by Robin Paige
Charles picked up his brandy. “I do indeed,” he said. Although his father and brother had been racing men, the Turf had never attracted Charles. However, he had certainly heard enough London gossip to understand the admiral’s concern. Jesse Clark was an American trainer who had come to England with another American, Enoch Wishard. Wishard was financed by a Chicago hotel magnate, John Drake. Drake and his racing partner, William Gates—Bet-a-Million Gates, as he was known in America—had established quite a large stable at Newmarket. Members of the Jockey Club were scandalized by the huge amounts these men bet on Wishard’s horses, and they snubbed the Americans whenever they could.
But over the past two years, Wishard’s stable had demonstrated an interesting pattern. A horse would follow a string of losses with a surprising victory at long odds, upon which Drake and Bet-a-Million had happened to lay a large wager. If this had happened once or twice, it might have been sheer good fortune; but it occurred with increasing regularity, and people began to whisper that Wishard was doping horses with some sort of stimulant that made them run like the wind. Charles had heard that some members of the Club were anxious to declare doping contrary to The Rules of Racing, but that others refused, perhaps because they themselves wanted to give it a go, or because they weren’t convinced that it was the doping that made the difference. In any event, the Club had not as yet acted. Doping was legal and the situation showed no signs of being altered.
Still, the stewards ought to do something, Charles thought. An uncontrollable horse was a danger to all the horses and riders in the field, as today’s Derby had demonstrated, and artifically manipulating a horse’s performance was unsportsmanlike and wreaked havoc with the form book. There was a good deal of resentment among owners and trainers about the practice—and especially among the bookmakers, who were at risk of losing substantial sums of money. Having paid out more than they could afford, some now refused the Americans’ bets—when they could, for the wager was often delivered by one of Bet-a-Million’s strongmen, whose persuasion was hard to resist.
The room was silent except for the hissing of the coal fire in the grate. Admiral North’s gaze had returned to the ceiling. Lord Richard’s eyes were focused on his tented fingers. Sir Joshua was staring at the fire.
At last, the admiral spoke. “Since you see our problem, Sheridan, perhaps you would be so kind as to help us further its resolution. What do you say to undertaking an inquiry for us?”
Charles put down his snifter, frowning. “I am here today to set up a high-speed camera, which is entirely within my field of expertise.” He spread his hands. “I don’t know enough about Turf practices to be of much help to you, Admiral.”
“Don’t add modesty to your other faults, Somersworth,” Lord Richard said gruffly.
“Anyway,” Charles went on, “you have your own investigator. Jack Murray is a good man. Why not use him?”
The admiral gave Charles a dry smile. “We have sounded H.R.H.’s feelings on this subject, Sheridan. As you might guess, he’s concerned to stave off any possible scandal connected with racing.”
That came as no surprise, Charles thought. It was only ten years earlier that Sir George Chetwynd, once a senior steward of the Jockey Club, had been hailed into court by the Earl of Durham, accused of instructing his jockeys to pull horses—hold them back from winning. The messy libel suit resulted in a great deal of notoriety in the press, something the Club, and Society itself, utterly abhorred. This humiliation had been followed not long after by the Tranby Croft affair, which took place at the running of the St. Leger and resulted in yet another accusation of cheating, this time at baccarat. Everyone involved, including the Prince of Wales, made an extraordinary effort to hush up the scandal, but the Tranby Croft affair, too, went to court. The press rubbed its collective hands in glee when the Prince was called to the witness box, and the Queen, when she read the papers, was said to have flown into hysterics. From that time on, every scandal in any way associated with the Turf had been hushed up as quickly as possible, no matter what the cost to individuals. Even the whisper of unsportsmanlike conduct, especially when money was involved, was enough to send a shiver through the entire Establishment, from bottom to top.
Admiral North was going on. “His Majesty, in fact, is the one who suggested that we ask you to undertake an inquiry for us, Sheridan. He tells us that he has every confidence in your investigative abilities, and in your discretion, as well. As for Jack Murray, he cannot make his way among the owners. You have—if you will pardon my saying so—the appropriate credentials. And Murray will be available to you for, shall we say, the dirty work.”
