“About what?” Longhurst asked. “You already said you refuse to sign over Diana’s share of the Donegal Dancer to me.”
Sir Walter sighed. “I’m afraid the ownership rules in the contract are set in stone. But I found a way to get around that clause. After all, your wife was not killed until after the horse won at Ascot. So it would be perfectly legal—and proper—to award Diana’s share of the prize money to her husband. That is, if Alfred and the Duchess agree to it.”
“Sounds fair to me,” Doolittle said. “And sporting, too.”
“I have no problem with this.” The Duchess sent Longhurst a polite smile.
Longhurst stood speechless, as if he didn’t believe it. Sir Walter pulled an envelope from his inner coat pocket. “I kept your wife’s share in her account until we could decide the matter. Come now, Gordon, you mustn’t harbor hard feelings. It was quite a shock to all of us.”
When he didn’t move to take the envelope, Sir Walter stepped closer to him. “As the agent for the Wrexham syndicate, I am pleased to act on their behalf and offer you this check for Diana’s share of the Ascot purse. It’s rather a nice amount, enough to invest in a horse of your own. If you’re interested, I can recommend a few here at Bay Willow.”
Longhurst snatched the envelope, quickly peeked inside, then stuffed it into his own coat. “I’ll think about it. Death taxes are very dear, as you know.”
“Of course.” Sir Walter hesitated. “I’m afraid there’s a bit of bad news to share. It appears we hired the guards just in time, Alfred. Last night, around three in the morning, thieves broke into the stable—”
“What’s this?” Doolittle huffed in outrage.
“If our horse has been stolen, I’ll whip every last man who works at this stable!” Saxton’s face flushed with anger.
Sir Walter held up his hand. “Please, let me finish. The Donegal Dancer is safe and unharmed. The fellows we just hired prevented any trouble.”
The Duchess snapped open her parasol. “Hiring the guards was well worth the expense, then. How fortuitous that Alfred suggested it.”
“Indeed yes.” Sir Walter wiped his damp brow with a handkerchief and replaced his hat. “Shall we tour the stables? There’s a two-year-old filly I’d like you all to see.”
Higgins followed the others toward a traditional block of three long outbuildings with a croft roof. Inside, their footsteps echoed on the tile floor; dim sunlight streamed through high windows. He noted the neat tack room and admired the gleaming harness and saddles. The group strolled on to inspect the stalls with the usual half-doors and mounted rails, already mucked out and filled with clean straw. The horses inside looked well groomed. They peeked into one stall that held a glorious black stallion, but he charged the half-gate and they quickly moved on. The Duchess soon made friends with a much gentler horse that nickered and eagerly succumbed to her stroking his nose.
“What a magnificent darling,” she crooned. “I’m sorry I don’t have a lump of sugar.”
“That’s Jester, one of the four-year-olds. He’s fast as a bullet on the final stretch.” Sir Walter polished a brass nameplate fixed on the door with his sleeve.
When the group headed outside, Higgins trailed after them. In the distance stood a brick building plus several cattle barns. Sir Walter herded them next to the paddock to watch the grooms exercise the horses. Higgins wished he were back at Wimpole Street with the morning paper and a cup of tea. Fresh air and exercise were fine in small doses, but this had already grown tedious.
The Duchess fell into step beside him. “This horse-thief ring seems quite bold.”
“They’ve probably stolen more horses than anyone knows. Wonder what they do with the ones they can’t ransom.”
“Most likely they’re sold to America, Canada, or South America.” She smiled at Higgins’s questioning look. “Remember the Jersey Act was signed earlier this year. It was designed to prevent horses from outside Britain from being registered in the Stud Book.”
“Ah, yes.” Higgins guided her around a pile of fresh horse dung. “The specter of all those unregistered American horses tainting the bloodlines of our English breeding stock. If you ask me, the only thing that should matter is how fast the blasted animal can run.”
“I don’t agree. The Act protects the British racehorse and increases their value as well. Not that there isn’t deceit in English racing circles. Whenever there’s gambling involved, there’s corruption. Look at Turnbull and Saxton. Throwing away half their fortunes on a race or a boxing match. Idiots.”
