Death at Epsom Downs

by Robin Paige

  “But she was at the Rothschilds’ on Monday night!” North exclaimed in an agitated tone. “We talked there! She could not have—Why, it’s impossible! She was as cool and lovely as always. She—” He pressed his lips together for a moment, then said again, “It’s impossible.”

  “She says she arrived at something close to ten,” Charles said. “There would have been ample time for her to have met Day and shot the man. And as far as coolness is concerned, Mrs. Langtry is an actress. She is perfectly capable of masking her real feelings.” If she has any, Charles added to himself.

  North took out his handkerchief and blotted his forehead. “I’m sure it was much earlier than that when she came in. In fact, I’d swear to it. At least nine, I believe, perhaps before that. Yes, surely before that. Ponsonby was there. He saw her arrive. He’ll swear, too.”

  Fritz Ponsonby was one of H.R.H.’s closest confidants. He would swear to anything to protect the Royal person. “Mrs. Langtry herself told me that it was three-quarters past,” Charles said without inflection.

  North’s eyes opened wide. “You’ve already spoken to her about this?” There was a note of panic in his voice.

  “She denies knowing anything about Day’s death.” Charles blew out a cloud of pipe smoke, wondering whether he should mention Mrs. Langtry’s missing gun. On balance, he thought not. “I don’t think she killed him,” he added, “if that’s what concerns you, Owen.”

  For the second time in their brief meeting, North became passionate. “Concerns me!” he cried, his voice trembling. “Concerns me! Why, man, of course it concerns me! I have been friends with the lady for some time. I—” He stopped, biting his lip as if to control his outburst. When he spoke again, his voice was taut but disciplined, and he had chosen a different tack: “As you know, the Prince is at present deeply involved with Mrs. Keppel. However, he still visits Mrs. Langtry on occasion and he looks out for her always, financially and otherwise. If His Highness thought for a moment that—” North shook his head. “You know how protective he is toward those of his friends who are in trouble. Foolishly so, at times.”

  Charles remembered the Royal reaction when the Countess of Warwick, whose place in the Royal heart had been taken by Mrs. Keppel, had come dangerously close to being accused of murder. “I take it, then, that you’re suggesting—”

  “I’m suggesting that, whatever else you do, you absolutely must keep Mrs. Langtry’s name out of this,” North said fiercely. “His Highness will not thank you if she is dragged into the matter.” Then, apparently recollecting that he was speaking to a peer of the realm, he pulled in a deep breath, softening his tone. “Of course, Charles, I know that you won’t do anything that might attract attention to the lady’s role in this unfortunate business. As you have said, she is innocent of any wrongdoing, so I’m sure you will guard her reputation.” He seemed to find no irony in this last remark.

  Charles was tempted to point out that he had said nothing of Mrs. Langtry’s innocence, only that he did not believe she had shot Alfred Day. But instead, he smoked in silence for a moment, listening to the ticking of the clock on the wall. “By the way,” he said at last, “we’ve located the veterinary surgeon who doped Reggie Hunt’s horse. A fellow named Polter. Septimus Polter, at Exning.”

  “Well, that was a bit of fine detective work,” North said in a heartier tone, clearly relieved to leave the subject of Mrs. Langtry. “How did you get onto him? Have you talked to him yet?”

  “I have not,” Charles said, failing to mention that Bradford Marsden was probably doing exactly that, even as they spoke.

  North reached for a pen and a sheet of paper. “Polter, did you say? Septimus? At Exning?” He dipped the pen into an inkwell set in the desk and wrote rapidly. “No need for you to go further with this particular line of inquiry, Charles. I believe that you’ve gotten to the heart of the matter. I’ll see to the rest of it myself.”

  “As you wish,” Charles said.

  There was another long silence. At last, North pulled open a drawer. “I have a photograph here you really must see,” he said, in an obvious effort to change the subject. “A friend sent it to me from New Zealand, to add to my collection. Given your interest in scientific photography, I think you will find it fascinating.” He took out a photograph and laid it on the desk.

  Charles regarded it, frowning.

  “What is it, exactly?” he asked. “I don’t believe I recognize the creature.”

  “Stumped you at last, have I?” North exclaimed. “It is a rare species that lives along the coast of New Zealand. Found only in the sand dunes, I’m told, hiding under driftwood and the like. Katipo, its name is.”