“But of course,” Sir Joshua put in hurriedly, “there won’t be any . . . dirty work. After all, we’re dealing with gentlemen.”
Lord Richard gave a contemptuous snort. “Gentlemen! These Americans may be rich as lords, but they’re common as dirt. We want them out of English racing, Somersworth. Send them back where they came from, or pack them off to France. But do it on the hush. We can’t afford any scandal.”
The admiral frowned. “I don’t know that we have to go quite so far as that, Lord Richard. H.R.H. does suggest, however, that we find some way to keep the American practice from spreading to English stables, without attracting undue attention to it with an outright ban. All very quietly, of course,” he added delicately. “Out of view of the press. To that end, we hope to keep Squire Mannington from pressing his objections, if at all possible.” He turned to Charles. “I would take it as a personal favor, Charles if you would be so kind as to help us.”
Damn and blast, Charles thought, more in resignation than anger. Owen North was a cagey strategist. He knew that a suggestion from the Prince of Wales was tantamount to a royal command, and that Charles would find it almost impossible to refuse. He sighed. He wasn’t eager to undertake the Herculean task of cleaning out the Jockey Club’s stables, for he suspected that the corruption was already widespread. But there was no good reason to postpone the inevitable. And he might as well put the best face on it.
“Very well, Owen,” he said. “Tell His Highness that I’ll do what I can.”
The admiral’s profound relief showed on his face. “Very good. Very good indeed.” He rubbed his hands together. “What can we do to help?”
“I should like to examine Gladiator immediately,” Charles said. “I shall require the assistance of a veterinarian. One who can be trusted,” he added.
“Done,” the admiral replied promptly. “And I shall ask Jack Murray to be in touch with you. Use him in any way you see fit.” He held out his hand. “We’re grateful, Charles, and we wish you Godspeed in your invesigation. I suspect that more hangs on this than we know.”
It was a prophetic statement.
CHAPTER SIX
The Moneylender
It is the borrowers who seek the money-lender, and not he who goes to them. If they think his terms too high, they can decline them and go elsewhere. The usury laws have long since been abolished, and if the money-lender is not generous, it must be recollected that he is carrying on business at very considerable risk, and must exercise care in the way he thinks best suited to his own interest, which of necessity precludes any great regard for the interests of others.
Reminiscences of the Turf, 1891
William Day
Henry Radwick had no intention of jostling his way through the London-bound mob on the railway. He had taken a room at the Red Horse Hotel just off the Epsom High Street, a small and exclusive accommodation which served exceptional food and excellent wine and whose proprietress, Mrs. Stanley, was possessed of considerable personal attractions. After the hurly-burly of the afternoon—the noisy crowds, that dreadful fracas at the corner, and the disaster that had taken out Ricochet—Henry was looking forward to a hot bath, a quiet dinner, and Mrs. Stanley’s company. He would return to Mayfair at a decent hour tomorrow, where no doubt those who found themselves unable to settle their accounts at Tattersall’s would already be waiting
for him.
In the century shortly to come, people would look back at Henry Manford Radwick, in his heyday, as one of the most successful men of his time. By choice and by circumstance, he was a member of a group known as the Sixty Per Schenters, the notoriously predatory London moneylenders. But Henry Radwick stood apart from the group, a self-assured, self-made man who lived well and proudly at Number 4 Hill Street, Berkeley Square. His house was large and as opulently appointed as any marquis’s, and he enjoyed a fine table and an equally outstanding cellar. And although Henry (whose father had been a hatter in Horsham) was not invited to the homes of the aristocracy, his own generous hospitality was much enjoyed by their younger sons, and occasionally by the fathers and mothers and sisters as well (although these latter sought him out secretly, by a door that opened into the back garden).
