Death At Epsom Downs

After he left Mrs. Hardaway’s house with Kate’s note in his pocket, Charles had even more to think about and yet another stop to make. On his way at last, and very late, to the Devil’s Dike, he decided to proceed exactly as if he had not had that conversation with Owen North earlier in the morning-in fact, he would not even mention it. For one thing, he did not intend to turn the investigation over to the chief constable without some further assurance that the principle of due process would be respected. For another, he now had to consider whether Owen North himself-a man who collected photographs of spiders-might be the pseudonymous friend of Lillie Langtry. It was an unwelcome and unpleasant consideration, for he had known North for some time and had rather liked the man. But justice demanded that he entertain it.

The men gathered around a table in a dark and quiet corner of the half-deserted pub. Over their food, Bradford and Murray reported on their various morning’s activities.

“Well, gentlemen,” Charles said, sitting back from his empty plate, “it would seem that the three of us have had a most productive few hours.” He nodded at Bradford. “Marsden has learned from Dr. Polter what kind of dope was used on Gladiator, and has even fetched us a sample.”

“I’m not sure what good it does to know what it is,” Bradford muttered, pushing the last of his steak-and-kidney pudding around on his plate. “These people are going to keep using it just the same, all the while swearing that it does no harm. And winning pots of money thereby,” he added darkly.

“Perhaps his lordship intends,” Jack Murray said in a respectful tone, “to suggest to the stewards the development of a scientific test that will make it impossible to use the stuff without detection.” He finished his boiled beef and dumplings and sat back with a sigh of satisfaction.

“That’s the hope, Jack,” Charles agreed, “although I’m afraid the test may be a long time coming.” He did not offer his opinion that, judging from Owen North’s response that morning, the stewards had no interest in any sort of test, nor in pursuing the matter of the doping either, no matter how much evidence might be summoned.

Bradford refilled his mug from the pitcher of ale in the middle of the table. “But it seems to me that Murray ’s discoveries are far more to the point of the murder investigation.” He took a cigar out of his pocket. “He’s found a possible lead to Eddie Baggs.”

“As well as confirming the threat that Alfred Day posed to the Americans,” Charles said. “And when Pinkie gets back from his visit to London, I suspect he’ll find his uncle in a less yielding mood when it comes to doping. You might have done some good there, Jack.”

Jack Murray chewed reflectively. “I’m only sorry that Jesse Clark got away before we could question him,” he said. “When I was at the Yard, we were continually frustrated by people leaving for the Continent, or for points unknown, just as we were ready to nab them.”

“I suspect that Clark will be back,” Charles said. “And certainly Pinkie intends to return. But wherever they are, both Clark and Pinkie are still on our suspect list, as is Baggs.” He said this firmly. Owen North might wish to limit the investigation and to conclude it as quickly as possible, but Charles refused to allow North to tie his hands. As long as he had any say in the matter, justice would be served here, regardless of who was involved or what their social connections might be.

Bradford took out a cigarette and lit it. “I wish I could go with the two of you to run Baggs to earth,” he remarked, leaning back in his chair. “Perhaps I can convince Edith that we should go up to London tomorrow afternoon, instead of today.”

“But you have tickets for the opera tonight,” Charles reminded him. He smiled. “And no bride wants to postpone the ordering of her wedding ring. Take Edith to Bond Street, Bradford. The poor girl would be devastated if you suggested delaying your visit to the jewelers. She would think you didn’t love her.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Bradford said with an answering grin. “Edith is a confident young woman. But I’d rather not risk her displeasure.” He breathed out a wreath of blue smoke. “I don’t recall your telling us how you spent your morning, Sheridan.”

“Ah, yes,” Charles said. He reached into his pocket and took out a small envelope. “Since we have been speaking of jewelers, perhaps you should have a look at this.”

He opened the envelope and spilled out a heavy gold ring, a sparkling diamond of immoderate size flanked by four large emeralds and set in an extravagantly ornate gold mounting. It was a ring fit for a queen-of some decades past.

Bradford picked up the ring to examine it closely. “I hope you’re not suggesting that I buy something like that for Edith. She would much prefer a modern setting to something ornate and old-fashioned, like this. But it is rather unique. I don’t think I’ve seen anything quite like it before.”

Jack Murray took the ring from Bradford, turned it in his fingers, and put it back on the table. “I have,” he said shortly. “Seen it before, that is.”

