Death At Epsom Downs

  Death At Epsom Downs

  Paige Robin

  There's plenty of excitement at Epsom Downs, as Lord Charles Sheridan and his American wife, Kate, watch the races from a box shared by Jennie Jerome Churchill and world-renowned actress, mistress and horse-trader Lillie Langtry. But the real excitement comes that evening, when Charles is called to investigate both the death of a Derby jockey and the theft of Lillie Langtry's jewels. Before long, there are no safe bets as Kate and Charles are pulled into Lillie Langtry's reckless social world, where lords and ladies run neck and neck with thieves and murderers-and the race for justice stands to be a photo finish.

  Paige Robin

  Death At Epsom Downs

  The seventh book in the Sir Charles Sheridan series, 2001

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  We are grateful to those who helped fill the blanks in our understanding of some of the complex questions involved with Victorian horseracing. Mr. Ian Nelson, a guide at the National Horse Racing Museum in Newmarket, Suffolk, England, provided an invaluable service in reading the manuscript, correcting our errors, and suggesting possibilities we hadn’t considered. We thank him for sharing his knowledge, experience, and enthusiasm with us. Professor Thomas Tobin, of The Equine Research Center of the University of Kentucky at Lexington, and Professor Richard Nash of Indiana University helped to clarify our understanding of the doping of race horses at the turn of the century, while good initial leads to the toxicological issues were offered by our local veterinarian, Dr. Tom Hembree, and pharmacist and toxicologist Luci Zahray, R. Ph., M. S. We also received helpful suggestions of possible source material from members of the Victoria list on the Internet. We are very grateful to our agent, Deborah Schneider, and our editor, Natalee Rosenstein, whose belief in, and support of, Robin Paige has made it possible to move the series from paperback to hardcover.

  Robin Paige

  a.k.a. Bill Albert

  Susan Wittig Albert

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Lord Charles Sheridan, Baron of Somersworth

  Lady Kathryn Ardleigh Sheridan, Baroness of Somersworth and mistress of Bishop’s Keep

  Patrick, apprentice jockey and stable lad at Grange House

  Bradford Marsden, close friend of Charles and Kate

  Edith Hill, Bradford Marsden’s fiancée

  Albert Edward, His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales

  Lillie Langtry (a.k.a. Mr. Jersey), actress, theatrical producer, and racehorse owner

  Jeanne-Marie Langtry, Lillie’s daughter

  Lord Reginald Hunt, Jockey Club member and racehorse owner

  Colonel Harry Hogsworth, racehorse owner

  Admiral Owen North, steward of the Jockey Club

  Jack Murray, former Scotland Yard detective, now a Jockey Club investigator

  Jesse Clark, American trainer

  Mr. Angus Duncan, head trainer at Grange House, Newmarket

  Mr. James (Pinkie) Duncan, assistant trainer at Grange House and Angus’s nephew

  Todhunter Sloan, American jockey

  Dr. Septimus Polter, veterinary surgeon

  Captain Dick Doyle, Lord Reginald’s racing manager

  Henry Manford Radwick, moneylender

  Alfred Day (Badger), bookmaker

  Eddie Baggs, Alfred Day’s partner

  Oliver Moore (Sobersides), Alfred Day’s clerk

  Amelia Quibbley, Kate’s maid

  Margaret Simpson, Lillie’s maid

  CHAPTER ONE

  31 May, 1899

  At the Derby

  Epsom on Derby Day! It was a national holiday, when a vast concourse of men and women assembled on Epsom Downs to see the race for the Derby Stakes. This was still the England of old-the England in which rich and poor were united by a common love of sport. Here at Epsom, a coster in his cart could still shout a cheery welcome to a Duke in his crested coach, whilst the handsome young coachman behind, resplendent in braid and cockade, could throw a knowing wink to the young scullery maid who whistled at him from the back of a broken-down pony and trap.

  The Pocket Venus: A Victorian Scandal Henry Blyth

  Walking along the racecourse on her husband’s arm, Amelia Quibbley thought she had never before seen such a crowd. Bookies in checked suits and green silk ties traded cries with betting men in gray overcoats.

  “On the Derby, who’ll bet the Derby?”

  “What’s the price on the favorite in the Stakes?”

