The Valentine Legacy (Legacy 3)

Yet again, Jessie’s delight was alarmingly obvious. They discussed the race and found themselves in the rare situation of commiserating with each other. By the time James ordered her another bowl of ice cream, he still hadn’t delivered a single snide comment.

At that moment, Mr. Parvis, a longtime newspaper man from the Federal Gazette, burst into the emporium shouting, “Allen Belmonde was just found shot through his mouth!”

“Oh my,” Jessie exclaimed. She called out, “He’s dead, then, Mr. Parvis?”

“Oh, Jessie, it’s you. Yep, he’s deader than a mackerel caught in the Patapsco and lying out on the dock for a week. The back of his head was blown off. His poor little wife found him in one of the tack rooms.”

“Good God,” James said blankly. “I can’t image Allen shooting himself.”

“Oh, he didn’t,” Mr. Parvis said, rubbing his hands together. “Someone killed him dead.” Oh dear, Jessie thought, her sweet, helpless Alice—frail and weak-spirited, but still Jessie had always liked her, probably because Alice had never had a negative word about her racing horses and wearing men’s breeches.

It was Alice who’d told her about the cucumber mixture for lightening the freckles. She pictured Allen Belmonde with the back of his head blown off and nearly gagged into the melting ice cream in her Balboney blue bowl.

Oslow Penny said, “Jessie, you’re depressed about poor Alice Belmonde. You’ll see the lady tomorrow, and you can flutter around her all you please. But no more sighs and tearful expressions now. That’s right. You just chew on that piece of straw, pull your hat over your face to protect that pretty white skin of yours, and listen to the story of Grimalkin the cat.”

“I’m listening, Oslow.” Jessie pulled the disreputable old leather hat over her eyes, sank back against a hay bale, drew her knees up, and chewed on a fat straw.

“You remember that all thoroughbreds are descended from three and only three stallions.”

“Yes, the Byerley Turk, the Darley Arabian, and the—”

“The Godolphin Arabian. That’s right, Jessie. Now be quiet. The Godolphin Arabian was foaled way back in 1724. Now, the Godolphin Arabian’s companion wasn’t a stable lad or his owner or even a donkey. It was Grimalkin the cat. That damned brindle cat rode on his back, sitting up, all proud and smug, neck stretched out, surveying the world as if he were a bloody proper prince. The cat ate beside him, clawed through his mane to keep the tangles out, and slept draped around his neck. No one could figure out why that horse and that damned cat were so inseparable, but they were. It came in time that Grimalkin the cat died.

“The horse went wild. He wouldn’t eat for days. He wouldn’t let anyone near him. He looked to be pining away. Then he appeared to be normal again, but he wasn’t. He wouldn’t let another cat near him. He tried to kill any cat he even saw. He’d go wild if he even saw a cat in the distance. It’s said that when he died, they buried him beneath the stable gateway next to Grimalkin the cat.”

Jessie shoved her head back. “That’s too good a story, Oslow. I think you made it up.”

“No, he didn’t, actually.”

“James, goodness, whatever are you doing here?”

“Peter told me the two of you were swapping outrageous tales.”

“She’s all upset about poor Alice Belmonde. I don’t know why since the girl’s now quit of a scoundrel of a husband. I wanted to cheer her up. I’ve succeeded.”

“Good. Now, don’t disarrange yourself, Jessie. That’s a new hat, isn’t it?”

“I found it in a trunk in the attic. It just needed to be cleaned and reshaped a bit. I like it.”

“It does have character. It does keep the sun off your nose. However, I think I smell moth powder. How old is the thing, Jessie?”

“I think it was my grandfather’s.”

He looked at that hat a moment longer, shook his head, and said, “Gordon Dickens, the magistrate, is here. He wants to talk about Allen Belmonde. It seems Gordon heard that there was quite a commotion here just a few days before Allen was shot and that Belmonde was so mad he wanted to take Sweet Susie away that night. Jessie, why are you rubbing your throat? Why have you turned whiter than my stable cat’s belly?”

“I did threaten him, James. In front of witnesses. You nearly had to drag me off him. Do you think I’ll be hanged?”

“No. Did I really drag you off him? Odd that I don’t remember it happening exactly that way. Now, come along, the both of you. Dancy Hoolahan is here—the whole cast of characters, I guess you could say.”

Gordon Dickens had hated tea since his stepmother made him drink it until he’d peed in his pants. An excellent punishment for a smart-mouthed little boy, she’d told him with a good deal of satisfaction when he’d finally lost control. He even hated to see anyone else drinking the foul stuff because it made him want to relieve himself. He could barely contain himself, watching Jessie Warfield drink that dreaded tea, but he knew he had to. He was here to do his duty. He had to be alert. He not only had to listen to everyone’s words but also carefully study their expressions. His father had always told him that you could see guilt on a man’s or woman’s face if you knew what to look for. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but he always looked carefully. He couldn’t think about his luscious bride, even now lying in their bed, all warm and naked and tousled. He swallowed and forced himself back to his duty. He looked from that tea-drinking female, Jessie Warfield, to Dancy Hoolahan to James Wyndham. He cleared his throat.

“Would you like a muffin, Gordon?”

“No, James, thank you. I’d like to hear what happened after Jessie Warfield brought the mare back here. Yes, Thomas, you come in here as well. You were one of the parties present that night.”

“It wasn’t really a party, Mr. Dickens,” Thomas said, all austere because he knew this was proper business. “Poor Miss Jessie was all bloody and Mr. James was holding her up. No, it weren’t no party.”

“That’s not what I meant. Tell me what happened.”