Charles raised both eyebrows. “Have you, now?” he remarked with satisfaction. “I thought as much. Perhaps you would be so good as to tell us what you remember about it.”

“The ring is one of several matching pieces that originally belonged to the Empress Eugénie. There was a necklace, as I recall, as well as a bracelet, a brooch, and a pair of earrings. The settings were all the same, heavy, ornate, ponderous. Not at all in the modern fashion-but highly memorable.”

“And where did you see these pieces?” Charles asked.

“I saw only the brooch,” Murray said regretfully. “It escaped the thief and was provided by the owner at my request, so that if I should locate one of the matching pieces, I might recognize the setting. The other pieces, you see, had been stolen.”

“Ah,” Charles said. “And from whom were they stolen?”

Murray was impassive. “They were taken from the vault of the Union Bank in Sloane Street, on the authority of a note bearing the forged signature of the owner.”

“The Union Bank!” Bradford ’s eyes had widened. “Why, man, you must be talking about the theft of the Langtry jewels!”

“You were one of the detectives assigned to the case, were you not?” Charles asked.

“I was,” Murray said. “I interviewed Mrs. Langtry several times after the theft and obtained from her a list of the missing pieces. Unfortunately, there was no independent inventory of the items in that famous tin box of hers, as the bank was careful to point out when she sued them for the full forty thousand pounds. We could only rely on Mrs. Langtry’s memory.”

“And her veracity,” Charles remarked.

“Indeed,” Murray said, somewhat sardonically. “However, with regard to this ring, might I point out that it bears the Empress’s mark: that tiny pair of interlaced circles.” He pointed with his fork to the mark. “There is no doubt in the world that it belongs to the stolen set.” He glanced up at Charles. “If you would be so kind, sir, where did you obtain this ring?”

“Indeed, Sheridan!” Bradford exclaimed. “Where did you get it? From Mrs. Langtry?” He frowned. “But that’s impossible, since the ring was stolen. Where did you get it?”

“In the safe at the home of Mr. Alfred Day, in Oxford Street.”

“Alfred Day!” Bradford exclaimed. “Good Lord!”

Jack Murray whistled between his teeth. His eyes were gleaming. “So it was Badger who stole those jewels! Or fenced them,” he added. He grinned. “I doubt if the Jersey Lily would have made a gift of the ring to Badger. And in those days, he had not yet taken up bookmaking, so she would not have owed him any money.”

“But she has owed him money more recently,” Charles remarked. “And he seems to have been anxious to collect.” He took a note out of his other pocket. “This morning, I encountered Mrs. Hardaway just coming out of the butcher’s shop. She urgently entreated me to accompany her to Hardaway House so that she could give me this note, which my wife enclosed in one of her own and sent to me yesterday afternoon.” He unfolded the note, which bore evidence of having been crumpled. “Through a series of misadventures,” he added regretfully, “I did not receive it quite as soon as Kate intended.”

“It’s like Kate,” Bradford said with a smile, “to go about discovering intrigue. Who wrote the note?”

“The now-deceased Mr. Day,” Charles replied. “Kate’s maid Amelia found it in the fireplace in Mrs. Langtry’s bedroom.” He held up the note. “It escaped burning, as you can see, because wine was spilled on it-fortunately for us.” He read the note slowly, pausing after each sentence so his hearers could understand its full import. When he had finished, he looked up.

“By Jove!” Bradford let out his breath. “What a crafty old conniver! So the Badger was blackmailing our Gilded Lily! And if he’d succeeded, she would lose her chance at young de Bathe.”

“So it would seem,” Charles agreed. “He also implies that he knows how Edward Langtry died and who stole the jewels-an insinuation confirmed by the ring in his safe, where he was no doubt keeping it in case it proved useful.” He held up the ring so that the stones caught the light. “However, there is something quite interesting about this particular piece of jewelry.”

“I’m sure there is, sir,” Murray said. His eyes, unexpectedly, were twinkling. “Have you had it to a jeweler yet?”

“On my way here,” Charles said. “I stopped to have it examined. And as you have guessed, Jack, the gems are paste.”

“Paste!” Bradford gasped. “You must be joking! The Lily made her reputation on the authenticity of those gems!”

“It’s no joke, sir,” Murray said. “Those of us working the case theorized that the jewelry wasn’t worth anything like what the lady claimed. Nobody but a fool would carry forty thousand pounds worth of diamonds and emeralds and sapphires on those Wild West tours of hers. And while she may not be much of a stage actress, Mrs. Langtry is no fool.”

