by Heron Carvic
“Hanged for murder at Tyburn in 1782.” Lord Kenharding walked on toward the end of the gallery. Disregarding the rest of the pageantry, even to ignoring the lure of Reynolds, a Cosway miniature and—no, no, she couldn’t look, but yes, she was practically certain—a head by Rodin, Miss Seeton trailed in his lordship’s wake.
She was confronted once more by Derrick’s pretty, rather than handsome, face; the innocence of the too widely spaced eyes again belied by a sly effect in the expression; the petulant, sensual mouth; the obstinate weakness of the jaw. A Sargent, surely? And there was something in the way that the slight figure was turned back toward the artist that reminded her of . . . Of course. The Graham Robertson portrait—though this one was of a later date. So curious that while England was still indulging in the sentimental droop of Watts, Burne-Jones and Rossetti, the only portraitists of stature to emerge were both American—Whistler and Sargent. Though, admittedly, Sargent had been born in Italy of expatriate parents and had never been more than a visitor to the land of . . . Her reverie was broken by Lord Kenharding.
“Out of consideration for his younger brother, my father, who inherited, the telegram from the War Office read: ‘Regret to inform you Captain Lord Kenharding killed in action the Somme September 20.’ He was shot in the back by his own men while attempting to desert to the enemy.” He swung to face her. “Does this answer your question in the garden about the young being taught, made stronger, through involvement?”
chapter
~7~
THE YOUNG. So many of them. Miss Seeton was surprised. She had expected a race meeting to be attended in the main by the middle-aged or elderly, but here the proportion of youth seemed to be equal if not predominant. How, she wondered, did they find the time? Or were all their grandmothers traditionally ailing, or dead? There was bustle and a cheerful atmosphere—so very unlike the solemnity, the cultivated boredom, of the casino—but the sky was overcast and there was a strong wind. She did hope it wouldn’t rain; it would be such a shame. And what happened if it did? Did they wait for it to clear? And if it didn’t, did they put it off till another day? The riders, in those thin blouses, were in such a very exposed position. And then, too, the horses. If it were wet, surely they might easily skid. Or even fall. And one could not imagine that they would take such risks with valuable animals. She tried to remember any paintings of race meetings, but the only two that occurred to her were Frith’s Derby Day and The Start at Newmarket by Munnings, and in both of those the weather was fine.
“Going to bet?” asked Deirdre.
“Good gracious, no. I know nothing about it.”
“Well, I’m going to back an outsider each way. The favorite’ll win but it’s not worth it at the odds. Won’t be a minute.” Deirdre, having been snapped several times by photographers, felt that she had done her duty by the shop, and putting her brother’s trouble out of her mind, was determined to enjoy herself.
Miss Seeton remained by the paddock rails. She was relieved to be quit of the Abbey and had been firm in her refusal to return there for tea. Her suitcase was already in the car and Deirdre was to drive her home to Plummergen at the end of the afternoon.
Sunday had been, as she mentally termed it, an awkward day. The boy Derrick had not come home for lunch and during the afternoon Tom Haley had brought the news that Viscount Kenharding had been charged as accessory to robbery with violence, would be held overnight and was due to appear before the magistrates in the morning.
For the Guildford police, too, Sunday had proved an awkward day. The arrival in the early hours of Morden trussed with wire, although unusual, had seemed straightforward, as had the statement made by Detective Constable Haley, supported in part by Miss Kenharding, but from there on complications had arisen, complications which the accounts given later by Miss Seeton and the two servants, although corroborating the latter part of Haley’s testimony, did little to solve. What charge were they to bring against Morden? Miss Seeton’s theory with regard to jewelry, which she did not in fact possess, made better sense to them than did Haley’s far-fetched suggestions of abduction or murder. A holding charge of breaking and entering was impossible since Haley bore witness that Morden had broken nothing and had been introduced by the son of the house. Attempted robbery ignored the cotton wool. Attempted robbery with violence presupposed one or more of three conditions: that two or more persons were involved—but young Kenharding had left the room before the attack took place and could plead ignorance of intent; actual violence—but the only actual violence had been done by Haley to Morden; use of an offensive weapon—but was cotton wool an offensive weapon within the meaning of the act?