They halted at the paddock gate, where Alfred Doolittle admired a filly prancing on the oval track. She was a spirited chestnut beauty with a white blaze and one full white stocking on her left back leg. While everyone watched, a groom led the horse toward the group, stroking her until she stood quiet. Doolittle paced back and forth, his excitement clear.
“Larkspur, did you say?” he asked. “How did they come up with that name?”
“Her dam is Lark, and the sire is Hotspur.”
“That makes sense,” Brody said with a laugh. “I’d love to ride her.”
“She’ll be a winner, you can tell that by her long legs.” Sir Walter gestured to the groom, who led Larkspur around and back again. “By the way, the men I hired to protect the Dancer are Melling, Keene, Ingleby, and Owens.” He pointed to the groom. “Samuel recommended them.”
“How d’ye do?” Doolittle wrung the groom’s hand so hard he nearly spooked the horse. “We’re interested in this little filly. She’s a real looker.”
“Aye, sir. Now’t kin hold a candle to that yan.”
Higgins perked up at the young man’s dialect. He hadn’t been through northwest England since he was a boy on holiday, heading for Lake Windermere. Aunt Mary lived near Shrewsbury, and they’d taken the train north from there. In fact, he’d first been inspired to study dialects by listening to residents in the area. Even Oxfordians sounded different from Londoners.
Sir Walter waved over the two other burly men who led the Donegal Dancer after his workout. A sheen of sweat marked the Dancer’s blood-bay coat. One man rubbed the colt down while the steward introduced them as Melling and Keene, two of the guards they’d hired.
“Owens and Ingleby take the night shift. So Melling and Keene weren’t here when the thieves tried to break in.”
“If we had been, we would have caught them blighters for certain,” one of the men said.
Higgins was struck by the fellow’s thick hair streaked with brown and white. And his Manchester accent was almost as thick as his hair.
The steward frowned. “That’s enough, Keene. The gentlemen didn’t ask for your opinion.” He turned to the groom. “Samuel was here last night. Tell everyone what happened.”
Doffing his cap, the groom launched into his story. Higgins sensed most of the syndicate members didn’t understand half of what he said, given his heavy dialect. Thankful he hadn’t forgotten to grab a fresh notebook when he left home, Higgins quickly wrote down every word.
“An’ once t’were mizzlin, we heard scrapping t’ the back. Owens gaes ou’ an’ around, while us kept waitin’ t’ see. Scared me half t’ death when th’ boyos let out that skrike, from when Owens caught ’em clarten and flailed his kebbie! I near lowped out of me skin. They nashed off an’ Ingleby chessed ’em—wha ya de’yan, mon?” Samuel stared at Higgins.
He glanced up from his notebook. “I’m an expert in phonetics. Go on, don’t mind me.”
“Us nivver ’eard of owt like fan-et-ekes.”
“By your speech alone, I can place you in Cumbria. Not as far east as Sedbergh, nor as far west as Kendal. I’d say, perhaps Old Hutton. Yes, I thought so.” He gave a cheerful nod at Samuel’s shocked expression. “Is Kirkby Lonsdale still there, farther to the south?”
“Aye, ’tis. Whis’tha agin?”
“Professor Henry Higgins of Wimpole Street, London.”
The groom inched backward without another word. A second, younge
r groom brought Larkspur closer. While the others discussed the filly’s prospects. Higgins closed his notebook and stuffed it away with his pencil. Too bad he’d scared off the groom. He could have listened to Samuel all day. Perhaps he could catch the young man unawares later this morning.
“I recommend bidding on Larkspur before someone else does,” Sir Walter said.
Lord Saxton appeared doubtful. “I’m not sure we’re ready for another big investment so soon after buying the Dancer.”
“If the others are not interested, I shall buy her myself,” the Duchess announced.
“What about that horse we saw back in the stables? The fine black one?” Doolittle asked.
“The Black Baron?” Sir Walter shook his head. “I wouldn’t put money down on that two-year-old. During transport, the train he was riding on had an accident. The horse has been wild ever since. The rescue and his injuries have made him fearful of people. A horse never forgets, you know. Anyone who approaches him needs to know how to handle an overly skittish horse.”
“He looked like he had good lines, though.”
“That he does, Alfred. You have a good eye for horseflesh.”
