The Price of Murder (20 page)

“Uh, no, I can’t say as I did,” he replied uneasily.

“I was going to ask if you’d seen Mr. Deuteronomy with him. But of course, if you didn’t see Lord Lamford, then you couldn’t have seen Deuteronomy with him, now could you?”

“Well . . . yes, that’s good thinking on your part, Jeremy.”

I gave him a look of a certain kind. I tucked in my chin and gave him a frown. I’d meant it to seem dubious, suspicious, and it must have, for it wrung from him this confession:

“I suppose I really ought to tell you, Jeremy, old friend, that I never really made it down as far as the rail fence.”

“Oh? And how did that come about, Mr. Patley?”

“Well, you see, it’s like this,” said he, “here I was, pushing and shoving my way through this great bunch of people, and I wasn’t getting nowhere at all. But I kep’ going and looking for that woman in the plum-colored dress. Oh, I looked and looked, but I never did see anyone in a dress of such a color—and then it did come to me. Alice Plummer wasn’t in such a dress when I glimpsed her from this very chair I’m sittin’ in now. Oh no, it wasn’t plum-colored, it was blue—teal blue is what it was. All of a sudden, I was just sure of it. And it wouldn’t have done any good at all to start looking for her, for I must have let pass about a dozen or more just the little ways I’d gone.”

“Oh,” said I, “I must have let twice that number go by.”

“Well, there you are,” said he. “It’s an altogether common sort of dress in a common sort of color.”

“But I went all the way down there for no purpose at all, didn’t I, Mr. Patley?”

He hesitated for a long moment. “I wouldn’t say it was for no purpose at all,” said he.

“Oh? And how is that, sir?”

“At least we know she’s here in Newmarket, don’t we?”

 
When the knock came upon the door, I bounded out of bed, ready to greet the day, even though a glance out the window gave proof that it must still be night. I had asked that I be knocked up at five. Had they made it four just to give me an early start? No matter, though, whatever the hour, I was well awake and ready for the day. I gave Patley a shake and received only groaning mumbles for my trouble. Ah well, let him sleep, if sleep he must. Then did I empty my bladder and begin my morning ritual—taking care to wash well and to dress warmly. Yet I’d a feeling that I must leave a reminder of some sort for Mr. Patley. I gave him another shake.

“Mr. Patley,” said I, “can you hear me?”

Again the groans and the mumbles; there was, nevertheless, a sort of affirmative sound to them.

“I’m going down to the track now. If you wish to meet Mr. Deuteronomy, come down there quickly as you can. I can’t say when I’ll return. But I’ll look for you in the tap-room when I come back.”

Was all that clear to him? I hoped it was. Yet that single grunt I received in response was anything but encouraging. And so, having no better thought, I hurriedly wrote a brief note in which I said much the same thing as I had just spoken in his ear. I propped it against the candle and blew the candle out. I recall my surprise that at that moment the room was not, of a sudden, plunged into complete darkness; the dawning of a new day had begun.

Downstairs in the lobby the standing clock in the corner said that it was near half past five. Had I taken so long to wash and dress?

“Can I get a cup of coffee in the tap-room?” I asked the fellow behind the desk.

At that he barked a laugh. “At this hour? Not the least chance, I fear. The tap-room opens at seven.”

I nodded and headed for the door. There I paused and turned back to him.

“Has Mr. Deuteronomy Plummer left yet?”

“You mean the small fellow? Oh, you may be sure of it. ’Twas near an hour ago, I should say.”

Again I nodded as I threw open the door and left.

It was cold out there. I pulled up the collar of my coat and thrust my hands deep into my pockets. Starting off along the same route I had walked the day before, I thanked God for all the threats and pleas that Clarissa had used to force me to bring along the waistcoat that now kept my chest properly warm. Then did she press her entreaties on the matter of the wager, as she repeated to me her formula—“favorable odds and the right attitude”—as a sort of incantation.

Yesterday evening, as Constable Patley and I ate dinner in the tap-room, I described to him in general terms (not mentioning Clarissa) the nature of my problem. He listened, nodding, rubbing his unshaven chin, as I explained all as best I could, even repeating to him her magic formula.

