Death at Epsom Downs

by Robin Paige

“It has nothing to do with Jeanne, actually,” Lillie said in a sulky tone. “The truth is that Suggie’s father is making a tremendous row about us, and poor Suggie is feeling utterly besieged on all sides. Discovering that he’s about to inherit a stepdaughter only a few years younger than he might tip the balance in the wrong direction. And it would certainly give his father more ammunition with which to snipe at me.” She sighed discontentedly. “It’s not as if there aren’t plenty of eligible young women madly flinging themselves at Suggie,” she added, with an unconscious emphasis on young. “They all want to be Lady de Bathe.”

  “I’m sure you love one another,” Kate remarked, “but is it all that important to be married? You can support yourself without leaning on his social distinction, such as it is. Surely, a woman of your experience of the world—”

  “Dearest Beryl,” Lillie said, with the patient air of one explaining something to a small child. “Marriage is not at all important—in fact, it usually gets in the way of satisfying one’s needs and deepest desires. And indeed I can support myself, and I intend to. I am not interested in the de Bathe money, not a bit of it!”

  “Well, then,” Kate said, “why not claim Jeanne-Marie and let Suggie go. Surely—”

  “Marriage is not important,” Lillie said, “except in this instance. Marriage to Suggie offers me something I want much more than mere money. It offers me social distinction, a title, respectability. I love Jeanne-Marie, but she must be content with our little deception until I am safely married to Suggie. Then I will joyfully tell the whole wide world that she is my daughter.” She spread her arms dramatically. “I will publish it in the Times, if she wishes, or proclaim it from the stage, if that will satisfy her! But for now—”

  “No, Aunt Lillie,” a voice said, clear and firm. “You will never publicly acknowledge that you are my mother. I forbid it.”

  Kate turned. Jeanne was standing in the drawing room doorway, dressed for travel, with a valise in one hand. Her face was pale, but there were two spots of color in her cheeks, and she had the look of a lioness.

  “You don’t mean that, Jeanne,” Lillie said softly, holding out her hands. “Come to me, ma petite chérie. We will kiss and make up and everything will be right again.”

  “No!” Jeanne flung the word, fierce with indignation and pent-up anger, at the woman on the sofa. “I am going back to Jersey, where I at least know who I am. I will make my appearance in court, since His Highness has so kindly arranged it, but you are forbidden to attend. And I forbid you to claim me as your daughter. Do you hear? Never!”

  “But I want to acknowledge you, Jeanne!” Lillie cried shrilly. “I want it so desperately! It is my deepest, truest heart’s desire. But the world doesn’t give us what we wish for, and we must be practical. I want—”

  “You want to be Lady de Bathe far more desperately than you want to be my mother,” Jeanne broke in. “Out of the thousands of lies you have told throughout your life, that, I believe, is the single truth.” Her voice was strong and measured, her eyes magnificently defiant. “So now I repudiate you. Do you hear that, Aunt? You are not my mother and never will be. I repudiate you!”

  And with that, she turned away, picked up her valise and was gone. A moment later, the crunch of wheels was heard in the drive.

  Lillie’s eyes were full of what Kate hoped were genuine tears. “Oh, dear,” she said brokenly. “Have I lost her forever? Tell me, Beryl—have I lost her?”

  Kate could not answer that question. The natural bond between daughter and mother was incredibly strong. But if a mother refused to acknowledge her child, how could she expect to claim that child’s love? And perhaps it was better for Jeanne, after all, to learn to stand strong in her own right and for herself, rather than hoping against hope that her mother would declare who she was.

  For a few moments, Lillie sat quietly, the tears streaming down her face. Then she took out a handkerchief and began to dab at her eyes. “I am sure Jeanne will think better of this in a few days,” she said. Her voice became more firm as she continued: “She will see that as a stage actress I cannot do a great deal for her, or make her life easier in any important way. But as Lady de Bathe, I can help her to make an excellent marriage. In fact, I already have my eye on one or two young men, friends of Suggie’s, who would be very fine candidates. One of them will inherit a baronetcy. The other has strong investments in—”

  Kate cleared her throat. She could not say what she wished, but she had to say something, or she was afraid that she would scream. “I’m sure it will all work out in the end,” she said, thinking how banal and clichéd the words sounded, and how false. But truth was not a valued commodity in this house.

