by C. A. Asbrey
Abigail rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Jacob. I’m perfectly capable of dealing with Mr. Atchinson on my own.”
The blue eyes opened in faux innocence as Jake released his grip. “What? You’re my sister. If he disrespects you right in front of me he’s disrespectin’ me, too.” He glared at the man who suddenly found something to stare at out of the window. “And nobody disrespects me.” He turned away from Frankie and nodded to Hortense. “Beggin’ your pardon, Miss Atchinson. It’s a pleasure to meet a lady like you, but your brother smells like an old still from last night’s shenanigans and thinks he can treat my sister the way he treats women he’s payin’. If he don’t stop lookin’ at my kin with that glint in his eye I’ll dampen that light out myself.”
Hortense remained silent, a parade of expressions ghosting over her face, unsure as to how to respond to a display of the kind of masculinity from which she’d been protected her whole life.
Frankie glowered. “Why do your brothers have a different accent to you, Miss MacKay?”
“That’s simple.” Nat spoke through a pale brown beard under a matching wig. “We were brought out here to learn the business. Abi stayed at home with family to complete a European education. She speaks three languages, you know.” He nudged her. “Show him, Abi. Do one.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be silly. Mr. Atchinson, your sister has very interesting friends. I’m as drawn to her as many others are. Don’t tell me you didn’t know that? Maybe you should pay her more attention?”
“I’d prefer he didn’t. I find Frankie’s friends a bit over-powering.” She raised her chin. “Not to mention somewhat disreputable.”
Nat frowned while Abigail cut in. “This is a meeting of two worlds, but I’d suggest you look at your sister through fresh eyes, Mr. Atchinson. She’s a very clever and witty woman.”
“I don’t want him in my world,” snapped Hortense.
“No danger of that, Tennie,” Frankie snorted. “You’re as boring as rain on a Sunday. It’s all books, libraries, and poetry with you. Why can’t you be more like Todd Walker’s sister? She’s of the first water, and no mistake. A real bundle of fun and as pretty as a singing sparrow on a sunny morning. I get stuck with a dull old blue stocking with lips like a miser’s purse.”
“Mimi Walker is an outrageous flirt with a terrible reputation.” Hortense arched a brow. “I have no desire to emulate her and even less to attract the kind of men who buzz around her.” She paused. “We all know what flies buzz around.”
“Will this Mimi be at the race course?” asked Jake, a glimmer of light dancing in his eyes.
“I sincerely hope not,” Hortense answered. “I am here to keep Miss MacKay company. Nothing more.”
“Ah, we’re here.” Nat leaned forward and peered out of the window at the teaming masses filtering toward the turnstiles and cramming through. He opened the carriage door and climbed down, holding out an assisting hand to Hortense. “There’s quite a crush.”
“We’ll manage.” Abigail followed Hortense to terra firma and shook the creases from her skirts. “So, which way do we go?”
Hortense’s blue eyes drifted over to her brother’s back as he strode off without them. “Follow Frankie, I guess. We’d better be quick, though.” Hortense grabbed at Abigail’s arm as Nat and Jake paid the driver and hissed into her ear. “Those men. Who are they?”
“Family friends.” She smiled as reassuringly as she could. “Why?”
“They’re just so—well, kind of—” Hortense groped for the least insulting way to state the obvious.
“Direct?” Abigail’s smile brightened. “Well, that’s why they’re helping me with this matter.”
“But they’re so manful.”
Abigail nodded. “You have no idea what they’re full of. But they’re on our side, and that’s what counts.” She slipped an arm through Hortense’s. “Come on. It looks like Frankie’s made off. We have to catch up with him.”
They squeezed through the heaving throng, pushing and shoving at the ticket kiosk in the most socially leveling of crowds. Rich and poor crammed into the same narrow entrances until they reached the main viewing lawns where the crowd thinned and re-stratified by income as people made their ways to the various stands, pavilions, and enclosures priced within their means. A hubbub of excitement filled the air as people chatted, vendors hawked their wares, and bookmakers yelled and gesticulated, pointing in a bizarre fashion to communicate with their runners from afar. The most fashionable ladies in their extravagant silks and gents in their Homburgs and top hats largely split from the cloth caps, the straw Natties, and the Eton caps worn by workers. The bowl-crowned Derbies tended to sit right in the middle of the social divide, worn by both the more casual wealthy dudes as well as the stylish workers parading in their best finery.
