Paige Robin: Death At Epsom Downs

“It’s Flying Fox,” Hugo de Bathe said, and put down his glasses. “There was some sort of trouble at the corner, Lillie. Gladiator didn’t even finish.”

Mrs. Langtry made a disappointed face. “But Reggie seemed so sure.”

“Reggie is always sure,” de Bathe replied with a sour chuckle. “Poor unfortunate Reggie. He had a great deal on that horse. After the loss he took on Tarantula last year, this may be the end of him. Radwick may just swallow him up, estate, stable, and all.”

Those around the Prince were jubilant. “Well done, Westminster!” the Prince exclaimed to a tall, thin man with a large nose, who seemed unmoved by his good fortune. “Flying Fox is a superb horse. You’ll have another Triple Crown before the year is out, I’ll wager.”

“As you say, sir,” the man replied laconically, as if that did not matter, either.

Next to Kate, Jennie, who may have bet more on Ricochet than she was willing to admit, was looking downcast, while Mrs. Langtry was still wondering out loud about Gladiator’s defeat. But he wasn’t the only horse that failed to finish. As the runners flew down the straightaway in front of her, Kate had counted. There were only six.

She tugged at Hugo de Bathe’s sleeve and pointed toward Tattenham Corner. “Can you see what’s happening down there?”

He raised the glasses again. “There’s one horse down and another loose in the infield-Gladiator, I think.” He added, for Kate’s instruction, “The corner is quite a dangerous turn, you know. There are often spills.”

“I suppose it was too much to hope that an outsider should win two years in a row,” Mrs. Langtry muttered, vexed.

And then the throng-the winners and losers, the well-known and the nameless, the rich and the ragged-began to melt away. The stands emptied, the carriage crowd stowed its picnic hampers and took to the road, and the Prince went back to Marlborough House to host the traditional Derby Day dinner he gave to his fellow members of the Jockey Club the evening after the race. Mrs. Langtry strolled off on her Suggie’s arm and Kate took leave of Jennie and made her way back to the Royal Grand Hotel on the Epsom High Street, where she and Charles had booked rooms for the night. It wasn’t until that evening at dinner that she learned the details of the disaster at Tattenham Corner, and why two of the horses failed to finish the race.

The word “doping” first appeared in an English dictionary about 1899, defined as a mixture of opium and narcotics used for horses.

Drugs and the Performance Horse Thomas Tobin, 1981

The race had been over for not quite an hour when Lord Charles Sheridan went up to the second floor of the Jockey Club stand and knocked at the door of the Stewards Room. At a gruff “Come in,” he entered, to find three men sitting in high-backed leather chairs pulled close to a coal fire, coffee and brandy at their elbows. One-a brown-haired man with neatly trimmed side-whiskers, his face slightly florid, his frame tending toward stoutness-rose and held out his hand with a ready smile.

“Ah, Sheridan. Kind of you to join us.”

“Thank you, Admiral,” Charles said. Admiral Owen North was an acquaintance and a Fellow, as was Charles, of the Royal Photographic Society. He was also an avid amateur entomologist with an outstanding collection of photographs of rare arachnids taken on his travels around the world. As well, he was a prominent member of the Jockey Club and a Club steward, responsible for the orderly running of the races and for hearing objections filed against jockeys or owners.

The admiral gestured at the other two men. “You’re perhaps acquainted with Sir Joshua Granville and Lord Richard Longford. Gentlemen, Lord Charles Sheridan. At my request, he set up the automatic camera that photographed today’s finish. All went well with the experiment, I take it, Sheridan?”

“It did,” Charles said. “My assistant should have the photographs ready within the hour. If you intend to continue the practice, he proposes to train the Epsom staff and work out some method of rapid development and printing, so that if the finish is in question, there can be a timely resolution.”

Charles did not offer a detailed technical report, for he knew that Granville and Longford had little interest in the intricacies of stop-action photography. It had been one of his passions since he had heard Eadweard Muybridge speak on the subject at the Royal Institution in 1882. Muybridge’s photographs of animal locomotion had impressed Charles with the idea that in addition to accurately documenting what the eye could see, photography might also reveal things that happened too fast for the eye to see and the mind to grasp. Over the last two decades, the sensitivity of emulsions and the speed of lenses had improved markedly, allowing him to conduct his own stop-action experiments. And just a few years ago, the Thornton-Pickard Company had introduced a revolutionary focal-plane shutter. This device, which resembled two roll-type window shades joined by a length of chain on each edge, allowed the exposure to be reduced to one one-thousandth of a second-a speed more than adequate to freeze a galloping horse. But none of this was of interest to these worthy gentlemen. All that concerned them was that single, frozen instant when the first horse crossed the finish line, and that Charles could guarantee to give them.

“Good show, Sheridan!” Sir Joshua exclaimed. He had rheumy eyes and a bulbous red nose that seemed almost to glow, and he stood and shook hands eagerly with Charles. But Lord Richard, a gaunt, bent old man of some seventy-odd years, remained slumped in his chair, peering suspiciously through his pince-nez.

“Somersworth, isn’t it, rather?” he asked. “Fine old name. I knew your father, the third baron. A damn good stable he had. And your brother too, of course. Somersworth,” he repeated, with emphasis. “Fine old name.”

“I prefer Sheridan, sir,” Charles said firmly, and took the remaining chair.

Upon his brother’s death several years before, Charles had reluctantly assumed Robert’s responsibilities: the management of the family estates in England, including those at Somersworth, where his mother still lived; and the family peerage in the House of Lords, where his liberal leanings had earned him few friendships. But while Charles was prepared to make accommodations to duty, he held firm on three counts. He would not play more than a minor role in Society, which he considered a tedious, trivial enterprise. He would not abandon his interests in the natural sciences, photography, and the new forensic technologies. And he would most definitely not assume the title of Somersworth when he had a perfectly serviceable name of his own.

“Hem,” Lord Richard remarked critically, making a tent of his fingers. Sir Joshua cleared his throat and put on a neutral expression, but said nothing. North signaled to a footman waiting in the corner, who brought Charles a cup of steaming coffee and a brandy. When he had left the room, the admiral spoke again.

“Afraid it’s not just the photography that we wanted to discuss with you, Sheridan,” he said soberly. “We have a rather significant difficulty before us, and we hope you’ll agree to lend a hand.”