Secrets of the Lost Ledgers (The Glass Library #5)

Chapter 9

O ur acquaintance with Thurlow hadn’t ended when his men tried to run our vehicle off the road. When his girl left him, he blamed us—quite rightly, as it turned out. He’d retaliated by attempting to hire Francis Stray, Gabe’s very intelligent but na?ve mathematician friend. We’d convinced him Francis would be useless to him. With that plan falling flat, Gabe expected Thurlow to strike again, hence his drive to capture him before he had the chance. It seemed to have turned into an obsession, however. It remained to be seen if the obsession was blinding Gabe to the truth.

It wasn’t race day at Epsom, but there was still a lot of activity at the racecourse. Mentioning Scotland Yard got us past the security guard at the entrance, and we headed straight for the betting circle. It was empty, except for a lad in overalls picking up scraps of paper from the grass. Unhappy punters must have torn up their betting slips and left them there during the previous day’s midweek race meeting.

Gabe rested his elbows on the barrier alongside the track and watched a horse being put through its paces. Two men also watched on. One called the jockey over after he crossed the finish line.

Alex leaned back against the fence beside Gabe, facing Willie and me. “There are a number of people we can question here today. We should get started.”

Gabe gave no response, he simply stared directly ahead at the track.

Alex pushed off from the fence and strode past me. He stopped out of earshot of Gabe and signaled for Willie and me to join him. “This isn’t like Gabe. I’ve never known him to become fixated like this. He’s usually so affable.” He cast a worried look in Gabe’s direction, then suddenly turned to me. “Say something to him, Sylvia.”

“Why me?”

Willie clamped her hands on her hips. “Yes, why her?”

“Because he listens to Sylvia more than either of us.”

“He listens to me!”

“No, he doesn’t.”

She watched Gabe, his back to us, his head slightly bowed. After a moment, she blew out a breath. “All right. Speak to him, Sylv. But no touching. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And don’t make eyes at him.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“Good. Keep it that way.” She crossed her arms. “Speak up so we hear every word you say.”

I didn’t intend to follow her last rule. Some conversations were meant to be private.

I joined Gabe at the fence where he leaned his forearms on the rail, his hands loosely clasped. The thumb of one hand lightly tapped the knuckle of the other. With Willie watching on, I resisted the urge to cover his hand.

There were a number of ways to begin, but I suspected he’d appreciate the direct approach. “You know it’s unlikely to be Thurlow. He would have been quite young then.”

Gabe straightened and pressed his lips together. I thought I was about to receive the same silent treatment as Alex, but then he relaxed. He didn’t look at me, however. Indeed, he looked everywhere except at me. “I know. But it could be him.”

“It could be. But you seem to want it to be him.”

The thumb tapping increased its tempo.

“Gabe…is it because he seems to be targeting you?”

The thumb tapping stopped. He finally looked at me, frowning. “It’s not because he targeted me. It’s because he’s targeting you .”

I blinked slowly. “Me?”

“Yes. He had no reason to approach you at the library, but he did. He flirted with you. And the way he looks at you…I don’t like it.” He dragged a hand over his hard jaw before turning away. “He’s dangerous, and I want him out of our lives.”

I dared to touch his arm. It was rigid with tension. “You can’t let him get under your skin, Gabe, or you’ll never rest.”

“I’m trying not to…”

I took his hand in mine, risking Willie’s ire. When I felt Gabe’s tension ease, I was glad I’d risked it. “I hate seeing you like this.”

He tilted his head to peer at me with eyes as fathomless as the ocean.

I removed my glove and took his hand. It made mine feel small, delicate. “Don’t let Thurlow win.”

He drew my hand to his chest. “I don’t plan to.”

“All right, you two, that’s enough!” Willie marched towards us. “We need to get to work and question folk. Where do we start?”

Gabe nodded at the horse that had finished its run. The jockey dismounted and the two men watching on fell into a deep discussion. “With people who look old enough to have been here in the early nineties. Like them.”

The jockey spoke to the two older men while one of them inspected the horse’s left foreleg. He’d been carrying a large brown leather bag, so I assumed he was a veterinarian.

Gabe set off in their direction, but Alex called him back. “Look who’s here.”

We followed Alex’s gaze to the man striding past the betting circle, his gaze cast down as he watched where he was stepping. He carried a newspaper under his arm and there was a stump where his hand should be.

What was Fred Laidlow doing here on a non-racing day?

Gabe called out and Fred stopped. He blinked in surprise. “Hello. What are you doing here?”

“Our investigation led us to Epsom,” Gabe admitted. “And you?”

“I’m meeting a friend who works here. We’re having a drink together when he finishes.”

“Don’t you have work?”

