by Robin Paige
The men took their leave, the door to the dining room opened, and the ladies went in to luncheon, an elaborate affair that included a julienne soup, salmon cutlets, jellied chicken, a garnished tongue, green peas, almond pudding, and a fruit ice, each served in its turn by Williams the butler and a handsomely liveried footman.
“Now, my dear Beryl,” Lillie said confidingly, “while we eat, we shall have a great talk. You can ask me anything you want. There is no need to take notes just now, you can do that later. You are free to use everything I say in your magazine article—although I should like to read it before it is printed.” She tossed her head carelessly. “The press is such a useful tool, but one must exert some small control over it, don’t you agree?”
Afterward, Kate wondered that Lillie could have managed to eat a single bite, and there was certainly no opportunity for her to ask any questions. The actress talked incessantly, punctuating her conversation with practiced gestures and expressive glances from her smoky eyes, which seemed sometimes blue, sometimes gray. She described at great length the amazing success of her most recent theatrical tour of the United States; the fifty thousand pounds she had realized from the sale of her yacht, White Lady, a gift from an admirer named Baird who had died, tragically, before they could enjoy it together; the exploits of her favorite horse, Merman, which she loved above all other things on this earth; her new little house on the Isle of Jersey, which she called Merman Cottage and where Hugo de Bathe often visited her. As she talked, her tone became more confiding and her gestures and expression more intimate, as if she were telling everything about her life. Kate noticed, however, that she failed to mention two other sensational events which the London newspapers had reported extensively: her California divorce, obtained just two years before; and the mysterious death of her former husband, Mr. Edward Langtry.
At the mention of Hugo de Bathe, Lillie paused for a sip of wine and Kate seized the opportunity to speak. “I enjoyed meeting Lord de Bathe,” she said, pretending to more warmth than she felt. “He’s a charming man. He seems to care for you very much.”
“Oh, yes, doesn’t he?” Lillie agreed, smiling languidly over the rim of her glass. “Suggie is a dear, dear boy. I expect we shall be married before the end of summer.” She laughed dryly. “It won’t at all please his father, of course. The old man has threatened to cut Suggie off without a shilling if he marries me.” She added, with a cavalier shrug, “But money matters little to true lovers, don’t you agree? Love is certainly the most important thing in our lives. As my dear friend Oscar Wilde says, ‘They do not sin at all, who sin for love.’ ”
“But Oscar Wilde has also said,” Kate replied thoughtfully, “that ‘one should always be in love. That is the reason one should never marry.’ ”
Lillie looked vexed. “Oscar is nothing if not inconsistent,” she said. She pushed away her empty dessert dish and fastened her eyes on her guest’s face. Her glance seemed to lay claim to Kate’s most precious secrets. “Now that I’ve told you everything there is to know about me, dear Beryl, you must tell me about yourself. I do so want to be friends.”
Kate opened her mouth to speak, but Lillie went on.
“I know that you’re an American, that your novels and stories are amazingly popular, and that you and Lord Sheridan don’t much like to go about in Society. But I’m sure there’s more—much more, hidden away inside your heart.”
“I’m afraid that you’ve already learned all there is to know about me,” Kate said with a small smile. “My life is an open book.”
Lillie threw back her head and laughed gaily. “An open book!” she exclaimed, much amused. “How very clever! But of course, it is your literary work that I most want to talk about. I can’t tell you how excited I am at the prospect of staging ‘The Duchess.’ I know the production will have an enormous dramatic appeal, especially if you agree to the few changes I have in mind. I’m absolutely dying to—”
But at that moment, Williams appeared with a folded note on a silver salver. Lillie read it with a displeased frown and threw it back on the tray, letting out an irritated puff of breath.
“It seems that I have an unexpected caller, Beryl, and after that, I fear I must attend to some business. You and I shall have to continue our conversation at tea.” The butler pulled back Lillie’s chair as she stood. “Meanwhile, I’m sure you would like to look at the house and grounds so that you can tell your readers all about Regal Lodge in your article. Please do ask Williams if you find yourself in need of anything.”
