Death at Epsom Downs

by Robin Paige

  And with that, she turned and swept from the room, leaving a bemused Charles to explore the remaining contents of the safe at his leisure.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  In Exning

  I believe that I was the first jockey in England to ride a doped horse over fences at a race meeting. The animal was Sporran, and he was doped by that well-known veterinary surgeon, Captain J. G. Deans. Captain Deans wrote: “As the first veterinary surgeon in England to attempt the hypodermic injection of a stimulant into a racehorse before running, I confidently assert that it is possible to treat a horse by this method, not once but many times, without any detrimental effect, either immediately or in future.”

  Paddock Personalities

  J. Fairfax-Blakeborough

  The village of Exning was about two miles to the north and west of Newmarket. Bradford, glad to have something useful to do while Edith and her mother were negotiating agreements of great significance with the dressmaker, made inquiries at the postal office in the rear of the greengrocer’s shop. The grocer’s daughter, who was also the village postmistress, was a charming young woman with nut-brown hair tied with a pink ribbon. She gave him a flirtatious smile and directions to Dr. Septimus Polter’s animal surgery, at Hill House. She glanced up at the clock.

  “If ye want t’find the doctor in this mornin’, sir, best ye ’urry,” she said, with an enchanting flash of dimples. “ ’E’s off t’ Ipswich today on business. ’Is ’ousekeeper, Mrs. Flagg, said ’e was takin’ the noon train from Newmarket.”

  “Thank you,” Bradford said. He tipped his tweed cap smartly and turned to go, thinking that if a detective wished to learn something about a villager, the best place to begin was with the village postmistress. And if they were all as pretty as this one, detecting would be a fine business. He had forgotten, for the moment, about Edith.

  “Oh, wait, sir,” the woman called, and Bradford turned back. “Since ye’re goin’ to ’Ill ’Ouse, mebbee ye wouldn’t mind—” She took a shoebox-sized package from a shelf and pushed it across the counter. “Would ye be so good as to deliver this to the doctor? The letter carrier was meant t’take it, but she left it be’ind.” The postmistress gave her pretty head an irritated shake, as if to comment on the careless ways of letter carriers, and watched Bradford out the door.

  Following directions, Bradford turned his hired hack off the village road at a painted sign bearing the words DOCTOR SEPTIMUS POLTNER, VETERINARY SURGEON. At the end of the shrubbery-lined lane stood Hill House, and behind it the surgery, in a separate frame building with two windows in the front and a Dutch door. Behind this was an ancient timber-and-stone barn, open on one side to a fenced paddock. Within, Bradford could see several horses. A ragged boy was carrying a bucket of oats into the barn, followed by a motley flock of chickens looking for their share.

  The top half of the surgery door stood open. Bradford opened the lower door and went inside, carrying both the package from the postmistress and Patrick’s bottle, wrapped in brown paper. There was a waiting room just large enough for two empty chairs, with a door in the opposite wall, standing open. Bradford went to it and put his head through.

  “Dr. Polter?” he asked.

  A stooped, gray-haired man was sitting at a cluttered table with a soot black cat draped across his shoulders like a fur piece, peering at the pages of a large book through a magnifying glass. The room in which he sat was cluttered as well, heaped around with piles of books, papers, medicine bottles, surgical implements, and baskets of oddments, everything strewn here and there in no apparent order. Several large colored drawings of the anatomy of horses and cows were pinned to the walls, and on a hook by the door hung a lantern, a waterproof cape, a large waterproof hat, and a pair of waterproof fishing trousers. Beneath them stood an umbrella and a pair of Wellingtons.

  The man had taken no notice of him. “Dr. Polter?” Bradford said again, raising his voice, and then, when the man still did not respond, shouted “Dr. Polter?”

  “Eh?” The man looked up and Bradford saw that he was getting on in years, in his seventies, perhaps. “What d’you say? Are you looking for me?”

  “Dr. Polter,” Bradford said, loudly and distinctly, “I’ve brought you this.” He handed over the package the postmistress had entrusted to him. “From the post office in Exning.”