Henry was of middle age and height, with brown hair, carefully but not ostentatiously dressed, by temperament congenial and affable, and by manner courteous and charming—until he was pushed into a corner or until something he valued was threatened, in which case his fiery temper had been known to get the better of him. But in most circumstances, Henry managed to hold himself in check. He had built his successful enterprise upon his charm, his congeniality, and his ability to mix easily with the rich young gentlemen of the Turf, who often rather freely anticipated their fortunes. He offered them friendship and advice, rejoiced in their victories, sympathized with their losses, and smiled gently at their follies. Accordingly, when these young men found themselves financially embarrassed, it was the most natural thing in the world for them to call at Number 4, drink a glass of Henry’s Madeira, and confide the latest scrape. For his part, Henry was always ready to offer a little something until the tide turned, so long as the security was acceptable.
Of course, Henry relied for his business success on the fact that the first “little something” would not be the end of it, for once begun, the habit of borrowing became an addiction, as sure as opium. An advance of a few thousand pounds, and then perhaps ten, and after that fifteen, would eventually be multiplied by accumulated interest and expenses into a staggering sum; and in time, the title deeds of an ancestral estate would pass from the hands of the luckless borrower into Henry’s personal account.
In this way, Henry Radwick had gained hold of Mansfield Park, one of the loveliest estates in Northampton, and how many equal to it, no one would ever know. Not that he cared for these estates for their own sake, or for the countless works of art, jewels, and other valuable considerations that had come into his hands over the years. And not that he cared for the money, either, beyond what was needed to maintain his way of life. Simply put, Henry Radwick, bitterly conscious of his low birth and resentful of the social rejections he continually suffered thereby, was a man who kept score. Each famous estate, each fabulous painting, each fine horse that came into his possession was one more evidence of his incontestable superiority over the weak, muddled aristocrats who couldn’t hold on to their fortunes. He felt much the same about his women, as well, and once he had selected one for his attentions, he felt a kind of jealous passion for her, not because he loved her, but because she was his, and a mark of his achievement.
Henry’s pleasure in his preeminence over weak-minded fools was fueled by the widespread acknowledgment of his astuteness and sharp dealings. While he could have made most loans out of his pocket, he preferred to use other people’s capital, offering ten percent when the current interest rate stood at one or one and a half. He could afford this attractive rate, for his charge to strangers was sixty percent, rising occasionally to five hundred percent. To friends, on the other hand, he was willing to extend a not unreasonable twenty, and sometimes, depending on the relationship, much less. Henry had many friends, of course—and not a few enemies. While his business arrangements began in friendship, they had a way of ending in acrimony, for when people did not fall in with his plans, he had a tendency to give in to his temper.
Just now, however, nothing untoward disturbed him. He had accomplished both his bath and his dinner and was awaiting Mrs. Stanley’s return to the Red Horse’s private drawing room, his hands folded over his slightly stout middle. This agreeable anticipation was interrupted, however, by someone’s clearing a throat and a tentative “Er, Radwick, old chap.” Henry looked up to see Lord Reginald Hunt standing in the door, his hat in his hand and a hangdog look on his face.
Henry did not show his annoyance at this intrusion, or demand to know how the devil Hunt had sniffed him out here. At the moment, he felt only contempt for the man standing before him, who had so obviously had a bad day. He smiled and gestured to the chair Mrs. Stanley had left.
“Sit down, Reggie, dear fellow,” he said affably, “and join me in a brandy.” He lifted the decanter and poured. “Why aren’t you feasting at Marlborough House with the rest of the Club?”
“Couldn’t face it,” Lord Reginald muttered, slumping dejectedly in the chair. His frock coat was marked with dusty creases and his shirt cuffs were dirty. He wiped a bleary eye. “Too low.”
“A pity about Gladiator,” Henry said consolingly. “When he came storming round the corner, he looked like a dead cert.” He paused. “I suppose you had a great deal on. Had the horse been mine, I would’ve emptied my pockets on him.” It wasn’t true. Henry always hedged his bets.