  Charles was looking at a photograph, much enlarged, of a spider.

  “Ah,” he said. “Katipo. The New Zealand spider.” He looked at North. “Surely I should have guessed.” He pushed himself out of the chair. “Thank you, Owen, for showing it to me. I fear I must be going.”

  North laid the photograph aside and summoned a smile. “Right. Don’t forget, then. Instruct Murray to concentrate on locating Baggs. When the man has been found, let me know immediately and I shall alert the chief constable to pick him up for interrogation. That will resolve the matter, and you can get back to your own affairs—with my enduring gratitude,” he added warmly.

  Out in the street, Charles drew a deep breath, glad to be out of the Club office. For the moment, he did not want to think about all of the implications that had been raised by his conversation with Admiral North. He took out his watch. It was nearly time to set out for the Devil’s Dike, where he was to lunch with Bradford and Jack Murray and learn what they had discovered that morning.

  Charles was striding quickly along the next block of shops when he ran into a woman coming out of a butcher’s shop, carrying a shopping bag full of packages.

  “Oh, Lord Sheridan!” the woman cried delightedly. “Oh, how fortunate to encounter you in this fashion! I’m afraid I missed you this morning at breakfast and—”

  Charles raised his hat. “Yes, indeed, Mrs. Hardaway,” he said with a slight smile. “But I fear I am rather in a hurry. If you will excuse me—”

  “No!” Mrs. Hardaway laid hold of his arm. “I am sorry, my lord, but you must accompany me home immediately. I have something in my keeping that you must have without delay.”

  “Well, then,” Charles said, seeing nothing for it but to go with the lady, “you will let me carry your parcels, I hope.”

  “Oh, so kind,” Mrs. Hardaway murmured, taking the arm he offered, and they proceeded together down the street.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The Grange House Stable

  Wishard perfected his doping into an art and his success rate was phenomenal. Time and time again mediocre or bad horses won totally unexpectedly, and the Americans raked in their winnings.

  The Fast Set: The World of Edwardian Racing

  George Plumptre

  [Wishard and his cronies] took approximately two million pounds out of the ring [i.e. from the bookmakers] between 1897 and 1901. . . . This period was known as the era of the “Yankee alchemists.” . . . The dope that Wishard was using was the newly introduced cocaine.

  Drugs and the Performance Horse

  Thomas Tobin

  Contrary to Jack Murray’s expectation, he did not find Jesse Clark when he called at the Red House Stable that morning. Mr. Clark, he was told by the head lad, had gone with Mr. Wishard to Brighton to have a look at a filly that was for sale. They would not return for some time, for they were traveling on to the Continent to examine some horses at a racing stable near Paris.

  Murray frowned, wishing he’d had the foresight to come looking for Clark before the man departed. “When did they leave?” he asked.

  “Yesterday, on the early train,” the head lad replied, and added that it had been an unscheduled trip. “They wuz plannin’ to be ’ere fer the ten-furlong ’andicap on Friday, but ’eard about this good filly and din’t want to miss the
chance o’ gettin”er.”

  Of course, Murray thought sardonically. Long years at Scotland Yard had taught him that when people left town immediately after a crime in which they were involved, they usually had a very good reason—and not an innocent one, either. He left the stable, reflecting that both Clark and Baggs were currently unavailable, and that Oliver Moore had done his best to disappear. Of those who had argued with the unfortunate Badger in the Great Horse just prior to his murder, there remained only Pinkie Duncan to be questioned. With any luck at all, Murray would find him at the Grange House Stable. He set off determinedly in that direction.

  But Murray was destined to be disappointed in this, as well. For when he reached the Grange House, he was informed by the housekeeper that Mr. Pinkie Duncan had gone to London on business for the day, to return the next. She eyed his green-checked tweed suit and bowler approvingly and added that Mr. Angus Duncan was in the office at the stable, if the gentleman would care to step around.

  Murray went into the stableyard and, after an inquiry, located the office. He opened the door, announcing himself. With a frown, Angus Duncan looked up from some race entry forms on which he was working, a mug of tea at his elbow and a pipe curling smoke around his head. Behind him on the wall was a telephone. Murray was not surprised. Most of the stables were finding it to their advantage to be connected by telephone with the various racecourses in order to obtain the latest word on the running of their horses—and sometimes to lay a very late bet or two. Between the newfangled race ticker and the telephone (new at least in the provincial towns), the bookies were sometimes hard pressed to know whether a last-minute bettor was honest or a cheat.