It was some little time later, while Kate was exploring the rose garden within earshot of the drawing-room windows, that she overheard Lillie Langtry’s angry interchange with her caller.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Grange House Stable,
in Moulton Road
Newmarket, the home of the Jockey Club, was also home to dozens of racing stables. Each trainer ruled his stable with an iron hand, guarding the horses placed in his yard as if they were the Crown jewels, for it was their success on the Turf which assured his own success. The trainer might not be so prominent a figure as the jockey, but he and his methods had a far greater and more lasting influence on the individual horse, and on racing itself.
“Trainers and Stables”
Albert J. William
When Charles and Bradford arrived at the Grange House Stable that morning, they discovered that Bradford’s introduction would not be necessary. After a few minutes’ conversation, it emerged that Angus Duncan had known the two previous Barons of Somersworth and was willing to be persuaded to undertake the training of the two-year-old colt and the filly that the present Lord Somersworth (obviously a foppish fool of a man with more money than sense) proposed to place in his care.
“They’re the last of my brother’s stable,” Charles lisped, affecting an exaggerated, upper-class tone, “and so I’m anxious to do well by them.” He leaned on his gold-headed cane and remarked, “Afraid I’m not a racing man, haven’t an ounce of brain when it comes to horses. My brother was quite proud of the line, but my stableman insists that both horses are bone-lazy and ought to be sold.” He took out a white silk handkerchief and flicked a speck of dust off the sleeve of his morning coat. “But my brother, bless him, wouldn’t’ve wanted that. I’m anxious to see them well trained and give them a chance to run, if they’re fit for it. Of course, I’ll pay the tariff, whatever it is,” he added expansively.
Bradford, with the demeanor of a cautious adviser, gave him a slight shake of the head. “Your lordship ought to have a look around the stables before making a final decision on the matter. There are, after all, other stables at Newmarket.”
“Oh, quite,” Charles said, smiling fatuously. He made a fluttering gesture. “Oh, indeed. A look around, to be sure.”
Angus Duncan frowned. “Don’t like to have owners around horses,” he said brusquely. “Don’t do horses no good, nor owners neither.” He glanced at his lordship, who was stroking his mustache appreciatively, and seemed to conclude that this particular owner was too dim-witted to be dangerous, although the adviser bore watching. “But a quick look shouldn’t do harm,” he said, relenting. “Pinkie’ll take you round.”
As Pinkie was being summoned, two other men appeared, one a jaunty waist-coated and bowler-hatted gentleman, the other distinctly not a gentleman, dressed in tweed knickers and rakish tweed cap, a brown-paper cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Reggie, old chap!” Bradford said, and thrust out his hand to the man in the bowler hat. “I say, dear boy, it really was too bad about that horse of yours last week—Gladiator, I mean. Looked like being a winner before that little scrimmage at the corner.” Deferentially, he turned to Charles. “Should like you to meet Lord Charles Somersworth, who is considering stabling a pair of fine horses here.” He glanced at Angus Duncan. “Very fine horses,” he said emphatically.
Reginald Hunt greeted Bradford warmly, acknowledged Charles with a small bow, and introduced his companion, Jesse
Clark. Charles recognized the man as the American trainer who, together with Enoch Wishard, was said to have made horse doping into an art. Clark was a small man, in his forties, with a dry, leathery skin and a mocking twist to his mouth.
“So you’re Clark,” Bradford said genially, giving the American’s hand a vigorous shake. “Been hearing about your successes with Mr. Wishard. Quite a string of wins you’ve had there. Tearing up the Turf, as they say.”
Hunt brightened. “Oh, Jesse’s a great one, all right. A real wizard, I must say. We weren’t having all that much luck with Gladiator—were we, Angus?—until Jesse came along and offered to help get him ready for the Derby. I don’t know what he did, but as you saw, he worked a miracle. The horse showed more life than I’d ever seen in him.”
Charles saw out of the corner of his eye that Angus Duncan had shifted from one foot to the other.
