Marie handed her a pound note. ‘We’re on our way to the vineyards. Do you have any local vintners?’
‘A few. But most don’t sell by the bottle.’
‘It’s not for us. It’s for the Top Note, down in Adelaide.’
‘The nightclub?’ The women’s eyes grew round.
‘Yeah. We’re supposed to bring home a few samples.’ Marie sighed. ‘That is, if we can do our job. Do you have a veterinarian in town? Our dog has been sick twice today. That’s never happened before, and I’m starting to worry.’
The woman handed Marie her change. ‘There’s old Doc Mitchell, a mile or two further down the road.’
‘Has he been here long?’
‘Longer than most folks. You couldn’t budge him with a pitchfork.’
‘It must be tough to deal with such a large area when you’re getting on.’ Marie clucked her tongue.
‘He’s fit as a fiddle, is Doc Mitchell. And he’s hired a helper. Youngish man, but I’d see the old doctor if I were you.’
‘Thank you. We will.’
Marie caught up with Bluey and the dog sitting the shade under a white cedar. She sat down next to them, breaking off chunks off bread and cheese for Bluey.
Hobbes whined.
‘Sorry, mate.’ She patted his head. ‘You’ll get your treats later.’
They found the surgery with ease. A white shingle outside a grey weatherboard house with a wide porch announced Dr. vet. H. Mitchell. Nothing indicated the addition of another vet.
Marie, with the dog by her side, lifted the snake-shaped knocker and banged it against the door. Heavy footfall inside announced a person.
An elderly man opened the door five inches wide and blinked at her. His head barely came up to Marie’s nose. ‘The doc’s not in,’ he said without a preamble.
Marie laid her face into sorrowful lines. ‘Will he be long? It’s my little dog. The baby won’t even sleep without Hobbes in the room.’
‘Is there a problem?’ A baritone voice rumbled through the hallway.
‘I told the sheila the doctor’s not in.’ The elderly man shut the door. An instant later, it was flung wide open, and a man in his early forties with an easy smile and manners to match beckoned Marie and Hobbes inside the hall.
‘Please do forgive our housekeeper. He’s had a bad night with his rheumatism.’ Judging by the dark looks the housekeeper shot at the traitor, he also suffered from jealousy.
‘I’m Eddie Gant, the new associate.’ He bared his gleaming white teeth at her in an ingratiating smile. ‘What’s the matter with this little fellow?’
Marie carried Hobbes into a well-scrubbed surgery faintly reeking of carbolic soap. Hobbes pressed his body against her chest. She stroked him as she lowered him onto the table. ‘He’s been sick. Once at home, once in the car.’
Eddie peered into Hobbes’s ears, mouth, and checked heartbeat and abdomen with his stethoscope.
Hobbes gave Marie a hurt look.
‘He seems fine now,’ Eddie said. ‘Did he eat anything unusual?’
Marie gave this considerable thought as she scanned the vet. His shoes were hand-sewn, but worn, and his clothes also showed slight signs of wear. A man with a decent amount of money, but not too flush.
‘He stole a piece of left-over chocolate from my birthday.’ Marie stroked Hobbes’s nose. ‘You look familiar. Have I seen you in the city? Somehow I connect you with horses.’
‘I’ve been to a lot of places.’ Eddie studiously averted her gaze. ‘Chocolate would do it. The stuff can poison a dog.’
She clapped her hand over her mouth in feigned horror. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘There’s an easy remedy. Eat them yourself.’
‘I will.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘The racecourse. Am I right?’
‘Fond of betting?’
‘Fond of the horses. You don’t see many around anymore unless you live on a farm. What brought you here? It seems a bit remote.’
‘You don’t like the countryside?’
‘It’s beautiful, but I think I’d miss the city after a spell.’ She opened her purse. ‘What do I owe you?’
Marie carried Hobbes to the car, fussing over him in case anyone watched her.
‘How did it go?’ Bluey handed her a bottle of water before he started the engine.
‘Swell,’ she said. ‘Nice man, who wouldn’t talk about his former work at all.’
‘Maybe he left under a cloud.’
‘Then this old cove here wouldn’t have taken him on.’ She shook her head. ‘He left because he felt something was off.’
