Death At Epsom Downs

It was nearly an hour later when the group rejoined in Bradford ’s lodging. The constable had been summoned, Patrick’s scanty evidence taken, and the body of Alfred Day, bookmaker, borne off to the surgery of a nearby doctor, who would perform an autopsy the following morning. But as Kate watched the proceedings, she thought that it didn’t require a doctor to confirm that the man had died violently. Anyone observing the corpse, even in the flickering light of the constable’s lantern, would have remarked on the bloody hole in the front of his brown waistcoat and realized that it was made by a gun, fired at close range.

Bradford went directly to the sideboard. “I think a brandy is in order,” he said, and began to pour.

“Patrick and I will have tea,” Kate said, with a glance at the boy, whose face was still very white. “And perhaps you might see whether there is any bread and butter in the pantry. While Patrick washes up,” she added, with a suggestive smile at the boy. She went to the gas kettle and lit it.

Bradford handed a brandy to Charles. “I think Mrs. Hardaway is still awake. I’ll see what she can find for us.”

A little later, Kate sat on one end of the sofa, pouring hot tea and passing a plate of bread and butter and slices of cake to Patrick, on the other end of the sofa. To her surprise, he took only one slice of bread and butter and declined the cake, explaining in a serious tone that all apprentice jockeys had to be very careful of their weight, for the lighter they were, the more likely they were to ride. To herself, Kate thought worriedly that Patrick could scarcely be much lighter, but she kept her concern to herself.

By mutual consent, there was little said about the dead man in the alleyway, other than Bradford’s remark that Newmarket was a betting town and saw its share of violent quarrels, which usually took place over money or women and often resulted in bloodshed. Kate observed that the crime had nothing to do with them, aside from the unfortunate happenstance of Patrick’s stumbling over the body, and changed the subject, drawing Patrick out about his adventures since leaving school and doing her best to show only interest and to hide the deep concern she felt at the thought of the boy tramping alone across half of southern England.

“Lord Charles tells me that you’re enjoying your work at the stable,” she said, after Patrick had sketched what was no doubt a much-abridged narrative of the months leading up to his coming to Newmarket. She smiled encouragingly. “I’m not surprised. I know how much you have always loved horses. And how very good you are with them.”

Patrick nodded. “I do love horses,” he said. “Especially Gladiator.” There was a pause, and a guarded glance at Bradford, whom he had met for the first time that night. Then, to Charles, a tentative “I was hoping you might help, m’lord.”

“Yes,” Charles said, tamping his pipe and lighting it, “we must talk about the horse. You said that someone made him drink something out of a bottle. Tell us more, please.”

With one more glance at Bradford, Patrick spoke rapidly, as if he were saying something he’d had on his mind for a while. “Well, you see, sir, Gladiator’s a lazy horse-at least, on the track. But when he’s galloped on Southfields or across the Flat on the west side of town, he goes like the wind.” A small, proud smile ghosted across his mouth. “As he did yesterday, with me up.”

“But the horse didn’t run like a lazy horse at the Derby,” Bradford remarked, from the depths of his overstuffed chair.

“No, sir.” Patrick’s face darkened. “Before the race, when the farrier was putting on his plates, Mr. Pinkie and a veterinary surgeon came. They gave Gladiator something in a bottle, and it made him…” He gestured with his hands, helplessly, and Kate saw that there were still traces of the dead man’s blood under his nails. “Right away, it made him act wild. It was all Johnny could do to get him off to a fair start, and when they got to the corner, the horse ran against the rail and-” His voice failed him and he dropped his head.

“We know,” Charles said sympathetically. “It’s too bad.”

Patrick’s head came up. “It wasn’t Johnny’s fault,” he said, in quick defense of his friend. A look of guilt washed over his face. “I had the chance to warn him and didn’t. If I’d told him, maybe he would have ridden differently-or not at all.”

“I doubt that’s so,” Bradford said gently. “When a horse turns savage, there’s not much a jockey can do except try to hold on. And your friend couldn’t reject a ride he’d agreed to and hope to keep riding-especially at the Derby.”