“But she is hungry for publicity,” Charles said. “Her career depends upon her being constantly in the public eye. The jewels brought her that sort of attention-and plenty of customers. The cowboys and farmers and miners didn’t come to appreciate her acting ability. They came to gawk at her, and at the jewels she wore. As far as she was concerned, the gems were merely stage props. On the other hand,” he continued thoughtfully, “the fact that these jewels are fakes doesn’t mean that she arranged for the substitution. The thief could have done so, and sold the genuine stones for full value.”

“But why would a thief go to the trouble of replacing the real stones with paste?” Bradford said. “He’d simply sell the gems and be done with it. I cast my vote for the Lily.”

“Right,” Murray said. “Anyway, our theory was more or less confirmed when we were tipped by one of her acquaintances to the effect that the gems were worthless-which she denied, of course, when we questioned her about it. She was trying to get the bank to make good the loss at the full forty thousand pounds she was claiming. She settled, I think, for ten.” He added, parenthetically, “If she knew the stuff was real, she’d have held out for more.”

“So Badger either took the tin box from the bank, or was given the jewels to fence,” Bradford said. “At which time, he discovered their true worth.”

“I suspect there’s more to it than that,” Charles said.

“Such as Mrs. Langtry’s staging the theft for the sake of publicity?” Murray asked. “Or to cover up the fact that she’d already sold the gems? Or to defraud the Union Bank?”

“It’s all possible,” Charles said. “It’s also possible that someone else-someone she trusted, perhaps someone she loved-did it without her knowledge. Short of a confession from her or the person who committed the crime, I doubt we will ever know the truth, either about the jewels, or about Langtry’s death.”

Murray frowned. “D’you suppose Badger actually killed Langtry?”

“Anything is possible,” Charles said. He looked up. “All of these alternatives, gentlemen, might add up to a motive for murder.”

“Damn!” Bradford exclaimed. “So we’re back to the Lily again! Did she kill Badger?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Charles replied. “And neither does Kate. In fact, it is her theory that Alfred Day was killed by a man whom Lillie calls by the nickname of Spider, who visited her on Monday afternoon.” He looked at Murray. “Does that name strike any sort of chord with you, Jack?”

“Spider?” Murray frowned. “Not right off, I’m afraid. What makes Lady Sheridan believe that this Spider person killed Badger?”

“Kate told Bradford and me on Monday night that she had overheard a conversation between this man and Mrs. Langtry in which he alluded to a knowledge of the jewel theft and of Edward Langtry’s death. The next day, Kate learned that a parlormaid had observed this same man in the act of opening the drawer where Mrs. Langtry’s gun was kept-which has now turned up missing. The servants apparently know the man only by the name of Spider.”

“Spider,” Bradford said thoughtfully. “Members of the Marlborough Set take a great pleasure in giving one another nicknames. There’s Billy Stomachache, for instance-Lord William Savernake, the Marquess of Aylesbury. And Harty-Tarty, Lord Hartington. And of course, Hugh Lowther, the Earl of Lonsdale, is Lordy to his friends.”

“Can you think of anyone who might be called Spider?” Charles asked.

“I’ve never heard the name.” Bradford frowned. “The only possibility that comes to mind is Reggie Hunt. He lost a great deal of money on his horse Tarantula, whom he fancied for the Derby. But I’ve never heard anyone call him Spider, and I can’t think that he would’ve been involved with the Lily, for heaven’s sake. He’s so… ineffectual.”

“Lord Hunt,” Murray said slowly. “He’s the owner of Gladiator, isn’t he? He’s here in Newmarket -I saw him yesterday.”

Bradford shrugged. “Come to that, I seem to recall that Suggie de Bathe owned a racing yacht called The Black Widow-yet I don’t quite see him stealing the Lily’s gun to shoot Alfred Day. Anyway, Lillie Langtry’s servants would surely know de Bathe.” He appealed to Charles. “Don’t we already have quite enough suspects without adding more to the list?”

“The trick is,” Charles said soberly, thinking of Owen North, “to have the right suspect.” He pulled out his watch and looked at it. “If you’re going to catch the London train, I’m afraid that you’d best be on your way, Bradford. The lovely Edith wouldn’t like to go without you.”