Death at Epsom Downs

by Robin Paige

  At this, Gladiator pricked his ears, gathered his strength, and shot forward, making up length on length against Cannon and then pulling past, working up close behind Rag, and then flying past him too, and passing Mr. Angus in a strong finish, neck stretched out. The other two horses slowed to a canter immediately, but Gladiator continued to run as if he were enjoying the pleasure of it, until Patrick gradually pulled him up and circled back to the others.

  “Well,” Mr. Angus said, as if he were surprised. Frowning, he looked at Patrick, then at Gladiator, who was prancing and shaking his head, exactly as if he were proud of his win. “Decided to try at last, did he?”

  “Yes, sir,” Patrick said. “The start was faster than I expected and I had a tight rein, so I might have held him up some, just from not knowing. But he moved up fast when he was asked.” He wanted to add, proudly, He’s the best horse in the world, but he held his tongue and contented himself with a pat on Gladiator’s sweat-flecked neck.

  While Patrick and the other riders let their horses cool, Mr. Pinkie rode up, frowning, as if he were not entirely pleased with the outcome of the trial. He and Mr. Angus pulled off to one side for a brief discussion, Mr. Pinkie speaking with unusual animation. Mr. Angus looked irritated at first, then angry, but finally gave a vexed shrug and seemed to give in, though his look was dark. Mr. Pinkie then turned to the watchers on the hill, who’d had their glasses trained on the entire event, and made some sort of signal. Mr. Angus rode back to the group.

  “That’s it for the afternoon, lads,” he said gruffly, not looking at Patrick. “Let’s take ’em back to the stable.”

  As they started off, Pinkie motioned to Patrick to ride behind with him.

  “That was Lord Hunt up on the hill, watching the trial,” he said. “He wants you up on Gladiator for the ten-furlong handicap on Friday.”

  Patrick stared at him, almost uncomprehending. It was what he’d been longing to hear, yet couldn’t quite believe. His first ride as a jockey—not in a trial, but in a real race, and on Gladiator, the best horse in the world!

  “Thank you,” he managed at last. “I’ll do my best to win, Mr. Pinkie. And Gladiator will too, I know it.” He thought briefly of the Derby, and swallowed hard. They wouldn’t try to dope the horse again, would they? But now that they’d seen how fast Gladiator could run if he were asked, they had to know that the dope wouldn’t be needed. He could run just as fast, and with a lot more control, without it. And he would watch Gladiator like a hawk before the race. No one would put anything into his horse. If they tried, they would have to contend with him.

  But there was an expression on Pinkie’s leathery face that Patrick couldn’t quite decipher. They rode in silence for a moment; then the man said, “There’s a condition to yer riding, boy. Ye’re to promise to ride exactly as yer told on the day of the race. Ye will follow instructions—or ye’ll not ride again, for this stable or any other. Is that understood?”

  “A condition?” Patrick stared at him, at the steely eyes, the hard mouth. He began to comprehend what was being asked of him.

  “We don’t need to go into the details now,” Pinkie said roughly. “Let’s just have yer promise, shall we?”

  “I don’t—” Patrick swallowed. He could stop worrying about Gladiator being doped, for he understood all too well what his instructions for the race would be: to stop Gladiator from doing his best, to hold him back so that another horse might win. Those men on the hill with Lord Hunt must have been tipsters. They’d seen the horse run well, and they’d carry the message back to the bookies. Gladiator would be short odds. Lord Hunt would bet against him, and would win by losing.

  “Speak up, boy,” Pinkie snapped. His eyes were narrowed and dark. “Say it now, or ’is lordship’ll give the ride to Arch Adams. Arch does as ’e’s told.”

  Patrick took a deep breath. “I. . . promise,” he said numbly. He had to. If he didn’t, he’d lose any chance he might have to keep Gladiator safe.

  Pinkie grinned and leaned over to clap him hard on the shoulder. “Well, then, buck up, lad! It ain’t every day that an apprentice jockey goes up on a ’orse that nearly won the Derby, is it?”

  Patrick nodded. That much, at least, was true.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  At Wolford Lodge

  British racing fans bitterly resented the intrusion of American jockeys, trainers, and owners into what had been their own private preserve, just as the British aristocracy complained when peers began marrying wealthy American heiresses and installing them in their hereditary castles.

