Death at Epsom Downs

by Robin Paige

  Do right to all men, and don’t write to any woman.

  Lillie Langtry

  When Amelia left the kitchen after her conversation with Margaret, Mrs. Redditch the cook, and Bowchard the gardener, she went straight up to her mistress’s room in the hopes of finding Lady Charles. Bowchard’s news about Alfred Day’s murder had surprised Amelia to no end, and the servants’ veiled accusation of Mrs. Langtry had not been lost on her. Of course, she understood that none of the servants liked their mistress; in fact, most of them seemed to actively dislike her, some from a narrow-minded (and probably hypocritical) distaste for Mrs. Langtry’s low morals; and some from a general unhappiness with her slow payment of wages.

  But even taking these hostile feelings into account, Amelia knew that something unusual was afoot here. Mrs. Langtry’s bookmaker had been shot to death at about the same time that he was to rendezvous with her. And what was more, Mrs. Langtry’s silver-handled derringer was missing from a drawer in the drawing room, where it was always kept.

  Amelia and Margaret had learned this intriguing intelligence from Pru, the parlormaid, whom they encountered in the passageway outside the kitchen on their way back upstairs. Pru was tall and angular, and the absence of brows (scorched off by an exploding gas lamp) gave her a look of perpetual dismay. She was entrusted with dusting and straightening the dining, breakfast, and drawing rooms, a duty which permitted her to sew a lace edging on her apron to distinguish her from the other maids. Parlormaids were not supposed to snoop in drawers, of course, but Pru had seen the gun on more than one occasion when she had opened the drawer to put something away. She had thought then that it was a careless sort of place to keep a dangerous weapon, and now she was sure of it. For this morning when she opened the drawer, the gun was gone.

  “Mrs. L. took it and shot poor Mr. Day to death,” Margaret said, with great satisfaction. “I’m sart’n of it!”

  Pru, who did not seem to share Margaret’s deep animosity toward their employer, disagreed. “Might not’ve been Mrs. L. wot took it,” she said. She dropped her voice to a sinister whisper. “ ’Er friend Spider was in the drawing room yestiddy afternoon, see, waiting fer ’er. When I comes in wiv a vase of roses, ’e’s standing by the table, ’is hand in the drawer. When ’e sees me, ’e shuts it quick like. ’E could’ve took it.”

  “Spider?” Amelia asked with a shudder. “Wot a name fer a man! ’Oo is ’e?”

  “Spider is all she ever calls ’im,” Pru said with a shrug. “A friend of Mrs. L.’s, up from London. ’E comes every so often. Sometimes ’e stays for a day er two.”

  “ ’E gives ’er money to put on ’er plays,” Margaret explained to Amelia. “It’s the on’y reason she puts up wiv ’im. ’E don’t have a title or nothin’. Just money.”

  “Just money, huh?” Pru giggled. “Well, ye won’t see me turnin’ me nose up at money. ’Oo cares about a musty ol’ title? Ye can’t trade a title for beef at the butcher’s.”

  There was a heavy footstep behind them and Amelia started nervously. “What do you girls think you’re doing, gossiping in the hallway?” Mr. Williams demanded in a stern voice. “Margaret and Pru, get on with your duties. Miss Amelia, I should think her ladyship might wish you to find something more profitable than gossip to occupy your time.”

  The three of them had scattered guiltily, Margaret and Pru to their respective tasks and Amelia to her mistress’s room in the hope of sharing what she had just learned. But her ladyship was apparently detained in the drawing room downstairs, and the servants’ lunch bell sounded before she returned.

  At lunch in the servants’ hall, Mr. Williams was once more absent, serving luncheon upstairs, and the gossip flowed freely. To her surprise, Amelia learned that Lord Charles had called that morning and that Mrs. L. had been much perturbed by his lordship’s visit. Shortly after his departure, Miss Jeanne-Marie had arrived unexpectedly from London, unescorted and visibly distressed, and loud weeping had been heard through the drawing room door. There was a good deal of whispering about her visit, as well as about Mrs. L.’s planned rendezvous with the murdered bookmaker and the silver-handled derringer that had gone missing from the drawer in the drawing room.