  “You’re right, of course,” Lillie said, tucking her handkerchief away. “It will all work out in the end. Jeanne is temperamental. By tonight, she will have forgotten all about our little contretemps.” She looked up brightly. “Now, for this afternoon—I was thinking of taking a drive into Bury St. Edmond to call on an old acquaintance there. Do you wish to accompany me—or would you prefer to spend time in the garden?”

  Lillie’s tone made it plain that she was not eager to take Kate calling, and Kate did not prefer either of the options she was offered. She stood.

  “Thank you for the invitation. I think, though, that it might be time to bring my visit to an end. We’ve determined that we won’t be staging ‘The Duchess,’ and I believe we’ve concluded our interview. I’m quite sure I have enough material for an article.” She arranged a smile on her face and forced herself to lie. “You have been a wonderful hostess, Lillie. I’ve enjoyed my visit very much.”

  “Oh, have you?” Lillie asked cheerily, cocking her head to one side. “I’m so very glad, Beryl! You must come again, and next time I promise that we shan’t be bothered by any of my little domestic tragedies. But you must let me tell Williams to have the pony cart brought round to take you to Newmarket. You’ll be catching the train?”

  “Lord Charles is still in Newmarket,” Kate said. “I think I shall stay over for a time, to see our young friend Patrick ride in Friday’s race. But I would like the pony cart, thank you.”

  She went quickly up the stairs, meeting Amelia in the hallway. She grasped her hand and pulled her into the bedroom. “We’re packing, Amelia,” she said. “Hurry! I want to be out of here just as soon as we can!”

  “Has something gone wrong, my lady?” Amelia asked in surprise.

  “I can’t bear to stay in the same house with that awful woman for one more minute!” Kate exclaimed. “And don’t bother with careful packing—just throw the things in.” She went to the wardrobe and seized a dress. “Here—I’ll help.”

  Between the two of them, packing took only ten minutes. Kate put on her hat and gloves and a short cloak over her green dress. Then Amelia went down the back stairs to get help with the luggage, and Kate, her purse in her hand, went down to the drawing room to say goodbye to Lillie. As she stepped into the room, however, she saw that the only occupant was a man standing by the window, gazing out, a brandy snifter in his hand. At the rustle of her skirts, he spoke without turning, his voice hard, unsoftened by even the slightest affection.

  “What took you so long?” He put the snifter on the table. “You know that I do not like to be kept waiting.” He turned. Seeing Kate, he colored. “Forgive me,” he said with a slight bow. “I was expecting Mrs. Langtry.”

  “I am Lady Sheridan,” Kate said, holding out her gloved hand. “Mrs. Langtry’s houseguest. And you, sir, are—?”

  “My dear Lady Sheridan.” With a charming flourish, the man bent over her hand. He was impeccably dressed, nearing fifty, perhaps, and becoming stout. His hair was brown, his side-whiskers just going gray. He was quite a distinguished-looking man, Kate thought, but there was a certain quality of shrewdness beneath the surface, evident in his swift, measuring glance, as if he were seeing and calculating all her weaknesses so that he would know how to use them. There was something of the predator in him.


  The French doors opened, and Lillie came in. “Ah, Spider!” she said ebulliently, going to him with both hands out.

  “Mr. Jersey, I presume,” the man said playfully. He put his arms around her and bent to her throat for a familiar kiss. “Out seeing to your new horse, eh? Do you like him?” He smiled.

  Lillie pushed the man back, but his arms tightened for a moment. Then, as if teasing her, he laughed and let her go.

  “I adore him, Spider!” Lillie exclaimed. “And you are such a dear, such a very sweet and loving dear, for giving Tarantula to me. You must come out to the stable and tell me all about him.” She caught a glimpse of Kate. “Oh, Beryl, I thought you had gone. Well, you must come too. Really, Tarantula is a most exciting horse! He has the look of a winner.”

  The man turned toward Kate with a slight smile. “Your charming guest and I were just getting acquainted.”