“Which way?” Nat paused and gazed around the host of race goers. “Where’s that damned Frankie gone? I thought he was supposed to show us where Beaumont hangs out.”
“He didn’t want me tagging along,” sniffed Hortense. “He’s gone.”
Abigail sighed at the sea of men clad in various shades of browns, blacks, and grays. It was impossible to spot the recalcitrant brother when men all wore such drab colors. The different badges, which gave the bearer entry to various facilities whizzed by, but they could be heading anywhere. Someone wearing the same badge as them could be heading to a restaurant, bar, or paddock beforehand. She was just about to ask when she frowned, and her gaze dropped to the ground. Abigail smiled and raised her head, pointing over to the left. “This way.”
“How do you know? You’ve never been here before,” asked Hortense.
“Footwear is the most reliable way to tell a person’s social standing. A talented seamstress can turn out herself and her beau in style, but very few poor people stretch to wearing shoes. Boots wear better and can be relegated to work wear once they’re past their best. Shoes are not as practical for digging ditches or tilling the soil. Those wearing boots are unlikely to be heading to the member’s enclosure. It costs more. So do shoes, and that’s where most of the people wearing shoes are headed.”
“My goodness.” Hortense gasped. “That’s genius.”
Abigail shook her head. “No, just common sense. Come on. Let’s go.”
Jake held out his arm to escort Hortense while Nat sidled up to Abigail.
“Sometimes I forget just how good a detective you are, Miss Mackay.”
She slipped a hand through his arm and walked along beside him. “That’s funny, because I never forget how good a thief you are, Mr. Quinn. It’s true, a good man really is hard to find.”
“Trust me. Bad men are even harder to find if they’re smart enough. You can’t punish a man for excellence, Abi.”
“I’ve managed to find you easily enough time after time.”
He turned, his scintillating dark eyes on her, still dancing with promise through the heavy disguise. “You found me once, Abi. The other four times I found you. Even when you rode into Ghost Canyon you’d been watched for miles.”
“Four times?” Abigail’s brows met in curiosity. “Surely, it’s three—and even then, by accident. There was our first meeting, the bank where McCully put me, and now, Ghost Canyon. I found you in Pettigo.”
“You’re forgetting the time you gave me the slip in Pettigo and hid out at the school with the other women. Four times, Abi.”
“Yes, you’re right. Four times.” Light, tinkling laughter dripped from her generous lips. “Well, I have no doubt you’re smarter than the man we’re here to find. Get those instincts honed. I think the Members’ Enclosure is within view. And be careful. Wilbur Beaumont knows Nat Quinn. Don’t speak to him.”
“My own mother wouldn’t recognize me in this get up.” Nat stared at the people gathering at the entrance to of enclosure. “But I’ll be watching for trouble.”
A knot of people crammed around the entryway to the Members’ Enclosure, each getting their cardboard badges che
cked by the staff manning the threshold. Hortense scowled at the thin man in the brown tweed and Derby who pushed in line ahead of them, jolting Jake into the middle of the sea of bodies. Hortense gasped and turned back to Abigail, pointing at a tall jovial fellow further ahead.
“There! That’s Wilbur Beaumont. In the gray top hat. Mr. Beaumont! Yoo-hoo.” She waved, her wild arm telegraphing her enthusiasm at having been so useful in a world where she was routinely sidelined. He turned, disappointment washing over his face at the sight of Hortense Atchinson’s prim demeanor greeting him so zealously. His rolling eyes made it clear he’d have preferred almost any other woman as she continued. “Mr. Beaumont, my friend here would like to ask you about Nat Quinn.”
Abigail sucked in a breath. “No, Hortense! You can’t just blurt it out like that.”
“Why not?”
“This is a delicate matter. Now, you’ve warned him. Maybe even scared him off entirely.”