In any case, although it was sworn to by five people, they could not produce the cotton wool in evidence since Haley had allowed the maid to burn it. Without the cotton wool they were left with the bottle of ether, to which defense counsel would probably declare Morden was addicted, or that he used it for dandruff, or any other inanity that might plant a doubt in the minds of the jurors. Without Haley’s evidence as to what had taken place in the grounds, they would have had a simple break and enter, affecting to believe, as his counsel was sure to suggest, that the youngster had been followed into the house without his knowledge. In short, they wished Haley and all his works—and his evidence—anywhere but near Guildford and took their revenge by packing him off back to the abbey to tell the family of the son and heir’s arrest.
Monday morning was no less awkward for Miss Seeton. She did not, for which she thanked goodness, have to appear in court, nor did the Timsons, nor Deirdre, only Tom Haley being called to give evidence. With bail opposed by the police, Morden was remanded in custody and Viscount Kenharding was released on his father’s recognizance of five hundred pounds. Despite all the Kenhardings’ efforts, Miss Seeton could not shake off a feeling of guilt that she was the immediate cause of the family’s present trouble.
It was no use repining. Firmly she tried to dismiss unpleasant thoughts and concentrate upon the unfamiliar scene. Horses, their initialed rugs flapping in the wind, were being led around the narrow asphalt perimeter by their “lads.” Round and round and round again; surely, Miss Seeton began to fear, they would get tired. Sometimes a new one joined them, now and then one that had worn a rug retired from the procession to return later rugless and . . . Really. One knew from pictures, from the mounted police and from the horse guards, what saddles looked like. But these flat postage stamps—and not, she felt sure, even made of leather, but some synthetic product. How could anyone be expected to sit comfortably on one of those?
On the emerald oval of close-mown grass in the center, individual groups, rendered cheerful even on a gray day by the jockeys’ colors, discussed their runners’ chances and gave riding instructions.
That one. Miss Seeton’s interest quickened. That one had quality, quite beautiful coloring and then, of course, above all, the line. Naturally, at a distance, one could not be certain of the quality, but no question, that diagonal line of silver across the little boy’s chest, helping to blend the unusual combination of cerise and yellow, was most effective. Again, “boy” was really a misnomer. When one came to study them, many of the jockeys were far from being boys, it was only their size that deceived one at first glance.
“MissEss,” said a voice on her left.
“Miss S.,” echoed another to her right.
“Thought we’d find you here,” continued Thrudd. “Martha told us where you’d gone—”
“Mrs. Bloomer to you,” broke in Mel, “and Martha wouldn’t’ve told you the time of day.”
“All right, let’s be accurate. La Bloomer gave Mel your address and knowing the poor girl couldn’t manage a fashion paragraph on her own, I offered to drive her over.”
“You mean you muscled in and out of the goodness of my heart I graciously allowed—”
“There’s no goodness in a vacuum,” retorted Thrudd. “And the day you’re gracious’ll be the millennium.”
Who we
re those two? They’d hemmed MissEss in. He’d better check. Tom Haley had been combining pleasure with business, one eye on Deirdre modeling for photographs and the other on Miss Seeton. He strolled over.
“Picked your fancy, MissEss?” Miss Seeton nodded. “Right.” Haley drew out his wallet, extracted five five-pound notes and handed them to her. “Here’s a pony. A policeman”—his glance flicked the other two—“can’t gamble on duty, so you put it on and we’ll share the doings.” He sauntered off, cursing himself for a fool. He’d only wanted to impress that couple and get the word “police” across. A quid’d’ve done it—why twenty-five, for God’s sake? The neighborhood of Deirdre, he decided forlornly, was unhinging him.
“It’s touching to see the faith the constabulary have in you, MissEss,” observed Thrudd.
“Or lack of faith in us,” suggested Mel.
“Hullo,” Deirdre greeted the reporters on her return. “I think I can kiss good-bye to fifty p.”
“Been plunging?” asked Thrudd.
