Death At Epsom Downs

It was after eleven on a glorious June morning, and Lord and Lady Charles Sheridan were sitting on the terrace overlooking the gardens and the little lake, its wild banks tumbled with ferns and briar-rose. Charles was reading the Sporting Times in an effort to educate himself to the intricacies of horse racing, and Kate was sorting the morning post. She opened an envelope and gave a discouraged sigh.

“I’m afraid that the headmaster at Westward Ho! has nothing new to report,” she said sadly. “It has been almost seven months since Patrick ran away from school, Charles. And not a word, not one single word. Something dreadful has happened to him, I’m sure of it.”

Charles hardly knew what to say. He knew how much Kate cared for Patrick. He’d been fond of the boy too, and had hoped that perhaps he might help fill the place of the son whom he and Kate would never have. It was hard to find words that would comfort Kate when he felt the loss as deeply as she. He rattled his paper and affected a careless air.

“You know the boy,” he said. “Free as a breeze, with not a shred of responsibility. It’s a wonder Patrick stayed at school as long as he did, Kate. No doubt he’s gone to sea, and will come back to astound us with exaggerated tales about the South Pacific.”

Kate made an impatient noise. “Patrick is a free spirit, but I don’t believe that he has no sense of responsibility. He left school for a good reason.” She laid the headmaster’s letter aside. “I think I’ll place another round of advertisements in the newspapers. Someone is bound to have seen him.” She took up another envelope, slit it, and gave a surprised exclamation.

Charles lowered his newspaper. “Something else?”

“It’s a note from Mrs. Langtry,” Kate said, scanning it. “She’s invited me to stay with her at Regal Lodge, at Kentford, near Newmarket. She writes, ‘Since I’ve decided to go forward with the stage adaptation of your story, I believe our time together could be most productive. My cottage is small, but I am delighted to share it with you. Come as soon as you can.’ ”

Charles was nonplused. He wasn’t aware that his wife knew the actress. “Lillie Langtry? A stage adaptation? What story?”

Kate frowned at him over the top of her reading glasses. “I suppose you’ve been too engrossed in that racing business to recall that I met Mrs. Langtry at the Derby and that she expressed an interest in producing ‘The Duchess’s Dilemma.’ ”

“Good Lord,” Charles said, abashed at not remembering. “Isn’t that the story about the stolen sapphires? The one you so indelicately modeled after the so-called theft of Lady Marsden’s emeralds?”

“Yes,” Kate replied ruefully. “In the story, the duchess needed money to pay her debts, so she pawned her jewels, then staged their theft to conceal what she’d done. When a thief actually did steal them, she tracked him down and got them back.” With a smile, she added, “The duchess is quite a strong character. Mrs. Langtry, of course, wants to play her.”

Charles chuckled. Lillie Langtry’s range as an actress was notoriously limited, and she was known for choosing roles that allowed her to play herself-or rather, to play herself as she imagined herself, which was not at all the same thing. “I’m surprised that she doesn’t find your fiction a little too close to the facts,” he remarked.

“Really?” Kate asked curiously. “In what way?”

“Just about the time you came to England, Mrs. Langtry’s jewels-forty thousand pounds’ worth-were taken from the vault at the Union Bank. The thief presented a note bearing her name. The signature subsequently proved to be copied from the Pearl Soap advertisement that carries her personal endorsement. It wasn’t even a very good forgery, as it turned out.”

“Then why in the world,” Kate exclaimed, “would she have anything to do with ‘The Duchess’s Dilemma’? It’s a story of course, a fiction-but some people might take it for truth and believe that she took the jewels herself!”

“Why would she want to stage it?” Charles shrugged. “Perhaps because she wants to profit from her own notoriety.”

“Well, there’s certainly plenty of that,” Kate said in an ironic tone. “The woman is featured in the newspapers almost every week. A few years ago, there were all those reports about her American divorce, and then there was Mr. Langtry’s mysterious death.” She looked back at the note, her pretty face drawn into a frown. “Why do you suppose she’s interested in my story?”

“Who knows?” Charles said. “As Oscar Wilde says, ‘we live in an age where people use art as a form of autobiography.’ ” He knew his wife, and he knew that she didn’t seek public attention. “Do you want her to stage the story?”

“I’m not at all sure I like the idea,” Kate said thoughtfully. “But now that I’ve heard about the theft of her jewels, I must admit to being curious about Mrs. Langtry and her interest in ‘The Duchess.’ Perhaps I’ll accept her invitation after all. I’ve just been asked to write an article for The Strand, and she would make a fascinating subject. If she’ll allow me to write about her, that is.”