“‘Favorable odds and the right attitude,’ is it?” said he. “And what might the right attitude be?”

“Prayerful,” said I.

He laughed at that, but then said that it was as good as many he had heard of.

“Do you mean I should do just as this person has asked?”

“Well now I didn’t say that, did I?” He paused, taking a moment to consider the matter. Then: “Here’s how an experienced bettor would handle the problem. First of all, if the person you describe entrusted you with money and those instructions, I’d say you had an obligation to do it just that way—with that person’s money.”

“But Mr. Patley!”

“No, hear me out, Jeremy. What an experienced bettor would do is use his own money to hedge the bet he’d made for the other person.”

“
Hedge
the bet?” said I. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you put the money on the safest bet you can make—a sure win, if there is such a thing. That way you’ve more or less insured the loss of the money bet at favorable odds. Of course, the safe bet you make to hedge the other one won’t pay near as well because everybody else will be betting him, too. But it’ll probably pay off just enough. You’ll be covered against the loss, you see?”

Indeed I did see. “It sounds to me like the only sensible way to bet.”

Patley let that stand for a moment or two, though it was clear that he was made a bit uncomfortable by it. But then did he come out with this. “Sensible it may be, but if a body was sensible, he wouldn’t be betting in the first place. Betting is, well, it’s having an inspiration. It’s having a thunderbolt hit you so that you know
this is the one!
You don’t look at the odds. You don’t worry about how the horse has done in past races. You just
know
this is the horse that’s going to win
today
!” It sounded almost like poetry the way he said it then—and perhaps it was a kind of poetry to him. But he did add: “Most of the time it’s just money thrown away when you bet like that. Ah, but once in a while it happens just the way your vision said it would—and what you’ve won is not just a bet, it’s letting you believe your life’s going to get better, that maybe you’ll win all in the end.”

I knew not quite how to take that, and so I did no more than nod and say rather timidly, “Thank you for telling me about hedging bets. That should solve the problem nicely.”

“Think nothing of it.”

We parted shortly afterward—I to our room, where I read myself to sleep, and he to join the group at the bar, men who, like us, had come up from London. I marveled at his endurance, yet then reminded myself that he had slept the distance from just outside London all the way to Cambridge—and I, of course, had not.

 
It was still quite gray by the time I reached the race course. Indeed, I wondered, from the look of the sky, if it might not rain that day. (It did not.) There was one man alone who stood hunched over the rail. Even from behind—perhaps specially so—I could tell that the on-looker was
not
Lord Lamford. It was not, however, till he turned round and I saw his face that I recognized him from Shepherd’s Bush on Easter Sunday, one of those who tended Pegasus following the race. I gave him a greeting and received one in return; then did I settle myself relatively near the fellow but made no attempt to question him nor start a conversation with him. We simply watched at some distance, one from the other.

What we saw surprised me somewhat, for, though at a considerable remove, Mr. Deuteronomy and Pegasus were nevertheless visible in the still-dim light. Yet the surprise was that, though the horse was saddled, the jockey led him by the reins at a slow pace that was comfortable to them both. I watched, fascinated, for he seemed to be communicating as they walked. Were his lips moving? They seemed to be; if so, he was communicating directly with Pegasus, for there was no one about at his end of the track to whom he might be speaking. Here and there he took the trouble to point things out along the way. I cannot say that the horse understood, but he certainly gave Mr. Deuteronomy his full attention. I watched them so for some minutes; then, unable to contain myself further, I put to my companion at the rail a question.

“Do my eyes deceive me,” said I, “or is Mr. Deuteronomy actually talking to Pegasus?

“Yes, that’s what he’s doing, pointing things to watch out for along the way, and where they might speed up, and so on.”

“And does the horse . . .”

“Does he understand? Yes, I’d say he does. Deuteronomy, he’s got a special talent with them animals. I never seen nothin’ like it in my life before.”

Nor had I. The question that came to me, however, was whether the “special talent” was Mr. Deuteronomy’s or the horse’s. It would be difficult to say.

“Pegasus won’t let nobody but him on his back,” said my companion. “He’ll let me lead him, saddle him, rub him down to dry him off, all of that, but I dare not sit on his back.”

“That is indeed interesting,” said I, “Mr. . . . Mr. . . .”