The woman’s face filled with dismay as she faced Abigail’s gathering brows. “I’m sorry. I was only trying to help.”
Abigail relented. “Well, maybe I should have warned you. Let’s see what he says.”
Beaumont turned to face the people behind him, looking down at the thin stranger who had pushed into the line. His face lit up with delight as he greeted the man who had thrust in front of Hortense. They clearly knew one another.
“Smitty!” Beaumont beamed at the man. Nat stiffened, glancing around for Jake, who was crammed off to the left in the crush. All they could see was the man’s back. Smitty was only about half-a-head smaller than Beaumont, but all they could see was mud-brown hair above a brown tweed coat and chocolate Derby. Smitty was being grasped in a friendly clench by the top of the arms by Beaumont.
Abigail’s heart thumped as adrenaline pumped into her system, lighting up every nerve in her body as she elbowed against the immovable backs in front of her in frustration. She pressed between the men blocking her way and could feel Nat beside her, frantically shoving into the people blocking their progress. Her gaze darted back to Beaumont, her heart pumping at the sight of the man’s eyes widening and his jaw dropping open in a strangled cry as he fell forward.
Smitty pushed Beaumont away and the top hat fell out of view along with its wearer as he dropped to the ground. Smitty slipped off to the side and walked away with a clipped gait. Abigail fought with the large man to her right who mistook her pushing as attempt to cut the line and stood obstinately in her way.
“Move! Will you get out of the way? A man is injured!” She pointed at the dun-clad figure disappearing into the crowd and yelled. “Stop that man.”
Passersby just ignored her or glanced at her as though she were mad.
Nat kicked out, catching the stranger blocking their way on the thigh and delivering a crushing dead leg by smashing the muscle against the bone. He thrust aside his howling victim and frantically scanned the area but Smitty had already disappeared. “Dammit! Where’s he gone?” He swung around. “Jake, over here. It was Smitty. Beaumont called him Smitty.”
A woman’s shrill scream cut through the air and everyone cramming their way into the Member’s Enclosure seemed to step back as one. Beaumont lay on the ground, a huge bloodstain spreading over his shirtfront and light-gray suit. His mouth quivered as he moaned in pain and gasped a rattling breath, his face pale and waxen. A man crouched by his side unsure what to do, grasping Beaumont’s arm and patting his shoulder.
“He’s got to have been stabbed.” Jake shoved a gawper out of his way. “That bastard Smitty stabbed him right through the heart. Where’s he gone?”
Abigail dropped to her knees beside the injured man while Hortense clasped both gloved hands to her mouth to stifle her shocked sobs.
Jake turned to Nat. “Let’s get after him.”
“Go, find him. You both got a look at him.” Her eyes hardened to communicate the urgency of her message. They couldn’t be here. Not when the law arrived. “Go. Someone will get the law while you look for him.” She gazed around at the crowd who gathered in helpless knots around the dying man. “Get a police officer and a doctor. Go get help! Do something.”
Chapter 14
“Which way?” Jake scanned the busy area. It was teeming with people, and his voice rang with despondency at the hopelessness of the task. “It’s like findin’ a needle in a haystack.”
“More like one strand of hay in a haystack. Did you see him?” Nat asked. “You were at a different angle. All I could see was the back of the bastard’s head.”
“Brown hair is all I saw. I was pushed to the side. By the time anyone shouted out he was Smitty, he was already on his toes makin’ off, dammit!” Jake pulled off his hat and made to run his fingers through his hair in his customary habit. He paused, remembering the wig, and stopped short. “Where now?”
“Well, if I’d just killed someone I’d be making tracks. How many exits are there?”
“Dunno. I guess someone in a panic’ll be headin’ for what they know, so’ll go to where we all came in. I ain’t sure I’m gonna recognize Smitty, though.”
“Me, neither.” Nat fell in beside his uncle as he strode rapidly back the way they came. They were going against the tide this time, and their progress was slowed by the sea of people sweeping toward the next race. “I guess it fits. The rich set in San Francisco would know him. They’re involved in the railroads and the bank, too. He’s probably been hiding out in plain sight in a new town, living high on the hog. The main thing is to make sure he can’t recognize us.”
