Paige Robin: Death At Epsom Downs

“Until the finish, sir,” Kate replied.

“Ah, good, good!” the Prince exclaimed. “He and his camera will sort it all out for us.” He paused thoughtfully. “I am so glad that Persimmon’s great finish in ’96 was caught on film. He won by a neck, you know.”

Kate rose as the royal party pushed forward to the rail. She was eager to have her first good look at the course where the Derby would be run and the crowd that had come to celebrate it.

And such an incredible crowd it was! Kate thought as she gazed out at the vast throng-a quarter of a million people, by some estimates-which completely covered the racing area and all the Downs beyond. There was the grandstand, with its flag-draped boxes and the enclosure below, crowded with top-hatted men in morning dress and women in silks and laces, white gloves and parasols and great flower-heaped hats wound with tulle. There was the Ring, with its frenzied pack of plungers, punters, bookmakers, tipsters, and touts-and the ever-present pickpockets. On the other side of the U-shaped course, coaches and carriages were drawn up wheel-to-wheel, with cigar-smoking men and a few intrepid ladies lounging on the roofs, lunching out of their picnic hampers. Behind them marched a row of smartly striped regimental marquees where champagne and oysters and other delicacies were served, and around and among all this mob swarmed smock-clad country folk, black-frocked City men, soldiers in scarlet tunics, check-suited men with ties of brilliant green and yellow, flirtatious girls in pink dresses and rosy cheeks, and a ragged rabble of East Enders, glad to escape for a day the dirt and despair of Shoreditch and Spitalfields. All these were entertained by a riotous carnival of hawkers and dark-skinned gypsies, black-faced clowns, conjurers and costermongers, fire-eaters and acrobats and thimblemen with their polished patter. And if these amusements palled, there were the wagons and tents and booths flung like handfuls of dice across the slopes of the Downs-dancing booths, sparring booths, fortunetelling booths, booths that staged tableaux vivants or dispensed food carted from the gargantuan kitchens beneath the grandstand, where an army of cooks prepared mountains of lamb, beef, lobsters, oysters, and chickens, together with bushels of salad and immense tubs of dressing and towering pyramids of bread loaves.

Kate was still gazing in awe at this vast and energetic hubbub when Mrs. Langtry appeared at her side, her race card in her kid-gloved hand.

“Whom do you fancy, Lady Charles?” she asked, and then, as Kate hesitated, added archly, “Which of the runners, that is.” She laughed. “One always keeps one’s other intimate attachments secret, of course.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow the horses, Mrs. Langtry,” Kate said. “Is there one I should watch especially?”

Mrs. Langtry’s brows lifted slightly, as if to convey surprise at Kate’s ignorance. “The Duke of Westminster’s Flying Fox is favored at 5 to 2. But a friend was kind enough to give me a tip, so I’ve put a few shillings on Gladiator, at 66 to 1.” She gave Kate an encouraging smile. “There’s still time to make a wager, Lady Charles. Do put a little something on Gladiator. It’s always great fun to see a dark horse win.”

A handsome young man with waxed mustaches came up behind Mrs. Langtry and put his hands familiarly on her shoulders. He bent down and kissed the back of her neck. “Lillie, my sweet,” he murmured.

Mrs. Langtry turned, raising her hand to the young man’s face-a possessive gesture, Kate thought. “Where have you been, Suggie,” she demanded, making a reproachful moue. “Off drinking somewhere with your rowdy friends? I was afraid you’d miss the start.”

“Not a chance of it. I was in the Ring, following your instructions, my dear. I put another hundred pounds on Gladiator for you, with Alfred Day.” He took off his hat, pulled a ticket from the band, and handed it to her. Turning, he looked inquiringly at Kate, his eyes bold and admiring. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” he said thickly, and Kate saw that he was quite drunk.

“Oh, so sorry,” Mrs. Langtry said gaily, taking the young man’s arm and pressing herself against him. “Lady Charles Sheridan, may I present my very dear friend, Hugo de Bathe, whom everyone calls by the delicious name of Suggie-because he is so sweet, of course.”

“Delighted, Lady Charles,” Lillie’s friend murmured, taking Kate’s hand and holding it rather longer than necessary.

“You’ll be even more delighted,” Mrs. Langtry said conspiratorially, “when you learn Lady Charles’s secret.”

Hugo de Bathe raised both eyebrows. “Ah, secrets!” he exclaimed with a smile. “Every beautiful lady should have a dozen trunks full of secrets, and should share them as generously as she shares her kisses. Tell all, Lady Charles.”

But Mrs. Langtry didn’t give Kate the chance to share her secrets. “Would you believe it, Suggie? Lady Charles is really the author of ‘The Duchess’s Dilemma’-that story I so much admire. What’s more, I’ve undertaken to persuade her to adapt it for the stage. I’m to play the duchess, of course.” She looked up at Hugo de Bathe with a meaningful smile. “She’s not quite keen on the idea, but I’ve warned her that I always get what I want. Tell her it’s true, Suggie.”

“Oh, it’s true, all right,” Hugo de Bathe said nonchalantly. “Our Lillie gets what she wants, whether it’s good for her or not.”

“There, you see, Lady Charles?” Mrs. Langtry was triumphant. “You shall adapt your play to the stage and I shall make your duchess immortal.”

Kate’s quick protest was drowned out by a cheer from the crowd. A line of blue-uniformed constables was moving without urgency or apparent force across the track, the crowd ebbing obediently before it. When the course was clear, seven magnificent horses, riders vivid in their silks, began parading out of the paddock and down to the starting post on the other side of the course.

Distracted by the cheering, Mrs. Langtry turned to look, then frowned down at her card. “Only seven runners? But eight are listed as starters. Who’s missing?”

“It’s Gladiator,” Suggie said, taking a pair of field glasses from a leather case. “He’s suffering from nerves and has been given permission to join the field at the start.” He raised the glasses to his eyes. “By Jove, Flying Fox does look fine!”

“And so does Ricochet,” Jennie said excitedly, coming up behind Kate and pointing. “Look there-isn’t he a beauty! My money’s on Ricochet.”

The track was clear now, and as Kate watched, the throng grew quieter. The carriage crowd paused over their picnic luncheons, the rowdies ceased their loud singing, the preachers left off their haranguing, and the hawkers and criers among the booths were silenced as all eyes turned toward the track. Only the bookies and touts in the Ring and the pickpockets in the crowd continued to ply their trades, relieving the unsuspecting of their money. The suspense grew, moment by breathless moment, as the starter attempted to get the field in order. It was not a clean start, by any means, but at long last the flag came down and the crowd ceased to hold its breath and gave one great shout, “They’re off!”

Afterward Kate reflected on the unimaginable effort, the enormous cost, the soaring excitement, the anxious anticipation-all spent in something like three minutes. Even from the vantage point of the royal box, she was scarcely able to see the actual start, and she had not got the horses sorted out before they rounded the first turn toward the top of the hill, then swung around Tattenham Corner. Something happened there that she couldn’t quite make out, a melee of horses and riders and the surprised shouting of onlookers, but the field was still coming on, pounding into the half-mile straight in front of the stands and on to the winning post. A few moments later, the numbers were up on the board.