The girl laughed. “Twenty-five pence each way on a curby-hocked nag in the hopes it’ll get a place.”
An idea sprang to Mel’s mind. “Look, Miss Kenharding—while we’re at it, what about an interview? Something on the lines of ‘From Riches to Rag Trade,’ and we’ll get this apology for a seaside photographer”—she waved at Thrudd—“to take a picture or three. He’s got to learn sometime.”
“Not here, you greenhorn,” Thrudd reproved her. “Can’t pose for pics in the members’. Better go over to the car park.”
“Right,” agreed Mel. “On our way.”
Deirdre looked helplessly at Miss Seeton. “D’you mind?”
“Of course not.”
“Okay. You stay here till the jockeys are up, then go over to the post and I’ll join you there.”
“The post?”
Deirdre pointed as she moved away. “That white pole with the red circle on top. And get close up to the rails so you can see properly.”
A seedy individual had pushed into the place vacated by Mel Forby. Miss Seeton edged aside to give him room. She looked behind her, searching for Tom Haley. That twenty-five pounds—a pony, he’d called it. Such a responsibility. It had been, she was convinced, no more than a gesture to impress Mel and Mr. Banner. He could not, seriously, have intended her to gamble with it, to—what was it?—to “put it on.” She knew no bookmakers. Nor what you did. On the other hand, supposing that he had, and that she didn’t; it would prove so awkward if the animal won. And, in any case, how did one? The crowd had increased, pressing round her to discuss the horses, and she could see no one she knew. What was she to do? A possible solution occurred to her. It wouldn’t, after all, be really dishonest and Tom—since Saturday night she found it easier to think of him as Tom—need never know. Twenty-five pounds was, of course, a ridiculously large sum, but remembering the amount that insurance company had insisted on paying her for the recovery of those paintings in Switzerland—and, really, quite unjustified—she could, after all, afford it. That would make it perfectly simple. She would “put it on” and then, supposing that the horse did win, it would be all right. But if it didn’t, she could pretend she hadn’t, and then that would be all right too. Now how . . .? She studied the man beside her. Not, she must admit, someone that she would care to entrust the money to, with his checked cloth cap and rather dirty mackintosh, but one must, in fairness, admit that he did look knowledgeable.
“Excuse me,” said Miss Seeton.
The man ignored her; intent upon his own problem, he did not even realize that he had been addressed. He withdrew his right hand carefully from his raincoat pocket and let it dangle over the rail, allowing the barrel of a palm gun to protrude fractionally between his third and fourth fingers. In strict parlance the term “palm gun” is misleading. More in the nature of a mechanized blowpipe triggered by a plunger which released a strong spring, it was the inspiration of an inventor in the pay of the syndicate. With the thumb resting upon the trigger, the gun was easy to fire with reasonable accuracy up to a distance of six feet, its ammunition being a single dart contained in an airtight capsule which broke when the plunger was pressed. Two suborned scientists spent more than a year perfecting this cartridge, basing their experiments upon the anaesthetic injections for cattle and the tranquilizer darts for wild animals such as the New York police tried in an attempt to control the packs of stray dogs that roam the slums of Brooklyn. The two chemists finally arrived at a modified solution of an opium derivative “frozen” into a splinter with a needle-sharp point, which, owing to its pain-killing propensities, was comparable to the bite of a stinging fly. The splinter would evaporate quickly when exposed to air so that, apart from the pinprick in the animal’s leg or hindquarters, the “wound” would be virtually undetectable. The result of the local anaesthetic would be equally hard to discern: the horse might show initially a slight excitement, but no more than many race horses do normally when cantering down to the start. Some ten minutes after the “injection” there would be a faint lethargy in the affected muscles, lasting only for a few seconds, which could be attributed to change of leg or an unevenness in the going. These few vital seconds could lose the race and over a period the syndicate had reaped ample dividends on the money invested in research.