“All I had, and more, was on that horse.” Lord Reginald tossed off the brandy and pushed his glass forward, summoning a wan smile and making an attempt at bravado. “But he’ll run again. And I have Alabaster in the Gold Cup at Ascot, and Tarantula in the Ascot Stakes. I’ll get it back.”
“That’s the spirit.” Henry poured again. Mrs. Stanley appeared at the door; then, seeing that Henry was doing business, gave a little wave and vanished.
Lord Reginald sipped more slowly this time. “I’ll be brief, Henry, old chap,” he said. “I need thirty thousand to settle.”
Henry leaned back in his chair, folding his hands and pursing his lips. He had been at this point before, with any number of desperate clients, and he knew his lines very well. When the right amount of time had ticked by, he said quietly: “Thirty thousand is a very great deal, Reggie. In the circumstance, that is.” Henry did not have to say what that circumstance was. Lord Reginald understood perfectly that this large addition to his already enormous indebtedness entitled Henry to take part of the security he had pledged: the estate of Glenoaks, in Cambridgeshire, several dozen works of art, and half his stable.
The silence had lengthened almost intolerably when Lord Reginald cleared his throat. “Damn it all,” he growled, all show of pleasantry abandoned. “Take the bloody estate, then. I never go there anyway. Just give me the thirty thousand.”
“The estate,” Henry said quietly, “and Tarantula.”
“Not the horse!”
Henry shrugged and was silent.
“Oh, all right, then,” Lord Reginald said angrily. “He’s a loser, anyway. Have him, and be done.”
Henry smiled. “Well done, Reggie.” He leaned forward and placed a pacifying hand on Lord Reginald’s arm. “All of us come to these difficult hurdles now and again, but it’s the true sportsman among us who knows how to hold up his head and have a go at the jump.” His smile just missed being patronizing. “You’re an excellent fellow, Reggie. You’ll have the money first thing on Monday morning. And Ascot is only a fortnight away. You’ll feel better after a win.”
Lord Reginald brightened, forgetting his rancor. “Oh, indeed,” he said. He pushed his chair back and stood. “Thank you, Henry,” he said, picking up his hat. “I know I’m safe with you. You’re the best friend a man ever had.”
Henry Radwick smiled. He was already thinking of making a trip to Glenoaks, just to see what Lord Reginald Hunt had lost.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Friday, 2 June, 1899
At Bishop’s Keep
Paradox though it may seem—and paradoxes are always dangerous things—it is none the less true that life im
itates art far more than art imitates life.
“The Decay of Lying”
Oscar Wilde
It was after eleven on a glorious June morning, and Lord and Lady Charles Sheridan were sitting on the terrace overlooking the gardens and the little lake, its wild banks tumbled with ferns and briar-rose. Charles was reading the Sporting Times in an effort to educate himself to the intricacies of horse racing, and Kate was sorting the morning post. She opened an envelope and gave a discouraged sigh.
“I’m afraid that the headmaster at Westward Ho! has nothing new to report,” she said sadly. “It has been almost seven months since Patrick ran away from school, Charles. And not a word, not one single word. Something dreadful has happened to him, I’m sure of it.”
Charles hardly knew what to say. He knew how much Kate cared for Patrick. He’d been fond of the boy too, and had hoped that perhaps he might help fill the place of the son whom he and Kate would never have. It was hard to find words that would comfort Kate when he felt the loss as deeply as she. He rattled his paper and affected a careless air.
“You know the boy,” he said. “Free as a breeze, with not a shred of responsibility. It’s a wonder Patrick stayed at school as long as he did, Kate. No doubt he’s gone to sea, and will come back to astound us with exaggerated tales about the South Pacific.”
Kate made an impatient noise. “Patrick is a free spirit, but I don’t believe that he has no sense of responsibility. He left school for a good reason.” She laid the headmaster’s letter aside. “I think I’ll place another round of advertisements in the newspapers. Someone is bound to have seen him.” She took up another envelope, slit it, and gave a surprised exclamation.