Death At Epsom Downs

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.”

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.”

That came as no surprise, Charles thought. It was only ten years earlier that Sir George Chetwynd, once a senior steward of the Jockey Club, had been hailed into court by the Earl of Durham, accused of instructing his jockeys to pull horses-hold them back from winning. The messy libel suit resulted in a great deal of notoriety in the press, something the Club, and Society itself, utterly abhorred. This humiliation had been followed not long after by the Tranby Croft affair, which took place at the running of the St. Leger and resulted in yet another accusation of cheating, this time at baccarat. Everyone involved, including the Prince of Wales, made an extraordinary effort to hush up the scandal, but the Tranby Croft affair, too, went to court. The press rubbed its collective hands in glee when the Prince was called to the witness box, and the Queen, when she read the papers, was said to have flown into hysterics. From that time on, every scandal in any way associated with the Turf had been hushed up as quickly as possible, no matter what the cost to individuals. Even the whisper of unsportsmanlike conduct, especially when money was involved, was enough to send a shiver through the entire Establishment, from bottom to top.

Admiral North was going on. “His Majesty, in fact, is the one who suggested that we ask you to undertake an inquiry for us, Sheridan. He tells us that he has every confidence in your investigative abilities, and in your discretion, as well. As for Jack Murray, he cannot make his way among the owners. You have-if you will pardon my saying so-the appropriate credentials. And Murray will be available to you for, shall we say, the dirty work.”

“But of course,” Sir Joshua put in hurriedly, “there won’t be any… dirty work. After all, we’re dealing with gentlemen.”

Lord Richard gave a contemptuous snort. “Gentlemen! These Americans may be rich as lords, but they’re common as dirt. We want them out of English racing, Somersworth. Send them back where they came from, or pack them off to France. But do it on the hush. We can’t afford any scandal.”

The admiral frowned. “I don’t know that we have to go quite so far as that, Lord Richard. H.R.H. does suggest, however, that we find some way to keep the American practice from spreading to English stables, without attracting undue attention to it with an outright ban. All very quietly, of course,” he added delicately. “Out of view of the press. To that end, we hope to keep Squire Mannington from pressing his objections, if at all possible.” He turned to Charles. “I would take it as a personal favor, Charles if you would be so kind as to help us.”

Damn and blast, Charles thought, more in resignation than anger. Owen North was a cagey strategist. He knew that a suggestion from the Prince of Wales was tantamount to a royal command, and that Charles would find it almost impossible to refuse. He sighed. He wasn’t eager to undertake the Herculean task of cleaning out the Jockey Club’s stables, for he suspected that the corruption was already widespread. But there was no good reason to postpone the inevitable. And he might as well put the best face on it.

“Very well, Owen,” he said. “Tell His Highness that I’ll do what I can.”

The admiral’s profound relief showed on his face. “Very good. Very good indeed.” He rubbed his hands together. “What can we do to help?”

“I should like to examine Gladiator immediately,” Charles said. “I shall require the assistance of a veterinarian. One who can be trusted,” he added.

“Done,” the admiral replied promptly. “And I shall ask Jack Murray to be in touch with you. Use him in any way you see fit.” He held out his hand. “We’re grateful, Charles, and we wish you Godspeed in your invesigation. I suspect that more hangs on this than we know.”

It was a prophetic statement.