An announcement over the PA requested “Jockeys get mounted, please,” and Miss Seeton saw the rider of her choice, in his cerise and yellow with the diagonal silver band, thrown up onto the top of the horse by the gentleman beside him. Discussions between owners and trainers were over, instructions had been given and the favorite, Fancy’s Folly, with the jockey up, was being led around, preparatory to leaving the paddock.
Now was the moment. The seedy individual tensed, ready for action. He brought his hand up and, as Fancy’s Folly came abreast, aligned the palm gun with the colt’s hindquarters. His thumb stiffened on the plunger and—
Miss Seeton tapped him on the shoulder. At the all-too-familiar touch, the man jerked his hand down, prepared to bluff it out that he weren’t doin’ nothink, but he was too late to stop the pressure of his thumb upon the trigger.
The scientists who had invented the dart had not fully evaluated the potential of their brainchild. Its penetration of horse’s hide and its efficacy upon the animal had been nicely calculated. Its power to puncture tanned leather and its effects upon a human being were unknown equations, equations which, thanks to Miss Seeton, were now to be resolved.
The man swore with fright, letting the gun fall, as he felt the dart pierce his shoe and become embedded in his foot. Ducking away from the hand on his shoulder, which had not been followed by its usual corollary, “I’m taking you in,” he bolted.
Oh, dear. Miss Seeton felt guilty. That poor little man. She’d startled him. One forgot that many people took racing quite seriously and no doubt he’d been absorbed in studying—form, she thought it was called. And now she’d disturbed his calculations. Oh, dear. Also—she stooped and picked up the palm gun—he’d dropped his . . . Would it be some form of pocket camera? She looked about, but in the throng of raincoats she could not distinguish the rather dirty one topped by a checked cap which she sought. Never mind; there must be a lost property office somewhere. She dropped the object into her bag. Deirdre might know. Or if not, she could give it to Tom. He’d be sure to arrange things.
Tom Haley was doubtful as to his next move. Temporarily undistracted by the presence of Deirdre, he had been keeping a close if inconspicuous watch over his charge. He had seen her accost the man beside her and for one happy moment had thought that she was going to clap the bracelets on him herself, but when the little runt had scarpered it had dawned that MissEss was merely putting the finger on him, and as the grubby raincoat dived into the crowd, Tom jumped forward and fielded him.
“In a hurry, chum?”
The man tried to squirm free. “ ’S right. Ah’m lite fer a dite.”
The pathos in the poem failed to move. Tom Haley kept his grip
. “I’m sure she won’t mind waiting the odd minute.”
The other aimed a wicked kick; then an expression of horror began to dawn upon his face. The backswing had been easy, all too easy, while the forward sweep went on and on and on, the hip disjointing painlessly, the muscles, sinews, flesh and skin all parting without hurt; fully he expected to see his unshackled leg go sailing past him like the loosened wheel of a speeding car. In common with such a car, he now collapsed upon his axle.
“Kerrist,” he bleated. “Me bleedin’ leg—it’s gorn.”
“Trouble?” inquired a uniformed member of the racecourse police.
Tom Haley showed his credentials. “This man—” he began.
The constable looked down. “That’s no man—that’s Frank the Finger. What you been up to this time, Fingers?”
“An ambilence,” wailed Fingers. “Get me to orspittle quick. Ah’m dyin’.”
“It’s a nice thought,” commented the policeman. “What makes you think so?”
“Ah’m pizened.”
There was a slight change in the attitude of the two officers, a stiffening of mental antennae. “Poisoned?” queried Tom. “Who by?”
“Done it meself,” mumbled the man on the ground, “with that blarsted—” Despite his fright, belated caution stopped him.
“I’ll whistle up a wagon,” muttered the uniformed man. “He looks pecu’ an’ that’s a fact.” He took his personal radio from his pocket, reported and asked for an ambulance to be sent.
“So you went and poisoned yourself, did you?” asked. Tom. “What with?” Fingers’ mouth tightened mulishly.
The policeman replaced his radio. “Please yourself, but there’s not much they can do for you ’less they know what you took.”
“The orspittle’ll set me to rights.”
“Don’t be green. How can they if they don’t know what’s wrong with you? Could take ’em days to find out—like as not till after the postmortem.”