  “Five to Two.”

  “Done!”

  And the half-crowns jingled in the bookie’s bucket, while men in dirty white aprons filled foaming glasses from beer kegs, shouting “Accommodation! ’Commodation here!” A parson in front of a gospel tent pounded a drum, exhorting sinners to turn their backs on the Derby and wager their lives on Christ. Blind beggars cried for alms, a boy on stilts called for coins, and drunken soldiers shouted out popular ditties.

  Half-deafened by the din, Amelia said, “I’m thirsty, Lawrence. Shall we ’ave a ginger beer?”

  Lawrence ’s handsome dark eyes laughed down at his wife and his arm circled her waist. “A ginger beer ye shall ’ave, ducky, as soon as I find one o’ Badger’s men in the Ring and lay my bit. Badger’s posted the best odds on Ricochet.”

  Lawrence paused to peer at a man standing behind a banner that read Alfred Day, Commission Agent, Newmarket. All Bets Paid. “On th’ Derby!” the man was droning, like a sour bagpipe. “On th’ Derby ’ere! Bet th’ Derby!”

  “And there’s Badger ’isself, by Gawd!” Lawrence exclaimed. “Stop here, dear. I want to put down a crown.” He stepped up to the banner and raised his voice over the din. “Badger! Say, Badger, wot’s odds on Ricochet?”

  “Sev’n to two,” Badger cried. Where other bookmakers were gaudy in suits of black-and-white checks the size of sixpence, with flowing silk ties as green as May and yellow posies pinned to their lapels, he wore a dignified gray frock coat with a pale gray top hat and sparkling diamond rings on both hands. Never mind that the coat was stained and missing a button and the rings most likely paste, he looked almost as fine as a gentleman.

  “Sev’n to two on Ricochet,” Lawrence cried. He held up a coin. “ ’Ere ye are.” Badger’s man, a rusty little fellow with a crooked collar, held out an open satchel.

  “Drop it in there,” Badger directed. “Right in there, sir. And take care o’yer ticket, or some evildoer will relieve ye of it.” Badger’s man snapped the satchel shut and scribbled in a black book. He tore out the ticket and handed it to Lawrence.

  Amelia frowned as Lawrence pocketed the ticket and fell into step beside her, jaunty and proud as a peacock, now that the long-awaited transaction was over. It wasn’t so much the money she minded; they could afford to lose a crown, if it came to that, although she hoped it wouldn’t, with Baby at home needing new boots. But she’d been raised by Scripture and had been taught that betting was against God’s law. It was against common sense, too, as she knew for herself. At the pub where she and Lawrence stopped on their nights out, she’d seen Mr. Starkey, who earned ten shillings a week, lay down five on a horse while eight little Starkeys shivered at home for want of coal. And Mrs. Hartop, the old woman who swept Dedham High Street for nine shillings a week, was regular with her half-crown though she couldn’t pay the butcher. Betting took money from the poor, Amelia did not doubt, and the parson was right to bang on his drum and shout out its evils, even though not a soul was listening.

  But Lady Charles Sheridan, whom Amelia served as lady’s maid, had given her a holiday today, and Amelia was carrying a ruffled white sunshade and wearing her best sprigged muslin with a blue shawl and white cotton gloves. Her own Lawrence, dressed in a fine gray coat and bright blue trousers, had been given the important job
of helping Lord Charles Sheridan photograph the finish of the Derby Stakes. And since men had laid down their money since the beginning of time and would go on laying it down whether their wives wished it or not, the practical Amelia set her qualms aside and happily applied herself to the enjoyment of the Derby, counting the crown that Lawrence had dropped into the bookmaker’s satchel as the price of their admission.

  But behind all the revelry, above the music, beneath all the whooping and cheering of the great, noisy mob, she could hear Badger’s stentorian voice behind her: “On th’ Derby ’ere! On th’ Derby! Bet th’ Derby now!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Bookmaker

  He was dubbed the Lord Chesterfield, but a better name would be the Tallyrand, of the Ring. A list of his smart sayings would choke up the British Museum, and I never saw him nonplussed but once, and that was when a railway guard wanted two points over the odds. Well do I remember the first wager I had with him. “Take care of your ticket, sir,” he chanted in his most dulcet tones, “or some evil-doer will relieve you of it.” The last time the chant was in the minor key. “Here! Take your bloomin’ custom somewhere else: I’m tired of payin’ you!”… When the history of this man comes to be written, it will be told how he defied the Stewards of the Jockey Club on their native heath and played the noble game of spoof with Her Majesty’s police.

