Paige Robin: Death At Epsom Downs

Charles raised his eyebrows. “An objection’s been filed, then, I take it.”

“Exactly!” Sir Joshua cried in some agitation. He sat forward in his chair, his hands on his knees, and his nose seemed to glow more brightly than before. “Exactly so, sir. An objection.”

North sighed. “It’s the tragedy at the corner, as you might have guessed. Objections have been lodged against both Gladiator and Flying Fox by Squire Mannington, owner of Ricochet.”

“But Ricochet didn’t finish,” Charles said. “And neither did Gladiator. I couldn’t see what happened at the corner, but only six of the eight starters came home.”

“Gladiator jumped the rail and bolted into the crowd, just at the top of the straightaway,” North replied. “His jockey was killed outright, and several spectators were injured, one seriously. Ricochet broke a fetlock and had to be destroyed.”

“A bad business,” Lord Richard said gloomily, tapping his lips with a shriveled finger.

“A very bad business indeed,” the admiral said, returning to his chair. “Those who witnessed the affair are agreed that the objection has a certain validity. But Gladiator’s jockey is dead and a penalty can scarcely be entered against him. And since Ricochet had to be destroyed, it seems pointless to take the win from Flying Fox.”

Charles pursed his lips. “I wonder what the squire intends to gain by his objections.”

“No good, I’ll tell you that!” Sir Joshua exclaimed, growing still more agitated. “Go on, North. Go on.”

“We fear,” the admiral said, “that Squire Mannington may mean to use the objection as a preliminary step in a lawsuit against Lord Reginald Hunt, the owner of Gladiator, and against the Duke of Westminster, Flying Fox’s owner.” He smiled dryly. “As you might surmise, the stewards are not anxious to be called to testify in such a suit.” He glanced at the others. “Have I summarized the situation adequately?”

Lord Richard gave a curt nod. “Oh, indeed,” Sir Joshua said nervously. “Very well said, Admiral. Well said indeed, sir.”

Charles reflected that a lawsuit was the very last thing the Jockey Club ever wanted, but he only said, “The reports I’ve heard were vague and confused. What actually happened?”

Admiral North rose once more and went to stand before the fire, lifting his coattails to warm himself. “They were running clear into the corner, Flying Fox and Ricochet in the lead by several lengths, Count Bolo trailing, Gladiator on the outside. Gladiator began coming up fast and crossed in front of Count Bolo toward the rail, forcing Flying Fox into Ricochet. Flying Fox recovered, but Ricochet stumbled and went down. Gladiator jumped the rail, throwing his jockey. The boy’s neck was broken.”

“Dead on the spot,” Sir Joshua muttered. He touched his nose tenderly. “Pity. A fine young rider. Won the Cambridgeshire for me on Fairfax. Was hoping he’d do the same on Haycock.”

“These youngsters don’t know how to manage a hard puller,” Lord Richard remarked in an acid drawl. “Easy rides, that’s all they want.”

The admiral pursed his lips. “Squire Mannington asserts that young Bell was riding aggressively, and that he let the horse get out of control.” He sighed. “It’s a pity your camera wasn’t trained on that particular situation, Sheridan. A few photographs would undoubtedly show the right of it.”

Lord Richard scowled. “There’s something here that doesn’t quite meet the eye,” he growled. “Study the form book, and you’ll see that Gladiator’s a damned lazy horse. Done poorly in every race he’s run save one. Hunt shouldn’t have thought him worth entering.”

“But the tipsters had him hot,” Sir Joshua put in quickly, “and there was a great deal of money laid on at the last moment. I myself saw Alfred Day put down Lord Reginald for two thousand pounds just before the off. If the horse had won, as he looked like doing-”

“My point exactly,” Lord Richard snapped. “At 66 to 1, Hunt would have no more need to borrow from Henry Radwick, would he? Family fortunes recouped and all that.”

Hands behind his back, Admiral North pursed his lips and looked up at the ceiling. “None of us like to speak at hazard, for we all know what harm gossip can do to a man’s reputation. But today’s situation is complicated by rumors that Gladiator was visited last week, at the request of his owner, by Jesse Clark. Not,” he added obliquely, “that there is anything necessarily improper about the visit.” He glanced at Charles. “If you take my point.”

Charles picked up his brandy. “I do indeed,” he said. Although his father and brother had been racing men, the Turf had never attracted Charles. However, he had certainly heard enough London gossip to understand the admiral’s concern. Jesse Clark was an American trainer who had come to England with another American, Enoch Wishard. Wishard was financed by a Chicago hotel magnate, John Drake. Drake and his racing partner, William Gates-Bet-a-Million Gates, as he was known in America -had established quite a large stable at Newmarket. Members of the Jockey Club were scandalized by the huge amounts these men bet on Wishard’s horses, and they snubbed the Americans whenever they could.

But over the past two years, Wishard’s stable had demonstrated an interesting pattern. A horse would follow a string of losses with a surprising victory at long odds, upon which Drake and Bet-a-Million had happened to lay a large wager. If this had happened once or twice, it might have been sheer good fortune; but it occurred with increasing regularity, and people began to whisper that Wishard was doping horses with some sort of stimulant that made them run like the wind. Charles had heard that some members of the Club were anxious to declare doping contrary to The Rules of Racing, but that others refused, perhaps because they themselves wanted to give it a go, or because they weren’t convinced that it was the doping that made the difference. In any event, the Club had not as yet acted. Doping was legal and the situation showed no signs of being altered.

Still, the stewards ought to do something, Charles thought. An uncontrollable horse was a danger to all the horses and riders in the field, as today’s Derby had demonstrated, and artifically manipulating a horse’s performance was unsportsmanlike and wreaked havoc with the form book. There was a good deal of resentment among owners and trainers about the practice-and especially among the bookmakers, who were at risk of losing substantial sums of money. Having paid out more than they could afford, some now refused the Americans’ bets-when they could, for the wager was often delivered by one of Bet-a-Million’s strongmen, whose persuasion was hard to resist.

The room was silent except for the hissing of the coal fire in the grate. Admiral North’s gaze had returned to the ceiling. Lord Richard’s eyes were focused on his tented fingers. Sir Joshua was staring at the fire.

At last, the admiral spoke. “Since you see our problem, Sheridan, perhaps you would be so kind as to help us further its resolution. What do you say to undertaking an inquiry for us?”

Charles put down his snifter, frowning. “I am here today to set up a high-speed camera, which is entirely within my field of expertise.” He spread his hands. “I don’t know enough about Turf practices to be of much help to you, Admiral.”

“Don’t add modesty to your other faults, Somersworth,” Lord Richard said gruffly.

“Anyway,” Charles went on, “you have your own investigator. Jack Murray is a good man. Why not use him?”

The admiral gave Charles a dry smile. “We have sounded H.R.H.’s feelings on this subject, Sheridan. As you might guess, he’s concerned to stave off any possible scandal connected with racing.”