Death At Epsom Downs

Henry Radwick had no intention of jostling his way through the London-bound mob on the railway. He had taken a room at the Red Horse Hotel just off the Epsom High Street, a small and exclusive accommodation which served exceptional food and excellent wine and whose proprietress, Mrs. Stanley, was possessed of considerable personal attractions. After the hurly-burly of the afternoon-the noisy crowds, that dreadful fracas at the corner, and the disaster that had taken out Ricochet-Henry was looking forward to a hot bath, a quiet dinner, and Mrs. Stanley’s company. He would return to Mayfair at a decent hour tomorrow, where no doubt those who found themselves unable to settle their accounts at Tattersall’s would already be waiting for him.

In the century shortly to come, people would look back at Henry Manford Radwick, in his heyday, as one of the most successful men of his time. By choice and by circumstance, he was a member of a group known as the Sixty Per Schenters, the notoriously predatory London moneylenders. But Henry Radwick stood apart from the group, a self-assured, self-made man who lived well and proudly at Number 4 Hill Street, Berkeley Square. His house was large and as opulently appointed as any marquis’s, and he enjoyed a fine table and an equally outstanding cellar. And although Henry (whose father had been a hatter in Horsham) was not invited to the homes of the aristocracy, his own generous hospitality was much enjoyed by their younger sons, and occasionally by the fathers and mothers and sisters as well (although these latter sought him out secretly, by a door that opened into the back garden).

Henry was of middle age and height, with brown hair, carefully but not ostentatiously dressed, by temperament congenial and affable, and by manner courteous and charming-until he was pushed into a corner or until something he valued was threatened, in which case his fiery temper had been known to get the better of him. But in most circumstances, Henry managed to hold himself in check. He had built his successful enterprise upon his charm, his congeniality, and his ability to mix easily with the rich young gentlemen of the Turf, who often rather freely anticipated their fortunes. He offered them friendship and advice, rejoiced in their victories, sympathized with their losses, and smiled gently at their follies. Accordingly, when these young men found themselves financially embarrassed, it was the most natural thing in the world for them to call at Number 4, drink a glass of Henry’s Madeira, and confide the latest scrape. For his part, Henry was always ready to offer a little something until the tide turned, so long as the security was acceptable.

Of course, Henry relied for his business success on the fact that the first “little something” would not be the end of it, for once begun, the habit of borrowing became an addiction, as sure as opium. An advance of a few thousand pounds, and then perhaps ten, and after that fifteen, would eventually be multiplied by accumulated interest and expenses into a staggering sum; and in time, the title deeds of an ancestral estate would pass from the hands of the luckless borrower into Henry’s personal account.

In this way, Henry Radwick had gained hold of Mansfield Park, one of the loveliest estates in Northampton, and how many equal to it, no one would ever know. Not that he cared for these estates for their own sake, or for the countless works of art, jewels, and other valuable considerations that had come into his hands over the years. And not that he cared for the money, either, beyond what was needed to maintain his way of life. Simply put, Henry Radwick, bitterly conscious of his low birth and resentful of the social rejections he continually suffered thereby, was a man who kept score. Each famous estate, each fabulous painting, each fine horse that came into his possession was one more evidence of his incontestable superiority over the weak, muddled aristocrats who couldn’t hold on to their fortunes. He felt much the same about his women, as well, and once he had selected one for his attentions, he felt a kind of jealous passion for her, not because he loved her, but because she was his, and a mark of his achievement.

Henry’s pleasure in his preeminence over weak-minded fools was fueled by the widespread acknowledgment of his astuteness and sharp dealings. While he could have made most loans out of his pocket, he preferred to use other people’s capital, offering ten percent when the current interest rate stood at one or one and a half. He could afford this attractive rate, for his charge to strangers was sixty percent, rising occasionally to five hundred percent. To friends, on the other hand, he was willing to extend a not unreasonable twenty, and sometimes, depending on the relationship, much less. Henry had many friends, of course-and not a few enemies. While his business arrangements began in friendship, they had a way of ending in acrimony, for when people did not fall in with his plans, he had a tendency to give in to his temper.