  Edward Spencer Mott, quoted in Old Pink ’Un Days J. B. Booth

  For his part, Alfred Day, also known as Badger, was having a fine Derby. He looked well, he felt well, and Sobersides, his clerk, was holding a bulging satchel. And why shouldn’t he feel well and happy with his lot in life? Over the past half-dozen years, Badger’s various enterprises-some of them legal, some of them not-had prospered. The bookmaking business, which had begun as a convenient front for his other activities, had particularly flourished. In addition to his Newmarket headquarters, he had opened two other offices in London, and he now employed several men to take wagers for him at the track.

  But the fact that Badger could hire helpers didn’t mean that he might absent himself from the Ring. No, indeed. No matter how much money he might make or how much leisure it might buy, he preferred to be where the action was. And what sweeter action might there be in this world than wagering on the Derby, the blue ribbon of the Turf, the grandest event in racing? He raised his hand in a commanding gesture. “Bet on the Derby!” he cried. “Bet on the Derby here!”

  A young gentleman stepped out of the crowd in front of him. “Ah, there you are, Badger,” he said expansively, and Badger saw that he was a little drunk. “Mrs. Lillie Langtry would like to put a hundred more on Gladiator. What’re the odds, my good man?”

  “The odds, m’lord,” Badger said, “are 66 to 1.” He pursed his lips. He’d studied the form, of course, and hadn’t seen any reason to offer anything more favorable on the unspectacular colt, a lazy runner who’d finished at the back of the field in all but one of his previous outings-so poor a show that one had to wonder why Lord Hunt had bothered to enter him. Even so, there had been quite a run on the outsider in the last hour. The horse’s owner had bet heavily, and the stable, too, followed by several other large wagers. Badger had already begun to think that a game of one sort or another was afoot-and now came Mrs. Langtry with yet another wager. It was enough to raise a bookmaker’s suspicions.

  Still, it was out of the question to reject Mrs. Langtry’s custom, even though she had not yet settled her losses from Kempton Park. There was the matter of her occasional cheating too, which she thought he didn’t notice-this time, at least, her bet was placed before the starting bell rang. But while Badger was generally a careful man and kept a close eye on accounts, these issues were of little consequence in the case of Mrs. Langtry, for he was comfortably aware that he had the ability, any time he chose, to require her to settle-and more, too, much more. He’d only been waiting for the propitious moment, when she might feel a compelling reason to do business with him. The thought of this made him quite cheerful, and he nodded shortly at his clerk, who wrote the wager in his black book and tore out a ticket.

  “Take care of the ticket, m’lord,” Badger said, offering his ritual caution, “or some evildoer will relieve you of it.”

  Lord de Bathe, that silly young fool, took off his top hat and made a great show of sticking the ticket in the band. “And what evildoer,” he asked with a tipsy laugh, “would have the galling effrontery to steal from the most beautiful woman in England?”

  Badger bowed. “The odds might be high, m’lord,” he said with a smile, “but one never knows.”

  “Well, I’ll give you a tip you can lay on, Badger.” Lord de Bathe jammed his hat crookedly on his head. “I’m going to ask our fair Lillie to marry me. What odds’ll you give on her yes?”

  “Oh, I never lay on a sure thing,” Badger said, without hesitation. “But I will say congratulations and well done, my lord,” he added, doffing his hat with a flourish. “Very well done indeed.”

  Yes, it was well done, Badger thought, watching the young lord weave his unsteady way through the crowd-at least on Mrs. Langtry’s part. And unless he was mistaken, her coming marriage might bode well for himself, too. Perhaps that propitious moment had arrived.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Start

  It was hard to die without knowing who had won the Derby.

  Lord Charles Beresford

  Patrick gathered Gladiator’s reins as Lord Reginald Hunt and Mr. Angus Duncan said goodbye to the farrier, who was still shaking his head at the difficulty of getting the horse to stand still for his racing plates, and to the veterinary surgeon. Then the two of them walked several steps away, speaking so quietly that Patrick had to strain to hear.