  “I don’t believe I caught your name,” Kate said.

  “Oh, just call him Spider,” Lillie replied playfully. “It’s ever so much more descriptive than his own name.” She tucked a hand through the man’s arm and glanced at Kate. “Coming, Beryl?”

  “I think I’d better be getting on my way,” Kate said. “Williams will have loaded the luggage into the pony cart.” She added, convincingly, she hoped, “I must thank you again for a most delightful visit.”

  “Oh, that’s quite all right,” Lillie said carelessly. She tugged the man toward the French doors. “Come along, Spider. And Beryl, my dear Beryl,” she added over her shoulder, “I do hope you’ll come back. You’ll always be welcome at Regal Lodge.”

  And with that, the two of them made their exit center stage, through the French doors, to the tune of Lillie’s vivacious chatter.

  Kate turned as if to leave. But instead of going to the door, she took two swift steps to the table beside the window where the man had been standing when she came into the drawing room. She opened the table drawer, put in her gloved hand, and drew something out. Quickly, she dropped it into her purse and closed the drawer.

  She had just stolen Lillie Langtry’s silver-handled derringer.

  And as an afterthought, she also scooped up the brandy snifter.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Newnham Grange

  “Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a chase. All he wants is an old dog to help him to do the running down.”

  “I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of our our chase,” observed Mr. Merryweather gloomily.

  “You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,” said the police agent loftily. “He has his own little methods, which are, if he won’t mind my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him.”

  The Red-Headed League

  Arthur Conan Doyle

  Newnham Grange was a late eighteenth-century house stuck all over with chimney pots and built on a branch of the River Cam about halfway between Foster’s Mill and the Newnham Mill, on the outskirts of Cambridge near the Silver Street Bridge. By a great coincidence, Charles had actually visited the house some time before, for it was the residence of George Darwin, the second son of the famous evolutionist Charles Darwin. George Darwin, professor of astronomy at Cambridge, was well-known in his own right, and his speculative interest in the movements of the moon and the tides happened to coincide with Lord Charles’s. After the publication the previous year of Professor Darwin’s book, The Tides and Kindred Phenomena of the Solar System, they had met several times to discuss these highly theoretical and rather fantastic topics, and Charles had once been asked to Newnham Grange to continue their conversation.

  As Charles did not wish to make explanations to the Darwins (Mrs. Darwin was an American, a lovely woman but apt to make a fuss about things), he stopped the gig at Foster’s Mill and gave the horse into the care of a boy who worked there. After some discussion, he and Murray agreed that Murray would go to the Grange kitchen and try to find out from the cook whether she knew the whereabouts of her brother. Charles would wait on the nearby Silver Street Bridge.

  Murray went on foot down the drive and around to the tradesman’s entrance. The kitchen door was opened by an aproned girl, and the odor of onions assaulted him. He snatched off his bowler hat. “Mrs. Thompson, please,” he said humbly.

  The girl took in his green bow tie, checked tweed suit, and bowler hat. “I s’pose ye’re ’ere ’bout the oysters,” she said enigmatically.

  “Actually, I—” Murray said.

  “Ye’d better come in, then, and face up to it.” The girl opened the door. She turned and bawled, over her shoulder, “It’s a man ’bout them bad oysters, Miz Thompson.” She went into the scullery to carry on with the washing up, making a great show of banging the pots and pans.

  Sally Thompson was a large woman with a round face and a cross expression. Her gray hair was curled like a large snail at the back of her neck, and her bulbous nose was red and covered with a spidery web of blood vessels. With a glower, she looked up from her work at the pine table, where she was elbow-deep in a tub of bread dough. The offending onions were cooking in a cast-iron fry pan on the coal range.

  “I can’t take the respons’bility fer them oysters,” she said in a dark tone. “Ye’ll ’ave to talk to Mrs. Darwin. She wuz terr’ble upset, ’cause there was fourteen t’dinner, including Perfessor Kelvin, ’oo is partic’lar fond of oysters.” She gave him a knowing look. “I’m sure ye can guess wot ’appened after that.”