‘You don’t think he’d tell you anything?’
She pulled a face. ‘He liked me, but the answer’s no. A dead blacksmith would spook anyone.’
‘Fair enough.’ Bluey swerved to avoid another kangaroo. ‘And now?’
‘Now we visit a vineyard or two.’
Chapter Twenty
Frances straightened her skirt. It had bunched up a little over the padding because she’d wiggled around on the car seat, agonising over her next steps.
She rapped on the office door. To her surprise, Mr Lucca opened it. He gave her a quizzical look.
‘May I use your phone after lunch?’ She flashed him a brief smile. ‘Otherwise I’d have to go all the way back to town, and there’s still so much to do.’
‘Today?’
‘We need to organise flowers, press coverage.’ She ran out of steam. ‘I don’t need to bother you with the details, but of course we want this ball to go down in the history of Adelaide and Morphettville racecourse for all the right reasons.’
‘I am busy today.’ He pondered this.
‘No worries,’ Frances said. ‘I can take care of my phone calls while you’re on your lunch break.’
He cast a quick glance back, at the locked drawers.
‘Or maybe your boss could keep me company if you’d rather I’d not be alone in your office.’ She attempted a light laughter, as if to emphasise the silliness of that idea.
‘He’s out of town today.’ Mr Lucca paused. ‘I haven’t seen Miss Barden around. Is she alright?’
‘You know her?’
He smoothed his already smooth hair. ‘I’ve seen her at the Top Note.’ His voice held the light tremble Frances had grown accustomed to in connection with Dolores.
She made a quick decision. ‘It’s possible that she’ll drop by later. I’m sure she’d love you to say hello.’
Mr Lucca’s eyes lit up. ‘I’ll let you know when it’s convenient for you to use the telephone.’
Frances found Tony standing upright on a high step ladder, with Pauline circling it like a demented mother hen.
‘What are you doing?’ Frances craned her neck. Tony tapped a metal hook with an eyelet into the ceiling and threaded a thin rope through it.
‘Careful,’ Pauline said. ‘You’re wobbling.’
He wasn’t, though, except in Pauline’s eyes.
Frances led her away. ‘Is that for the swing chair?’
‘I’ve offered to test it for Miss Barden.’ Pauline bit her knuckle. ‘Only I’m not sure anymore.’
‘If Tony builds it, it’ll be good as gold,’ Frances said. She wasn’t too sure about the mechanics herself, with a crank handle to lower and raise the chair.
‘Where is everyone?’
‘Bluey and Marie aren’t back yet. Mr Jack is in his office.’ Pauline lowered her voice. ‘He’s waiting for news from Tassie. Uncle Sal is -’
‘Still here.’ He pushed a laden kitchen trolley with tea, cake and sandwiches. ‘The cook was kind enough to give me a hand.’ He winked at Frances. ‘Nice lady. She’s been here for years.’
‘Can Tony run back and fetch Dolores? We might need her.’ Frances grinned.
‘If you don’t think Mr Jack would mind me driving the big car?’ Tony grabbed the rope and swung himself around. The eyelet turned freely without the hook moving so much as a hair’s breadth.
Uncle Sal waved his objection off. ‘If you bring back that chair of yours, we could see it in action. That’d be a beaut to watch.’
Mr Lucca popped in while Tony and Dolores were still on the way. Frances clutched her handbag with her notes and her lock-picks as she followed him. ‘We’ll reimburse you for our calls,’ she said.
‘Your rent should cover that,’ he said. ‘Unless you intend to phone up the whole country.’
‘Marvellous how easy it is nowadays, with all these phones. It must make your life so much easier, and for breeders and trainers it must be a god-send.’
‘True,’ he said.
‘I’ve always wondered if people receive a tip when there’s a promising horse coming up for auction or if they just go and decide on the spot.’
‘Both, I assume. There are folks who can tell after a few minutes if a horse is going to be a racer. That’s rare though.’ He gave her an interested look. ‘Is Mr Sullivan branching out?’
‘I hope not. It’s such a risky business. I was simply curious.’
Frances placed her notebook, a pad and a pen next to the telephone.