“Not since this.” Fred rubbed the stump.

“What happened?”

“An accident in the factory where I worked. They employed me in the office afterwards, but I had no talent for numbers and reports. I spend a lot of time here, nowadays.”

“You like to have a flutter on the horses?”

Fred glanced uneasily between Gabe and Alex. “I do, but I don’t have a problem, if that’s what you mean. I don’t have debts.”

Gabe put up his hands in surrender. “Sorry. Nosiness comes with our job. I don’t mean to pry.”

I was quite sure he did mean to, but his friendly manner put Fred at ease.

“Was Daniel a gambler?” Gabe asked.

Fred hesitated before nodding. “Don’t tell the girls that I told you, but yes.”

“We spoke to a former colleague of Daniel’s, at Harrods. He said Daniel took his dismissal badly, perhaps because he was in debt. Do you know anything about that?”

“We weren’t close. He didn’t confide in me. If he was in debt then, his fortunes certainly reversed shortly afterwards. As I said, he seemed to have quite a bit of money at his disposal. The girls and I assumed he got a new job, but neither he nor Rosina mentioned it. Although the sisters were close, Daniel and the girls never got on. They made some unhelpful comments when he lost his position at Harrods—saying he was hopeless, that sort of thing—so when his fortunes turned around, he enjoyed lording it over them. He made a point of showing off a new piece of jewelry he’d bought Rosina, or a new toy for the children.”

“But that all stopped before he died? You said they became reclusive right before Rosina disappeared.”

“I don’t know if the money stopped coming in, but they changed. They stopped calling on us altogether, then Rosina and the children suddenly left.”

“You think she left him? Not that he hid them? That’s not what you said yesterday.”

He winced. “I didn’t like to say it in front of the girls. Myrtle is adamant Rosina wouldn’t have left without telling them.”

“And Naomi? What does she think?”

“She thinks whatever Myrtle thinks. Myrtle has a strong will. She dominates her youngest sister.”

I wondered if she dominated her husband, too.

Fred tugged the sleeve of his jacket, covering the stump. “May I ask how your investigation led you here?”

“We’re looking for people who may have had links to Epsom when Daniel was still alive. Trainers, jockeys, officials.”

“Farriers, stable hands,” Alex added.

Fred shrugged, not seeming to notice that he didn’t receive an answer to his question. “I’d say there were dozens. Can you be more specific? I might know them.”

“Did Daniel mention anyone to you? Perhaps he gave you the name of a horse to bet on, a sure thing, or a trainer or jockey to watch.”

Fred adjusted the newspaper under his arm. “It was a very long time ago. I’m not sure I can remember.”

“Try. He was your brother-in-law, after all. We assume you want to find out who killed him.”

“ If he was killed. The coroner’s report stated he died of natural causes.”

Gabe simply waited.

Fred blew out a breath, then nodded at the two men still talking to the jockey and assessing the horse. “You can start with Charles Goreman.”

Goreman! According to Daniel’s ledger, he was one of the jockeys being paid by the mysterious bookmaker.

“He used to be a jockey in those days, and only became a trainer after a bad fall,” Fred went on. “Daniel would sometimes tell me not to bet on one of Goreman’s rides. I never asked why, but he was never wrong.”

“Did you link Daniel’s tip-offs to his newfound wealth?”

Fred shrugged a shoulder. “I never asked where the money came from.”

It wasn’t the same as not linking the two, but Gabe didn’t point that out. “What about as a trainer? Does Goreman still cheat?”

“Cheat how?”

“Doping, perhaps.”

Fred glanced towards the two men, deep in conversation. “Not that I’m aware.”

“Do his horses win a lot?”

“He wins some, he loses some.” Fred shrugged.

“Do you know a man named Ferryman?” Alex asked. “He was a farrier.”

“No.”

“What about bookmakers?” Gabe asked. “Are there any still working the totes here that Daniel may have known then?”

“No.”

“Surely there’s one or two.”

“Maybe there is, but I’m afraid I don’t know. Look, I have to go. My friend is waiting.”

“Does the name Thurlow mean anything to you?”

“No.” Fred touched the brim of his hat in farewell then went on his way.

Gabe grunted. “He’s lying. Thurlow all but owns this betting circle. If Fred’s a regular here, then he must know him.”

“That ain’t the only lie he told.” Willie wasn’t watching the retreating figure of Fred Laidlow. She was looking at Charles Goreman and the veterinarian. “Goreman is a very successful trainer. I’ve heard of him. There ain’t no way a regular gambler would say ‘he wins some, he loses some.’”

Gabe and Alex both nodded. “I’ve heard of him, too, and I rarely gamble,” Gabe said.

