Odds on Miss Seeton (A Miss Seeton Mystery Book 5)

by Heron Carvic

  “The . . .?” Fingers clutched the officer’s trouser leg. “Look, Ah’ll be orl right, won’ I?”

  “How’d I know?” He surveyed the sitting man dispassionately. “From the look of you, I’d as lief not be in your shoes—or out of ’em.”

  “Kerrist,” whined Fingers. “It’s gettin’ me arms now—Ah carn’t feel ’em.” His hand lost its grasp on the trousers; he tried to raise both arms and failed. “Look, yer gotter ’elp me. Ah carn’t sing; if Ah do they’ll do me.”

  The policeman shrugged. “Up to you. Die what way you like—all one to me.” He looked up on hearing the approaching wail of an ambulance.

  Fingers appealed to Tom. “Look, that a fac’, they carn’t do nuffink at the orspittle ’less they know?”

  Tom duplicated his colleague’s shrug. “Can’t give you an antidote till they know what the poison is.”

  “But Ah dunno meself,” moaned Fingers. “It’s fer ’osses, not ’umans. Look.” The paralysis had risen and he turned his head with difficulty. “If Ah give ’em some o’ what Ah got, would it ’elp?”

  “Should think so,” encouraged Tom. “Make it quicker anyway.”

  The uniformed man had cleared a way through the crowd for the ambulance and two bearers were approaching with a stretcher.

  “Look,” muttered the terrified Fingers. “Little box in me right pocket—couple of them darts left. Make like yer givin’ ’em a ’and up wiv me and give it to one o’ the blokes. But for the love o’ Kerrist,” he warned, “don’ let nobody see yer snitch it.”

  Tom carried out the instructions, palmed the small case from the raincoat pocket and sauntered over to speak to the driver of the ambulance, while the bearers settled Fingers on the stretcher and laid a blanket over him. Tom had only taken a few steps when he was halted by a sound like the crack of a whip. He swung about in time to see the figure on the stretcher convulse and then collapse. He ran back, his colleague darted forward and the two ambulance attendants stood for an instant, petrified, until training told and the front bearer, seeing the hole in their patient’s temple, flipped the blanket over the corpse’s head and both men in a concerted surge thrust the stretcher into the ambulance, leaped in after it and slammed the doors. A moment later the engine roared as the driver accelerated away along the path left by the sympathetic crowd.

  The whole incident had happened so quickly that none of the bystanders had realized its significance. The uniformed man was reporting by radio and calling for reinforcements, although there was little chance of finding the marksman in the press of people and the police had no wish to start a panic in the members’ enclosure. Tom decided that for him the safety of his charge must take priority and he hurried back to the paddock rails. Miss Seeton had gone.

  Perhaps up here? Miss Seeton had passed the unsaddling enclosure and was ascending the slope to the stands. In front of her across a wide lawn—how, she wondered enviously, thinking of the continual fight with plantain, buttercup and daisies at home, did they manage to keep their turf so immaculate?—and visible above the heads of the crowd was the winning post of which Deirdre had spoken, and yes, over there on the right were a lot of very busy gentlemen leaning over a board fence, who must, she felt sure, be bookmakers. Approaching Tattersall’s rails, she experienced a qualm. How did one place money on a horse of which one did not know the name? It would sound, surely, so very—well—odd to say one wished to back a blouse. Most people, she noticed, carried a small paper booklet which they frequently consulted and on which they jotted down notes. Of course. Miss Seeton searched in her handbag and found the race card Deirdre had given her. She checked the time and found the page. Studying the list of runners, she discovered that the colors were mentioned at the bottom in smaller print below each horse and—how encouraging none of the others had cerise or silver—this one must be hers.

  204 OOMPAHPAH. . . . . . . . . . . 4 7 0 (6)

  B g Trumpeter—Papa’s

  Daughter

  0/000-0 Mrs. F. Santoyne (Major V. Coldwort Newmarket) C. Bells

  CERISE and YELLOW halved. SILVER sash

  B g? Would that be what they called a tip? The children at school, she remembered, had often referred to things of which they disapproved as n.b.g., so presumably this must mean the opposite. She scanned the rest of the entry. There was a Fancy’s Folly, which was Ch c; there were B c’s, a Bl c and a B f—another term she recognized from her teaching days—but hers was the only B g. Really, it was quite an omen. With mounting confidence, Miss Seeton approached a bookmaker and offered her sheaf of notes, only to be told:

  “No cash here, lady—through there.” He pointed.

