Paige Robin: Death At Epsom Downs

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!”

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.

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.