‘I’d be happy to show him around,’ Mr Lucca said.
‘I’m sure he’d appreciate that.’ She picked up the receiver and dialled the number of the exchange. Using Miss Whitford’s voice came easy by now. The last thing she needed was one of her colleagues at the exchange switchboard to recognise her.
Two phone calls to florists later, Frances tiptoed to the door and glanced outside. The passage lay empty. She wished she could sprinkle sand or anything else that crunched under feet to warn her, but it would be too conspicuous.
She put on gloves, fished out the skeleton keys and slid them into Mr Lucca’s drawer. Her stomach lurched as she pulled out a ledger. She forced herself to breathe evenly as she opened it, careful not to tear the pages. Here, in a precise copperplate hand, were all the business expenses listed. She turned page after page as quickly as she could, before she returned the ledger and took out the one underneath. Surely, she wouldn’t be alone much longer.
Frances said a silent prayer as she finally found the entries she was looking for, including the list of staff and travelling jockeys for the races just before the old vet left, the first race of the year that had another painted horse running, and the fatal one in which the blacksmith had recognised the painted horse.
She copied the few names that hadn’t been on Mr Henry’s list.
Next should follow the list of horses, including owners and trainers. Frances flipped the page. Nothing. But that couldn’t be, according to the content list.
If authorities asked to see them, Mr Dunne or Mr Lucca needed to hand those lists over. They had to exist.
Frances’s head turned towards the small safe she’d only noticed today. It was made of steel and bolted to the floor. Her heart hammered against her chest. It was one thing to open a drawer and snoop around in ledgers and another to break into a safe that probably held all the takings on a race day.
No. It was too risky. But on the other hand, Rob’s life was at stake.
Her hand trembled as she rifled through the ledgers again. One page was loosely inserted, entering Alfie into a race. And it was signed by Mrs Cowper and the trainer, whose name Frances couldn’t decipher at first glance.
She still held it in her hand when she heard faint noises. She slipped the paper into her shirt, closed the ledger and fumbled to lock the drawer as fast as she could. She’d only turned her skeleton-key halfway when the door flung open and Mr Lucca entered.
The blood drained from her face as she searched for an explanation.
‘Hello there.’
Mr Lucca’s head swivelled around as if drawn by a magnet. In the doorway stood Dolores, draped oh so casually against the frame and giving Mr Lucca a full dose of her high wattage smile.
She held out her hand. ‘I’m Dolores Barden, and I want to tell you how grateful I am to allow us to perform in these magnificent halls.’
Mr Lucca bent over Dolores’ hand for a kiss. ‘The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.’
‘In this case, may I ask you for a huge favour? I’d love to see the horses up close.’
His gaze travelled down her legs, to her strappy shoes. ‘I’m not sure your pretty heels are suitable.’
Frances willed herself invisible while she locked the drawer completely and slipped the skeleton keys back into her bag. She gave Dolores a tiny signal.
Dolores beamed at Mr Lucca. ‘How right you are. If I bring proper shoes tomorrow, maybe?’
‘I’d be honoured,’ he said, gazing at her in open admiration.
Frances picked up her bag and notebook. ‘I’m all done here,’ she said. ‘Thank you, Mr Lucca.’
He snapped back into the present. ‘In this case, let me take you ladies back to your stage.’
Frances trotted behind the pair. She marvelled at the ease with which Dolores charmed men. Otherwise she’d have been deep in trouble.
Mr Lucca kissed Dolores’ hand again before he returned to his own duties.
Dolores closed the door, a half-smile on her lips.
‘You were wonderful,’ Frances said. ‘Your timing was perfect.’
‘I’d been on the lookout,’ Dolores said. ‘He’s a perfect pet, isn’t he?’
‘Who is?’ Pauline asked, with a wink at Tony.
‘Mr Lucca.’ Dolores eyes took on a shrewd look. ‘I wonder how many hands he’s kissed.’
‘Glib?’ Tony asked. His original shyness towards Dolores had been melted faster than the snow on the Adelaide Hills on a spring day.
‘Smooth. Attractive, too.’ Dolores shrugged. ‘It would be a pity if he ended up replacing Rob in prison. One can never have too many admirers.’