  Drops of rain began to fall, slanted by the wind. Time and her confidence were both evaporating. Anxiously Miss Seeton pushed her way through the opening to Tattersall’s ring. A beaming red face with a raucous voice and a bold sign on a sort of music stand

  caught her attention. She took her place behind two men who handed money to a small wizened man beside the bookmaker. On a board was chalked:

  8-11 FANCY’S FOLLY

  7-2 GARTER NIGHT

  8-1 ARGOVIN

  100-6 EMPIRE’S TALLY

  20-1 BAR

  Hers wasn’t there. Nor—she glanced at the race card—was there a horse called Bar. Perhaps that was in another race. She nerved herself to say the word Oompahpah—really, such childish and embarrassing names they gave these unfortunate animals—but when her turn came her courage failed her and she handed over the five five-pound notes, placed her finger on the list and said simply:

  “I wish to put this pony on that horse.”

  “Right, ma’am, you’re on at twenties.” The clerk scribbled in a ledger and handed her a numbered card.

  The rain was becoming heavier. She did hope that it would prove to be no more than a shower. She put the card into her handbag and opened her umbrella.

  “Has Deirdre deserted you?” Miss Seeton looked up to find Lord and Lady Kenharding beside her.

  “We saw you go through to Tatts,” explained Lady Kenharding, “and thought perhaps you were lost and so . . .”

  “Instead of which,” said his lordship, who had observed Miss Seeton’s transaction with Reliable Rex, “we find you very much at home and in control of affairs.”

  “It’s only a few minutes to the off—would you like to come up to the stands with us?” suggested Lady Kenharding. “You get the best view and it’s more . . .”

  “How very kind. I would have loved to. But I promised to meet Deirdre by the post.”

  “Then you’d better get along,” Lord Kenharding told her, “or you won’t get a place on the rails and you’ll miss the race.”

  Gratefully Miss Seeton bade them good-bye and set off, a little pleased with herself. “Very much at home,” Lord Kenharding had said, and “in control.” Really, it had been foolish to allow oneself to worry so. It had all been quite easy and the vernacular of the racecourse was perfectly simple to understand if one applied one’s common sense.

  Lord Kenharding frowned after the retreating little figure mushroomed under its umbrella. Abruptly:

  “Penny?”

  “Mm?”

  “How do you feel about that emerald brooch of yours?”

  “With all those diamonds and the pendant? Well, it’s always in the bank, so I don’t actually feel . . . Why? Were you thinking of . . .?”

  “It had occurred to me. I stood surety for Derrick this morning to the tune of five hundred pounds we can’t afford.” He stopped, then let his breath out in a sigh. “Do you think he’ll jump his bail?”

  She pursed her lips. “I’m afraid he might if he can think of anywhere to hide. Or his new friends . . .”

  “Quite. And as surety for ourselves that brooch is about the only thing we have left that’s not in the entail.”

  “So you thought Fancy’s Folly? she asked. “But it’s odds on, and . . .”

  “Er—no.” He was embarrassed. “You couldn’t see ov
er her shoulder, but our schoolmarm has just sprung a pony on Oompahpah. I must admit it made me feel like springing the equivalent of the bail money and putting a monkey up behind it.”

  “Five hundred? On Oom . . .?” Lady Kenharding was shocked. “But, Mark, it couldn’t get a place in a two-horse match.”

  “I know, so why did she do it? She waits till Deirdre’s out of the way, then slips in here and plunges on an outsider. Why? The Jockey Club prefer to run their own affairs, but have the police got wind the race has been rigged but can’t prove it, so she thought she might as well pick up something on the side? Don’t be fooled by all the innocence, Penny. That little woman knows exactly what she’s doing, though she’ll never admit it. ‘I know nothing of police work,’” he mimicked. “Merely happens to hold a rather high position at Scotland Yard, for which innocence and idiocy are not the criteria. And ‘I know nothing of racing,’ but enough to call twenty-five pounds a pony and to point to the name of the horse instead of saying it, in order not to tip off anybody around.” He laughed. “Forget it, Penny. She’s getting me hypnotized. Come along, we must get to the stands. There isn’t much time.”

