Death At Epsom Downs

Admiral North looked up from the papers on his desk. “Ah, Sheridan,” he said, and stood with a broad smile, extending his hand. “I was just thinking of you, and wondering how you and Murray were getting on with things.” He gestured courteously. “Please, sit down.”

“I thought it was time to let you know what progress we have made,” Charles said, seating himself in one of the leather chairs. “Although I fear that what we have learned is of precious little practical use.” He added, “I was hoping that perhaps you might have learned something you would be willing to share with me.”

“Only a bit of gossip here and there,” the admiral said. “Nothing very material, I’m afraid.” He opened the desk drawer, took out a box of cigars, and pushed them toward Charles. “Help yourself, Sheridan. The finest Cuban. A present from H.R.H.”

“Thank you, no,” Charles said. He was not fond of the Prince’s cigars, costly though they might be. He took out his pipe and while he filled it, tamped it, and lit it, sketched out what he and Murray had pieced together from their inspection of the St. James Street premises; from the proprietor of the Great Horse; and from their questioning of Day’s clerk, the man called Sobersides.

“No progress?” North asked, raising one tufted eyebrow. “On the contrary, Charles, you seem to have made quite a lot of it. You’ve certainly narrowed the field of suspects to a great degree. It sounds to me as if Day was playing a dangerous game that was bound to make him a very unpopular man in several circles.” He clipped off the end of a cigar and lit it. “Organizing the bookmakers against certain stables-that’s a risky business, however one looks at it. I should have thought Badger had been playing the game long enough to know better.”

“He was doing what he thought had to be done,” Charles said, watching North’s face. “Since he hadn’t been able to persuade the Club to rule doping illegal-”

North slammed his fist on his desk so hard that the lamp chimney rattled. “We can’t rule it illegal, damn it!” he exploded angrily. “To do so would be to invite gossip, even scandal. It would suggest that unsportsmanlike behavior has already taken place, that the Club has not properly controlled-” He stopped, recollecting himself, and wiped a drop of spittle from his gray beard. “It would stir up a great deal of Turf controversy and focus undue attention on Turf practices,” he said carefully. “And you know how H.R.H. feels about that. How we all feel about it.”

“Yes, I know,” Charles agreed, “although I must say that from what I have seen, doping injures horses and plays havoc with ordinary betting. And it would seem to encourage a certain criminal element and invite the commission of crime-as Day’s murder suggests.”

“It is not at all clear that Day was killed because of the doping,” North said flatly. “In fact, all the evidence goes in the other direction. He was obviously murdered by that partner of his-what did you say his name was?”

Charles sighed. “Baggs, Edward Baggs.”

“Yes, well. If the clerk-Sobersides, or Moore, or whatever he’s called-will testify that he heard Baggs threaten Badger, that should be enough to convince the coroner’s jury. I know Coroner Drummond. I’ll speak to him about the matter so that he’s aware of our interest, and to the chief constable, as well. Meanwhile, I suggest that you have Murray concentrate on locating Baggs. The very fact that the man has left town so precipitously ought to make his guilt plain. And don’t bother interrogating him-we can turn that little job over to the police.”

“There are one or two other possibilities,” Charles said. “The American trainer, Jesse Clark, was in the Great Horse just before the murder, engaged in argument with Day. As was Pinkie Duncan. Their motives seem to me to be at least equal to that of Baggs.”

North frowned. “I shouldn’t like-” He paused, as if he were thinking how to frame his sentence. “The partner made a clear threat in the presence of a witness. I should focus on that fellow Baggs, if I were you.”

Charles drew on his pipe, reflecting that North seemed inordinately eager to view the murder as a falling-out between business associates. If Baggs were indicted, no other motives would be explored in the coroner’s inquest and the question of doping would be separated from that of the murder-an outcome that North obviously desired. But it was not as easy as that.

“There is one other thing you should know,” Charles said quietly. “Mrs. Langtry is involved in this business, exactly how and to what extent, I have yet to determine.”

Owen North seemed, Charles thought, to turn pale. “Mrs. Langtry?” he asked. He coughed. “I must say, that seems rather… far-fetched. However, people will gossip. I’m sure you haven’t found any evidence of her involvement.” He placed an unmistakable emphasis on the word evidence.

“As a matter of fact, I have,” Charles said, and thought that North seemed even paler. “When I went through Day’s effects, I found a note from the lady in his pocket, instructing him to meet her at nine on Monday night, at St. Mary’s Square.”

“But she was at the Rothschilds’ on Monday night!” North exclaimed in an agitated tone. “We talked there! She could not have-Why, it’s impossible! She was as cool and lovely as always. She-” He pressed his lips together for a moment, then said again, “It’s impossible.”

“She says she arrived at something close to ten,” Charles said. “There would have been ample time for her to have met Day and shot the man. And as far as coolness is concerned, Mrs. Langtry is an actress. She is perfectly capable of masking her real feelings.” If she has any, Charles added to himself.

North took out his handkerchief and blotted his forehead. “I’m sure it was much earlier than that when she came in. In fact, I’d swear to it. At least nine, I believe, perhaps before that. Yes, surely before that. Ponsonby was there. He saw her arrive. He’ll swear, too.”