“Bennett. And you’d be young Mr. Proctor, I s’pose. Deuteronomy said you’d be coming by early.”

So this was the Bennett who had brought the pistol to the gunsmith Joseph Griffin. I would know what Deuteronomy had asked him. Later.

He pulled from his pocket a collapsed spy-glass and offered it to me.

“Here,” said he. “It’s getting lighter. You might want to take a look through this.”

I accepted it with thanks, opened it up, and peered through it. It only tended to confirm what my unaided eyes had suggested. Mr. Deuteronomy kept up a fairly constant chatter with Pegasus at his side. Indeed, through the spy-glass, the image of the jockey came through so plain that, were I a lip-reader, I am sure that I could have caught every word he spoke, all at a distance of a furlong or more. I wondered what he spoke. Which is to say, did Pegasus understand the King’s English, or did the two have a separate language between them? I entertained that thought, and others no less fanciful, whilst I studied the horse and the man approaching. I returned the spy-glass to Mr. Bennett just as the two arrived at our vantage point. He ducked under the rail and gave Mr. Deuteronomy a leg up that he might mount Pegasus. The jockey spoke his thanks politely to Bennett; to me, he gave only a nod. Then did the two, horse and man, start off on a tour of the course.

The first time round, and the second, they did no more than go at a trot. Then, at a signal from Mr. Deuteronomy, Pegasus sped up to a canter. It was twice round so—and then a walk, a trot, and a walk round again, this time Pegasus led round by his rider. Never once did they take the course, or any part of it, at a full gallop. But by this time, too, other horses, and their riders and trainers, had arrived. Deuteronomy signaled Bennett that it was time to go. Halfway up the hill there seemed so many horses marching down to the track that I was certain there would be a repetition of yesterday’s mob-scene in that part we had just left.

I fell in beside Mr. Deuteronomy, eager to talk, yet I saw that he was occupied by thoughts of the race, which was by then but two days hence. He signed his readiness to talk by opening the discussion himself.

“You see from this crowd of horseflesh why we got down here so early,” said he to me.

“Oh, I do indeed. Yesterday there were so many horses on the course, there was scarce any room for those entered in the race. That was in the late morning or early afternoon—sometime in there.”

“Oh, I know how it can be. I hope it clears out a bit this evening, for Pegasus needs a light workout. If it’s as bad as you say, I’ll take him out on the country roads. We have to bring him up to a peak in a couple of days, though. Not easy.”

“Still think you’ll win?” I asked.

“I haven’t seen any yet who could likely take him.”

We trudged along in silence for a fair distance, but then did I recall one of the reasons that had brought me down to the track so early in the morning. I had news for him.

“Yesterday, just after I saw you in the Good Queen Bess, we saw your sister.”

“Alice? I wasn’t just a-leading you on, now was I? Did you catch her?”

“No, she got away from us—or not that exactly. Constable Patley, who knows her by sight, saw her through the tap-room window. But by the time we got outside, she was nowhere in sight.”

“But you’re sure it was her?”

“Oh, I’m sure as long as Mr. Patley is—and he is truly sure.”

“I’d like to meet him.”

“And he’d like to meet you. There’s not much about horse racing he doesn’t know.”

“That so?”

“He was a horse soldier, he was. I hope to find him there in the tap-room, eating breakfast.”

“Hope” was the operative word in that statement, for while it was true that I hoped to find him there, I had no certainty of it. Thus was I surprised and gratified to see him there in the tap-room, just beginning what looked to be a considerable breakfast, eggs and all. I pointed him out to Mr. Deuteronomy, then ushered him over that I might introduce the two men. When Mr. Patley saw us approaching through the crowd, his mouth dropped open in surprise, and he rose in awe to accept the honor that was about to be bestowed upon him.

“Mr. Patley,” said I to him, “I have the pleasure to present to you Mr. Deuteronomy Plummer.”

He was quite speechless, so overcome that when the jockey offered him his hand, all he could do was stare down at it for an embarrassing length of time until he realized at last that Mr. Deuteronomy wished to shake hands with him. Then did he grasp it and pump the hand so hard I feared he might do it damage. Mr. Patley urged us to sit down and waved over the serving woman.