  She caught his sleeve. “About the brooch . . . I think I’ve really always looked on it as something you gave me to put by for a rainy day.”

  “Of course. I said forget it, Penny.”

  “But, Mark.” Lady Kenharding was inspired to finish her second consecutive sentence while raindrops pattered on her upraised face. “This is a rainy day.”

  chapter

  ~8~

  LORD KENHARDING HAD not been the only person to be interested in Miss Seeton’s wager. A man had sidled as close as he could, but without being able to see which horse she had indicated. Point was, had the fuzz cottoned that Fingers had mucked the job on the favorite, or not? Was the old bag splashing her money on Garter Night thinking the original deal was still on, or was she buying loose cash on Fancy’s Folly, knowing it would now win? Much good it would do her; she’d never collect. The word was out on her and she’d had hers. But not till after the race. Enough was enough. Bumping Fingers before he could sing was all the market’d take for one afternoon. The man puffed his chest: neat a bit of shooting as you could wish on short notice and not a soul’d cottoned ’cept the stretcher men and the fuzz. Orders were this one was to be an accident—one of those things. Member of the public caught in a teen-age riot. Too bad; nothing personal. Though from what he’d heard, young Kenharding had his own thing to settle with her and it’d be personal as hell. Not his show anyway. All he’d got to do was keep alongside and mark her for the boys when they started in. He came abreast.

  “Give you the winner, ma’am?” he insinuated.

  She smiled and shook her head. “No, thank you,” said Miss Seeton. “I already have it.”

  There. There was a little gap. The rain had eased. Miss Seeton closed her umbrella and managed to slide into a small space against the outside rails. It wasn’t quite so close to the post as one had hoped, but farther along there was no room at all. Deirdre would be sure to find her here.

  The man following her smiled sardonically. Mark her? With her brolly, she’d marked herself. About the only gamp in sight, except for the bookies’. This old trout’d wrecked as nice a little setup as you could wish. And snaffled the gun. Well, now she was set up herself and they’d get the gun back when she got hers. He hoped the lads’d had time to get the cash on Fancy’s Folly, though at odds of 11–8 on and probably worse by now it’d mean one hell of a spread to cover what they’d staked on Garter Night. No wonder the bosses were flippin’ mad.

  High up in the stands, Thatcher relaxed. It had been a rush, but the money was on and they were covered, though the odds had finally shortened to 6–4 on. Damn that woman to hell. Below him he saw the Kenhardings take seats near the front. He was surprised. You’d have thought, after the magistrate’s court this morning, they wouldn’t have shown their faces. Noblesse oblige, a stiff upper lip, he supposed. Well, he’d soon be taking the starch out of them for bringing the police in. Deirdre appeared, looking worried, glanced around, then hurried to join her parents. Thatcher’s lips curled. She’d have plenty to worry her soon enough. An idea was born. Young Kenharding would have to be taken out of circulation after this Miss Seeton’s unfortunate demise and the boy’s ducking his bail would hit his lordship where it hurt. For the future? Probably get rid of him—Derrick was a fool and too full of himself to learn—but keep him on ice as long as he was useful as a lever against his father. Then later, when things had died down, snatch the girl. That would teach Kenharding to toe the line and be an object lesson to others all around. With both the children under wraps, the parents would have to dance to any tune he called. The manager of The Gold Fish, too, was showing signs of getting restive; another matter that must be dealt with. And all of it stemmed from the Seeton woman. Once she was eliminated, things would settle down to normal. How the devil had she got on to Fingers in the first place? At least that had been dealt with promptly and now it was merely a question of dealing with her—and getting back the gun.

  “. . . in the stalls now,” announced the PA, “all except Argovin . . . no, Argovin is in. They’re off.”

  A bell sounded and Thatcher raised his field glasses to concentrate upon the race.

  “. . . no, Argovin is in. They’re off.”