  “Trainers and Stables”

  Albert J. William

  It was well past teatime and growing dark when Charles returned to Newmarket that evening and dropped Jack Murray off at the Stag Hotel. If they had returned an hour earlier, he would have gone back to Hardaway House to change, and hence would have discovered and read Kate’s urgent note. But the hour was late and he was expected for dinner at the home of Bradford’s fiancée’s parents, so he drove straight on to Wolford Lodge.

  Edith Hill’s mother and stepfather lived in a small, newly built Tudor-style plaster-and-timber house, behind an iron fence some distance off the Cambridge Road. Charles gave his hired horse into the care of a ragged boy who came out to greet him. Edith herself answered his knock and led him into the sitting room, where Edith’s mother and stepfather were chatting with Bradford. A fire blazed cheerfully beneath a mantel ornately draped with a tassled red-velvet flounce, and after the cool out-of-doors, the room seemed stifling. It seemed small, as well, because it was crowded with large pots of green foliage and a dozen oddly shaped tables decorated with exotic-looking souvenirs, many carved of ivory. On the walls were displayed foreign-looking tapestries and hangings, as well as several large paintings of elephants and peacocks and a gilt-framed photograph of the Taj Mahal. A tiger-skin rug was artfully draped over a large bamboo chair with an arched back, beside which stood a trunk inlaid with many colorful woods. It appeared that the Hogsworths had spent some time in India.

  “So sorry to be late,” Charles said apologetically, when Edith had introduced him to Colonel and Mrs. Harry Hogsworth, who was a small woman with gray hair, dressed in a stiff purple poplin and old-fashioned beaded dolman. “I drove out to Snailwell this afternoon, and the errand took longer than I expected. I didn’t take time to dress, I fear. Please forgive me.”

  “No matter about the dress,” Colonel Hogsworth boomed. “We’re quite informal here.” He was a large, loud-voiced man with gray side-whiskers, heavy jowls, and an air of outspoken jovialty better suited to the Guards’ noisy clubroom than his wife’s small parlor. “Snailwell, eh? Not to be forward, but what was your lordship doing out there? Nothing but sheep and cattle and miserable little cottages overrun with dirty children.”

  “Edith,” murmured her mother, “do be a good girl and fetch his lordship a brandy.” To Charles, she explained delicately: “After so long a stay in Bombay, I fear that we find English butlers arrogant and clumsy. The colonel has promised to turn up an Indian for us. Until then, we have vowed to do without, even if it means answering our own door.”

  Charles bowed to Mrs. Hogsworth as Edith, lovely in a pale yellow gown, poured for him. She handed him the snifter with a glance of mute apology, and Charles smiled at her.

  Bradford remarked, “I suppose you were looking after that business for the Jockey Club, Sheridan. Did you manage to locate the veterinary who did the doping?”

  Taking his brandy, Charles glanced at Bradford in some surprise, then remembered that the two of them had not spoken since breakfast that morning—before Owen North had asked him to take on the investigation into Alfred Day’s murder. A great deal had happened in a relatively few hours, and Bradford knew none of it. He was trying to decide what sort of answer he should make when the colonel, in his emphatic way, broke in.

  “Horse doping.” He gave a disgusted grunt and went to stand before the fire, blocking most of its heat. “Nasty business. Worst disgra
ce ever visited on British racing. All the doing of those bloody Americans. Don’t understand why the stewards don’t put their foot down. No stomach, I suppose.”

  “Now, Colonel,” his wife said in a cautionary tone.

  “Don’t ‘now, Colonel’ me, Clarice,” Colonel Hogsworth said angrily. “I mean what I say. Appalling disgrace. Damn those Americans.”

  With a little sigh, Mrs. Hogsworth leaned toward Charles and confided, “I’m afraid that my husband is rather vehement on the subject of people who come from the States, Lord Charles.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He doesn’t like them. Particularly those from Brazil. Something to do with coffee, I believe.”

  “Mama,” Edith said quietly, “Brazil is in South America.”

  “Of course, dear,” Mrs. Hogsworth replied. “It’s near Texas, I understand.” She shivered a little. “One hears so many strange stories about Texas. It must truly be a wild place.”

