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Authors: Frances Brody

Tags: #Cozy Mystery, #Historical

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BOOK: A Woman Unknown
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The hat she held out was an elegant cloche with a swirling pattern in the old suffragette colours of green and violet; its only decoration, a white rosebud. Perhaps it was the rosebud. I loved it in an instant.

Like the perfect saleswoman, she did not reveal the price until the love affair was sealed with a hatpin.

Madam Estelle opened the inner door for me to enter the hotel corridor. Turning left took me to the lobby.

I was a few minutes early, and found a seat that gave me a good vantage point. Marcus and I were not the only ones heading for the races. A woman in flowing silks and spanking new picture hat stepped from the lift, followed by a chap in top hat and tails. In that regalia, they must be going to the Knavesmire too.

An odd pair came down the broad staircase. Two men walked side by side, chatting amiably. The younger man was about thirty years old, slight, with a sweet, boyish face. He wore dark trousers, a beautifully tailored grey jacket and a grey silk top hat. His stout companion, a weather-beaten man in his fifties, wore full highland regalia, with a kilt that could have been the Stewart tartan. Around his neck he carried a brown leather binocular case.

Curious, I made as if to stretch my legs, and to pick up a magazine. I watched the men climb into a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce. When I turned back, magazine in hand, Marcus had appeared from the direction of the hotel’s telephone booth with the speed of a mouse catching the whiff of chocolate. I felt sure that he must have been there all along.

He looked splendid. There is not a huge difference between the dress of a well-to-do racegoer and that of a handsome bridegroom. For a fleeting second, I thought I must have been mad to turn down his proposal.

‘Kate! Sorry to keep you waiting. You look wonderful. Green suits you.’

‘It’s the nearest I could find to camouflage.’

He offered his arm. ‘Are you all right to set off straight away?’

‘I am.’

If I were not mistaken, he would want to keep the Rolls-Royce and its odd couple in view.

As we left the hotel, a porter stood by a black Alvis saloon. Marcus gave him a nod and slipped him a coin.

I slid into the passenger seat.

The porter cranked the motor to life.

‘Scotland Yard have done you proud. Staying at the Metropole, an Alvis at your disposal. I’m only surprised you don’t have a driver.’

‘Keeps it more discreet this way. Just you and me, enjoying a day at the races.’

‘Marcus, I know you’re working.’ He could be extremely irritating, as if I would give the game way, whatever the game was. ‘I’m surprised that someone who has reached your great heights is on an assignment like this. Isn’t it usually detective constables who are given the task of keeping an eye on suspected wrong ’uns?’

He thought for a moment, calculating what he would and would not say, before deciding to throw me a crumb.

‘Our American cousins have an interest. We need to appear helpful. Now no more fishing.’

Eventually, we joined the racecourse traffic – a long line of cars, charabancs and coaches, a solitary old-fashioned carriage, ponies and traps, and a few riders on horseback, all heading for the Knavesmire.

As we drew closer to the racecourse, a small group of anti-gambling protestors held up posters: Prepare to Meet Thy Doom; The Wages of Sin is Death; All Race Tracks Lead to Hell.

‘Whether it leads to hell depends who’s on the track and what they’re doing,’ Marcus muttered.

At the entry to the motoring enclosure, he handed over a half crown to the steward who waved us through. A second steward directed us into a spot next to a Morris.

For a couple of moments, we stayed put. Marcus picked up his binocular case and studied the clasp, as if it would give him inspiration.

The racecourse would be teeming with plain-clothes men looking out for pickpockets, three-card tricksters and bookmakers with fast little cars that would enable them to speed away after a race and welsh on paying out. Some of the plain-clothes men may have been alerted to be the extra eyes and ears for the investigation branch.

I took out a mirror and checked my hat.

Marcus hung the binoculars around his neck.

As I stepped out of the car, my heels sank a little into the grassy ground. Marcus put on his hat. ‘The owners’ and trainers’ enclosure will be a good starting point. Did you really pick your horse with your eyes closed and a pin in your hand?’