“Allow you to write about her? I’m sure she’ll be thrilled at the prospect of seeing herself in print one more time, especially with Beryl Bardwell’s name on the piece.” Charles raised an eyebrow. “But you and Beryl should perhaps be a little careful, Kate. Mrs. Langtry’s sporting friends are not quite as well-mannered as she. I suggest that you take Amelia. She might keep you from getting into trouble.”

He had meant the remark as a joke, but Kate took it seriously. “I shall certainly ask Amelia to go with me,” she said, “and I’ll write to Mrs. Langtry and ask if she will give me an interview for publication.” She slanted him a look. “I hope you don’t mind that I go.”

Charles grinned wryly. “Would it do me any good?” Then, seeing her face, he added hastily, “I don’t mind in the slightest, my dear. I myself must go to Newmarket, on the racing business I told you about. I shouldn’t like to intrude on your stay with Mrs. Langtry, but at least I’ll be in the vicinity, if you need-” Charles broke off at the sound of a motorcar clattering up the drive.

Kate turned her head, listening. “That must be Bradford and his friend, come to luncheon.” She stood up and went to the parapet as Bradford Marsden’s new yellow Panhard pulled into view. “I wonder what she looks like.”

Smiling at his wife’s curiosity, Charles laid his newspaper aside and joined her at the parapet, watching as the Panhard jolted to a stop and its passengers began to disembark. “She’s a little dusty,” he said critically. “Could do with a wash. And that front left headlamp-”

Kate swatted his arm. “Not the motorcar-the girl, silly. Bradford ’s fiancée. Her name is Edith Hill.”

“Oh, that one,” Charles said. He peered over Kate’s shoulder. “Looks like a regular girl to me. Not too much hat, I’m pleased to-” He stopped, staring intently. “Is that an ankle I see? By Jove, it’s an ankle!”

“It is!” Kate exclaimed, her eyes sparkling. “Bradford Marsden has engaged himself to a woman who wears rational dress!”

“So he has,” Charles muttered with rueful irony, shaking his head. “And we all know what comes of rational dress. Women earning their way in the world, insisting on managing their own property, and-heaven help us-claiming a right to the vote.”

Kate smiled archly. “Well, I’ve achieved two of the three, and the franchise will come, like it or not. There are some things, my dearest love, that you shall simply have to get used to.” She smiled to show that she was teasing and tugged at his sleeve. “Now, come away from the parapet. We’ll have plenty of time for inspection during luncheon.”

Affectionately, Charles watched Kate return to her chair, admiring the shining russet hair pinned in loose twists around her head, her firm-featured face, the confident lift of her chin, the frank, open smile whose radiance invariably dazzled him. She was a lovely woman, he thought, grown even more lovely now that she was past thirty. But what he most admired about her could not be seen at first glance: her literary talent, of course, which never ceased to amaze him; but also her stubborn Irish-American desire for independence, so at odds with the English woman’s acceptance of her place; and her zealous determination to help other women achieve what independence they could. And, not least, her ability to tolerate the unhappy situation his mother’s bitter intolerance had created.

The thought of the dowager Lady Somersworth made Charles sigh heavily. He had recently made one of his regular visits to the family estate in Norwich, where his mother lived-or rather, where she was dying of a cancer in her breast. Having outlived a husband and elder son, the third and fourth barons of Somersworth, she emphatically reminded the fifth baron each time she saw him that she did not intend to die until he had produced an heir. During the last visit, Charles had finally told her the truth: that Kate’s first pregnancy had also been her last. There would be no children.

At this, Lady Somersworth set her mouth. “Well,” she said bitterly, “what did you expect? She’s Irish, and the Irish are always sickly. No constitution at all.”

“Mother-” Charles began, in a warning tone.

“I’m not disappointed,” Lady Somersworth snapped. “Ever since I learned that hers is the pen behind those dreadful Bardwell fictions, I’ve been too humiliated to hold up my head in Society. If you take my advice, Charles, you will seek an immediate divorce from this person, whatever the cost.”

“Divorce?” Charles tried for a joking tone. “But think of the scandal, Mother.”

“Scandal?” Lady Somersworth’s laugh was bitter. “The scandal of divorce is pale as a ghost in comparison to the scandal of your marriage, Charles. Free yourself from her and choose a woman of your own class. Then you can pass Somersworth to sons who are not part”-her nostrils flared and she turned her head aside, as if from a disagreeable odor-“Irish.”

At that, Charles had stalked out and taken the next train home to Bishop’s Keep. The bitter old woman could die alone, as far as he was concerned, and the Somersworth title with her. And when she was gone, he had an entirely new plan for the family estates-one that would send his dowager mother spinning in her grave.

The French doors opened, and Hodge, the butler, stepped onto the terrace. “Lord Bradford Marsden,” he announced, “and Miss Edith Hill.”