  The cat jumped down from the doctor’s shoulders and sat on the book he had been reading, licking a paw. “You’re the new letter carrier, then?” Dr. Polter asked, in the overly loud voice of the hard-of-hearing. He set the package on the table beside him, and squinted at Bradford. “Bit old for the job, aren’t you? Must be new here, too. Don’t remember seeing you around the village.”

  “I’m not the mail carrier,” Bradford said loudly.

  “Not the mail carrier? Then why are you carrying the mail?” The cat yawned, flicked its tail, and began to sniff delicately at the package.

  “I’ve come to ask you some questions, Dr. Polter,” Bradford said, louder still. “About horse doping.” On the way to Exning, he had given careful thought to the approach he would take with the doctor and had decided to be direct and straightforward, thinking that he might thereby catch his informant off guard and startle him into revealing what he knew. But he had not counted on the doctor’s being deaf.

  “Questions about what, did you say?” the doctor asked. He reached under his chair and picked up a large green-painted ear trumpet, putting it to his ear. “Speak up, or I won’t hear you, young man.”

  “Horse doping,” Bradford said loudly into the bell of the trumpet, then repeated the words, feeling foolish. It was one thing to put questions to a man in a normal tone of voice, quite another to shout them at him in simplified form, as if they were both idiots.

  “Ah.” The cat abandoned the package and lay down on the doctor’s book, purring. “Horse doping, eh? What sort of horse is it you want to dope? Where is it running?” The doctor eyed Bradford’s dark green tweed jacket, green cloth breeches, ivory waistcoat and tie, and added, with raised brows, “Not a trainer, I’ll warrant. Owner, I s’pose.” He held the trumpet in Bradford’s direction. “What sort of horse, eh? What sort of horse?”

  Bradford leaned forward. This was not the tack he had planned to take, but under the circumstances, it would have to do. “I own a three-year-old colt,” he said distinctly. “I want to run him to win in the ten-furlong handicap at Newmarket on Friday.”

  “Friday, eh?” Dr. Polter stroked the cat, frowning. “Don’t know why you’ve come to me directly, Mr.—what did you say your name was?”

  “Murray,” Bradford said, deciding of a sudden that he would rather not give his real name. “Jack Murray, sir.”

  “Well, Mr. Murphy, weren’t you told that I usually work through trainers? Prefer not to deal with owners—they get in the way.” He scowled. “If you want to race a doped horse, take it to Clark and Wishard, at the Red House stable, in Newmarket. They’re experts in that game.”

  “Yes, I know about Wishard and Clark,” Bradford said. “But I . . .” He smiled rather foolishly, then put his mouth to the trumpet and said, in an approximation of a whisper: “I’m alone in this, don’t you know. Just my own little secret. Not particularly keen on anyone else knowing about it. Particularly the Americans.”

  Dr. Polter thought about this for a moment, still stroking the cat. “I see,” he said finally. “Well, I s’pose it can’t hurt. Run your colt to lose, you say?”

  “No,” Bradford said emphatically. “I want to run him to win.” He leaned into the trumpet. “To win, sir!”

  “Ah. Well, then, you’ll want some speedy balls.” He pushed his chair back.

  “Speedy balls?” Bradford put on a confused look. “No, I don’t think so. Actually, a friend gave me this.” He pulled Patrick’s bottle out of its wrapping and put it on the table in front of Dr. Polter. “You used it on his horse recently, and he was quite pleased with the outcome. Wonder if you’d be so good as to sell me a dose, and to gi
ve me some idea what’s in it. I’ll pay your price, of course,” he added quickly. “Whatever you ask.”

  At the mention of money, a crafty look crossed the doctor’s face, and he picked up the bottle, turning it in his hands. “Hmmm,” he said thoughtfully. “Yes, I remember. Galahad, owned by Lord Bunt. In the last Derby.”

  “Gladiator,” Bradford said loudly, for the doctor had put down his trumpet. “Lord Hunt.”

  Scowling, Dr. Polter replied, “That’s what I said, Mr. Murphy. You don’t need to shout.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bradford said contritely. “It was Lord Bunt who gave me that bottle and suggested I talk to you. He said to be sure that you gave me the same substance you used on Galahad.” He paused, and asked, enuciating carefully, “What sort of dope was in that bottle?”