‘Of course. His name is Flint Jack.’ Marcus need not know that the tip was given to me by my neighbour, the professor, who studies racing form.

He laughed. ‘I’ll wager you were poring over the
Sporting Pink
last night. Admit it! You were checking form, weight carried, jockey …’

‘Marcus, I didn’t know you were such an expert racegoer. Your work doesn’t keep you as busy as you pretend.’

The day already had a festive atmosphere. We
followed the top hats and posh frocks to the owners’ and trainers’ enclosure where the steward checked our badges. The first race was about to begin.

‘Let’s watch this one from the rail,’ I said.

It is not such a great view, but I like the atmosphere. We leaned into the rail, watching the horses thundering towards us, and practically feeling the breeze as they charged by, hooves pounding

When the first race ended, lads led sleek horses into the ring, to stretch their legs in the half-hour lull between races.

Marcus fell into conversation with a race card seller. (Probably a plain-clothes policeman).

That was when I saw the two men from the hotel, the ones who had attracted Marcus’s interest. They were admiring a rich chestnut horse that bore Flint Jack’s number.

‘There’s my horse. Back in a sec, Marcus.’

If he would not give me any clues about whom he was following and why, it would amuse me to work it out for myself.

A weather-beaten old ex-jockey led Flint Jack into the pre-parade ring. When the Scot from Marcus’s hotel spoke to him, he replied that Flint Jack was ‘ready for his big day’.

The Scot, definitely a Highlander, was now commenting on the course. He had never been to York before. His companion in the grey silk top hat spoke softly. His favourite race course was in Virginia, he said. The man spoke with a touch of a New York accent, but he was English, and local. He intrigued me. His clothing, shoes and manner were top drawer. His voice was not.

By the time I worked my way back round the ring to join Marcus, my eavesdropping on this talkative pair prompted a slightly Sherlockian jump. It was not enough information to come to a conclusion, but at a guess I would say that the Highlander was selling something. His bluff, confident manner gave that impression. What did I associate with the Highlands? Haggis, bagpipes, Highland Games, Bonnie Prince Charlie, and whisky.

Marcus had said, ‘Our American cousins have an interest.’

America had laws against the importation and sale of liquor. Those prohibition laws were being flouted on the grandest possible scale. The man in the grey top hat favoured a Virginian race course; so he was from America. By the cut of his jib, he had called at Savile Row to be tailored; a man with money.

‘Well?’ Marcus asked when I joined him. ‘Is it still to be Flint Jack?’

‘Definitely, having seen him.’

We explored, winding our way through the busy throng of small-time punters and York factory workers whose firms had closed for the day.

Band music played in the distance. From one of the food stalls floated the tempting whiff of sausages. A man by a small tent held up a sign that said ‘Gentlemen’s Convenience, one penny’.

When Marcus suggested we go to the grandstand, I said, ‘I’m going to place my own bet, Marcus, for luck. Let me catch you up.’

I had spotted a photographer friend, one of those people who know Absolutely Everything and Everyone.

Marcus sighed. ‘If you insist.’ He put his hand in his
pocket. ‘Put two bob on the favourite for me. I’ll see you in the grandstand.’

I chose a bookmaker called Willie Price, a rotund, cheerful fellow with a face the colour of a strawberry. A tall, well-built young man, his clerk, stood on an upturned box beside him, signalling to someone further along the course. Boldly, I wagered a guinea to win, with a shilling each way on Little Marten for Marcus.

‘Kate!’ The voice came from behind me. Good. I had allowed my newspaper photographer friend to spot me first.

‘Len, hello!’

Len Diamond and I have been on good terms since he came to talk to my local photographic society about his work. He is the most talented photographer I know, and I suppose that is why I snootily put him in the category of friend rather than acquaintance. ‘Shouldn’t you be down by the course, waiting to snap the winner?’