  “I’m glad that the stewards agreed to have him saddled at the starting post,” Lord Hunt said. “If he had to parade in the state he’s in-”

  “He’s on his toes, that’s all,” Mr. Angus replied in his usual Scottish brogue. “A bit edgy, p’rhaps, but he’ll smooth out by the turn.”

  “You don’t want Pinkie to lead him on?” Lord Hunt seemed increasingly anxious. “He’s a bundle of nerves. What if he breaks away from the lad?”

  Mr. Angus’s nephew, whom everyone called Pinkie, stepped forward eagerly. “Be glad to take the horse in, Uncle.”

  Without answering, Mr. Angus turned to Patrick. “We’ll be off, then, lad. Mind ye keep him steady, now. His lordship and I’ll make way, but the crowd’s apt to push.”

  The May afternoon had gone cloudy, and a light mist brushed Patrick’s face as he gathered the horse’s reins and prepared to follow the two men through the milling spectators between them and the starting post, where Gladiator was to be saddled. He paused for a moment, laying a hand on the sweating, quivering shoulder and whispering a steadying “Quiet, now.” But the horse began a nervous dance, and Patrick’s earlier apprehension-that Gladiator might not be able to do himself justice today-grew even sharper. He frowned, thinking that perhaps that stuff in the veterinary’s bottle might have something to do with the way the horse was behaving.

  But Gladiator was known to be erratic. The powerful colt, out of Brindlebay by the great Ballyhoo, had already showed that he had the heart of a Derby champion and the power to match it. At his best, as in the Bedford Stakes the previous autumn, he demonstrated tremendous acceleration, a remarkable finishing speed, and a wonderful maneuverability. At his worst, he was lethargic and dispirited, as at the Two Thousand Guineas at Newmarket in April, where he finished at the bottom of a field of eight. He could also show a sour, savage temper. Once, before Patrick came to apprentice at the Grange House Stable, he had bitten a thumb from an unwary stableboy. And just the week before, out on the Limekilns for trial gallops, he had thrown his rider and raced wild and free across the Newmarket heath while Mr. Angus and his nephew Mr. James watched helplessly, fearing that he might injure himself. It had been Patrick who finally caught the rebellious horse and returned him to his box, for though the boy was still
several months away from fourteen, he was the only lad in the Grange yard whom Gladiator could tolerate.

  From Patrick’s point of view, the bond was a natural one. He saw in the horse an unruly spirit much like his own and loved him for it, and the horse, as far as he was able, returned him a certain affection. Seeing this, Mr. Angus had made him the horse’s traveling lad, responsible for helping Pinkie with his care during the railway trip to Epsom and for leading him through the Derby crowd to the starting post. It was enough to make a stable lad’s head swim.

  But Patrick was not an ordinary lad. Some two years before, he had found himself one of the players in a grand adventure at Rottingdean, a village on the south coast of England, through which he had been introduced to His Royal Highness and two other gentlemen, Lord Charles Sheridan and Mr. Rudyard Kipling. In gratitude for his services, the Prince had granted Patrick a stipend sufficient to guarantee his education, and at Mr. Kipling’s suggestion, he had gone off to school at Westward Ho!, on Bideford Bay, in Devonshire. Lady Charles herself had taken him to the school and had even shed a few tears when she kissed him and said goodbye.

  Westward Ho! was an unconventional school, and as long as the boys paid the requisite attention to their studies and attended chapel with some regularity, they were free to bathe in the Atlantic beyond Pebble Ridge and wander the Devonshire countryside. But while Patrick was gifted with a shrewd intelligence and a maturity far beyond his years, he was hardly a discliplined scholar, and whatever academic enthusiasm he might have felt was poisoned by an odious master who took a sadistic pleasure in inflicting corporal punishment upon those in his charge. Patrick and his friends Turkey Bates and Jake Shanks sought sanctuary in the furze thickets above the cliff. There, smoking pipes and reading aloud from Surtees’s racing novels, they plotted to run away and become apprentice jockeys. It was a scheme dear to Patrick’s heart, for he loved horses more than anything else in the world-more than books, certainly, or games, or the prospect of taking the Army examination and embarking on a military career.