Jake turned glacial blue eyes on his nephew. “If he does, it’ll be the last thing he does. I ain’t foolin’, here. We gotta be prepared to do what we need to and leave real quick.” Determined blue eyes stared into Nat’s. “I mean it. This is gettin’ too tricky. We ain’t servin’ twenty years for her dumb sister. If I have to kill him, I ain’t prepared to swing for it, neither.”
♦◊♦
“Can I help? I’m a doctor.”
A softly-spoken, mild-mannered man pushed his way through the crowd. He crouched, practiced gray eyes sweeping over the patient who was rapidly losing consciousness. He didn’t hesitate to remove his scarf and make a pad which he pressed on the wound. He glanced at the crowd as a course official pushed his way through and stood beside the doctor who took charge in a calm authoritative style. “Someone press on the wound with that. It’ll slow down the bleeding.” He picked up the man’s wrist and felt for a pulse, but the doctor’s brows gathered as he looked down on the eyes flickering to blankness along with the ebbing flow of life oozing in a slick pool of gore around his knees.
“Doctor?” Abigail’s questioning eyes completed the unspoken query. He shook his head and looked down at the dying man who had now slipped into unconsciousness.
“There’s nothing I can do. I’m sorry. Do any of you know him?”
The stranger at Beaumont’s head replied in a voice strangled with emotion. “Yes, I’m a friend. My name’s Walter Chester.” His eyes quivered as he blinked back tears. “Is he—”
“Not yet,” the doctor replied, looking down at the dying man. “Say your goodbyes. He may be able to hear you on some level. Comfort him.”
Chester’s chin wobbled but he fought to keep control and dipped his head to hide his emotions from view. “Oh, Willy. Who would have done this to you? Why? Everyone loves you.”
“He’s gone,” the doctor murmured. He dropped the wrist he held and rippled gentle fingers over the man’s eyelids in an attempt to close them. “May he rest in peace.”
Abigail saw her chance. “I saw it. He greeted someone called Smitty and clasped him by the top of both arms. Smitty was obviously a friend. He then grimaced in pain and collapsed. Smitty must have stabbed him, because the man I saw made off into the crowd.” She paused watching Chester’s reaction at every mention of the name. “Smitty, he called him. Do you know this ‘Smitty’?”
Chester turned glittering eyes on her. “Smitty? It can’t be.�
�
“Yes. There’s no doubt. Brown hair? Half-a-head shorter than him? I heard him call him Smitty.” Abigail watched the shock wash over Chester’s ruddy face, the broken capillaries testifying to the man being no stranger to hard liquor before she pressed on. “You know Smitty, don’t you?”
“Yes—no—maybe,” Chester stammered. “There’s some kind of mistake. Smitty would never do anything like this.”
“So you do know him? It was right after someone asked him about how he informed police that Nat Quinn was at an address on South Street.” Abigail knew her time to question was short so she pressed on. “Did Mr. Beaumont make the report so someone else could claim the reward money? Was that someone Smitty?”
“Smitty would never—”
She cut him off. “Smitty did. I saw him. Is your family connected to the railroad companies, Mr. Chester? Smitty’s is. Is that how you know him?”
“Papa is, yes, but—”
A strangled sob sliced through the gathered crowd causing the doctor to turn curious eyes on a woman in the periphery. “Hortense?” He blinked in amazement. “What are you doing here?”
“Doctor Puckle.” She gulped down a knot of emotion. “I’m with Miss MacKay, here. We saw it happen.”
“You know one another?” Abigail glanced from one to the other.
“Yes.” The doctor nodded. “We belong to the same poetry circle. We’re also members of the choral society. I didn’t know you came to the races, Miss Atchinson.”
“I don’t, normally. Miss MacKay wanted to come.” She pressed her handkerchief to her lips. “And now, I wish I hadn’t.”
“Oh, you poor ladies. What a terrible thing for you to see.” Doctor Puckle turned melting eyes on both, but his gaze settled tellingly on Hortense. “You must be traumatized.”