He winked, which I was never sure was intentional or a nervous twitch. ‘Oh I will be. But you know my love for taking candid pictures. We have a minor royal here today as well as the usual creamy crop.’ Even as he talked to me, his eyes flitted about. When he gave his talk at the society, he said how he liked to capture his subject unawares. I supposed that a great coup for him would be to snap a pickpocket in action.

‘Who do you have your eye on today?’

‘You know me, Kate. Can’t keep away from the great, the good and the bad, especially the bad. We’ve a fellow from New York here today, fits the last category nicely, a so-called businessman.’

‘Not the man in the grey top hat?’

‘That’s what I like about you. We’re two of a kind. Never miss a trick.’

‘Who is he?’

‘His name is Hartigan. He’s a Leeds chap from Irish stock, taken to New York by an aunt and uncle as a child. He’s supposedly here to visit family whom he hasn’t seen since he wore short pants, doubtless with his bum hanging out. Meet me in the Lloyds one day and I’ll tell you all about him.’

‘Tell me now. He’s a good-looking fellow. Nice to hear he’s all heart.’

With a frown of concern, Len said, ‘Don’t even think about it, Kate. Word from my chum on Fleet Street is that Hartigan was arrested for a vicious murder, in broad daylight, on a New York streetcar. Shot a love rival through the heart. But the police and the courts couldn’t make it stick. Not a single witness stayed around to tell the tale.’

‘And who is the man with him, the Scot?’

Len smiled broadly. ‘Oh he’s all right. Produces the second best malt whisky in Scotland. What’s the betting he’ll be travelling home with a big order to ship to Canada, and it will mysteriously find its way across the border into America.’

So my Sherlockian deduction had been right. I smiled indulgently, and ventured a change of tack. ‘Hartigan and his chum are putting their money on the same horse as me.’

Len raised an eyebrow. ‘Go on then.’

‘Flint Jack.’

‘Thanks for the tip. Given that money finds its way
home, I shall put my tanner on Flint Jack. Now can I give you a tip?’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘There’s a sculptor in the grandstand, Rupert Cromer.’

‘I’ve seen his work. He had an exhibition last year.’

As he moved away, Len called, ‘If you come up trumps on your horse, buy something from him. It’ll be the best investment you ever make.’

I caught up with Marcus in the grandstand. As he handed me a glass of champagne, he whispered, ‘I can relax now, Kate, and pay you the attention you deserve.’

From that I understood that he had handed over the observations to someone else, probably the race card seller. I whispered in reply. ‘Your man in the grey top hat and his distiller friend completed their deal then?’

Marcus frowned. ‘Who? What deal?’

I took a sip of champagne and lowered my voice to a whisper that an onlooker might mistake for a lover’s intimacies. ‘Hartigan and the distiller. I assume that’s why the Americans want you to watch him, to prevent the importation of naughty drinks.’

Marcus tensed. ‘How did you work that out?’

I tapped my lips. ‘Don’t worry. Sealed.’

He sighed. ‘This is very sensitive. We have members of both Houses of Parliament with strong interests in distilleries who don’t want to discourage sales. The message we want to send back across the Atlantic is that the gentleman in question came here solely to visit his family.’

‘And has he visited them?’

‘Not yet.’

And of course, no police force in the country would want Hartigan back on British soil permanently.

We wandered to the balcony, and that was where I spotted a familiar face, Philippa Runcie. I caught her off guard in a look of such sadness that it brought me up short. Philippa is an American, a golden girl, who was sponsored by my aunt for her London season in 1913. She made what was supposed to be a dream match: American money and British aristocracy. She married the most eligible man in London, some said in England, the suave and charming Everett Runcie.

And there he was, but not beside his wife. Everett Runcie, still good-looking as he approached fifty, stood a little way off from Philippa. He was chatting to his long-term mistress, Caroline Windham, universally known by her nickname of the Viking Queen. They were with Rupert Cromer, the sculptor, whom I knew only from his photograph. Runcie and Caroline Windham were laughing at something Cromer said.

BOOK: A Woman Unknown
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