Death At Epsom Downs

Walking along the racecourse on her husband’s arm, Amelia Quibbley thought she had never before seen such a crowd. Bookies in checked suits and green silk ties traded cries with betting men in gray overcoats.

“On the Derby, who’ll bet the Derby?”

“What’s the price on the favorite in the Stakes?”

“Five to Two.”

“Done!”

And the half-crowns jingled in the bookie’s bucket, while men in dirty white aprons filled foaming glasses from beer kegs, shouting “Accommodation! ’Commodation here!” A parson in front of a gospel tent pounded a drum, exhorting sinners to turn their backs on the Derby and wager their lives on Christ. Blind beggars cried for alms, a boy on stilts called for coins, and drunken soldiers shouted out popular ditties.

Half-deafened by the din, Amelia said, “I’m thirsty, Lawrence. Shall we ’ave a ginger beer?”

Lawrence ’s handsome dark eyes laughed down at his wife and his arm circled her waist. “A ginger beer ye shall ’ave, ducky, as soon as I find one o’ Badger’s men in the Ring and lay my bit. Badger’s posted the best odds on Ricochet.”

Lawrence paused to peer at a man standing behind a banner that read Alfred Day, Commission Agent, Newmarket. All Bets Paid. “On th’ Derby!” the man was droning, like a sour bagpipe. “On th’ Derby ’ere! Bet th’ Derby!”

“And there’s Badger ’isself, by Gawd!” Lawrence exclaimed. “Stop here, dear. I want to put down a crown.” He stepped up to the banner and raised his voice over the din. “Badger! Say, Badger, wot’s odds on Ricochet?”

“Sev’n to two,” Badger cried. Where other bookmakers were gaudy in suits of black-and-white checks the size of sixpence, with flowing silk ties as green as May and yellow posies pinned to their lapels, he wore a dignified gray frock coat with a pale gray top hat and sparkling diamond rings on both hands. Never mind that the coat was stained and missing a button and the rings most likely paste, he looked almost as fine as a gentleman.

“Sev’n to two on Ricochet,” Lawrence cried. He held up a coin. “ ’Ere ye are.” Badger’s man, a rusty little fellow with a crooked collar, held out an open satchel.

“Drop it in there,” Badger directed. “Right in there, sir. And take care o’yer ticket, or some evildoer will relieve ye of it.” Badger’s man snapped the satchel shut and scribbled in a black book. He tore out the ticket and handed it to Lawrence.

Amelia frowned as Lawrence pocketed the ticket and fell into step beside her, jaunty and proud as a peacock, now that the long-awaited transaction was over. It wasn’t so much the money she minded; they could afford to lose a crown, if it came to that, although she hoped it wouldn’t, with Baby at home needing new boots. But she’d been raised by Scripture and had been taught that betting was against God’s law. It was against common sense, too, as she knew for herself. At the pub where she and Lawrence stopped on their nights out, she’d seen Mr. Starkey, who earned ten shillings a week, lay down five on a horse while eight little Starkeys shivered at home for want of coal. And Mrs. Hartop, the old woman who swept Dedham High Street for nine shillings a week, was regular with her half-crown though she couldn’t pay the butcher. Betting took money from the poor, Amelia did not doubt, and the parson was right to bang on his drum and shout out its evils, even though not a soul was listening.

But Lady Charles Sheridan, whom Amelia served as lady’s maid, had given her a holiday today, and Amelia was carrying a ruffled white sunshade and wearing her best sprigged muslin with a blue shawl and white cotton gloves. Her own Lawrence, dressed in a fine gray coat and bright blue trousers, had been given the important job of helping Lord Charles Sheridan photograph the finish of the Derby Stakes. And since men had laid down their money since the beginning of time and would go on laying it down whether their wives wished it or not, the practical Amelia set her qualms aside and happily applied herself to the enjoyment of the Derby, counting the crown that Lawrence had dropped into the bookmaker’s satchel as the price of their admission.

But behind all the revelry, above the music, beneath all the whooping and cheering of the great, noisy mob, she could hear Badger’s stentorian voice behind her: “On th’ Derby ’ere! On th’ Derby! Bet th’ Derby now!”