They returned to the Top Note in high spirits. Tony was happy because the swing seat found Dolores’ full appreciation, Pauline was happy because her new costume awaited, expertly sequinned by her mother, and Frances felt it in her bones that they were close to finding out who was the mastermind behind cheating at races and murdering the blacksmith.
The mood of her waiting conspirators proved her right. Uncle Sal swept Frances into his arms and waltzed with her into the office.
Marie’s eyes sparkled, and Bluey beamed like a child at Christmas. Jack leant against a wall, an unreadable expression on his face.
Uncle Sal prompted Frances to take a seat.
‘What have you found out?’ she asked. ‘Did you locate the vet?’
‘Child’s play,’ Marie said. ‘Rather a nice man, who doesn’t want folks to know he had anything to do with the races.’
‘Oh.’ Frances’s hopes took a dent.
‘Chin up. If he’d just departed because he’d had a bellyful, or fancied a change, he’d have mentioned it.’ Marie made a dramatic pause until Jack’s ominous signal towards the wall clock made her hurry up. ‘He won’t talk, but that as good as proves that there was something that made him bolt. Which means we’ll need a close gander at the last race days before he quit.’
‘And look for familiar names or unexpected wins,’ Frances said.
‘Too right. And there’s more.’ Jack pushed a folded telegram over to her.
She opened it and read, “Mrs Cowper used to own a couple of racehorses before the war. A cove named Young has a training stable about ten miles from Launceston. He’s said to have only two stable boys, and visitors aren’t welcome.”
Frances paused. ‘So, I guess he could know everything about the old lady from her racing days.’
‘He might even have worked for her,’ Jack said. ‘Marie’s aunt phoned up to mention that her old manager was a bloke nicknamed Old Pom.’
He was too far away from Frances to hug. Instead, she jumped up and hugged Uncle Sal.
‘Wait till you hear the next bit,’ Marie said. ‘Old lady Cowper has been widowed forever, and her son died in the Second Boer War. The daughter passed away a few years ago, but she’s said to have married an Italian.
’
‘Did your auntie have a name?’ Frances didn’t want to get her hopes up too high, but it couldn’t be a coincidence. Even with all the immigrant communities, non-British people still stood out.
‘No. It was too long ago, and she got married in Melbourne or Brisbane. But her son, if she had one, would be in his thirties or younger.’
Mr Lucca’s face flashed up in Frances’s mind. His eyes, as he saw Dolores, and the awe with which he’d kissed her hand. Still, criminals could be charming. She knew that from the talkies. ‘Raffles’ in particular, held a place in her heart, with Ronald Colman as the gentleman jewel thief, who only returned to the game to save a friend with gambling debts. Maybe that had been Mr Lucca’s downfall too, a fondness for cards or betting on the nags. But his motives didn’t matter, not really. And anyone framing her brother for murder was beyond redemption.
The stolen document made a crinkling noise as she moved. ‘Close your eyes, everyone,’ she said.
Jack gave her an astonished look, before he obeyed with the rest.
She fished the paper out of her shirt. ‘Now you may open your eyes again.’
Jack gave a surprised whistle as he took up the document. ‘Where did you get that?’
‘The drawer in the office. I couldn’t read the name of the trainer in a hurry.’
‘It is a particularly illegible scrawl.’ Jack held it up to the lamp. ‘Parrett, or Barrett, maybe. At least the address is clear enough. There can’t be many horse trainers in Charleston.’
‘Never heard of the place,’ Uncle Sal said.
‘It’s got to do with flour mills, doesn’t it?’ Marie asked. ‘Something in connection with the man who set up all those steam mills in the last century.’ They all gaped at her. ‘There was a brochure in the vet’s surgery,’ she said. ‘I only caught a few sentences.’ Marie looked around. ‘We never know what matters in the end, right?’
‘True.’ Jack furrowed his brows. ‘If we had more time to spare, I’d say you and Bluey tale another trip to the countryside.’
Frances mouth went dry. Only a few more days, and they’d lose their access to Morphettville. Meanwhile, Rob must be close to despair.
Murder at the Races Page 13