murdered.”
Lillie turned her head toward Kate, and Charles saw an unfeigned expression of gratitude sweep like a wave of color across her face. Her mouth relaxed. “Thank you,” she said quietly.
Charles, too, regarded his wife. Her eyes, meeting his, were clear and intent, her expression open, deeply sincere. Her voice and her words had been utterly uncontrived, and he could only suppose that she believed what she said.
But was Kate deceived? He could not doubt his wife’s honest perception, but he did not dare to accept what she said as the truth. And he could only pray that she would understand and forgive him for his next words, which must seem a terrible betrayal.
“You are too credulous, my dear,” he said ruthlessly. “Too readily taken in. You should cultivate skepticism among your many other talents.” He turned back to Lillie. “Mrs. Langtry, I require you to surrender your gun to me.”
Lillie’s eyes widened and she made a half-strangled noise in her throat. “My… gun? How do you know that I own such a thing?”
He had not, of course, but he knew now. If she had not possessed a gun, she would immediately have said so. He regarded her coldly. “Shall we call your servants and ask them?”
She sat for a moment in silence, as if she were deciding whether to test him. At last, she put on a little smile. “Fifteen years ago,” she said, “when I was touring in America, I often played in what were called whistle-stop towns. These were primitive places, full of rowdy, drunken men who desired nothing more fervently than to force their romantic attentions on me. I was not unprotected-a dear friend traveled with me. But as an additional precaution, my friend gave me a small, silver-handled derringer so that I might arm myself against unwanted advances. I recall being glad that I was not called upon to use it, for it is such a toy that I doubt it could do a great deal of harm.”
She rose from the sofa and went to a small table that stood in front of a window. “I have no great need of the gun here, for England is a civilized country.” Her smile was almost saucy. “When a gentleman wishes to kiss me, he asks permission first. My dear little gun is a souvenir of a time past and a reminder of a kindhearted friend, but if you insist, Lord Charles, you may take it.”
Having delivered this almost playful speech, she pulled open the table drawer with a dramatic flourish and reached inside. But within the instant, her face changed. She bent over to search the drawer, frantically pushing papers and other things about. After a moment she straightened, grave and very pale. Her mouth was trembling.
“Let me guess,” Charles said ironically, as if this were a game of charades. “Your dear little derringer is missing.”
“It was here yesterday morning-I saw it!” she cried. “One of the servants must have made off with it!”
“No doubt,” Charles said. He stood and bowed to Kate. “Your ladyship,” he murmured. “I am glad to see you well.” To Lillie, he said, “I must ask you not to leave this vicinity until after the coroner’s inquest.”
Lillie seemed to shudder. “But you can’t mean…” Her voice sharpened. “You said that the police weren’t to be involved!”
“I said that the matter will be kept out of their hands as long as possible,” Charles replied. He looked gravely at Lillie. “In the end, however, justice must be served.” He bowed again. “Ladies, I thank you. Good day.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
George Lambton remarked to an American that he supposed there were a good many rogues and thieves racing in America. “There is not one,” was the reply. “They have all come over here.”
Neck or Nothing: The Extraordinary Life and Times of Bob Sievier John Welcome
The morning’s drizzling rain had given way to a gray mist by the time Charles drove back to Newmarket and found Jack Murray waiting beneath the tower clock, a brown-paper package under his arm. Charles pulled on the reins, stopping the hired gig, and Murray climbed up onto the seat.
“ ’Afternoon, sir,” he said. The mist was beaded on his wool cap and the shoulders of his tweed coat. “Lovely weather, eh? Trust you had good hunting.”
“Better than I expected,” Charles said, lifting the reins and chirruping to the horse. “Which way are we headed?”
“North, toward Snailwell. But let’s stop under those trees up ahead, sir.” Murray put the package on the seat and took two bottles of beer out of his coat pockets. “In case you missed lunch, sir. Hot fish and chips.”
“Good man, Jack.” Charles grinned and pulled the horse under a large beech tree. While they ate, he sketched his conversations with Dr. Stubbings and Mrs. Langtry.
Murray wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Stubbings, he’s a deep one. Doesn’t like the Club and abhors racing. And Mrs. Langtry?” Both gray eyebrows went up. “Now, there’s a shocker for you. Cert’nly sounds as if she had a motive. D’you think
Before he answered, Charles thought back to what Kate had said. His wife had an intuitive understanding of what motivated people to act and what actions they might be capable of, and he had always before trusted her judgment. But Lillie Langtry was skilled at impersonations. She had carved out a place for herself in the world because she knew how to deceive-and not just on the stage, either. Thinking back on what he knew of her relationship with the Prince and others, it was clear that deception must be habitual for her. Recognizing this, did he dare to rely on Kate’s belief that Lillie Langtry was innocent of the murder? He wished that he could, but feared he could not.
“I think Mrs. Langtry is capable of killing Day,” Charles said cautiously. “But unless we recover the gun-”
He shook his head. Even if Mrs. Langtry’s derringer were found and proved to have fired the fatal bullet, it could not be conclusively proved that she had fired it. Dr. Stubbings was right. The circumstantial evidence offered by a ballistics expert would not sway an English jury, nor would fingerprint evidence, even if they were fortunate enough to secure it. In a case like this, a jury would convict only upon the testimony of an eyewitness, or a confession. And at this point, neither seemed likely.
He sighed. “What did you learn, Jack?”
Murray delivered his report succinctly, between swigs of beer and mouthfuls of fish and greasy chips. When he and Charles parted company that morning, he had gone to the Great Horse, where the owner, a burly fellow named Harold, had just flung open the doors and was airing out the place. Murray had purchased a glass of ale and led Harold into a narration of the events of the previous night. Harold had plenty to tell, and a decided opinion as to the identity of Badger’s killer.
Badger had come into the pub at his usual time, around eight-thirty, an hour prior to the evening’s scheduled entertainment-a rat-killing dog and a boxing match-which Harold described at some length. The dog was Billy Sturgeon’s celebrated terrier bitch Queenie, who set a local record by dispatching seventy rats in five minutes. Following Queenie’s triumph, the rat-pit had been quickly converted to a boxing ring and Red Roy and the Manchester Strong Man had gone twenty-two rounds. The Strong Man prevailed. Harold said that both Queenie and the Strong Man-“fair champions in a fair fight”-were toasted long and loud before the evening came to an end, while Queenie herself, regally enthroned on the bar, lapped up her customary dish of ale.
