corner of the desk, wishing that he had a better idea of the relationship between the Club and the people of the town. Horseracing might make Newmarket more prosperous, but criminals and crime inevitably accompanied that sort of prosperity. And even if crime were not an issue, there was the constant traffic, the influx of strangers, the noise and the dirt. He could not blame the local citizens if they felt an active hostility toward the Club at the same time that they enjoyed the economic benefits it brought them.
“I wonder,” Charles said without inflection, “whether you’ve finished the autopsy.”
Dr. Stubbing folded his paper and tossed it on the floor. “I’ve finished near as need be,” he said, clasping his hands over his belly. He pursed pink lips. “Alfred Day died of a bullet wound in the chest.”
“So I presumed, from the entrance wound I observed last night,” Charles said gravely. “I also noticed, when the body was placed on a stretcher to be brought here, that there was no exit wound. The bullet must have remained in the body. Did you extract it?”
The doctor swung his feet off the desk, opened a drawer, and took out a cigar case. “Didn’t bother,” he said flatly. “Somebody shot the poor bastard at close range, and that’s what I’ll tell the coroner’s inquest.” He took a cigar out of the case, closed it, and replaced it in the drawer without offering the case to Charles. “Assuming there is an inquest,” he added. “Or do the gentlemen of the Jockey Club mean to subvert the judicial inquiry as well as the police inquiry?”
Charles did not answer the question. “I’m afraid, Dr. Stubbing, that I must trouble you to extract the bullet. It might be useful in identifying the gun that fired it.”
Dr. Stubbing’s bushy white eyebrows shot up. “The bullet identify the gun?” He grunted skeptically. “You’re joking.”
Charles gave an inaudible sigh. “I’m quite serious, sir. A full decade ago, in Lyons, Professor Lacassagne was able to match the marks on the bullet to the rifling of a particular gun barrel. Last year, in Germany, Dr. Paul Jesserich matched a bullet taken from the victim’s body with a test bullet fired by a revolver belonging to one of the suspects. The testimony of both of these scientists resulted in guilty verdicts.”
“Mumbo jumbo,” Dr. Stubbing muttered, lighting his cigar. “Maybe a foreign jury can be taken in by such pseudo-scientific poppycock, but not one of our English juries. They have better sense.” He eyed Charles. “There’s never been such a case in England, I’ll wager.”
“There was one, sir,” Charles said, “about sixty years ago. But it did not go to the jury. The comparison of the bullet with the mold that formed it persuaded the murderer to plead guilty.”
The doctor harrumphed. “Well, you’re not going to get a Newmarket jury to swallow such an argument. Unless the Club puts its own men into the jury box, of course. And its own judge on the bench.” He pulled on his cigar, his voice rising bitterly. “And don’t try to tell me that won’t happen, sir. I’ve seen what money and influence have already bought in this town, and all in the name of sport.” He spit the word out. “Who’s to say the Club can’t buy justice, as well?”
Charles made no reply, because nothing he said would change the other’s mind. And at some deeper level, there was a part of him that feared that the doctor might be right, and that he himself had been inveigled by Owen North to participate in something he did not fully understand.
“You see? You yourself can say nothing in the Club’s defense!” The doctor slammed his fist on the desk. “The drunkenness, the rioting, the beatings, the assaults on our women-that’s what horseracing has brought to this town! And worse, too.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, his face twisted. “Most of the poor people waiting out there can’t afford a doctor, or medicine, or warm clothing and food for the children. They’ve been seduced into putting their last shilling on the favorite, or on the long shot, or on the dogfight. They’ll end up in the almshouse, supported by honest citizens, and all on account of that racecourse out there. Don’t talk to me about crime and criminals. The Jockey Club is the greatest criminal of all!”
Outside, the tower clock at the east end of the High Street began to chime. Charles counted as it struck eleven times. When the last note had died away, he said quietly: “Whatever moral judgments you may make on horseracing and the Club, it is of vital importance that the fatal bullet be retrieved from the dead man’s body. It is
The doctor regarded the gray tip of his cigar malevolently. “Depends on where it is,” he muttered, and applied another match.
“I understand,” Charles said. “The body is still here, then?”
“In the next room,” the doctor growled, puffing. “The mortician’s been summoned to fetch it, but he hasn’t arrived yet.”
Charles felt some relief. At least he didn’t have to go to the mortuary in search of the body-and the bullet. He stood. “While you’re completing the autopsy, I should like to examine Mr. Day’s personal effects. His clothing, and so forth. It’s all here?”
The doctor heaved himself out of his chair. He gestured toward a table in the corner. “Over there. Help yourself.” He walked heavily across the room and through a door, slamming it behind him so hard that the windows rattled.
Charles saw that when Alfred Day died, he had been wearing a bowler hat, black shoes, gray jacket and trousers, white shirt, and gray waistcoat. The shirt and waistcoat gave bloody evidence of the shooting: a bullet hole in each and a large, irregular bloodstain; a peppering of black powder burns in a three-inch circle around the hole in the waistcoat. Blood had soaked into the jacket and the front of the trousers as well, suggesting that the man had lived some moments after he was shot.
Apart from the bloodstained clothing, there seemed little else of interest. Charles found some coins, a key on a silver ring, and a penknife in the right front trouser pocket; in the right rear pocket, a few bank notes folded into a leather wallet that also contained several of Day’s calling cards; and a stub of a pencil in the jacket’s outer breast pocket, but nothing on which to write. It was only when he began to explore the waistcoat pockets that he found something of interest: a piece of delicately scented paper, folded several times and stained along one edge with the dead man’s blood.
Charles unfolded the note carefully. It was written in a flowing, expressive hand on cream- colored paper, embossed at the top with the words
Dear Mr. Day,
I don’t suppose I need tell you how disturbed I am by your letter. We must meet immediately for a private discussion. I shall be in my carriage in St. Mary’s Square at nine this evening. I beg you to be prompt so that the carriage does not attract unnecessary attention.
The note was signed with two initials, elegantly intertwined: LL.
Charles was staring at the note, considering its implications, when the doctor reentered the room, carrying in his hand a small cardboard box. He tossed it onto the table beside the clothing.
“The bullet,” he growled.
“That was quick, I must say,” Charles remarked, folding the note. He took out his pocket watch. The doctor had been out of the room for no more than three minutes, clearly not sufficient time to complete the autopsy.
“Take the bloody thing,” Dr. Stubbing snarled, “and get the devil out of here.”
Without a word, Charles pocketed the small box, the note, and the key, left the clothing lying where he had found it, and walked out of the office. Once on the street, he headed for the livery stable. If he did not want to walk to Regal Lodge, he should have to hire a gig.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