  “What sort?” the doctor said. “Why, cocaine, to be sure. Much more effective than caffeine or opium. What size?”

  “Size?” Bradford frowned. “I don’t know. What sizes does it come in?”

  The doctor gave him a look of disgust. “What size horse, Murphy? How high does he stand?”

  “Oh,” Bradford said, feeling foolish. “Sixteen hands.” He paused. “I suppose that matters.”

  “Of course it matters,” the doctor said sharply, reaching for the package Bradford had brought him. The cat, dislodged from the book, jumped onto the floor and stalked off, tail in the air. “Too much will kill him. Not enough, or administered too long before the start, it won’t do the job. You ought to let Wishard or Clark give you a hand with it.” He took out a pen knife and slit the wrapping. “They know how to do it, you see. They’re scientific, those Americans. They gallop the horse before the race to find out exactly how much dope will push it along. Very scientific.”

  Bradford watched as the doctor unwrapped the box and opened it. Inside was another, smaller box. When the lid was opened, Bradford saw that it was filled with a white powder.

  “Good thing you brought this with you,” the doctor said, putting a quantity of the powder into a small envelope and sealing it. “Or you would have been out of luck.” He gave the envelope to Bradford. “Pour this into that cough syrup bottle. Fill it with water and shake it until it dissolves. No more than ten minutes before the start, put it down the horse’s throat. Then stand back.”

  Bradford looked doubtfully at the envelopes. “Until Lord Bunt told me that you doped with the bottle, I was expecting there’d be some sort of injection.”

  “What?” the doctor shouted, and picked up his ear trumpet. “Don’t mumble, Murphy. Speak up!”

  Bradford repeated what he had said.

  “If it’s an injection you want, you’ll have to see Captain Bean,” the doctor said shortly. “He’s injecting jumpers, I understand. But that’s not something you can do for yourself. If you want to do the administering, use what I’ve given you.” He frowned. “But mind you put up a strong, experienced rider, Murphy. A doped horse wants to run. I told Lord Bunt not to ride that lightweight boy on Galahad, but he didn’t listen.” He gave his head a sad shake. “Hear there’s been an objection.”

  “Yes,” Bradford said.

  “Don’t like that,” the doctor said darkly. “No need to call attention to doping, don’t you agree? Stewards wouldn’t like that.”

  “The stewards?” Bradford asked innocently.

  The doctor laughed. “Are you as green as that, young man?” His voice turned bitter. “The stewards know who’s profiting from the American invasion, especially from that boy Sloan. They don’t want to do anything that might upset the applecart.”

  “Tod Sloan, the jockey? He’s connected with Wishard and Clark?”

  “You are green,” the doctor replied with a sniff. “Lord William Beresford brought Sloan over here, and Sloan brought Wishard and the others. Lord William has arranged with the Prince for Sloan to ride in the Royal colors next season. Who knows? Maybe Wishard will be moving over to Egerton House to show what he can do.”

  “But that’s the royal racing-stables!” Bradford exclaimed. “H.R.H. wouldn’t be associated with something as unsportsmanlike as—” He stopped, recollecting himself just in time, and pocketed the envelope. “Your fee?” He leaned closer and shouted. “How much?”

  “A tenner ought to do it,” the doctor said.

  “Greedy old buzzard,” Bradford muttered, reaching into his pocket.

  “What’s that you say, Murphy?” the doctor asked sharply.

  “Cheap at twice the price,” Bradford replied.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  At the Jockey Club

  Here in her hair the Painter plays the Spider and hath woven a golden mesh t’entrap the hearts of men.

  The Merchant of Venice

  William Shakespeare

  Admiral North looked up from the papers on his desk. “Ah, Sheridan,” he said, and stood with a broad smile, extending his hand. “I was just thinking of you, and wondering how you and Murray were getting on with things.” He gestured courteously. “Please, sit down.”

  “I thought it was time to let you know what progress we have made,” Charles said, seating himself in one of the leather chairs. “Although I fear that what we have learned is of precious little practical use.” He added, “I was hoping that perhaps you might have learned something you would be willing to share with me.”