  “No true horse lover likes the Americans!” the colonel exclaimed, rising to his toes, his jowls reddening. “No care for the horses. Buy ’em, dope ’em, run ’em, and shoot ’em when they’ve run their hearts out. In it for the money, that’s all. And now they’re corrupting honest English stables.”

  Mrs. Hogsworth made yet another attempt to retrieve the conversation. “Well, then, Lord Charles!” she exclaimed, smiling brightly. “Pray tell me what you think of our Edith’s engagement to Lord Bradford. We’re quite pleased, of course.” She bestowed a kindly glance on Bradford. “Edith and his lordship seem to have so many common interests. Edith occasionally helps her godfather, Cecil Rhodes, by writing a letter or two for him. Not a position, of course, just an occasional offer of help. It was at his office that they met.” She tilted her head to one side, like a bird. “Your lordship has heard of Mr. Rhodes, I’m sure. He’s going to put a stop to that ridiculous Boer business down there in Argentina. The idea of those savages, daring to rise against their Queen!”

  Charles was saved the embarrassment of answering this preposterous remark by the colonel, who turned round to say to Bradford: “Don’t suppose you’ve heard the latest news, since you and Edith were traipsing round Cambridge all day. One of the local bookmakers, rather clever chap by the name of Alfred Day, was murdered last night—by an American trainer, I understand. Jesse Clark. Shot him dead with a revolver as big as a cannon. Aimed to keep Day from organizing the bookmakers against doping.”

  “Really, Colonel,” Mrs. Hogsworth said in a plaintive tone, “Shooting isn’t a fit subject for—”

  “Actually, Mama,” Edith said cheerfully, “Bradford has told me all about the murder. He and Lord Charles saw the poor man’s dead body, terribly bloody and quite shot full of holes, in the alley behind the Great Horse. In fact, they were the ones who summoned the constable.”

  With a little gasp, Mrs. Hogsworth raised her hand to her mouth. “Goodness gracious!” she exclaimed weakly. “But I do so wish we would not speak of—”

  “Did you now?” Colonel Hogsworth said, pulling his furry eyebrows together. “Capital, what? Did y’see Clark there too? Did the police nab him? Cert’nly hope so. Americans can’t be allowed to go around shooting civilized folk as if Newmarket were the Wild West.”

  “I don’t think it’s been definitely established that Mr. Day was killed by Mr. Clark,” Charles said mildly.

  “Well, if it’s not, it soon will be,” the colonel said in a settled tone, rising once again to his toes. “The Newmarket police may be slow, but they’re thorough. Always get their man.” He shook his head, glowering. “It’s not just the trainers and their doping, y’know. It’s the whole damned American invasion—don’t try to stop me, Clarice, it’s true. That pesky little jockey Sloan, for one. Outrageous! Hit a waiter in the face with a champagne bottle at the last Ascot. And those American gamblers, a whole string of ’em, coming over with their pockets full of gold. Heavy plungers, and all’s well if they win. But if they lose, they simply abscond.”

  “You mean,” Mrs. Hogsworth said with a look of incredulity, “that the Americans don’t pay their lawful debts?”

  “Hard to believe, but that’s the case, m’dear. When our English chaps lose, they lose honorably. They pay up, even if it takes the family’s last shilling. Take Lord Hunt, f’r instance, handing over Glenoaks to Henry Radwick so he could settle fair and square. That’s the way to lose, by Jove!” He punched the air. “You may be bloody and sore, but stand up and take your losses like a man—that’s a sportsman for you. Not the Americans, though. Not an ounce of honor, not a shred. That sniveling little fellow John Bass, for instance. Took the boat back to New York owing Alfred Day sixty thousand pounds on the Derby.”

  “Sixty thousand pounds?” Charles murmured in some amazement, thinking back to his conversation with Badger’s clerk. That was an enormous loss for a bookmaker, even one as successful as Day. Why hadn’t Oliver Moore mentioned it? But then, perhaps he hadn’t known about it. Perhaps it had been a private wager, off the books. He frowned, wondering who the devil John Bass was, and whether the loss might have had anything to do with Alfred Day’s murder.

  “Sixty thousand pounds,” the colonel repeated emphatically, with some satisfaction. “I heard Lord Hunt talking about it at the stable this afternoon, when I went over to have a look at one of my horses.”