“Do you have a stable here at Newmarket, Mr. Clark?” Bradford inquired amiably.
Angus Duncan made a noise deep in his throat.
Clark stubbed out his cigarette with the toe of his shoe. “Enoch Wishard and I train a few horses at the Red House Stable,” he said in a broad American drawl. “But mostly I do what you might call consultin’.” He hooked his thumbs in his leather belt and grinned at Angus Duncan. “Ain’t that right, Angus? Jes’ lendin’ a hand where it’s needed t’ bring a lazy horse up to snuff.”
Angus Duncan said nothing. His face was dark and his jaw muscle was working.
Charles opened both eyes wide in an expression of surprise and delight. “Well, well, Mr. Clark, this is a lucky meeting. I shall have need of your services, I daresay, for it seems that I have two lazy horses.” He turned to Angus Duncan. “Mr. Duncan, when the horses arrive, please be so kind as to arrange with Mr. Clark to consult with you about them. I should like him to suggest how they might be”—he stroked his mustache—“brought up to snuff, as it were.”
Without replying, Angus Duncan threw a murderous look at Clark and clenched his fists. It was clear that he hated the American and didn’t care who knew it. Charles was aware that most trainers were obsessively proprietary when it came to determining how a horse should be handled, and they were careful to keep strangers out of the yard for fear they would steal racing secrets or worse yet, interfere with the horses. If Angus Duncan didn’t want Clark hanging about, why did he tolerate it? Why didn’t he simply order him off his property, and drop any owner who offered to do business with him?
“That’s a topping idea, Somersworth,” Reggie Hunt said enthusiastically. “These Americans have some very innovative ideas about training. I daresay our traditional methods are a bit behind the times, at least where some horses are concerned. Gladiator, for instance. If there ever was a lazy horse, it’s that one.” He screwed up his mouth, vexed. “It’s a pity that the jockey wasn’t strong enough to keep him running straight at Epsom Downs. We’d’ve had a winner at 66 to 1. As it is, I’ve had to deal with a damned objection, which isn’t settled yet.”
Angus Duncan lost all patience. “‘Twa’n’t the jockey,” he snapped furiously. With a baleful glare at Jesse Clark, he turned on his heel and stalked off.
Bradford looked puzzled. “What was that about?”
Clark gave a dismissive shrug. “The jockey who died was a favorite of his,” he said. He turned to Lord Hunt. “Shall we see to those horses now, yer lordship?” He tipped his cap to Charles, and the two men went off together.
Pinkie turned out to be Angus Duncan’s nephew and assistant trainer. He was a small, nervous man with a furtive look and a twitchy mouth under a full mustache. Like his uncle, he didn’t seem pleased at the idea of showing off the stables and made grumbling noises to himself as they started off—not, Charles thought, an attitude conducive to attracting owners to the stables. Pinkie had the look of a man who would not hesitate to strike out violently against any horse, or any person, who went against him.
The horses were housed in two large U-shaped wooden structures that faced each other across an open yard. Each side of each structure was made up of ten loose boxes, so that there was room for over sixty horses. Just then, several lads brought in a short string of horses, and Charles gave them a quick look. Bradford would know better than he, of course, but they appeared to be in good condition.
Pinkie was moving quickly through the yard, as if he didn’t want them to linger for a close look at the horses. At the back of the yard, a roofed passageway connected the two U-shaped stables. Quickly, Pinkie opened the doors along the passageway, giving them glimpses of the hay and feed room, which opened at the back so that a wagon could draw up to deliver supplies of fodder and feed grains; the tack room, hung with racks of saddles, bridles, and horse clothing; and a storage room full of other, assorted equipment. Above them, Pinkie indicated with a nod of his head, was the attic dormitory where the stablelads slept.
“How many lads?” Bradford asked.
“Twenty-two, present count,” Pinkie said. He added, in sullen defensiveness, “The horses never want for care.”
To Charles, Bradford said, “Three horses to a lad is a handful, your lordship. It means that some horses don’t get worked every day.”