  “Wot name did ye say?” Duncan asked, his leathery face creased in a frown.

  “Jack Murray, sir,” Murray repeated humbly. “I’m assisting the investigation into the death of Alfred Day.”

  Duncan’s pale eyes narrowed. “Investigation? What investigation? Are ye from the police?”

  “No, sir.” Murray spoke in a deferential tone. “This is a private investigation. I fear I’m not at liberty to tell you who has sponsored it. It is, however, being carried out in cooperation with the police.” He nodded at the telephone on the wall. “I’m sure Chief Constable Watson would be glad to vouch for me.”

  Duncan considered this for a moment, then shook his head. “No need fer me t’call ’im, since I’ve nothin’ t’ tell. I’m sorry fer Badger,” he added. “ ’E’d ’ad some rough years, but ’e was honest, as bookies go. Which ain’t sayin’ much, o’ course.”

  “The proprietor of the Great Horse believes that Jesse Clark may have had something to do with his murder,” Murray said in a tentative tone, watching Duncan’s face. The morning was gloomy and the gas lamp had been lit, throwing a shadow that exaggerated the old man’s expression. “I don’t suppose you would care to venture an opinion on the subject.”

  Duncan’s mouth tightened. “Clark, eh?” He cast his pencil onto the table with a grunt, perhaps of satisfaction. “Can’t say I’m much surprised.”

  “And why is that, Mr. Duncan?” Murray asked respectfully.

  “Because of wot Badger was up to.” The old man leaned back in his chair, picked up his mug of tea, and drank.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Murray frowned. “I’m afraid I must have missed something. What was he up to?”

  Duncan wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, smiling contemptuously. “Ye’re an investigator and ye ’aven’t found out wot Badger wuz plannin’? Why, everybody in Newmarket knows ’ow ’e meant t’ wreck the Americans’ game.” He took a long pull on his pipe, removed it from his mouth, and glared at it.

  Murray looked quizzical. “Their game? I’m afraid I don’t—”

  “Do I ’ave to spell it out fer ye, man?” Duncan demanded sourly. “Their dopin’ game, that’s wot! They’ve been runnin” orses doped t’ win and takin’ a fortune out of the Ring. If they’re not stopped, every bookie in Britain will ’ave ’is pockets pulled inside-out. Badger’s tried more’n once t’ get the stewards to put an end t’it. Then ’e gave up on them and figured t’ do it ’imself, by organizing the Ring. ’E was goin’ t’ let the newspapers in on it, too.”

  “Organizing the Ring, eh?” Murray asked. He put on a skeptical look. “I’d say that would be a hard thing to do.”

  “Oh, ye would, would ye?” With a short laugh, Duncan leaned forward and tapped his pipe into a china ashtray already full to overflowing with pipe ash. “Well, I’d say ye didn’t know much about Badger, then, or the Ring, neither. Badger knew the bettin’ business, and ’e knew bookies. Wot’s more, the bookies knew Badger, big and lit’le. If anybody could pull ’em together, ’e was the one.” He opened the desk drawer and pulled out a tin of tobacco. “Reckon that’s why ’e wuz killed. That, and the newspapers.” In a tone of scornful rebuke, he added, “Reckon ye should ’ave figgered that out fer yerself, if ye wuz any kind of investigator.”

  “I’m sure I should have,” Murray said apologetically. He cleared his throat. “I wonder, sir, while we’re on the subject, what you might think of Eddie Baggs as a possible killer. He was with Jesse Clark at the Great Horse and went out with him shortly after Mr. Day left. The proprietor seems to think—”

  “Baggs?” Duncan, frowned. “Eddie Baggs wuz with Clark? Ye’re sure ye din’t get that wrong?”

  “Well, I might have.” Murray gave him an uncertain look. “You don’t think they’d have been together?”

  “I doubt it,” Duncan said firmly, tapping tobacco into his pipe. “Maybe it was ’appenstance, them comin’ in together. More like, Baggs wuz ’elping Badger organize the bookies. They been partners fer sev’ral years.”