“So, what’s Fred covering up?” I asked. “His involvement in Daniel’s death? Or just the fact he has a gambling problem and doesn’t want his wife to know?”

“We should talk to Goreman,” Willie went on. “All his success probably means he’s up to no good. What’s the name of that farrier magician, Gabe?”

“Reggie Ferryman.”

“And the cocaine dealer, Alex?”

“Arthur Cody.”

“Let’s introduce ourselves to Mr. Goreman and his friend.”

Gabe’s gaze followed Fred Laidlow as he headed into the nearby bar. On race day, it was packed with rowdy drinkers, celebrating their wins or drowning their misery after losing, but today it looked innocuous. I thought Gabe might go after Fred, but instead he agreed with Willie.

“Follow my lead,” he said, striding in the direction of the two men inspecting the horse.

Alex fell into step alongside him. “Not if you target Thurlow.”

Gabe greeted Mr. Goreman amiably, shaking his hand and introducing himself, not as a Scotland Yard consultant, but as the son of India Glass.

Mr. Goreman knew the name. “Lady Rycroft? Remarkable woman. You must be the son who claims to be artless.”

Only someone who knew Gabe well would have seen the tightening around his eyes. “I am artless. Don’t believe everything you read in the newspapers.” He smiled, oh-so charming. “I’m conducting some research for my mother, as it happens. She asked me to find out more about the emergence of magic in the early nineties, specifically relating to the racing industry in 1891.”

“Ah, yes, such a strange time, very chaotic there for a while until things calmed down.” Mr. Goreman was the same height as me, with ruddy cheeks and a bulbous nose. His bowler hat and smart pin-striped suit reminded me of the men who worked in the financial hub of the city. The hat brim wasn’t large enough to keep the sun off his nose, and it glowed from exposure. “Why is Lady Rycroft interested in the racing industry? I’m not sure I see the connection to magic.”

“We’re trying to find out if there is one, and thought perhaps you could shed some light on what was occurring at Epsom Downs at the time.”

Mr. Goreman still looked confused. “Why me?”

“A friend told us you were a jockey here in ‘91.”

Mr. Goreman looked past us. “Who?”

Gabe cleared his throat and extended his hand to the second man, a much taller, thinner fellow with an energy about him. He shook Gabe’s hand vigorously. As Gabe introduced us, he shook each of our hands with a firm grip. He introduced himself as Mr. Wellington, a veterinarian.

“Did you work at Epsom back then?” Gabe asked him.

His nod was as vigorous as the rest of his movements. “I’m here most race days. Mr. Goreman isn’t my only client, but he is my favorite.”

“He means I pay him the most, because I have the largest stable.” The two men chuckled.

Gabe smiled, too. “Have either of you ever come across magicians working in the racing industry?”

“Magicians?” Mr. Wellington repeated. “Why would magicians be involved in racing? They manufacture things.”

“Farriers, for example,” Gabe said.

Mr. Wellington shook his head, but Mr. Goreman looked thoughtful. “There was a farrier, as it happens. He was employed by Epsom Downs before anyone knew magicians existed. Before we artless knew, that is. Reggie Ferryman, his name was.”

“He no longer works here?” Gabe asked.

“Lord, no. They got rid of him when the race manager suspected he was using his magic in the horseshoes. Only for those trainers or owners who paid for the privilege, of course. There’s no place for cheats like that in this industry.” Mr. Goreman’s speech became quite vociferous. “Fortunately, he was the only magician employed in the industry.”

“The only one you know about,” Alex said.

“What happened to Reggie Ferryman?” Gabe asked. “Did he find employment in private stables after being dismissed from here?”

“I’m not sure where he ended up. He was banned from the racing industry altogether. Poor fellow, when you think about it. It wasn’t his fault he was a magician.”

“It was his fault that he used his magic to cheat,” Alex pointed out.

“We don’t know for certain if he did.”

“You were a jockey then,” Gabe went on. “How well did you know Reggie Ferryman?”

“Not at all well.”

“What about you, sir?”

Mr. Wellington shook his head. “I never met the man, although the name does ring a distant bell.”

Gabe turned back to the former jockey. “Do you know anyone who may have paid him to use his spell on the horseshoes he made?”

“No. I had nothing to do with the farriers. I only dealt with the trainers and grooms.”

“What about bookmakers?”

“Pardon?”

“Did bookmakers approach you and ask you to lose on purpose?”

Mr. Goreman bristled. “They asked. I refused. Mr. Glass, is there a point to that question?”

Gabe wisely changed the subject. If we wanted to find out the name of the bookmaker who paid Mr. Goreman, we’d have to be smarter. He wasn’t going to simply admit it and potentially ruin his reputation in the process. “Did you know a man named Arthur Cody?”

