Death At Epsom Downs

“Kate!” Jennie Churchill exclaimed excitedly, turning from a conversation with a fashionably dressed lady. “How delightful to see you!” She leaned forward to brush a kiss on Kate’s cheek, then glanced around. “Is Charles with you?”

Kathryn Ardleigh Sheridan was no racing enthusiast, but the Derby was as much a national holiday as a race, and since she now called England her home, she had begun to think she should attend the race one of these years. Then the Jockey Club stewards had invited her husband, Lord Charles, to set up a camera that would automatically photograph the finish. The Prince of Wales extended an invitation to her to watch the race from the Prince’s stand, and the question of her attendance was settled. Not that Kate was especially impressed by royal invitations, or had any personal interest in the social circus that surrounded H.R.H. But she had recently embarked on a writing project-an ironic novel featuring the racing set, written under her usual pseudonym of Beryl Bardwell-and she was on the lookout for ideas and material. She also knew she would encounter a few special friends at the race, Lady Randolph Churchill among them. Kate and Jennie-both Americans, both married to Englishmen-had been close friends since the preceding autumn, when Charles had helped Jennie and her son Winston deal with an ugly blackmail scheme.

“Charles is down on the course, setting up a camera to record the finish,” Kate said in response to Jennie’s question. She stepped forward to be introduced to the other lady, who was costumed in an elegant wine-colored silk and a fur wrap against the spring chill, her large hat trimmed in fur and feathers. She was smoking a cigarette in a long ivory holder and observing Kate with a supercilious air.

“Lady Charles Sheridan,” Jennie said, “I should like to present Mrs. Langtry, whom you have undoubtedly seen on the stage.” She gave Mrs. Langtry a restrained smile, and Kate thought that perhaps Jennie did not really like the woman. “Here at Epsom,” Jennie added, “you will hear Mrs. Langtry spoken of as ‘Mr. Jersey,’ the name under which her horses run.”

Kate turned with real interest to Mrs. Langtry: the Jersey Lily, once known as the loveliest woman in England, beautiful enough to capture the Prince of Wales as her lover and clever enough to keep him as a friend and sponsor even after he had transferred the royal affections to the Countess of Warwick, and more recently, to Mrs. Keppel. Now in her forties, Mrs. Langtry was still almost beautiful, Kate thought, her chestnut hair gleaming, her movements graceful, her figure ripely mature, if perhaps rather too abundantly endowed. But she had an actress’s self-assured awareness of her beauty, and her calculating glance and the cool, half-amused curl of her lips gave her an arch, disdainful look.

Kate was immediately intrigued. “I have indeed seen you perform, Mrs. Langtry, some years ago in New York, in Agatha Tylden. I thought the character of Mrs. Tylden perfectly suited to you.” The title role had been that of a powerful, energetic woman who inherited a shipping business and became so fully engaged with it that she rejected a worthy lover-only to marry him after her business failed and he rescued her from bankruptcy. At the time, Kate had admired the play but thought that she would have put a different ending to it. Surely a woman of Agatha Tylden’s power and resourcefulness could have arranged her own financial recovery without having to rely upon marriage to save her.

At Kate’s compliment, Mrs. Langtry thawed slightly. “Ah, Agatha Tylden,” she said in a reminiscent tone. “A very satisfying play. Every performance sold out, and the crowds made it difficult for me to reach the Holland House, where I was staying. ‘Langtry fever,’ the newspapers called it.” She gave a tolerant chuckle. “It was all quite amusing, I must say, and very flattering.”

Kate started to reply, but Mrs. Langtry, disregarding her, went on. “One does so enjoy roles that are written exclusively for one, of course, with one’s experiences in mind. The next will be that of Mrs. Trevelyan in Sidney Grundy’s The Degenerates-quite a daring play. No doubt some will be scandalized by its picture of modern smart society.” She smiled and flicked her cigarette ash.

Jennie Churchill gave an ironic cough. “Lady Charles also has another name,” she remarked dryly, “one that I’m sure you’ll recognize. Her novels and stories are read both in England and America. She writes under the pen name of Beryl Bardwell.”

Kate smiled inwardly. As Beryl Bardwell’s work gained in popularity, her identity had become more widely known, but she doubted that Lady Randolph would have mentioned it just now had she not wanted to put Mrs. Langtry in her place. The strategy seemed to have succeeded, for Mrs. Langtry’s large blue-gray eyes-those smoky lavender eyes that had held princes in thrall-widened perceptibly.

“Beryl Bardwell!” she exclaimed, her manner warming. “My dear Lady Charles, I am quite speechless! I must confess myself to be one of your most devoted followers. You write with such sensibility, such passion. Your characters are so real!” Kate might have spoken, but Mrs. Langtry did not give her time. “I was deeply impressed by a story of yours, ‘The Duchess’s Dilemma.’ I thought when I read it that it might be easily adapted to the stage, and that the role of the duchess would be marvelously suited to me. What do you say to that?”

Taken aback, Kate saw that Mrs. Langtry’s instinct for characterization was chillingly accurate. The main character of “The Duchess’s Dilemma” was the imperious, autocratic Diana Radcliffe, Duchess of Wallingford, who staged the theft of her own jewels to conceal the fact that she had pawned them to cover her racing debts. Then, when they were stolen in earnest, she tracked down the thief and successfully achieved their return. It didn’t require more than a moment’s acquaintance with the actress to be sure that Mrs. Langtry would play the role perfectly.

But Kate was not at all certain that she wanted Mrs. Langtry to adapt her story to the stage, for it was one thing to work quietly behind a pseudonym and quite another to take on the far more public role of playwright. What was more, she suspected that working with Mrs. Langtry on the project would involve endless trials and frustrations.

“Thank you for the compliment, Mrs. Langtry,” she said. “However, I really do not feel-”

“The idea is new to you, I see,” Mrs. Langtry said confidingly. “I shall have to persuade you. But persuade you I shall.” She placed her gloved hand on Kate’s arm, her laugh melodious. “I always get my way, Lady Charles. Any of my friends will be glad to tell you that. ‘Lillie Langtry always gets her way,’ they’ll say.”

Kate was grateful that a stir at the entrance kept her from answering. His Royal Highness had arrived, accompanied by a boisterous entourage beribboned with the royal colors-and by Mrs. Keppel, smiling and elegant in ivory satin and a feather boa. Jennie, Mrs. Langtry, and Kate made their curtsies and the Prince extended his pudgy, ringed hand and greeted each of them in turn.

To Kate, he said in a gutteral, accented voice, “Lady Charles. Delighted, my dear, delighted. Is Lord Charles still down on the course?”

“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.

“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.