Chapter 30
What May Happen in Bath
“I had no more discoveries to make than you …”
Jane Austen, Persuasion
The King’s Swan was a modest pub, filled with working men. The weather remained clear, so Goutier and Tauton had claimed a table in the yard. When Adam arrived, they had a pitcher and several pewter pint pots in front of them, along with the remains of some cold roast beef and bread.
“And now he comes.” Tauton kicked out a stool he’d been keeping under the table. “Sit, Harkness, and tell us what’s the to-do.”
Adam sat and reached for the pitcher. Goutier pushed over a—presumably clean—pint pot so he could pour out some beer for himself.
While his former colleagues listened, Adam told them what had happened—how Clara Kinsdale had come to ask Rosalind’s help in discovering the truth about Mrs. Sylvia Lynn, how Miss Smith had appeared so quickly afterward.
He told them about the invitation to the home of Sir Anthony for an “evening of supper and cards with a few select friends.” How Admiral Walsingham had arrived to object to Sir Anthony’s plan to evict himself and his wife from the house they had leased.
How the small card party had turned out to be anything but that.
He detailed the presence of the faro bank and the money lenders, and the guests supplied by that same Mrs. Lynn.
He told them how Sir Anthony was found dead in his garden the next morning, and how word came that Admiral Walsingham also now lay dead in the cellars of the City police station.
Goutier leaned back against the yard’s wooden fence and whistled. “And what’s Layng got to say about all this?”
“I’ll wager not much,” put in Tauton. “Layng keeps his appointment as coroner by making sure any and all unpleasantness is found to have some simple answer and is tidied away as quick as may be.”
“He’s given me until tomorrow to find a witness,” Adam told them.
“What I’ve got instead is a houseful of servants who have scattered themselves to the four winds, and I’m not sure I could get all their names by next Lady Day, let alone before tomorrow afternoon.
Then there’s these two pleasant gents who were acting as moneylenders to that gaming crowd.
God alone knows where they’ve got themselves to.
Then there’s the three good ladies who have lost their father.
If the looks they’ve been giving to each other were any dirtier we’d have to send them out with the week’s washing. ”
“Well, what a good thing you’ve got us to lend a hand,” said Goutier. “And your Miss Thorne. We can leave the ladies and their dirty looks to her, I daresay.”
“I’ll start on the coffeehouses,” said Tauton. “If there’s anyone in this city willing to lend out half a crown, they’ll know about it there.”
“And I’ve a mind to take myself round to the stables,” said Goutier. “Since you tell us there’s some lads there who know a thing or three about the late Sir Anthony’s business.”
Despite himself, Adam felt a smile forming. “Aren’t you both supposed to be clearing out Bath’s pickpockets ahead of race week?”
“No place like a coffeehouse to find your most hardened members of the criminal classes,” said Tauton with a perfectly straight face. “Almost as good as a gin shop.”
“And I need to go out to the racecourse to get the lay of the land and see where our cutpurses are likely to be lurking on race day,” said Goutier, his face as serious as Tauton’s. “Otherwise how am I supposed to know where best to station our constables?”
“Well,” said Adam, carefully matching his friend’s gravity. “If you don’t mind, Goutier, I’ll come with you to the stables. I’ve an idea that it would be good to have a look at the famous Kinsdale’s Pride and make sure the horse hasn’t suffered the fate of the master.”
Goutier procured them a couple of saddle horses from the City police, and he and Adam rode up the sloping road to Lansdown.
When they got to the racecourse, they found a hive of activity.
Workmen were everywhere, erecting the grandstands and setting up the posts that would mark the racecourse.
Mingling with the workmen were dozens of gentlemen in their high hats and summer coats.
And then there were the horses. These were not the sturdy, patient animals that filled the city streets pulling vans and cabs, or even the tough, canny, country animals Adam had learned to ride.
These were tall, delicate creatures with gleaming hides and flowing manes and legs as slender as a deer’s.
They came in every color from the brightest white through shining copper to midnight black.
Several exercise yards had been marked off between the racecourse and the stables. Grooms and trainers and riders put the animals through their paces, or led them to and fro.
