by Robin Paige
“I don’t know,” Charles said truthfully. “But I would like to persuade the Jockey Club to make ‘that stuff,’ as you call it, illegal, so that it may not be given to any horse.” Thinking he heard a footstep, he glanced over his shoulder. “But it’s not a good idea to talk here, where we might be overheard.”
“No, sir,” Patrick said with emphasis. After a moment, he added, “I could slip out, sir. After the other lads are asleep.” He grinned and his eyes lightened. “It wouldn’t be the first time, sir.”
“No,” Charles said with a little smile, “I’m sure it wouldn’t. I am staying with a friend who has temporary lodgings at Hardaway House, on the left side of Wellington Street, just off the High Street. The house has a brick gateway and a green door. Do you think you can find it?”
“O’ course, sir.” Patrick spoke with a shy confidence. “I think I can manage ten o’clock.”
“Ten o’clock it is, then,” Charles agreed. He turned to go, then turned back. “Patrick,” he said in a softer tone, “I’m very glad to have found you.” He held out his hand as if to another man. “I shall look forward with great pleasure to seeing you tonight, and to hearing your adventures since you left school.”
A deeper flush spread over Patrick’s cheeks. He squared his shoulders and took Charles’s hand. “Sir,” he said, in a proper schoolboy’s voice, “Thank you, sir. Ten o’clock, sir.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Regal Lodge
Mrs. Langtry was dangerously fascinating. She did not for a moment conceal the baseness of the character she represented.
Review of Lady Barter
Dramatic Notes, March 1891
Cecil Howard
Of course, one always has to ask oneself if one is playing the character or merely portraying one’s own true nature, or a part of it.
Lillie Langtry
Kate loved roses beyond all other flowers, and Lillie’s were magnificent, blooming extravagantly in shades of pink, red, white, and yellow, filling the entire garden with their scent. The June day was warm, and after a time she found a wrought-iron bench and sat down to enjoy the sweet, heady fragrance, the drowsy harmony of the bees, and the throaty cooing of the doves in a distant dovecote.
But as she sat, enjoying the quiet afternoon, she became aware that it was not entirely quiet nor harmonious. She looked up. The bench on which she was sitting was placed almost against the house, under an open window. Inside, Lillie Langtry and a man were engaged in discussion.
“Of course I’m grateful to you, Spider,” Lillie was saying. She laughed lightly, and Kate could imagine the sweetly flattering smile, the touch of her hand lending endearing emphasis to the affectionate nickname. “You’ve been of enormous support over the past few years, my dear. I could never forget that you’ve helped me stage—”
“Helped you?” the man broke in. His voice was clipped, with a cutting edge. “I have financed every one of your plays for the past eight years, and I will certainly never forget them. As You Like It—your Rosalind was not well received. Esther Sandraz, which the critics hated. Antony and Cleopatra—how many thousands of pounds went down the drain with that one? Lady Barter, better not spoken of. Linda Grey, which closed so quickly that all the props were forfeit. Gossip, saved only by your diamond tiara. The Queen of Manoa—”
“Please don’t be cruel, Spider,” Lillie said wearily. “Yes, I acknowledge it. Things have been rather difficult in the past few years, especially here in England.” Her voice warmed. “But you’ve always been an angel. The truest, dearest angel a woman could hope to have.”
“And this is how you reward me?” the man demanded roughly. “By announcing that you’re to be married? And to that boy of a man, that silly, simpering Suggie, as you call him.” His voice suddenly became chilling, and Kate heard the restrained violence in it. “By God, Lillie, I won’t stand for it!”
“But I need the security, Spider. The theater is so risky and there’s nothing else I can do to support myself. I’ve passed my fortieth birthday, and I want—”
“Your fortieth! Forty-fifth, shall we say, rather? And of course you want a title.” The man laughed, mocking. “Lady de Bathe, eh? Your ticket to respectability, your entrée into Society?” The voice was so sharply scornful that Kate shivered. “Don’t go to the trouble, my dear. Society knows who you are and will never accept you as anything else.”