  After lunch, Amelia volunteered to help Rose, the other upstairs maid, iron the freshly laundered sheets and pillowcases for Miss Jeanne-Marie’s bed, which had not yet been freshly made up. As they worked over their ironing tables with irons heated on the kitchen range, Amelia turned the conversation to the girl.

  “Is she as pretty as ’er auntie?” she asked, deliberately innocent.

  “Auntie!” Rose snorted. “Don’t be a goose. Mrs. L. is ’er mother. Lady Ragsdale told ’er the truth so Mrs. L. ’ad to admit it at last. The girl’s upstairs just this minute, cryin’ ’er eyes out. Refused to come down fer luncheon, though she was sent fer twice.”

  “Oh, the poor thing!” Amelia exclaimed in genuine sympathy.

  Rose, a flat-faced, sallow-cheeked girl with a worldly air about her, seemed to share Margaret’s judgmental view of her employer. “Pore thing is right,” she said sharply, spitting on a flatiron to test the heat. “I’d cry too, if I’d jest found out I wuz Mrs. L.’s daughter. Nobody respect’ble will marry ’er now, only one o’ them turrible rogues and wastrels ’oo ’ang ’round ’er mother.”

  “Really?” Amelia asked. She hadn’t considered Jeanne’s dilemma from the perspective of her opportunities for marriage.

  “Really,” Rose said, mocking. She pushed the iron over a pilllowcase with swift, hard strokes. “If ye wuz a mother er father with a good fam’ly name to pertect, would ye let yer son marry Lillie Langtry’s daughter—even if she was a Royal bastard?”

  “Well, I—”

  “ ’Course ye wouldn’t. Like mother, like daughter, is wot ye’d say.” Rose folded the pillowcase neatly and pushed the iron across it again, setting a crease. “She can be persented in court a dozen times and it won’t do ’er a shillin’s worth of good. Mark my words, that girl’ll end up jest like ’er mother, on the stage er worse.” She folded the pillowcase once more and whacked it again with the iron. “Worse, most likely.”

  And that had to settle it, for the ironing was finished, Rose sailed off upstairs with the linens, and there was no more opportunity to talk.

  But the conversation had given Amelia even more to think about, and she was still thinking when she went back upstairs to lay out her ladyship’s tea gown. In fact, she was so deeply engrossed in her thoughts that when she put her hand into her apron pocket and her fingers touched the rough edges of a crumpled paper, she did not at first remember what it was. It wasn’t until she drew out the small, wine-stained ball of paper that she recalled retrieving it from the fireplace in Mrs. Langtry’s bedroom, where it had obviously been intended to burn. When Amelia smoothed it out and read it, she understood why:

  Monday, 5 June

  My dear Mrs. Langtry,

  I write because I find myself in a difficult financial situation and no longer able to carry large overdue accounts. According to my records, you owe me some ten thousand pounds. If you are disinclined to find this money, I must remind you of what I know about the theft of your jewels and about Mr. Langtry’s death. I expect payment in full as soon as possible. If I do not receive it, I shall be forced to go to the elder Lord de Bathe and tell him what I know. I’m sure he will be most interested in the information.

  I shall look forward to hearing when you will honor your obligation.

  Yrs faithfully,

  Alfred S. Day

  Amelia had scarcely finished reading this revealing missive when the door opened and Lady Charles entered, carrying her notebook and pen.

  “Oh, Amelia,” she said breathlessly, “I’m glad you’re here, my dear. I must write a note to Lord Charles, and I shall want you to carry it to him as quickly as possible. I do hope you won’t mind walking into Newmarket. I particularly don’t want Mrs. Langtry to know that I’ve written to his lordship.” She stopped, seeing th
e note Amelia was holding out to her. “What is this?”

  “I found it in the grate in Mrs. Langtry’s bedroom,” Amelia said, very seriously. “I think ye should read it, m’lady. And I’ve learned some things belowstairs that ye’ll likely want to ’ear.”

  Lady Charles scanned the wine-stained, slightly-charred note, pulling in her breath sharply. Then she went back to the beginning and read it again, more slowly, her lips silently forming the words.