The Duchess frowned. “I’d stay away from a colt like that. Too unpredictable. And the training costs would be high. Surely there are other horses here who are as suitable as Larkspur.”
Sir Walter gave her a slight bow. “Of course, Your Grace. Follow me.”
Higgins noticed a young stableboy hand a note to Doolittle. Eliza’s father scanned it, then shambled over to Sir Walter before the group moved on.
“The missus is on the telephone. I’ll catch up with you in a moment.”
Higgins started to follow Doolittle, but someone tugged his sleeve from behind. He turned to see Brody. The jockey squinted in the bright sunshine.
“Professor Higgins? I’m sorry to bring this up, but I have an important question. I hear you’re friends with that Scotland Yard detective. Inspector Shaw.”
“I am. What about it?”
“Well, I answered all his questions after the regatta. Then he called me in again with my lady friend. Now Patsy’s worried to death she’s in trouble. I wish I hadn’t taken her to the picnic. We weren’t even there when your Miss Doolittle found Turnbull—”
“She is not my Miss Doolittle. Eliza is a fellow elocution teacher.”
Brody shrugged. “Sorry, I meant no harm. But ever since Inspector Shaw told Patsy that Turnbull was poisoned, she refuses to eat. And he keeps hounding us about what happened.”
“Did he specifically say you and your lady friend are suspects?”
“Oh, no. He just keeps asking us to remember if anyone besides the Turnbull servants went around the picnic hampers. The Inspector drove Patsy to tears.”
Higgins began to follow the group now returning to the paddock. “No one else became ill from eating or drinking, so Patsy can gorge herself from dawn to dusk if she likes. And she has nothing to worry about from Inspector Shaw. Your lady friend is a most unlikely suspect.”
“I tried to tell her that,” Brody said. “Patsy’s a bit nervous about everything, though. Whenever I’m scheduled to ride, she has nightmares that I fell and broke a leg—”
Higgins looked toward the stables. “What’s that noise?”
Loud frenzied squeals rose from the nearest stable building. Higgins and the jockey broke into a run, but Sir Walter, Saxton, and Gordon Longhurst beat them there. The Duchess hurried behind them. Once they were inside the stable, Higgins rushed toward the stalls and the horse’s cries. Now that he was so close, Higgins also heard faint moans. Peering through the bars atop the half-door, he saw the wild horse known as the Black Baron. His wide eyes rolled and his nostrils flared. Ears flattened, the colt reared and stamped, tail arched over his back.
“Bloody hell!” Higgins saw Alfred Doolittle lying motionless on the straw. Everyone crowded against the half-gate. Their cries joined that of Higgins.
He tugged and pulled at the latch. “It won’t budge!”
“Someone get that horse under control, for God’s sake!” Saxton said. “Where are the trainers and grooms?”
Brody rushed into the next stall while Higgins kicked the locked gate in frustration. He turned to Longhurst. “Find someone who can unlock this. We must get Doolittle out of there!”
Longhurst disappeared. Higgins now saw that Brody had grabbed a halter and climbed the adjoining stall’s side. The jockey leaned over the bars and tried to slip it onto the Black Baron’s head. The colt reared and stamped perilously close to Doolittle’s still and bloodied body. Brody managed to get half of the harness over the animal’s ears, only to watch it fall to the straw below the flailing hooves. Samuel and Longhurst suddenly appeared behind Higgins. With practiced ease, the young groom unlatched the complicated lock.
“Divn’t do that, mon, ye canna calm him! Gae back wi’ ye.”
Brody jumped down from the wall and joined Longhurst in the aisle. The groom made soothing sounds and slowly opened the gate. Samuel stepped over Alfred Doolittle’s body, one arm raised to protect his head. The Black Baron reared once more and then stood, trembling and sweating, pawing the ground with his ears back. Higgins and Sir Walter dragged Doolittle out of the stall to safety before Samuel backed out and closed the gate.
“Is’tha kaylied then, ya daft horse?”
“Is he dead?” the Duchess asked, one hand on her throat.
Higgins knelt down and felt for a pulse. “No, thank God.”