  “Colonel Hogsworth is speaking of the Grange House Stable,” Bradford said in a meaningful tone, with a glance at Charles. To Hogsworth, he remarked, “Sheridan is planning to have a couple of horses trained at the Grange. We were there yesterday, as a matter of fact, to have a look around. Old Angus Duncan used to train for my father at Marsden Manor, you know. He’s quite an impressive fellow.”

  The colonel pursed his lips. “I’d think twice about putting my horses there if I were you, Lord Charles,” he said judiciously. “I’m pulling out as soon as I find another stable. Old Angus is fine, as you say, but I don’t like the idea of that nephew of his taking over. Pinkie, his name is.”

  “Oh?” Charles asked, raising his eyebrows. “Pinkie is assuming responsibility for the stable? Nothing was said of that.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a stout lady in a stained apron open the door and signal to her mistress that dinner was ready.

  “Well, it’s so,” the colonel said. “I shouldn’t wonder if the stable goes right downhill when Angus is gone. Afraid Pinkie does not have his uncle’s upstanding character. Been involved in several rather shady—”

  “Dinner has been announced,” Mrs. Hogsworth said, standing. “Tonight is the serving maid’s night out, so we shall be served by our cook.” She stood and took Charles’s arm. “And might I suggest that we find some other subject for our dinner discussion than horses and murders?” She smiled sweetly at Bradford, who was taking Edith in. “Perhaps you and Edith could tell us, Lord Marsden, what you did in Cambridge today. And after we’ve eaten, dear Edith has agreed to honor us with a few songs.”

  And with that, they all went in to dinner.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  At Hardaway House

  If, of all words of tongue and pen, The saddest are ‘It might have been,’ More sad are these we daily see: ‘It is, but hadn’t ought to be!’

  Mrs. Judge Jenkins

  Bret Harte

  As Charles and Bradford drove back from Wolford Lodge to the livery stable, Charles gave Bradford a sketch of the long day’s doings, beginning with the conversation at the Jockey Club and ending with the talk he and Jack Murray had had with Sobersides, at the farmhouse near Snailwell.

  “So Mrs. Langtry may be involved in Day’s murder,” Bradford said, in some amazement, having heard of her note to Day that Charles had found in the dead man’s pocket, and her missing gun.

  “Kate doesn’t think she shot him,” Charles said, getting down to turn the horse and gig over to the sleepy stableboy. “And on the whole, I’m inclined to agree. It’s clear that Mrs. Langtry meant to meet Badger in St. Mary’s Square to tell him that she could not repay the m
oney she owed him, but I doubt that the man actually made it that far. The evidence suggests that he was murdered shortly after leaving the Great Horse.”

  Bradford alighted from the gig. “But her gun is missing,” he said, frowning. “And ten thousand pounds is a great deal of motive. Doesn’t it strike you as highly coincidental?”

  “We have no idea whether it was her gun that killed him,” Charles reminded him as they walked off.

  There was a silence. “Well, then, what do you think of Colonel Hogsworth’s theory? Jesse Clark certainly had a strong motive, as well as opportunity. If Badger were successful in organizing the Newmarket and London bookmakers, they could put an end to doping.”

  “To some of it, perhaps,” Charles said. “Although I’m not as certain as you and Jack Murray that a coalition of bookmakers could stop the practice. More likely, they’d just stir up a scandal in the newspapers—which the stewards certainly don’t want.” He thought again of Owen North, and the strange undercurrents in their morning interview. “The stewards had as much reason as Clark to stop Badger from doing what he threatened to do.”

  Bradford slanted him a questioning glance. “Are you suggesting that the Club might have arranged Badger’s murder?” His tone implied that it was an incredible suggestion.

  They turned off the High Street and onto Wellington Street. A horse and rider passed them, hooves clip-clopping on the cobbles, but otherwise the street was silent and deserted, and dark shadows filled the intervals between the gas lamps. “I think we ought to entertain the possibility,” Charles said reluctantly. “You know how strongly the Marlborough Set feel about public scandal, especially where wagering is concerned. The last time they were dragged into court, in the Tranby Croft affair, it was a complete fiasco. In the eyes of the country, they looked like fools and dilettantes, with nothing on earth to do but play cards and hurl petty accusations of cheating at one another. If the press made a scandal out of horse doping—”