Bruce Alexander - The Price of Murder

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.

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.”