Lillie was chill. “I am accepted in the highest Society. The Prince—”
The man laughed. “Of course,” he said. “How could I have forgotten the Prince, that fat old fool who’s ridden every jade in the kingdom.” In the silence, Kate heard the striking of a match and could picture the man lighting a cigar. “Anyway,” he went on, “I don’t mean you to marry—unless you decide to marry me, of course. You’ve been free for well over a year now. It’s time you agreed.”
Lillie sighed. “Please, let’s not discuss—”
“I didn’t object to your affair with Baird, because it was amusing to watch you play with him and tease him. It was even amusing when he struck back. I thought it was rather clever of you to trade that beating he gave you in Paris for the title to the White Lady.”
“But my dear, I—”
“He did go too far, though,” the man went on. “His treatment of you made me very angry. You were safer with him out of the way.” His voice hardened. “And I don’t mean you to marry de Bathe, Lillie. I didn’t rid you of Ned Langtry to lose you to some fatuous young fool.”
“Please, Spider,” Lillie said. She sounded genuinely frightened—the first real emotion, Kate thought, that she had heard from the actress. “Please, dear, let’s not talk about that ugly business. Let’s—”
“I think we do need to talk about it, Lillie. It’s time I reminded you of just how much I have done for you. I’ve not just been your angel, but your devil as well. The black box full of your jewels that I—”
“No!” Lillie whispered, unmistakable panic in her voice. “We mustn’t talk about that! We mustn’t! The servants might overhear.”
“—sold for you so you could settle your debts,” the man continued, as if he had not been interrupted. “That was devilish of me, wasn’t it? And it was devilish of me to make sure that drunken fool of a husband wouldn’t annoy you any longer.” He laughed sardonically. “Oh, you’re well taken care of, Lillie. You don’t want for a thing, except your soul. You’ve sold that to the devil, my dear, and he won’t give it back.”
There was another pause, and when Lillie spoke again, her voice was hard, brittle. “You think you’ve bought me? Is that it? Well, you can think again. No one controls Lillie Langtry.” Her voice was rising now, becoming dramatic. “Many men have had to learn that lesson the hard way. I am my own woman, I tell you! I will not be under any man’s rule!”
Kate heard three slow handclaps, as if in a parody of applause, and the man spoke, dryly ironic. “That’s an affecting speech, Lillie, but you delivered it much more convincingly in Agatha Tylden. Forget that nonsense. If it’s money you need, just say so. I can give you enough to—”
“You can’t give me respectability,” Lillie said. The bravado was gone and only a quiet desperation was left. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me, and I do care for you. But you must understand that I need a future.”
By this time, Kate’s curiosity was so aroused that she got up, gathered her skirts, and climbed up on the bench, cautiously. But just as she raised her head to peek over the sill, she heard the scrape of a chair and ducked down quickly.
“This is all very touching,” the man said, “but I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. It’s a good deal later than I thought, and I agreed to see someone this afternoon. Shall we part with a kiss, dearest?”
Kate heard the rustle of clothing, a stifled cry, and the sound of a slap. Then there was a much louder slap, and Lillie cried out in pain. Kate jumped down from the bench and started down the path as the slam of a door echoed through the somnolent afternoon, followe
d by the jangling crash of falling china. At the corner of the house she waited for a moment, composing herself, then stepped onto the path, hoping to see the man who would be just leaving.
But she was too late. A male figure was disappearing into a closed carriage, and the next moment, it had driven off.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Devil’s Dike
I don’t say that all those who go racing are rogues and vagabonds, but I do say that all rogues and vagabonds seem to go racing.
Sir Abraham Bailey
In his first description of what he took to be “doped” horses racing in England in about the year 1900, the Honorable George Lambton described “horses who were notorious rogues running and winning as if they were possessed by the devil, with their eyes staring out of their heads and sweat pouring off them” and one horse, “after winning a race dashed madly into a stone wall and killed itself.”