  Murray preferred not to think about it. “I’m very sorry about the oysters, Mrs. Thompson,” he said contritely, “but that is not why I’ve come. I was sent by Mr. Thompson’s cousin Angus.” In the scullery, there was a lull in the banging of the pots.

  Mrs. Thompson looked momentarily confused, as if she were having difficulty associating her dead husband’s cousin and the misadventure of the oysters. Then her expression cleared. “Oh, Angus,” she said, and turned a large lump of dough out of the tub onto the floury table. “ ’Ow is the old devil?”

  “Oh, he’s quite well, thank you.” Murray added, inventively, “He asked to be remembered to you. With affection.”

  Mrs. Thompson put her head on one side and smiled reminiscently, raising her voice over the sound of pot-washing, which had once again resumed. “Angus was allus me fav’rite on that side of the fam’ly.” She floured her hands and began to knead the dough with a vigorous push and pull. “Why’d ’e send ye?”

  “He and I both are eager to get in touch with your brother,” Murray said. “It’s a matter of some importance, I’m afraid.”

  “Eddie?” Mrs. Thompson’s eyes flickered. She frowned. “Wot’s ’e done now?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Murray said hastily. “Nothing at all. But it is possible that he may have some information about an accident in Newmarket. Angus thought you might happen to know where he is.”

  Mrs. Thompson kneaded more vigorously. “Are ye from the p’lice?”

  “No, ma’am. As I said, your cousin sent me. He is as anxious as I am to be in touch with Eddie.”

  “Well, it’s no good talkin’ to me,” Mrs. Thompson said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “Ye’re on a wild-goose chase.” Into another pause in the washing-up clatter, she added, “I ain’t seen Eddie since Boxing Day. ’E don’t come ’ere much. We ain’t been wot ye might call close since our poor dear mother died.”

  “Oh, dear,” Murray said. “That really is too bad.” The scullery remained silent. “You’re sure you can’t give me some clue to his whereabouts? It’s awfully urgent, I’m afraid. A man’s life may depend on his information.” He paused. “I’d be glad to make it worth your while.”

  Mrs. Thompson turned the pliant dough and pummeled it as though it were the truant Eddie. “I ain’t me brother’s keeper,” she snapped. “Off with ye now. If ye can’t ’elp with the oysters, ye’re no good to me.”

  Murray turned, catching the flash of an apron at the s
cullery door. “If you hear of him,” he said, putting one of his cards on the table, “I can be reached at this address.”

  For answer, Mrs. Thompson only assaulted the dough more energetically. Murray put on his hat and went to the door. “Thank you,” he said loudly. “I’ll be off now.”

  He went out, leaving the door open a little behind him. Ten paces down the path, he stepped into the shrubbery and waited.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Inside two or three minutes, the surly girl had joined him. He put his hand in his pocket and felt for a coin.

  “Where is he?” he asked in a low voice.

  The girl looked at the coin and gave a scornful grunt. “Thought ye said ’twas a man’s life.”

  Murray added a second coin.

  “ ’E’s down there,” the girl said with a nod toward the river. “At the cottage on the bank, just down from the bridge. That’s where she lives, the old witch. But ye’d better ’urry. ’E’s leavin’ today. ’E’s goin’ t’America.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much.”

  But she was already striding off, back to the scullery and a sink full of dirty pots and pans.

  Charles and Murray made their way down an overgrown path toward the river, which still smelled of sewage, although drains had recently been installed throughout the town. Charles half smiled, remembering the story of Queen Victoria, being shown over Trinity College many years before by its master, Dr. Whewell, and asking, when she walked over the bridge, about the pieces of paper that were floating down the river. Dr. Whewell, with extraordinary presence of mind, had replied: “Those, Your Majesty, are notices that bathing is forbidden.”

  The path dipped down to the riverbank. Ahead of them stood a small timber-framed Tudor cottage that might have been a bucolic addition to a romantic landscape painting, overhung as it was by a large weeping willow and fronted with a rose hedge in full bloom. Behind the cottage a small herd of cows was fording a shallow inlet on their way to their pasture at Sheep’s Green, and out on the river proper Charles could see two rowing teams in their sculls.