Pinkie thrust out his chin. “Not a bit of it!” he remonstrated belligerently. “Anyway, they doesn’t all want workin’ ev’ry day, now does they? Some is lame, some is off their feed, others likes light work by their nature.” He gestured to a pair of double gates that opened out onto a fenced field, and beyond that, onto Newmarket Heath. “As ye can see, there’s lots o’ room for gallops. We does two-a-days, fine weather er foul.”
They were in the yard again, and Charles looked around. “It’s quite an operation. Wouldn’t you agree, Marsden?”
“It’s large, I’ll give it that,” Bradford said in an unwilling tone. “But size isn’t all your lordship is looking for. You want to know how the horses are trained, how well they’ve performed.”
“To be sure,” Charles agreed absently. “But that’s your department, I’m afraid.” His glance had been caught by a wiry, red-haired lad walking with a springy step along the passageway toward the tack room. He was carrying a saddle.
Charles frowned. That boy—
Bradford and Pinkie had turned away and were walking toward the office. Bradford was saying, “I should like to take a look at the stable’s form book on behalf of his lordship,” and Pinkie was protesting angrily that this was a great imposition and he was sure his uncle would not consent. Both appeared to be fully occupied with their discussion, so Charles took the opportunity to go in the opposite direction.
In four purposeful strides, he reached the open door of the tack room. The boy was there, reaching up to hang the saddle on one of the dozens of brackets set in the opposite wall. Charles entered the dim room and stood silhouetted against the bright light from the doorway. Sensing another’s presence, the boy glanced over his shoulder.
“Hullo, Patrick,” Charles said quietly. “It’s good to see you again.”
The boy turned, his eyes growing large in his freckled face. “Damn!” he breathed.
“I see your language hasn’t improved,” Charles replied, trying to keep his voice even, so that he betrayed neither surprise nor anger. “What are you doing here, Paddy? Why didn’t you stay at Westward Ho!, where you were put?”
Patrick pulled down the corners of his mouth. “Didn’t fancy lickin’s and bullyin’,” he muttered. “Didn’t much take to books, neither.” He raised his chin defiantly. “I came here to apprentice as a jockey.”
“Well,” Charles said mildly, “I suppose you could do worse. Do you like it here?”
Patrick chewed on his lower lip. “Yes,” he said. He hesitated and then added, with characteristic honesty, “I liked it a lot more, before they did what they did to Gladiator, and Johnny Bell died.”
“To Gladiator?” Charles asked in surprise.
“My horse. The horse I do for, that is.” He straightened his shoulders proudly. “I�
��m his traveling lad.”
“Amazing,” Charles said, more to himself than to Patrick. Finding the boy was a wonderful stroke of luck that he couldn’t wait to share with Kate. But finding out that the boy was Gladiator’s lad was two wonderful strokes of luck, at a single instant! Now, if he could solicit the boy’s help—
Patrick’s eyes had filled, and he wiped away the sudden tears with a coarse sleeve. “And Johnny Bell was my good friend. He’s the jockey who died at Epsom last week.” The words were tumbling out, as if he had held them too long inside himself. “They made the horse drink something out of a bottle. Whatever it was, it made him crazy.” He looked up at Charles, his lips trembling. “I’m afraid for Gladiator, sir. If they make him run like that again, it’ll kill him.”
“I see,” Charles said. He studied Patrick for a moment, liking what he saw. The boy’s hard-won experience of school and life was clearly written on his young face, and the trembling lips and smear of tears on the dirty cheek were testimony to his unhappiness. But he had grown taller and carried himself with a new dignity, and there was a bold thrust to his chin and a spark in his eyes that let Charles know that his fiery spirit had not been quenched.
“As it happens,” Charles went on, speaking in a lower voice, “I am here to learn what happened to the horse—although no one but you is to know that. They think I am here only as an owner, to place two new horses.”
Patrick’s eyes widened and hope flushed in his face. “You can stop them from giving that stuff to Gladiator again?”