Free The Price of Murder by Bruce Alexander Page A

attended all his races.”
    “He recognized me then, did he?” said Walter Hogg. He seemed as pleased as could be to hear it. “Let me tell you, I’ve won a good bit, putting my money on him.”
    At that I could not but laugh. When asked why, I told him that indeed, Mr. Plummer had also said something of the sort.
    Mr. Hogg let out a whoop of delight and then cackled. “He said that, did he? Imagine it, would you!” Then, rather inappropriately, he asked, “You said you was an apprentice. What line of work you apprenticing to?”
    I thought it an odd question, coming from him, but I saw no reason to lie or evade. “I’m for the law,” said I.
    He seemed to be quite impressed by that. “The law, is it? A young fella like you?”
    “I won’t always be so young,” said I, quite reasonably.
    “Well, that’s true. Who’re you ’prenticing to?”
    “I’m reading law with Sir John Fielding.”
    “The Beak? The Blind Beak in Bow Street?”
    “The very same.”
    “Well, what did he want with Mr. Deuteronomy? He ain’t committed no crime, has he?”
    It was then, or perhaps just a little earlier, that it occurred to me that this man Hogg was asking too many questions. “I really couldn’t say,” said I to him. “He must have some interest in a case of Sir John’s, but I couldn’t suppose what it was.”
    He nodded and fell silent for a moment—which gave me time enough to glance up at the clock and let out a yelp of dismay.
    “Dear God,” said I, “Just look at that clock, will you?”
    “Look at it? What’s wrong with it?”
    “It’s the time. Why, I was to meet my chums ten minutes ago. They’ll be quite angry with me, I fear. Sorry, Mr. Hogg, but I fear I must be going.” I slid off the stool and began backing off toward the door.
    “Oh, oh yes. I understand. I’ll be looking for you when the races begin.”
    “Awfully good talking to you, but I must go find them now.”
    Calling to me that he understood, he waved a goodbye to me as I escaped through the door. And there I was, ready to rush cross Uxbridge whether Mr. Baker be there or not.
    Preparations for the race were much farther along. Riders were on their mounts, circling them about as they warmed them for the first heat. Those horses scheduled for later heats were walked round by their grooms. There were horses, touts, jockeys, oddsmen, bettors, and watchers quite everywhere. The level of shouting and talking had risen to a level I would not earlier have supposed to be possible. The number congregating in this corner of the Common had tripled, perhaps quadrupled, in the hour or so during which I had been inside the Elephant and Castle. How was I to find Mr. Baker in such a crowd of people? or, for that matter, Deuteronomy Plummer?
    I plunged into this great, milling mob of people and crisscrossed it a couple of times, looking for a familiar face, hoping to find one before more strangers came and added to my difficulty. Yet, as it happened, ’twas not I who was the finder, but another who found me. I recall discovering myself trapped in an unyielding knot of bettors surrounding an oddsman who shouted his numbers louder than all the rest. Since I could not move, I remained in place, listening to him chant in the manner of an auctioneer as he went down the listings on his slate. In this sense, I was reminded by him of the arcane activities of the patrons of Lloyd’s Coffee Shop in the City of London.
    I felt a hand upon my shoulder and a squeeze, at which I turned to find—not Mr. Baker, as I half-expected, but rather Constable Patley.
    “If you’re thinkin’ of putting down a wager, Jeremy,” said he to me in a voice strong enough to be heard by one and all, “you’d do well to do it with another who gives better odds. This fella just shouts the loudest.”
    There was a round of laughter at that. I joined in, but the oddsman certainly did not. As his audience fell away and began drifting off in every direction, he looked darkly