“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 evidence, Dr. Stubbing, and the case cannot go forward without it. I should very much dislike to report to the coroner that the autopsy was not completed because the surgeon failed to cooperate fully.” He leaned back. “Now, sir. How soon can that bullet be found?”

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 Regal Lodge.

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

Having changed into a gray silk dress trimmed with lavender lace, Lillie Langtry, now seeming fully recovered, settled herself on the green velvet sofa in the drawing room.

“Now, Beryl my dear,” she said with a gracious smile, “we can talk to our hearts’ content. Take out your notebook and your pen and fire away with your questions.”

“You’re sure you won’t mind?” Kate asked tentatively. “I certainly don’t want to intrude on your privacy.”

“Privacy!” Lillie exclaimed, with a toss of her head. “Whatever is that? Since I attended my first salon in London some twenty years ago, I have been a public figure. I have not a moment of privacy. Not one instant.”

Kate held her pen poised over the page. “Twenty years!” she exclaimed artlessly. “That can’t be!”

“I recall it as though it were yesterday,” Lillie replied, and heaved an elaborate sigh. “It was at Lady Sebright’s house in Lowndes Square, in May. I was still in mourning for my brother, so I wore a plain black dress-square-necked and terribly unfashionable-made for me by Madame Nicolle, back home on Jersey. So many people were there, all crowding around, and I felt like an ingénue suddenly given a grown-up part to play. Jimmy Whistler and Millais both demanded to paint me, and Freddy Leighton wanted to do my head in marble. The great Henry Irving offered me a stage role, and of course Oscar Wilde, poor, dear Oscar, swooned around making a fool of himself-and of me, too, I’m afraid.” She gave a little laugh, delicately self-deprecating. “With no effort on my part and certainly no design, suddenly I found myself a professional beauty, my picture in all the shops and men tripping over themselves to pay court. Such a whirl it was! Enough to turn a young girl’s head. It’s a good thing I had both feet planted firmly on the ground!”

Writing rapidly, not looking up, Kate said, “But before you came to London, what? You were married to Mr. Edward Langtry, were you not?”

“Yes,” Lillie said shortly. “Two years before, on Jersey. Ned was a… yachtsman. We spent a great deal of time sailing about, here and there.” She became cheerful again. “And then I fell ill with typhoid fever and when I recovered, the doctor prescribed a visit to London to cheer me up. Then there was Lady Sebright’s salon, and quite wonderful things began to happen, amazing things, really. His Highness the Prince of Wales asked to be introduced to me at a supper given by Sir Allen Young, the Arctic explorer. Oh, my dear Beryl, can you imagine how I felt?” She laughed a little. “I was utterly panic-stricken. For one bewildered moment I really considered the advisability of climbing the chimney to escape, like a little monkey! But I stood my ground and made my curtsy, and that was the beginning of our friendship. He was kind enough to see that I was presented to the Queen, and there were house parties and race meetings and yachting holidays.” Her tone became soft and reminiscent. “Oh, such times, such sweet, wonderful times. It’s hard to believe, looking back on it, that so much could have happened in three short years.”