  “I think I’m beginning to see,” she whispered, as if she were speaking only to herself. “Is it sufficient proof? I doubt it. But of course Charles must decide. And he may have found out more that will help him.” Then she looked up, starting, as if she had forgotten Amelia’s presence. “You have something else to tell me, Amelia?”

  Carefully, trying to recall exactly what had been said, Amelia sketched out what she had learned from Margaret, Mr. Bowchard, Rose, and Pru. Lady Charles listened carefully, seeming most interested in Pru’s report.

  “You say the parlormaid saw this man, Spider, take the gun out of the drawer?”

  “Not ’xactly, ma’am.” Amelia shook her head. “She said ’e might’ve took it, ’cause she saw ’im standing at the table with his ’and in the drawer.”

  “That fits with what I know,” her ladyship murmured. “But I wonder why Lillie lied to protect him.” She looked up. “None of the servants know this man’s real name?”

  “They don’t seem to, ma’am. Just that ’e’s from London, and ’e comes ’ere ev’ry so often.”

  Lady Charles glanced down at the paper in her hand. After a moment’s hesitation, she went to the small writing desk that stood beside the window. She took out a piece of paper and her pen and sat down to write, giving careful thought to some of the sentences, as though she were telling a complicated story. Once, apparently having forgotten some detail, she went back to insert a phrase in the margin. Then she folded the note Amelia had given her into the paper she herself had written, and thrust both into an envelope. On the desk was a candle, with a stick of red sealing wax and a metal embosser beside it. She lit the candle and melted a blob of wax onto the envelope, embossing it carefully. She gave it to Amelia.

  “Lord Charles is staying at Hardaway House, on the left side of Wellington Street, just off the High Street. The house has a green door, behind a brick gateway. Go there, and give this envelope to his lordship. If he isn’t in, you must wait for him.” She frowned. “No, it might be very late when he comes, and your return here would attract attention. Best to give the note to Mrs. Hardaway, the landlady, and ask her to keep it for Lord Charles. On no account should she give it to anyone else. Do you understand?”

  “Oh, yes, m’lady,” Amelia said eagerly, pleased to be entrusted with this important mission.

  Lady Charles stood, went to her purse, and took out a coin which she pressed into Amelia’s hand. “Give Mrs. Hardaway this to ensure that she does as you say.” She found another coin. “And use this to hire a hansom to bring you back. If you are asked where you’ve been, say that I sent you to the chemist for lavender water.” She added a third coin. “You may keep the lavender water for yourself, for your trouble.”

  “Oh yes, m’lady!” Amelia exclaimed, now struck almost breathless by the prospect of being involved in such fascinating intrigue, and by the anticipation of the lavender water.

  “Very well, then,” her ladyship said. “Put on your hat and go. And do hurry, my dear! His lordship must have that envelope as soon as possible.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  On Newmarket Heath

  It was customary for boys to go into racing stables at the age of ten or eleven, some of them before they reached that age. They were often spotted by men who saw them going well to hounds, or riding ponies at some village sports. One well-known owner when asked where he found the light-weights who rode his horses so well, replied: “I breed ’em on the estate.” The earlier boys begin their tuition and ride against other jockeys, the more likely they are to succeed.

  Paddock Personalities

  J. Fairfax-Blakeborough, 1936

  When Patrick woke at five on Tuesday morning, he was tired and still shaken by his adventure of the previous night. But he got through morning stables in good order, none of the other lads having noticed that he had been absent from his bed until past midnight. And when Pinkie Duncan told them at breakfast that Badger the bookmaker had been murdered, Patrick looked down at his plate and pretended to know nothing at all about it. He noticed, however, that despite Pinkie’s efforts to conceal his true feelings, his satisfaction showed on his face. Clearly, the dead man had not been one of Pinkie’s friends, although Patrick could not guess why. Patrick did not like Pinkie any the more for this secret gloating. It was not that he had cared very much for the bookmaker, whom he knew only from seeing at the racecourse. But it did not seem right that one man should gloat over another man’s death, however unpleasant their association might have been.

  Gladiator was exercised with the afternoon string, so Patrick readied his other horse, a two-year-old filly named Starling. The morning sky was lightening in the east when he took her out with the other lads. They walked their horses around the paddock’s cinder path under the watchful eye of Mr. Angus Duncan, who was making the daily exercise assignments: the more experienced lads to the more difficult or valuable horses, the less experienced to the horses least likely to give trouble. The inexperienced were left behind in the yard to walk the unfit horses.