“Gladiator’s not a savage horse!” Patrick exclaimed. “At least, not by nature.” Kate heard the indignation and outrage in his voice and realized how much he was altered from the boy she had known. “Whatever they made him drink,” he said roughly, “that’s what made him wild. The ones who poured that stuff down the horse-they’re the ones who killed Johnny.”

Charles took the pipe out of his mouth. “Did either of the two men happen to say what the substance was?”

“No, they didn’t.” Patrick looked at Charles. “Do you know what it was, sir?”

“Not specifically, no.” Charles pulled on his pipe. “It had to have been a stimulant of some sort. Caffeine, perhaps, or cocaine or heroin-or some sort of mixture.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, sir,” Patrick said, “why are you interested in what happened to Gladiator?”

“Because some of the men who monitor racing,” Charles replied, “want to make doping illegal. It’s unfair, and dangerous, both to the horse and to other horses and riders.”

“If you had some of the stuff,” Patrick said slowly, “would that help?”

Charles regarded him. “I’m more keen to know who used it, and you’ve already helped to answer that question.” He paused. “Although, from a scientific point of view, I should certainly like to know what it is, so that an attempt can be made to develop a reliable chemical test, using blood or urine, or even the horse’s saliva. Without such a test, it will never be possible to say for sure whether or not a horse has ben doped.” He puffed on his pipe. “Do you know where I might obtain the stuff?”

Patrick looked up, hesitating.

“It’s all right, Patrick,” Kate said, putting a hand on the boy’s arm. “You can tell us. No one will be angry.”

“Well, then,” he said, “I nicked the bottle.”

The corners of Bradford ’s mouth quirked. “You nicked the bottle?”

Patrick nodded. “When Mr. Angus made me Gladiator’s traveling lad, he said I was responsible for anything that happened to the horse, and that I should keep a close eye on him to make sure he wasn’t interfered with. I’d never seen the surgeon before, and I don’t think much of Mr. Pinkie.” He made a face. “He’s Mr. Angus’s nephew and he’s supposed to be the second head trainer, but he’s more interested in betting on the races than he is in training the horses and taking good care of them. I couldn’t stop them from doing what they were doing, but I thought-” He shook his head, and Kate saw him trying to swallow his anger. “I saw where the surgeon tossed the bottle. After the race, I picked it up and put it with Gladiator’s gear. It wasn’t quite empty.”

“I see,” Charles said gravely. “And where is this bottle now?”

“It’s under the floorboard in the loft where I sleep,” Patrick said. There was an evident note of relief in his voice, and Kate thought that he was glad to be able to share his secret with someone, and perhaps also glad to get rid of the incriminating bottle. “I’ll give it to you. Maybe you can find out what’s in it.” He shuddered. “I don’t ever want to see Gladiator like that again-his eyes staring and the sweat pouring off him in buckets, and running as if the devil was after him.”

“That bottle,” Charles said. “Can you bring it here tomorrow night, without being detected?”

“I think so, sir. The lads work hard all day, and sleep hard, too. We don’t bed down the horses until Mr. Angus comes round to feel their legs and tendons and look them over. As soon as he’s come and gone, it’s supper and bed. Five o’clock in the morning comes awf’lly early. That’s when we take the horses out for first exercise.”

Kate smiled. “Five o’clock will come early tomorrow, too,” she reminded him, and Charles stood.

“Her ladyship is right,” he said. “It’s late, my boy. But just one or two more questions before you go. When and where is Gladiator racing next?”

“There’s a handicap here at Newmarket,” Patrick said promptly. “On Friday.”

“Thank you,” Charles said. “Do you know who’ll be riding?”

Kate saw a hopeful look cross Patrick’s face, then fade away. She knew he was wishing that he could ride the horse, and knowing at the same time that this was impossible.

“No, sir,” he said finally. “Besides Johnny Bell, there are two other jockeys who regularly ride for the stable, Bill Stevens and Dan Watts. It’ll be one of them, most like.”

And with that, Patrick went out into the night, Kate was driven back to Regal Lodge, and the eventful Monday was concluded.