Fritz Ponsonby was one of H.R.H.’s closest confidants. He would swear to anything to protect the Royal person. “Mrs. Langtry herself told me that it was three-quarters past,” Charles said without inflection.

North’s eyes opened wide. “You’ve already spoken to her about this?” There was a note of panic in his voice.

“She denies knowing anything about Day’s death.” Charles blew out a cloud of pipe smoke, wondering whether he should mention Mrs. Langtry’s missing gun. On balance, he thought not. “I don’t think she killed him,” he added, “if that’s what concerns you, Owen.”

For the second time in their brief meeting, North became passionate. “Concerns me!” he cried, his voice trembling. “Concerns me! Why, man, of course it concerns me! I have been friends with the lady for some time. I-” He stopped, biting his lip as if to control his outburst. When he spoke again, his voice was taut but disciplined, and he had chosen a different tack: “As you know, the Prince is at present deeply involved with Mrs. Keppel. However, he still visits Mrs. Langtry on occasion and he looks out for her always, financially and otherwise. If His Highness thought for a moment that-” North shook his head. “You know how protective he is toward those of his friends who are in trouble. Foolishly so, at times.”

Charles remembered the Royal reaction when the Countess of Warwick, whose place in the Royal heart had been taken by Mrs. Keppel, had come dangerously close to being accused of murder. “I take it, then, that you’re suggesting-”

“I’m suggesting that, whatever else you do, you absolutely must keep Mrs. Langtry’s name out of this,” North said fiercely. “His Highness will not thank you if she is dragged into the matter.” Then, apparently recollecting that he was speaking to a peer of the realm, he pulled in a deep breath, softening his tone. “Of course, Charles, I know that you won’t do anything that might attract attention to the lady’s role in this unfortunate business. As you have said, she is innocent of any wrongdoing, so I’m sure you will guard her reputation.” He seemed to find no irony in this last remark.

Charles was tempted to point out that he had said nothing of Mrs. Langtry’s innocence, only that he did not believe she had shot Alfred Day. But instead, he smoked in silence for a moment, listening to the ticking of the clock on the wall. “By the way,” he said at last, “we’ve located the veterinary surgeon who doped Reggie Hunt’s horse. A fellow named Polter. Septimus Polter, at Exning.”

“Well, that was a bit of fine detective work,” North said in a heartier tone, clearly relieved to leave the subject of Mrs. Langtry. “How did you get onto him? Have you talked to him yet?”

“I have not,” Charles said, failing to mention that Bradford Marsden was probably doing exactly that, even as they spoke.

North reached for a pen and a sheet of paper. “Polter, did you say? Septimus? At Exning?” He dipped the pen into an inkwell set in the desk and wrote rapidly. “No need for you to go further with this particular line of inquiry, Charles. I believe that you’ve gotten to the heart of the matter. I’ll see to the rest of it myself.”

“As you wish,” Charles said.

There was another long silence. At last, North pulled open a drawer. “I have a photograph here you really must see,” he said, in an obvious effort to change the subject. “A friend sent it to me from New Zealand, to add to my collection. Given your interest in scientific photography, I think you will find it fascinating.” He took out a photograph and laid it on the desk.

Charles regarded it, frowning.

“What is it, exactly?” he asked. “I don’t believe I recognize the creature.”

“Stumped you at last, have I?” North exclaimed. “It is a rare species that lives along the coast of New Zealand. Found only in the sand dunes, I’m told, hiding under driftwood and the like. Katipo, its name is.”

Charles was looking at a photograph, much enlarged, of a spider.

“Ah,” he said. “Katipo. The New Zealand spider.” He looked at North. “Surely I should have guessed.” He pushed himself out of the chair. “Thank you, Owen, for showing it to me. I fear I must be going.”

North laid the photograph aside and summoned a smile. “Right. Don’t forget, then. Instruct Murray to concentrate on locating Baggs. When the man has been found, let me know immediately and I shall alert the chief constable to pick him up for interrogation. That will resolve the matter, and you can get back to your own affairs-with my enduring gratitude,” he added warmly.

Out in the street, Charles drew a deep breath, glad to be out of the Club office. For the moment, he did not want to think about all of the implications that had been raised by his conversation with Admiral North. He took out his watch. It was nearly time to set out for the Devil’s Dike, where he was to lunch with Bradford and Jack Murray and learn what they had discovered that morning.

Charles was striding quickly along the next block of shops when he ran into a woman coming out of a butcher’s shop, carrying a shopping bag full of packages.

“Oh, Lord Sheridan!” the woman cried delightedly. “Oh, how fortunate to encounter you in this fashion! I’m afraid I missed you this morning at breakfast and-”

Charles raised his hat. “Yes, indeed, Mrs. Hardaway,” he said with a slight smile. “But I fear I am rather in a hurry. If you will excuse me-”

“No!” Mrs. Hardaway laid hold of his arm. “I am sorry, my lord, but you must accompany me home immediately. I have something in my keeping that you must have without delay.”

“Well, then,” Charles said, seeing nothing for it but to go with the lady, “you will let me carry your parcels, I hope.”

“Oh, so kind,” Mrs. Hardaway murmured, taking the arm he offered, and they proceeded together down the street.