It was late in the evening when we finally arrived at the village. Brodie had the driver take us to the only inn in the small community.
“Yer in luck,” the woman at the counter told us. “I have one room left, wot with those who are here for the races.”
Brodie frowned. “That will do.”
The woman was the chatty sort and continued as people do who lived in places beyond London and were often quite friendly.
“We thought His Highness might have one of his horses entered in the races,” she continued. “But I was told he has returned early to London.” She turned the guest book around for Brodie to sign.
“He’s quite a fan as well and usually has one of his horses entered. He’s a beauty...the horse, I mean.
“Breakfast is served beginning at seven in the morning on race days,” she continued as she handed Brodie the room key. “And there is still supper available, if ye’ve a mind to. Me girl, Molly, can fix ye up with some stewed chicken fresh today.”
Neither of us had eaten since before leaving London. Brodie nodded and our hostess directed us to the common room.
I have been in taverns before and this one was much the same. They all seemed to have the same things in common, no matter the part of England—patrons at the long bar with others at several small tables, and boisterous conversation, a game or two of dice in progress.
However, instead of gossip or shouts among dock workers and other laborers as I had heard in London, the conversations here in the Norfolk countryside were about the forthcoming races, with side bets being made over conversation about the owner, the jockey, or a particular horse.
Most of the patrons were at the bar where a lively discussion was underway about a local horse as Brodie found an empty table. The discussion was soon joined by two other patrons who argued that the animal was a slow starter and not a ‘mudder,’ with the weather that was expected the following day.
“It seems that we should get an early start in the morning,” I commented, so to avoid those who were attending the races.
He nodded, then went to the bar to inquire about supper while I took out my notebook.
I had just set pen to the page when the table was suddenly jarred, creating a vivid streak of ink across the page.
“My, but ain’t you a pretty one.”
I looked into the bleary-eyed gaze of a stout older man with ruddy cheeks and somewhat patchwork gray beard. He was dressed like the patrons in a worn jacket and trousers, and leaned toward me in a haze of beer, hands braced on the edge of the table.
“We don’t see yer sort around here exceptin’ when His Highness is about and one of his guests drop by.”
“Perhaps recently with a woman?”
I thought it worth asking since we now knew there had been a woman among the guests at Sandringham.
He shook his head and I thought the exertion of that might send him toppling over, he was so wobbly. However, he recovered sufficiently and steadied himself by bracing his hands on the table.
“No women other than servants, and I would know as I keep the stables near the station. The gentlemen guests all came in together and there wasn’t a woman among ’em unless she was dressed the same as themselves.” He laughed at that.
“Yer the first in a long while and a pretty one. How about I buy you a pint?”
I politely refused.
“Too high and mighty for Darby, are you?”
“Not at all…” I started to explain to him that I was there with someone even as that person returned.
“The lady said she didna care to take a drink with ye. Move along.”
Brodie had returned and, more or less politely, asked him to leave.
“Ye will leave now, and not bother the lady again.”
“The lady might have a different answer.” Darby replied, weaving slightly as he confronted Brodie who was several inches taller and not the slightest impaired.
“What gives you the right?”