When Goutier stopped one of the grooms to ask about Kinsdale’s Pride, the man rolled his eyes and called over his shoulder. “Foote! Another one for you and that bag of bones!”
“Pay him no mind, gents.” A broad man swaggered up to them.
His skin was deep brown, and his tightly curled hair had gone almost entirely gray.
His hands were thick and calloused, and he’d rolled up his sleeves to expose his muscled forearms. He looked like he could have wrestled any man to the ground, including Goutier.
“Charlie Foote at your service.” He bowed.
“And Kinsdale’s Pride is the finest animal on the turf today.
You’ve a letter from Sir Anthony, I’ll assume?
Very particular he is about who comes to see Kinsdale’s Pride when he’s not about.
Jealous lot around here. Threats have been made to try to keep her out of the race. ” He nodded seriously.
“We’ve no letter,” Adam said. “Sir Anthony died last night.”
Foote froze. “’S truth. What did for him?”
“Fell out a window,” said Goutier.
If anything, Foote looked even more stunned. “Fell, is it? Last night? You sure?”
“I saw the body,” said Adam.
Foote cursed, at length and with impressive originality. “Well, God rest him I’m sure,” he concluded, finally. “Have you brought my money?”
“What money?” asked Goutier.
“What I’m owed for taking care of his horse!” cried Foote. “And all his guests, not to mention dealing with the madmen he sends my way!”
“Madmen?” said Adam.
“Just yesterday, fellow came up here, demanding to see Kinsdale’s Pride and Sir Anthony and I don’t know what all.”
“Did he wear a naval coat?” asked Adam.
“That he did, sir,” said Foote, much more stiffly. It was clearly sinking in that he probably was not going to get paid at all, and this was occupying much of his mind. “Tall fellow, not young anymore, yellow hair. Bellowed like he meant it to carry all the way to London.”
Goutier and Adam exchanged a long look.
“Look, what about the pay I been promised?” interrupted Foote. “I’ve kept up my end this last fortnight, and I want what I’m owed.”
“We’ll do what we can,” Goutier assured him. “But we need to know what happened here.”
“Why?” Foote shot back.
“Because Sir Anthony might have been helped out that window,” Goutier told him. “And this big bloke with the yellow hair and the naval coat might have had something to do with it.”
“’S truth,” muttered Foote again. “Look, I don’t want trouble here.”
“No trouble’s coming,” said Adam. “At least, not that I know of. But it would help if we could see the horse.”
A dozen expressions flickered across Foote’s face, but at last he turned and started trudging toward the long rows of wooden stables.
“Why so glum, Foote?” called one of the grooms they passed. “Somebody finally figure out you’ve got a hound in there rather than a horse?”
“Skinned rabbit, more like,” quipped another.
Foote made a rude gesture toward the wits, but didn’t break stride.
Inside, the stables smelled strongly of warm horses and dry hay.
Adam had seen whole families of laborers sleep in spaces smaller, and far meaner, than the horse boxes here.
Most of the boxes were empty. Adam supposed the animals were out for their exercise.
The last box, however, held a delicate dapple-gray mare.
She was munching her hay with a distracted air, and barely seemed to notice Foote when he brought them up to the door.
Adam was not by any means an expert when it came to horses, but he had cared for them and rode frequently.
This was not a horse he’d pick out for himself, and compared to the gleaming, spirited creatures out in the exercise yards, she looked like what she really needed was a quiet pasture and a good feed.
She’d make a decent saddle horse for a child or a nervous rider, perhaps, but a racing horse?
In a dead sprint, he’d probably be able to beat her himself.
It was easy to tell Goutier was thinking something similar.
“Finest animal on the turf?” Goutier cocked a brow toward Foote.
“Not her fault,” said Foote stoutly. “Nor is it mine. I was told to talk her up to the gents who came with Sir Anthony or with a note from him. Was told I’d be paid handsome for my trouble after the sweepstakes.” He gave them both a pointed look.
Adam ignored it. “Were there many lookers?” he asked.