Drugs and the Performance Horse
Thomas Tobin
It was nearly two by the time Charles and Bradford arrived at the Devil’s Dike, a small out-of-the-way pub on the Exning Road, and Charles feared that Jack Murray might have given them up and departed. But the Jockey Club investigator was smoking his cigar at an inconspicuous table in the dusky rear, and when Charles and Bradford approached, he stood and extended his hand. When they were all three seated, a burly, bearded man in a stained white apron came to the table to ask what they’d have. They ordered a pitcher of ale, with sausages for Charles and Murray, and cottage pie for Bradford.
“We were at the Grange House Stable this morning,” Charles said, while Jack Murray poured ale. “The horses will be arriving in a few days.”
“Very good, sir,” Murray replied.
He was a man of medium stature, well above middle age, with sparse and graying hair, large, sad eyes, and a mournful expression that seemed permanently written across his face. There was a scrape on his chin where he’d cut himself shaving, his tie was crooked, and the sleeves of his tweed coat were too long, reaching nearly to the tips of his spatulate fingers. If he were noticed at all, which was doubtful, Jack Murray might have been taken for one of those invisible men who spend their mornings and evenings on a grimy train and their days in a dreary London office.
But Charles knew otherwise, for he was acquainted with Murray’s distinguished thirty-year career at the Yard, and with a few of the difficult cases he had solved. If intelligence, training, and instinct were the necessary qualifications for an investigation into Turf corruption, this retired detective could have easily handled it by himself. Admiral North was right, however; it would be impossible for Murray to carry out an investigation involving gentlemen racehorse owners without attracting attention to himself. He obviously wasn’t a gentleman, although he wasn’t obviously a policeman, either.
“Did you bring Madame Zahray’s report?” Charles inquired.
Murray started, as if he had been recalled from a dream, then reached into his breast pocket and produced an envelope, sealed. “I believe, sir,” he said gloomily, “that this is what you’re after.” His slow, deep voice was flavored with Suffolk.
Charles took the unaddressed envelope, picked up a knife from the table, and slit it. In it was a single sheet of stationery, printed name and address at the top, centered: Lucianna Zahray, 1734 Old Post Road, London. Below this was written, in a spidery hand, the date, and a single sentence: “Regret to report that alkaloids appear present (cocaine most likely possibility) but blood sample insufficient for specific identification.” This telegraphic missive was signed L. Zahray.
Charles handed the letter back to Murray, who read it without expression, then gave it to Bradford.
“Unfortunate,” Bradford said. He raised his eyebrows. “Who the devil is Lucianna Zahray?”
“Madame Zahray,” Charles said, “is a respected analytical chemist of Austrian descent who has been of great help in answering previous questions I have put to her. If she cannot positively identify the drug that was used on Gladiator, no one else in England can. This was a long shot, though, and I’m not surprised that she couldn’t give us an answer. I expected that the sample would prove insufficient.”
Murray spoke in a deeply apologetic tone. “The analytical chemist tested what, exactly, sir? I don’t believe I was told.”
“Blood that was drawn from Gladiator about ninety minutes after the Derby,” Charles said. “Regrettably, it was a small sample, since we obtained it surreptitiously, and the veterinary surgeon was interrupted at his task.” He sighed, thinking that had he known that Patrick was charged with the horse’s care, they might have gotten what they needed a great deal more easily.
“Which leaves us nowhere,” Bradford said, over his glass of ale.
“For the moment, at least,” Charles replied, “although I haven’t given up on the testing just yet. There’s more to be learned there.” To Murray, he added, “Have you come up with anything, Jack? What about the betting?”
Murray cleared his throat. “The horse ran at very long odds, as you know, sir. Lord Reginald Hunt, the owner, wagered heavily on him. Dick Doyle, and the stable too, all laid on.” Martin pulled his thick gray brows together. “When the horse failed to finish, Lord Hunt, for one, had to scramble. It’s said that he paid a hasty visit to Henry Radwick, who wasn’t kind to him. Took Glenoaks and a horse besides. It’s also said that he had a bit on with Alfred Day, off the books, and hasn’t yet covered.”