  “I’ve been trying to locate Mr. Baggs to clear up this point,” Murray said, “but his landlady says he’s left Newmarket. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to find anyone with a notion as to where he might have gone. I don’t suppose you could help me?”

  Duncan hesitated, pushing his lips in and out as if he were deciding whether or not to speak. At last, he said, “Well, ye might try ’is sister. She lives over Newnham way, in Cambridge. She’d know where ’e’s gone.”

  “Thank you,” Murray said gratefully. He paused. “I’m sure it’s a great deal of trouble, but would you happen to know his sister’s name and where she might be found? I wouldn’t ask, but no one else seems to—”

  “Thompson,” Duncan said. “Sally Thompson. She’s cook fer the Darwins, at Newnham Grange. She wuz married to my cousin, b’fore ’e died.”

  “I’m very grateful, Mr. Duncan.” Murray half turned to go, then turned back. “Oh, there’s one thing more, if you wouldn’t mind. I wonder if there’s anything you can tell me about the connection between your nephew Pinkie Duncan and Mr. Clark.”

  “Wot connection?” Duncan’s seamy face darkened.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t been able to discover that yet, Mr. Duncan,” Murray said contritely. “It seems that he was at the Great Horse with Mr. Clark and Mr. Baggs on Monday night, and that there was some sort of argument—a rather violent argument, or so it’s reported. He is said to have gone out with Clark and Baggs after Mr. Day left. There is some thought that he is connected with—”

  “ ’E’s connected with nothin’,” the old man snapped. “ ’E’s a fool of a boy ’oo’s got ’isself into something ’e don’t understand.” He pressed his lips together, obviously having said more than he intended.

  “I suppose you mean,” Murray said in a speculative tone, “that he’s fallen in with bad companions—the Americans, I assume. Of course, I wouldn’t know the truth of it,” he added, “but there’s talk that Pinkie will take over the stables here, upon your retirement. It is supposed that he would then adopt the Americans’ method of—”

  “Rot!” the old man shouted, jumping to his feet. “If ye ’ear that kind of talk, Mr. Murray, ye can bloody well tell ’em to shove it up their arse. There’s going to be no American methods ’ere, not so long as
I’m alive and kickin’! English way’s best. Allus ’as been, allus will be.”

  “Admirable, sir, admirable!” Murray exclaimed. He added, humbly, “Then I suppose it must be true, as others have told me, that Pinkie will be moving to the Red House Stables and training with Clark and Wishard.”

  The old man looked at him, struck silent. He sank back down in his chair. “It’s them damned Americans,” he whispered. “They’re the devil incarnate, and they’ve tempted Pinkie past ’is limits.” He dropped his face in his hands. “But it’s only dopin’, that’s all,” he whispered. “Not murder, not Pinkie. I swear it. Just dopin’.”

  For the old man’s sake, Murray wished he could believe that.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The Devil’s Dike

  A well-known peer who, having lost a great deal of money racing, thought he saw an easy way to settle his debts. He mustered the family diamonds and carried them off to one of the most respectable Bond Street jewellers, [asking] the man to take out the diamonds and replace them with paste.

  “I need the money,” he said, “and her ladyship will never know.”

  The jeweler’s eyes twinkled. “I am very sorry, my lord, but I have already done so at her ladyship’s request.”

  The jewels stolen from me comprised the following pieces: a large tiara; a riviere of immense sapphires and diamonds in a Tiffany setting; a tiara, necklace, and bracelets, en suite, of rubies and diamonds; a parure of large emeralds and diamonds, which had formed part of the Empress Eugénie’s collection. . . .”

  both selections from

  The Days I Knew: The Autobiography of Lillie Langtry

  Lillie Langtry, 1925

  After he left Mrs. Hardaway’s house with Kate’s note in his pocket, Charles had even more to think about and yet another stop to make. On his way at last, and very late, to the Devil’s Dike, he decided to proceed exactly as if he had not had that conversation with Owen North earlier in the morning—in fact, he would not even mention it. For one thing, he did not intend to turn the investigation over to the chief constable without some further assurance that the principle of due process would be respected. For another, he now had to consider whether Owen North himself—a man who collected photographs of spiders—might be the pseudonymous friend of Lillie Langtry. It was an unwelcome and unpleasant consideration, for he had known North for some time and had rather liked the man. But justice demanded that he entertain it.