Just now, however, nothing untoward disturbed him. He had accomplished both his bath and his dinner and was awaiting Mrs. Stanley’s return to the Red Horse’s private drawing room, his hands folded over his slightly stout middle. This agreeable anticipation was interrupted, however, by someone’s clearing a throat and a tentative “Er, Radwick, old chap.” Henry looked up to see Lord Reginald Hunt standing in the door, his hat in his hand and a hangdog look on his face.

Henry did not show his annoyance at this intrusion, or demand to know how the devil Hunt had sniffed him out here. At the moment, he felt only contempt for the man standing before him, who had so obviously had a bad day. He smiled and gestured to the chair Mrs. Stanley had left.

“Sit down, Reggie, dear fellow,” he said affably, “and join me in a brandy.” He lifted the decanter and poured. “Why aren’t you feasting at Marlborough House with the rest of the Club?”

“Couldn’t face it,” Lord Reginald muttered, slumping dejectedly in the chair. His frock coat was marked with dusty creases and his shirt cuffs were dirty. He wiped a bleary eye. “Too low.”

“A pity about Gladiator,” Henry said consolingly. “When he came storming round the corner, he looked like a dead cert.” He paused. “I suppose you had a great deal on. Had the horse been mine, I would’ve emptied my pockets on him.” It wasn’t true. Henry always hedged his bets.

“All I had, and more, was on that horse.” Lord Reginald tossed off the brandy and pushed his glass forward, summoning a wan smile and making an attempt at bravado. “But he’ll run again. And I have Alabaster in the Gold Cup at Ascot, and Tarantula in the Ascot Stakes. I’ll get it back.”

“That’s the spirit.” Henry poured again. Mrs. Stanley appeared at the door; then, seeing that Henry was doing business, gave a little wave and vanished.

Lord Reginald sipped more slowly this time. “I’ll be brief, Henry, old chap,” he said. “I need thirty thousand to settle.”

Henry leaned back in his chair, folding his hands and pursing his lips. He had been at this point before, with any number of desperate clients, and he knew his lines very well. When the right amount of time had ticked by, he said quietly: “Thirty thousand is a very great deal, Reggie. In the circumstance, that is.” Henry did not have to say what that circumstance was. Lord Reginald understood perfectly that this large addition to his already enormous indebtedness entitled Henry to take part of the security he had pledged: the estate of Glenoaks, in Cambridgeshire, several dozen works of art, and half his stable.

The silence had lengthened almost intolerably when Lord Reginald cleared his throat. “Damn it all,” he growled, all show of pleasantry abandoned. “Take the bloody estate, then. I never go there anyway. Just give me the thirty thousand.”

“The estate,” Henry said quietly, “and Tarantula.”

“Not the horse!”

Henry shrugged and was silent.

“Oh, all right, then,” Lord Reginald said angrily. “He’s a loser, anyway. Have him, and be done.”

Henry smiled. “Well done, Reggie.” He leaned forward and placed a pacifying hand on Lord Reginald’s arm. “All of us come to these difficult hurdles now and again, but it’s the true sportsman among us who knows how to hold up his head and have a go at the jump.” His smile just missed being patronizing. “You’re an excellent fellow, Reggie. You’ll have the money first thing on Monday morning. And Ascot is only a fortnight away. You’ll feel better after a win.”

Lord Reginald brightened, forgetting his rancor. “Oh, indeed,” he said. He pushed his chair back and stood. “Thank you, Henry,” he said, picking up his hat. “I know I’m safe with you. You’re the best friend a man ever had.”

Henry Radwick smiled. He was already thinking of making a trip to Glenoaks, just to see what Lord Reginald Hunt had lost.