  “Only a bit of gossip here and there,” the admiral said. “Nothing very material, I’m afraid.” He opened the desk drawer, took out a box of cigars, and pushed them toward Charles. “Help yourself, Sheridan. The finest Cuban. A present from H.R.H.”

  “Thank you, no,” Charles said. He was not fond of the Prince’s cigars, costly though they might be. He took out his pipe and while he filled it, tamped it, and lit it, sketched out what he and Murray had pieced together from their inspection of the St. James Street premises; from the proprietor of the Great Horse; and from their questioning of Day’s clerk, the man called Sobersides.

  “No progress?” North asked, raising one tufted eyebrow. “On the contrary, Charles, you seem to have made quite a lot of it. You’ve certainly narrowed the field of suspects to a great degree. It sounds to me as if Day was playing a dangerous game that was bound to make him a very unpopular man in several circles.” He clipped off the end of a cigar and lit it. “Organizing the bookmakers against certain stables—that’s a risky business, however one looks at it. I should have thought Badger had been playing the game long enough to know better.”

  “He was doing what he thought had to be done,” Charles said, watching North’s face. “Since he hadn’t been able to persuade the Club to rule doping illegal—”

  North slammed his fist on his desk so hard that the lamp chimney rattled. “We can’t rule it illegal, damn it!” he exploded angrily. “To do so would be to invite gossip, even scandal. It would suggest that unsportsmanlike behavior has already taken place, that the Club has not properly controlled—” He stopped, recollecting himself, and wiped a drop of spittle from his gray beard. “It would stir up a great deal of Turf controversy and focus undue attention on Turf practices,” he said carefully. “And you know how H.R.H. feels about that. How we all feel about it.”

  “Yes, I know,” Charles agreed, “although I must say that from what I have seen, doping injures horses and plays havoc with ordinary betting. And it would seem to encourage a certain criminal element and invite the commission of crime—as Day’s murder suggests.”

  “It is not at all clear that Day was killed because of the doping,” North said flatly. “In fact, all the evidence goes in the other direction. He was obviously murdered by that partner of his—what did you say his name was?”

  Charles sighed. “Baggs, Edward Baggs.”

  “Yes, well. If the clerk—Sobersides, or Moore, or whatever he’s called—will testify that he heard Baggs threaten Badger, that should be enough to convince the coroner’s jury. I know Coroner Drummond. I’ll speak to him about the matter so that he’s aware of our interest, and to the ch
ief constable, as well. Meanwhile, I suggest that you have Murray concentrate on locating Baggs. The very fact that the man has left town so precipitously ought to make his guilt plain. And don’t bother interrogating him—we can turn that little job over to the police.”

  “There are one or two other possibilities,” Charles said. “The American trainer, Jesse Clark, was in the Great Horse just before the murder, engaged in argument with Day. As was Pinkie Duncan. Their motives seem to me to be at least equal to that of Baggs.”

  North frowned. “I shouldn’t like—” He paused, as if he were thinking how to frame his sentence. “The partner made a clear threat in the presence of a witness. I should focus on that fellow Baggs, if I were you.”

  Charles drew on his pipe, reflecting that North seemed inordinately eager to view the murder as a falling-out between business associates. If Baggs were indicted, no other motives would be explored in the coroner’s inquest and the question of doping would be separated from that of the murder—an outcome that North obviously desired. But it was not as easy as that.

  “There is one other thing you should know,” Charles said quietly. “Mrs. Langtry is involved in this business, exactly how and to what extent, I have yet to determine.”

  Owen North seemed, Charles thought, to turn pale. “Mrs. Langtry?” he asked. He coughed. “I must say, that seems rather . . . far-fetched. However, people will gossip. I’m sure you haven’t found any evidence of her involvement.” He placed an unmistakable emphasis on the word evidence.

  “As a matter of fact, I have,” Charles said, and thought that North seemed even paler. “When I went through Day’s effects, I found a note from the lady in his pocket, instructing him to meet her at nine on Monday night, at St. Mary’s Square.”