He detected a flutter in the injured man’s neck and saw the slow rise and fall of his chest. Higgins cursed himself. Doolittle looked terrible. Bright blood coated his head and face and stained his clothing. Tearing off his jacket, Higgins rolled it into a pillow and nestled it under Alfred’s head. Guilt and anger welled up in him. How the devil had this happened? Eliza’s father knew this horse was dangerous.
“Fetch a doctor,” Sir Walter ordered Samuel.
“Who was the stableboy that brought the note to Alfred?” Higgins asked.
“Toby.” Sir Walter glanced around, as if the boy would materialize out of thin air. “You, Melling! Search for Toby. Don’t stand there gaping. Go fetch him!”
The man bolted, his boots clattering on the tile.
The Duchess seemed close to tears. “Why ever did Doolittle go into the Black Baron’s stall?”
Higgins had stanched most of the blood from a deep cut on Doolittle’s head, but the bleeding had not stopped. A head injury was always serious. He knew that from listening to his father’s stories of medical emergencies. Higgins dreaded to think how Eliza would react to this dire situation, especially if Alfred never revived.
Longhurst slammed a fist against the railings. “This can’t be another accident.”
“If he dies, only three members of the syndicate remain. Well, I’ve had enough.” Saxton whirled to face Gordon Longhurst. “If you’re still interested in owning a share of the Dancer, I’ll sell. I’m not going to be stabbed, poisoned, or trampled to death over some damn horse!”
“Really, Maitland, stop fretting about your own skin,” the Duchess chided. “We have Alfred to worry about. Where’s the nearest hospital, Walter?”
“We’ll have him transported there as soon as possible. And Saxton, I must caution you against such a hasty decision. It may be exactly what it appears—an accident.”
“This was no accident,” he shot back. “Alfred went off to take a phone call. How did he end up in a stall with a wild horse? No, someone is knocking off the syndicate members one by one, and by heaven I won’t be next. I repeat my offer, Longhurst. If you want my share in the Dancer, let’s shake on it.”
A heartsick Higgins looked up to see Longhurst and Lord Saxton shake hands. Higgins agreed with Saxton. Someone had tried to kill Alfred. But because of the attack, Gordon Longhurst had gotten what he wanted: a share of the Donegal Dancer.
Although not a religious man, Higgins prayed Alfred survived. If not, he would blame himself even
more than he did over Hewitt and Diana Price. And what would he tell Eliza? He was supposed to guard her father, who now lay bloody and broken on the stable floor.
Whether Alfred lived or died, Higgins feared he would be the next one killed. Only this time Eliza would land the deadly blow.
FOURTEEN
A last sunbeam from the high window brightened her father’s wan face. Eliza fought back tears at how helpless the old man looked. It was a blooming miracle he was still alive. Then again, he had more energy than someone half his age. But not even a prize boxer could hope to survive a round with a rampaging horse. Somehow Alfred Doolittle had.
At the sound of another loud moan, Eliza looked up. She was in the men’s ward of the King Edward VII Hospital. All around her were patients who groaned or snored in their sleep; one played solitaire on a tray, his cards slapping in rhythm. Eliza loathed the odors in the room: antiseptic, sulfur, and laundry soap. They cleaned continuously here. She watched as yet another staff member, known as a “scrubber,” entered the ward with a mop and bucket. A headache pounded inside her skull. Eliza rubbed the bridge of her nose, wishing it away.
Her bum also ached after sitting for hours. Taking pity on her, the nurse had placed a wooden chair by Alfred Doolittle’s bed. While Eliza appreciated the matron’s reassuring words and her promise to watch over Dad all night, she didn’t intend to leave his side.
It would take at least that long to control her anger so she wouldn’t kill the Professor on sight. She knew Higgins too well. While Dad was being attacked by the horse, he was probably jotting down a stableboy’s new slang words. Bleeding idiot. As if a new turn of phrase were worth more than her father’s life. More fool her for trusting Higgins to keep Dad safe.
The unconscious Alfred moved, exposing the bruises on his bare shoulder. Eliza tucked the sheet and blanket over him and sat back. Of course, she was as guilty as Higgins. To think she’d been at the suffragette rally while all this was going on at the stables! She’d been enjoying lunch at the Palladium and playing about with ju-jitsu lessons. She was no better than the Professor. Instead, she should have been at Bay Willow Stables with her father.
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