“Oh, yes, I remember him. Nasty piece of work. He used to inject the horses with a cocaine concoction. He was arrested a few years ago and died in prison.”

Mr. Wellington had been listening quietly, but his face became animated, twisting with revulsion. “I hope he’s rotting in hell.”

“You knew him well?” Gabe asked.

“He worked as a groom for one of the trainers who wasn’t one of my clients at the time but is now. I didn’t hear about the doping until Cody was arrested.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe he got away with it for as long as he did. Such a cruel way to treat magnificent animals. I’m glad the politicians finally limited the importation and sale of cocaine, but sadly it isn’t going to stop doping in this industry. As long as it makes someone money, it will continue.”

“What was the name of the trainer Cody worked for?” Gabe asked.

“Arlington.”

“You should speak to him,” Mr. Goreman added.

The vet frowned at him. “Why? What does he have to do with magic and the racing industry?”

Mr. Goreman shrugged. “You’ll find him at Yew Tree Lodge on Derby Stables Road. Don’t tell him I sent you. He’ll accuse me of trying to start trouble.”

Mr. Wellington sighed. “I have another appointment. If you’ll excuse me.”

Mr. Goreman also made his excuses, but Gabe asked him to stay. “I just have one more question.” He waited until the vet was out of earshot, before asking the trainer once again about bookmakers. “I asked you earlier if a bookmaker approached you when you were a jockey, offering you money to throw races.”

Mr. Goreman’s cheeks flushed, turning as red as his nose. “And I told you, I never threw a race.”

“We know that’s not true.”

Mr. Goreman’s jaw worked furiously. His nostrils flared. He looked like a kettle boiling on the stove.

Gabe’s charm wouldn’t work now, but he tried a calming tone anyway. “Whatever you say to us will remain a secret. We don’t want you. We want the bookmaker who paid you.”

“How is this related to magic?” When Gabe didn’t respond, Mr. Goreman grunted. “This is outrageous. Don’t you know who I am?” He jabbed a stubby finger into his chest. “I am the greatest trainer outside the royal stables!”

“You weren’t a very good jockey, though. You lost more races than you won. Did you lose on purpose? Did you take payments from a bookmaker who ordered you to lose?”

Mr. Goreman drew himself up to his full height, but given he was short and squat the effect was somewhat comical. “I will not listen to this slander.”

Willie grunted. “I reckon you got it wrong, Gabe. I reckon he lost because he wasn’t a very good jockey.”

“I could have won a lot more races.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“I… I have nothing more to say.” Mr. Goreman stormed off towards the main gate.

Willie swore under her breath. “He was so close to admitting it.”

“What do we do now?” I asked. “Wait for Cyclops to give us the address where Arthur Cody lived at the time of his arrest?”

Gabe nodded at the grand pavilion overlooking the racetrack. “We speak to the manager and ask him for an address for Mr. Ferryman, the farrier magician. Even if he left years ago, they should have a record of him.”

The flags on top of the roof were still today and there were no liveried staff on duty at the veranda to keep the riffraff out, unlike on race day. Gabe and Alex headed inside to speak to the manager, while Willie and I remained outside. She sat on one of the chairs on the shady veranda, stretched out her legs, and tipped her cowboy hat over her eyes. Moments later, her snore could have woken the dead; but, somehow, she didn’t wake herself up. So much for keeping a lookout for potential kidnappers.

I yawned but didn’t succumb to the lethargy brought on by the afternoon’s heat. I wouldn’t have slept anyway. My mind wouldn’t completely rest in a place that could be the hub of the bookmaker’s operation.

I was not too surprised when I spotted a man I’d never wanted to see again. The wiry figure of Thurlow stalked past, flanked by his two burly bodyguards, with two more of his men behind. I went very still so as not to draw attention to myself. Thankfully Willie was asleep. It was the only way to ensure her silence.

Thurlow didn’t see us, even when he stopped not far away from the pavilion steps. He was focused on the ladies approaching from the main gate. They weren’t the usual sort of women who buzzed around Thurlow like flies. They were elegantly dressed in the latest fashions more suited to drawing rooms than the gambling houses where Thurlow liked to spend his days. Both were tall and slim, their comportment suggesting many years of expensive classes. With their straight backs to the pavilion and large hat brims drawn down, I couldn’t see their faces, but I had a dreadful feeling I knew them.

After a brief conversation with Thurlow, both women suddenly turned around and hurried off, their pace quick for women dressed in long, close-fitting skirts.

It was Mrs. Hobson and her daughter Ivy, Gabe’s former fiancée. They didn’t see me as they walked away.

Thurlow, however, did.