Foote nodded. “All sorts. London gents mostly.”
“London?” echoed Goutier.
“That’s right. Steady stream of ’em. The sort that comes for the waters, and what have you.” The set of his brow and the sly shift in tone spoke volumes about what that “what have you,” might entail.
“Didn’t you wonder what was going on?” asked Goutier curiously.
Foote shrugged. “I’d a bargain with Sir Anthony, and no one was asking me to hurt the poor creature. Believe me, there’s some come here an’ ask you to do something they wouldn’t dare themselves, and think that you will for a pound note and a word on the sly.”
“And you told the lookers what you told us?” said Goutier. “That Kinsdale’s Pride was the finest animal on the turf?”
“That, and a bit extra, depending on how long they stood about.”
“And they believed you?” asked Adam.
Foote laughed. “You’d be surprised what those London gents will believe.
Not one in twenty of the men Kinsdale trotted up here knew a horse from a hole in the ground.
All they wanted was odds and was she going to win by a nose or a length or what have you.
Slipping me money on the sly for my predictions.
” He stopped. “Not that I made no promises,” he added.
“’Course not,” said Goutier. “They asked, you answered, that’s all.”
“That’s right,” said Foote.
“Now what about the admiral?” asked Adam.
“Admiral?” echoed Foote. “Is that what the yellow-haired bloke is?”
“Was,” said Goutier. “He’s dead, too.”
“’S truth! He fall out a window as well?”
“Shot, I’m afraid,” said Adam.
“God save us! Did they catch who did it?”
“That’s what we’re after,” said Adam. “And they knew each other, the admiral and Sir Anthony.”
Foote’s jaw worked itself back and forth for a long moment. “Who’s going to take charge of Pride now?”
“I imagine one of Sir Anthony’s daughters,” said Adam. “Did they ever come out here?”
“Not that I saw,” said Foote. “There was the merry widow, but no daughters.”
“Dark-haired lady, well-dressed, by name of Mrs. Lynn?”
“That’s right. Knew more about horses than any of the chaps she brought with her.”
He clearly had more to say, but some slight motion made Adam’s gaze flicker toward the door. Habit made him look toward the ground. There, he saw a person’s long shadow stretching out just past the threshold.
Someone was standing there, just out of sight. Standing and, more likely than not, listening.
Adam gently elbowed Goutier. Goutier followed his gaze and spotted the shadow at once. Foote realized something was up, and his words faltered. Adam motioned for the men to keep talking.
“So, what was it Sir Anthony promised you?” prompted Goutier.
“Wasn’t him. Was the widow,” Foote told him. “Says I’ll be paid twenty-five pound, direct after the race, whether the horse won or not. Gave me a guinea on account and a promise for the rest.”
Adam listened with half an ear, but his attention was fixed on the shadow.
Moving slowly, he skirted the boxes, making sure to keep himself out of the light.
Behind him, Goutier kept Foote talking. Foote detailed the promises he’d been given, the people he’d seen, because it was men and women both who’d traipsed up the hill to see the famous horse he said, and the sneers from the other grooms who couldn’t fathom why Foote would take on such a job for any money.
Adam stopped on the near side of the open door. He beckoned to Foote to come stand behind him. The groom moved as quietly and carefully as Adam had. Adam looked to Goutier, and gestured toward the door. Goutier nodded his understanding, and strolled right out the door.
“All right, my man, what’re—” he began.
He didn’t get any further. The man, whoever he was, bolted like a startled rabbit. Goutier lunged for him and got hold of his coat collar, but the man let his knees buckle and Goutier, already off balance, stumbled and the man tore himself free and hared off down the slope.
Goutier spat and cursed. “Well, Harkness, if you wanted to know if the man was spying on us, you should have your answer now.”
“Did you see him?” Adam asked Foote. “Know who he was?”
“Not as such,” said Foote. “He’s one of the ones who hang about, looking for a day’s work. Made use of him, here and there, mucking out the stables and such. Caleb, I think he said his name was. Wonder what it was spooked him so badly?”
That, thought Adam, was a very good question.