be married? And to that boy of a man, that silly, simpering Suggie, as you call him.” His voice suddenly became chilling, and Kate heard the restrained violence in it. “By God, Lillie, I won’t stand for it!”
“But I need the security, Spider. The theater is so risky and there’s nothing else I can do to support myself. I’ve passed my fortieth birthday, and I want-”
“Your fortieth! Forty-fifth, shall we say, rather? And of course you want a title.” The man laughed, mocking. “Lady de Bathe, eh? Your ticket to respectability, your entree into Society?” The voice was so sharply scornful that Kate shivered. “Don’t go to the trouble, my dear. Society knows who you are and will never accept you as anything else.”
Lillie was chill. “I am accepted in the highest Society. The Prince-”
The man laughed. “Of course,” he said. “How could I have forgotten the Prince, that fat old fool who’s ridden every jade in the kingdom.” In the silence, Kate heard the striking of a match and could picture the man lighting a cigar. “Anyway,” he went on, “I don’t mean you to marry-unless you decide to marry me, of course. You’ve been free for well over a year now. It’s time you agreed.”
Lillie sighed. “Please, let’s not discuss-”
“I didn’t object to your affair with Baird, because it was amusing to watch you play with him and tease him. It was even amusing when he struck back. I thought it was rather clever of you to trade that beating he gave you in Paris for the title to the
“But my dear, I-”
“He did go too far, though,” the man went on. “His treatment of you made me very angry. You were safer with him out of the way.” His voice hardened. “And I don’t mean you to marry de Bathe, Lillie. I didn’t rid you of Ned Langtry to lose you to some fatuous young fool.”
“Please, Spider,” Lillie said. She sounded genuinely frightened-the first real emotion, Kate thought, that she had heard from the actress. “
“I think we
“No!” Lillie whispered, unmistakable panic in her voice. “We mustn’t talk about that! We mustn’t! The servants might overhear.”
“-sold for you so you could settle your debts,” the man continued, as if he had not been interrupted. “That was devilish of me, wasn’t it? And it was devilish of me to make sure that drunken fool of a husband wouldn’t annoy you any longer.” He laughed sardonically. “Oh, you’re well taken care of, Lillie. You don’t want for a thing, except your soul. You’ve sold that to the devil, my dear, and he won’t give it back.”
There was another pause, and when Lillie spoke again, her voice was hard, brittle. “You think you’ve bought me? Is that it? Well, you can think again. No one controls Lillie Langtry.” Her voice was rising now, becoming dramatic. “Many men have had to learn that lesson the hard way. I am my own woman, I tell you! I will not be under any man’s rule!”
Kate heard three slow handclaps, as if in a parody of applause, and the man spoke, dryly ironic. “That’s an affecting speech, Lillie, but you delivered it much more convincingly in Agatha Tylden. Forget that nonsense. If it’s money you need, just say so. I can give you enough to-”
“You can’t give me respectability,” Lillie said. The bravado was gone and only a quiet desperation was left. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me, and I do care for you. But you must understand that I need a
By this time, Kate’s curiosity was so aroused that she got up, gathered her skirts, and climbed up on the bench, cautiously. But just as she raised her head to peek over the sill, she heard the scrape of a chair and ducked down quickly.
“This is all very touching,” the man said, “but I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. It’s a good deal later than I thought, and I agreed to see someone this afternoon. Shall we part with a kiss, dearest?”
Kate heard the rustle of clothing, a stifled cry, and the sound of a slap. Then there was a much louder slap, and Lillie cried out in pain. Kate jumped down from the bench and started down the path as the slam of a door echoed through the somnolent afternoon, followed by the jangling crash of falling china. At the corner of the house she waited for a moment, composing herself, then stepped onto the path, hoping to see the man who would be just leaving.
But she was too late. A male figure was disappearing into a closed carriage, and the next moment, it had driven off.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I don’t say that all those who go racing are rogues and vagabonds, but I do say that all rogues and vagabonds seem to go racing.
Sir Abraham Bailey
In his first description of what he took to be “doped” horses racing in England in about the year 1900, the Honorable George Lambton described “horses who were notorious rogues running and winning as if they were possessed by the devil, with their eyes staring out of their heads and sweat pouring off them” and one horse, “after winning a race dashed madly into a stone wall and killed itself.”
Drugs and the Performance Horse Thomas Tobin
It was nearly two by the time Charles and Bradford arrived at the Devil’s Dike, a small out-of- the-way pub on the Exning Road, and Charles feared that Jack Murray might have given them up and departed. But the Jockey Club investigator was smoking his cigar at an inconspicuous table in the dusky rear, and when Charles and Bradford approached, he stood and extended his hand. When they were all three seated, a burly, bearded man in a stained white apron came to the table to ask what they’d have. They ordered a pitcher of ale, with sausages for Charles and Murray, and cottage pie for Bradford.
“We were at the Grange House Stable this morning,” Charles said, while Jack Murray poured ale. “The horses will be arriving in a few days.”
“Very good, sir,” Murray replied.
He was a man of medium stature, well above middle age, with sparse and graying hair, large, sad eyes, and a mournful expression that seemed permanently written across his face. There was a scrape on his chin where he’d cut himself shaving, his tie was crooked, and the sleeves of his tweed coat were too long, reaching nearly to the tips of his spatulate fingers. If he were noticed at all, which was doubtful, Jack Murray might have been taken for one of those invisible men who spend their mornings and evenings on a grimy train and their days in a dreary London office.
But Charles knew otherwise, for he was acquainted with Murray ’s distinguished thirty-year career at the Yard, and with a few of the difficult cases he had solved. If intelligence, training, and instinct were the necessary qualifications for an investigation into Turf corruption, this retired detective could have easily handled it by himself. Admiral North was right, however; it would be impossible for Murray to carry out an investigation involving gentlemen racehorse owners without attracting attention to himself. He obviously wasn’t a gentleman, although he wasn’t obviously a policeman, either.
“Did you bring Madame Zahray’s report?” Charles inquired.
Murray started, as if he had been recalled from a dream, then reached into his breast pocket
