Free Death at Rottingdean by Robin Paige Page B

beggared half the English peerage. Not Harry Tudwell, however. Patrick had overheard him telling one of the grooms that he had been clever enough to bet on the winner—but not rich enough to bet very much.
    Of all the men Patrick knew, he admired Harry Tudwell the most. Mr. Tudwell had befriended him when he was deserted by his father, had taken him fishing and taught him to shoot, and in other small ways had been a father to him. Patrick felt a strong affection for the stablemaster, believing him to be the most astutely intelligent man in the entire village, a genius, even. But Patrick’s judgment was hardly objective, and perhaps it should be said merely that Harry Tudwell’s was an entrepreneurial genius. He was not only competent in managing the stables—which required long discussions with nervous owners on acquiring, training, breeding, and disposing of valuable horses—but in a variety of other business undertakings as well. By somewhat circuitous means, he had acquired a share in Gerald Pott’s smithy, another in John Landsdowne’s chemist shop, and still another in Mrs. Howard’s dress shop. Probably, if one investigated more fully, one would have discovered Harry Tudwell’s dexterous finger in most of the pies of the village. Further, as an elected member of the Parish Council, he had supported Magnus Volk’s ambitious scheme to build the Brighton and Rottingdean Seashore Electric Railway from the Banjo Groyne to Rottingdean Gap. The railway, a quite extraordinary undertaking, was now completed. It may have been Magnus Volks’s idea, but it would never have succeeded if Harry Tudwell hadn’t talked over the Parish Council, and everybody in the village knew it and appreciated what Harry Tudwell had done for Rottingdean.
    As he always did when he reached the stables, Patrick reported directly to Mr. Tudwell. The stablemaster was sitting with his shiny boots propped up on the wooden table, reading yesterday’s London Times, which had come down to Brighton on the train and been carried to Rottingdean in the pack of a courier who brought certain other news.
    â€œGood morning, Mr. Tudwell,” Patrick said, taking off his knit cap and turning it in his hands. If he was nervous, it was with good reason. Mr. Tudwell, who knew everything that went on in the village, was bound to know about the coast guard’s death, and he might also know that Patrick had seen something he shouldn’t.
    The Times came down, but the boots stayed up. “Mornin’, Paddy,” Mr. Tudwell said with a stern look. Somewhere in his lineage there lurked a Scot, for he was a sandy-haired, ruddy-cheeked, clean-shaven man with bright blue eyes and pale lashes. He took a gold watch out of his plaid waistcoat and glanced at it.
    Patrick read the glance, and responded with relief. “Seven baskets of laundry, sir.” If Mr. Tudwell could be angry at him about the small matter of being late, he must not have discovered the larger. “And six buckets of wash water,” he added. “It took longer than I expected.”
    â€œAh,” said Mr. Tudwell, and put his watch away. But surely the stablemaster was troubled about something, for his face was drawn and there was a worried frown between his eyes. “Well, ‘tis late enough, boy, an’ ye’d best get t’ th’ stalls. A thorough cleanin’, if ye please. Mr. Battersby will be ‘ere t’ inspect ’is new ‘orse this afternoon. ’E ’as a strict eye for detail, ’e does.”
    At that moment, Mr. Landsdowne, the village chemist, opened the door and stepped into the office. He was a tall man, stooped and painfully thin, wearing a rusty old black coat that contrasted incongruously with highly polished new black boots. Patrick knew that he should leave to clean the stalls, but he gave in to his curiosity and faded into the corner, as if he were waiting to be