  Patrick was extraordinarily pleased when he was put up on Constant, a promising seventeen-hand bay with a great deal of sparkle, for the match suggested that Mr. Angus might be testing his abilities, as well as those of the horse. Constant was a stable favorite, usually exercised by Arch Adams, another apprentice jockey who had already ridden in several races at Newmarket. Arch and his friend Jim gave Patrick a disgruntled look as he shortened the stirrup leathers (Patrick rode short, in the style of the American Tod Sloan) and when he went into the saddle, Jim muttered something derogatory under his breath. But Patrick did his best to ignore them and concentrated on settling onto the horse, which danced and fidgeted under him.

  When all the lads were mounted, the string departed for the gallops on the west side of Newmarket at Southfields, not far from the racecourse. They crossed the Bury Road and went behind the other stables and right through the town, taking the High Street. This was the regular route to the Heath taken by all the stables, and often they encountered other strings on their way to exercise. But they were early this morning, and when Southfields came into view, it was empty.

  It was full light now, but cloudy and gray, with a slight drizzle. The air was cool, the ground soft but not slippery, the breeze quiet—the very best sort of morning to exercise horses. Mr. Angus began immediately with the canters, watching carefully to make an assessment of the individual horse’s capabilities. As always, the touts and tipsters had arrived early, too. They watched from their distant stations up the hill and along the road, peering through their field glasses, collecting tidbits of information on the health and performance of one horse or another to pass along to the bookmakers and racing papers. There was nothing that could be done about this peering and prying, and the stables had learned how to turn it to best advantage by showcasing some horses and concealing others, thereby influencing the odds.

  Canters completed, the string rode back through the town to the stable, where Patrick unsaddled Constant, rubbed him down, washed the dirt out of his hooves, rugged him up, and carried water and oats to his box. Then it was time for more chores, lunch, and then the afternoon string—and here it was that the gray day became suddenly much brighter, for while Mr. Angus was making assignments, his nephew Pinkie came out to join him. There was a hurried conference, Mr. Angus shaking his head and Pinkie gesturing emphatically, and Patrick was put up on Gladiator.

  Then, while the head lad marshaled the string and headed off to Southfields, Patrick rode Gladiator behind Mr. Angus a
nd Mr. Pinkie to the trial ground beyond the Limekilns, accompanied by Arch Adams on a four-year-old colt named Rag who had won well the previous year, and Jim on Cannon, a promising, eager chestnut, another stable favorite. No one said a word, but Patrick knew that they were going to run a full-scale trial to see how well Rag would do against Cannon, and whether Cannon had as much promise as he seemed to have. He leaned over and patted Gladiator’s neck, hoping that the horse would run well. He thought briefly of Johnny’s fair, bright face and smiling optimism, and felt a stab of sadness. But he had to put that out of his mind, for Johnny was gone now. And if he felt any fear that Gladiator might suddenly turn savage, as he had at the Derby, Patrick put it away too. What had happened in that race happened because of the doping, and today Gladiator was as calm as could be, and perhaps even a little lethargic.

  The mist was clearing and the sun breaking through the silver clouds when the group reached the trial ground. Three men on horseback were watching from the brow of the hill through field glasses as Mr. Angus rode on to the end of the course and reined in where he could observe. After a few moments, the watchers were joined by several more. Mr. Pinkie stayed with the three runners, giving them brief instructions.

  “Don’t ride ’em into the ground,” he said. “We don’t want any injuries. If there’s faltering, ease off.” He looked at Arch Adams. “But let ’im run ’ard if ’e wants,” he said.

  The riders nodded, the horses danced eagerly, and Mr. Pinkie dropped a red handkerchief to signal the start. They were off quicker and faster than Patrick expected, accelerating in a hard run, Rag opening up a strong lead, Cannon running second. Loping lazily, Gladiator did not seem compelled to keep up until Patrick, seeing the distance to Cannon open to ten lengths, loosened the rein, crouched forward on the horse’s withers, and whispered urgently, “For Johnny, boy, go! Go!”