  A bell rang and expectantly Miss Seeton leaned forward and looked to her left, only to find herself staring into the face of the man who had so kindly offered to give her a winner. He—in fact everybody, she now realized—was facing the other way. She looked to her right. Nothing.

  “. . . early stage of the race there’s Fancy’s Folly showing most speed, followed by Garter Night on the stand rail, and just behind the leaders in a group I can see Ferndale, Empire’s Tally and behind Empire’s Tally, Argovin . . . and at the rear of the field Grass Seed and Oompahpah.”

  Now in the distance Miss Seeton could see moving specks.

  “. . . Coming up now towards the five-furlong marker”—a different but equally indifferent voice had taken up the commentary—“it’s Fancy’s Folly in the lead from Garter Night, followed by Ferndale.”

  The dots increased in size, the murmur grew, swelling to a roar as the horses—yes, at last she could see them—came pounding down toward her.

  Now she could appreciate the reason for those postage stamp saddles: they were merely a decoration, in deference to convention and not for use at all, since the riders stood crouched with heads down by the horses’ necks and their behinds well up in the air. Several of them were quite close, just the other side of the farther rail, but hers—yellow, cerise and silver—wasn’t there. Oh, yes, there it was—right on the other side and rather far behind, the silly animal. Around her everyone was shouting encouragement to their choice and, infected by the general excitement, Miss Seeton shouted too.

  “You there,” she piped, “come along, hurry up—oh, do be quick.”

  Unthinkingly she waved her umbrella to attract Oompahpah’s attention. The wind caught it, turned it inside out and tore it from her grasp. It landed on the course in front of Fancy’s Folly. The favorite swerved, bumped Garter Night and almost fell. Garter Night stumbled, then recovered, while behind the two leaders swearing jockeys fought to pull their own mounts clear.

  The suave voice of the commentator quickened. “Fancy’s Folly’s down—no, he’s recovered, but Garter Night . . .” His words speeded to a gabble that was drowned by the roar of mingled rage and excitement from the crowd.

  On the far side Oompahpah pursued its lethargic way until—whether in answer to Miss Seeton’s plea, spurred by the zoological specimens that she and Lord Kenharding had placed upon its back or, accustomed to trailing in the rear and, with no horse in front, deciding that it had overdone indolence and been left too far behind the field—to the astonishment of its jockey, its owner and its trainer, the bay gelding suddenly shot forward like a released arrow to win by half a length.r />
  • • •

  “Better get her out of this before she’s lynched.”

  Thrudd Banner grasped one of Miss Seeton’s arms, Mel Forby grabbed the other and the two reporters hustled their bewildered victim back toward the stands.

  “But . . .”

  “No buts. Come on.”

  Miss Seeton held back. “But please, Mr. Banner, don’t I have to give this card”—she opened her handbag—“to Mr. Rex—he’s a bookmaker in what I think is called Tatts—because . . .”

  Thrudd looked down at the card she held. “No, you don’t have to give that to anybody. The race went up the spout owing to a”—he grinned at her—“shall we say a contretemps, and some paralyzed donkey disguised as a horse won it. Not even its owner backed it.”

  “But I did. Or rather I did it for Tom—Mr. Haley, that is—because of the colors, you see,” she explained.

  “No, I don’t, but never mind. If you really backed this Oompops or whatever because of the length of its eyelashes, we’d better go and collect quick before someone gets the idea you threw the brolly on the course to save your ten p.” Thrudd veered left, guided Miss Seeton among the crowd, hustled her through the gap into Tattersall’s and up to Reliable Rex.

  “There you are. Collect your ill-gotten gains and then I think you’re better out of this.”

  Miss Seeton handed over her card. Reliable Rex looked at her for a long moment, put his hand in his satchel and silently began to count notes into her hand. As the counting continued, Thrudd’s eyes widened; even Mel’s faith in innocence was shaken. They watched until five hundred pounds had been handed over and Miss Seeton began to expostulate. Surely, she thought, it seemed so much—too much. . . . Thrudd cut short her protest, whisked her away and headed for the car park.

  “And to think,” he addressed Mel over Miss Seeton’s head, “that only a couple of weeks ago I did an article on lack of corruption in the police.”