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and the jockey lay motionless. Tracery, now riderless, got back on his feet and continued running down the track.
    After a moment of stunned silence, Higgins said, “If you want to know what Harold Hewitt looked like, he’s now lying dead on the racecourse.”
    *   *   *
    The trampling incident dampened everyone’s high spirits. The owners had spent the past hour restless and agitated after they finally returned to Lord Saxton’s box. They assumed the man had run out as yet another political gesture. If that was true, Higgins thought that being trampled by racehorses seemed a ridiculous way to champion women’s suffrage.
    As Senior Steward, Sir Walter came to inform them that things weren’t as tragic as feared. Tracery’s jockey Albert Whalley had recovered and was now walking about the paddock. There was still no word concerning Harold Hewitt, who had been taken away by ambulance. News of his death would probably follow. But none of the horses had been hurt. And Prince Palatine snagged a Gold Cup victory once again in a bittersweet win. Tracery had been a good twenty lengths ahead of the Prince when Hewitt threw himself in the horse’s path.
    Eliza repinned her hat. “I’m ready to call it a day.”
    Her father had other ideas, though. Alfred Doolittle pushed himself up from his chair, his top hat wildly askew. “Hard to believe some barking mad loon ran in front of the horses. And if he had done that to our Donegal Dancer, I’d have run over there and trampled on him meself. Then kicked him in the arse for good measure.”
    â€œDad.” Eliza sent him a warning look.
    â€œAnyway, why turn this wonderful day into a time of weeping and wailing? Our glorious colt won at Ascot! The devil take these fools who want to get trampled. Let’s pay one last visit to the Dancer in the stables so we can end the day on a high note.”
    â€œYou tell ’im, Alfie!” Rose thumped him on the back.
    The Duchess of Carbrey also rose to her feet. As the owner with the most exalted title, she commanded their attention with barely a word. Women who owned racehorses were frowned upon. But such was her standing that the Jockey Club turned a blind eye to the stable of horses the Duchess ran under the alias “Mr. Stirling.” Higgins admired her sheer tenacity and disregard of convention. And the widowed duchess had livened up more than one afternoon tea at his mother’s flat in Chelsea.
    Just now, the older woman silenced all conversation with a single look. “Alfred is right. We must not allow poor misguided fools like Emily Davison and this Mr. Hewitt to ruin our great racing traditions for their own political ends. I myself am in favor of women having the vote. Certainly I have far more sense than most men taking up space in Parliament. But throwing oneself in front of a charging horse is stupidity of the highest order. Therefore, we shall do as Alfred suggests and go to the stables to cheer our champion.”
    Everyone rose and filed out of the viewing box. Higgins started to follow.
    Eliza hung back with Pickering. “We want to go home, Professor. And your mother is still in the Royal Enclosure. I’m sure she’s ready to head back to London.”
    â€œThe racecourse and stables are crawling with police right now.” Higgins felt guilty that he hadn’t found a policeman in time. They might have been able to stop Hewitt. “I need to see if Jack’s learned anything about this mad fellow.”
    â€œAll right,” Eliza said as Pickering gave an exasperated sigh. “But let’s do this quick.”
    Within minutes of their leaving the viewing box, Diana Price’s husband hurried over to them. “Have any of you seen my wife?” Gordon Longhurst sounded frantic. “When I came back from placing the bet, she was gone. And I haven’t seen her anywhere. It’s not like her to miss a