“Dick Doyle.” Bradford looked thoughtful. “A very astute man, and not a plunger. Doubt he’d lay hard on a whim.” He grinned mirthlessly. “Certainly sounds as if something was on, doesn’t it?”
Charles thought about what Patrick had told him. “Is it known who was with Gladiator before the race, Jack?”
“Mr. Angus Duncan, of course, and Pinkie Duncan—that’s old Angus’s nephew—and the traveling lad, a young boy.” Murray paused. “Also, a veterinary surgeon who arrived with the farrier.”
“The surgeon’s name?”
Murray looked rueful. “Sorry, sir. Haven’t yet learned it. The farrier isn’t saying, and I haven’t approached the stable yet.” He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “I’ve had a bit of a talk with Mr. Lambton, though, in confidence, sir. I trust you don’t mind.”
“That would be George Lambton, the Earl of Derby’s trainer,” Bradford said in an explanatory tone to Charles. “One of the best in the business.”
“Right, sir. Mr. Lambton is deeply concerned about this ‘dastardly doping business,’ as he calls it, sir. He says it’s the Americans who have brought it here, and especially Enoch Wishard and Jesse Clark, the trainers at the Red House Stable in St. Mary’s Square. ‘Yankee alchemists’ is what he calls them.” He looked out from under his eyebrows at Charles. “He says if there’s anything he can do to help, sir, he’s ready.”
“I see,” Charles remarked thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose Mr. Lambton has any evidence to support his opinion that this is a ‘dastardly’ business. Horses injured, anything like that?”
“One horse killed,” Murray said. “Ran into a stone wall after winning a race. Had to be shot.” His face settled back into its former gloomy expression, as two plates of greasy sausages and a cottage pie arrived, supplying a diversion. Charles, however, was not finished with his questions.
“The farrier,” he said. “What is his name? Where is he to be found?”
“Rickaby, sir,” Murray said, around a forkful of sausage. The food did not make him any more cheerful. “Harper’s Farm, near Epsom.”
“Very well, then,” Charles said, “if we are not able to learn the veterinary surgeon’s name by other means, we shall travel to Epsom and impose a few questions on Rickaby.” He paused. “I should think a talk with Jesse Clark might be profitable, as well.”
“Yes, sir,” Murray replied. “If he isn’t at the stables, he lodges at Chubbs, on Highgate Street, off Fitzroy Street.”
Bradford looked at Murray. “I say, old man,” he said
, bemused, “is there anything at all that you don’t know?”
“Oh, I’m sure, sir,” Murray replied sadly, and applied himself to his sausages.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Regal Lodge
The Queen of Manoa is based on a fanciful idea that artistically developed might produce a good play, but becomes vulgar clap-trap. Mrs. Langtry’s character is that of an utterly heartless creature, and beautiful as she looked as Lady Violet, she never once moved her audience. Her dresses were charming, her diamonds sparkled and her rubies were above price, perhaps, but these do not touch the heart.
Dramatic Notes
8 September, 1892
Her mistress gone to luncheon, Amelia had taken the back stairs down to the butler’s pantry to inquire of Mr. Williams the hours at which tea and dinner would be served, and about the arrangements for breakfast in the mornings, and hot water, and necessary laundry. A few minutes later, the staff of twenty—minus the butler and the footman, who were serving luncheon upstairs—gathered for their own lunch in the servants’ hall, and Amelia joined them. With a quick query, she discovered that Mrs. Langtry’s personal maid was a stout young woman with cheeks like a cottage loaf. Her name was Margaret Simpson, and Amelia took care to sit beside her.
With so many at table and the butler absent, lunch was a noisy affair, the mutton hash being passed, and potatoes and gravy and stewed cabbage, and bread pudding at the end, with plenty of hot coffee. Amelia was grateful for the clatter, since it gave her an opportunity to talk to Margaret, who welcomed her little confidences and seemed flattered by her attention. Amelia understood why, when it emerged that Margaret was not Mrs. Langtry’s personal maid after all, only an upstairs maid who had been temporarily elevated to the position when Mrs. Langtry’s own maid, Dominique, fell ill and was left behind in London.