clouds. Don’t get me wrong, I love horses, but in their right place.’ He fanned himself.

  They’d whittled down their list to six names. Three trainers had horses running on the same days that Alfie, Miss Molly and Lady Lilly started. Two turf club presidents had attended a meeting in Adelaide the day before the murder. They’d added them at the last minute, after Marie noticed a short mention of the meeting in an article.

  The last name belonged to the doctor. One of Bluey’s contacts had mentioned another O’Leary who worked at Fremont. While it was entirely possible there existed no connection between them, the likelihood was strong the two men were related.

  They’d excluded the stable hands. Although this group could walk anywhere between stables and lodgings with impunity, they stayed at one racecourse. It would also be hard to hide the fact that one of them had come into money when they were at the bottom of the pay-list.

  Of special interest to them was the trainer of Alfie and Miss Molly. The racing programmes had given his name as A. Young, with no further information.

  The one name Frances’s list had added was that of the vet so recently replaced by Rob, and his new address in Mount Barker. It had struck them as curious that a horse vet would relocate to an area renowned for its vineyards, where he couldn’t expect too many patients.

  Bluey and Marie would take a geek at him later that day. The Top Note had a reputation for its high-class cellar, and people liked to chat everywhere.

  Marie had confirmed that the tranquiliser would have been injected intravenously, but she’d also seconded Dolores’ opinion that there were enough people around with the necessary skills.

  Rob would be officially charged any day now. They needed to work fast to save him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Frances tapped on Mr Henry’s door before she poked her head into the office. ‘Good morning.’

  Mr Henry motioned her inside with one hand, while he punched in numbers on his machine with the other hand.

  The typist rattled away at his desk with renewed alacrity.

  ‘I won’t bother you too long today,’ she said. ‘I’ve only the guest list left to do.’

  She inserted the paper and typed away, consulting her open notebook every now and then.

  ‘That reminds me, Mr Sullivan asked me to add your staff to our list of invitations. If you’d let me know who to write down?’ Frances gave them the brisk, efficient smile that suited Miss Whitford. ‘It’s a plus one, of course.’

  ‘We’re invited?’ The typist gaped at her in rapt delight.

  ‘That is very kind,’ Mr Henry said. ‘Very generous indeed.’

  ‘It’s the least we can do to repay you for putting up with us.’ Frances limbered up her fingers. ‘The names, please?’

  She stepped down the stairs with a sense of accomplishment. On top of having gained considerable goodwill, she’d also found out that both Mr Lucca and Mr Dunne were unmarried and thus much more likely to be charmed by Dolores, if they needed a distraction.

  Marie nestled her head against her husband’s shoulder. A drive into the verdant Adelaide Hills was a rare treat for them, and she promised herself she’d make the most of it. They were sure to find a tea shop in Mount Barker, where she planned on having lunch with a side-order of gossip.

  The Rover purred with the regularity of a satisfied cat, a light breeze ruffled Bluey’s hair and made Marie hold on to her hat for a second. If this had been a carefree outing, she’d have been perfectly happy. Her Hobart aunt had promised to ring her up without delay with any morsel of information she could find. Marie’s telegram and subsequent phone call via the post office had thrown her into a flurry of excitement.

  ‘You alright, love?’ Bluey asked. ‘It’s not like you to be so quiet.’

  ‘I’m thinking how lucky we are.’ She breathed in a lungful of sweet-smelling air, scented by the clover that covered vast tracts of land. Farmers used it to feed their livestock. The German settlers had also introduced vines to the region, together with town names that smacked of their native country.

  Occasionally they saw a farmhouse in the distance, or farmers tending to their sheep. Mostly though, it was Marie and Bluey, all alone on the open road. Well, apart from the small terrier she’d borrowed from their neighbours.

  Hobbes knew her well enough to be on his best behaviour, in the knowledge he’d be rewarded with a juicy bone later. ‘It’s pretty here,’ she said. ‘Peaceful. It’s hard to imagine we’re still so close to the city.’

  ‘It’s different alright,’ he said. ‘Makes you wonder why a bloke would give up the city for this.’

  ‘It’s not exactly the back of beyond,’ Marie said. A Ford came towards them, and the grizzled driver lifted his hand in a salute. He chewed on a toothpick as he passed them. On the back of the Ford, three sheep were squeezed together. A kangaroo hopped across the street, ten feet ahead of them.

  Mount Barker reminded Marie of her childhood. Tidy houses lined the few streets, and ever
ything had a sleepy air. A small church, a schoolhouse and a shop with baskets full of fruit and vegetables outside seemed to be the most important buildings.

  Bluey stopped the car.

  Marie took Hobbes’s leash and stepped out onto the wide pavement. This town was almost too clean and quiet, she thought. The school children would be in class, but shouldn’t there be toddlers playing in their gardens, women tending to heir vegetable beds and old people chatting on the doorstep? In Adelaide, there’d be a few beggars too, or Raggedy Ann’s playing an instrument in the hope of being given a few pennies.

  ‘Come back, you old duffer,’ a woman yelled, breaking the spell. A stocky man in a grease-stained shirt and frayed pants streaked past, cramming bacon into his mouth.

  Marie giggled.

  Hobbes flared his nostrils, no doubt enticed by the bacon aroma.

  ‘Come on, mate,’ Bluey said to the dog.

  Marie nodded towards the shop where a woman swatted at flies. ‘Why don’t you two take a little stroll?’

  A tinkling bell announced her arrival. Inside, shelves were half empty, but the wares were placed so evenly it was barely noticeable. It was a rare shopkeeper these days who could afford to order huge stocks without taking a gamble.

  Jack insisted on the Top Note paying its invoices in full, within a few days of receipt, thus endearing himself to his suppliers. Not many others had the means to do the same or were inclined to part with their money before they absolutely had to.

  Marie picked up a loaf of bread, cheese and two tomatoes and took them to the counter.

  The woman put the fly swatter away and gave her a tooth-gapped smile.

  ‘Hot today,’ Marie said. ‘I thought it’s cooler outside the city.’

  ‘You’re from the big smoke?’ Was there a note of longing in that voice?