and produced an envelope, sealed. “I believe, sir,” he said gloomily, “that this is what you’re after.” His slow, deep voice was flavored with Suffolk.
Charles took the unaddressed envelope, picked up a knife from the table, and slit it. In it was a single sheet of stationery, printed name and address at the top, centered: Lucianna Zahray, 1734 Old Post Road, London. Below this was written, in a spidery hand, the date, and a single sentence: “Regret to report that alkaloids appear present (cocaine most likely possibility) but blood sample insufficient for specific identification.” This telegraphic missive was signed L. Zahray.
Charles handed the letter back to Murray, who read it without expression, then gave it to Bradford.
“Unfortunate,” Bradford said. He raised his eyebrows. “Who the devil is Lucianna Zahray?”
“Madame Zahray,” Charles said, “is a respected analytical chemist of Austrian descent who has been of great help in answering previous questions I have put to her. If she cannot positively identify the drug that was used on Gladiator, no one else in England can. This was a long shot, though, and I’m not surprised that she couldn’t give us an answer. I expected that the sample would prove insufficient.”
Murray spoke in a deeply apologetic tone. “The analytical chemist tested what, exactly, sir? I don’t believe I was told.”
“Blood that was drawn from Gladiator about ninety minutes after the Derby,” Charles said. “Regrettably, it was a small sample, since we obtained it surreptitiously, and the veterinary surgeon was interrupted at his task.” He sighed, thinking that had he known that Patrick was charged with the horse’s care, they might have gotten what they needed a great deal more easily.
“Which leaves us nowhere,” Bradford said, over his glass of ale.
“For the moment, at least,” Charles replied, “although I haven’t given up on the testing just yet. There’s more to be learned there.” To Murray, he added, “Have you come up with anything, Jack? What about the betting?”
Murray cleared his throat. “The horse ran at very long odds, as you know, sir. Lord Reginald Hunt, the owner, wagered heavily on him. Dick Doyle, and the stable too, all laid on.” Martin pulled his thick gray brows together. “When the horse failed to finish, Lord Hunt, for one, had to scramble. It’s said that he paid a hasty visit to Henry Radwick, who wasn’t kind to him. Took Glenoaks and a horse besides. It’s also said that he had a bit on with Alfred Day, off the books, and hasn’t yet covered.”
“Dick Doyle.” Bradford looked thoughtful. “A very astute man, and not a plunger. Doubt he’d lay hard on a whim.” He grinned mirthlessly. “Certainly sounds as if something was on, doesn’t it?”
Charles thought about what Patrick had told him. “Is it known who was with Gladiator before the race, Jack?”
“Mr. Angus Duncan, of course, and Pinkie Duncan-that’s old Angus’s nephew-and the traveling lad, a young boy.” Murray paused. “Also, a veterinary surgeon who arrived with the farrier.”
“The surgeon’s name?”
Murray looked rueful. “Sorry, sir. Haven’t yet learned it. The farrier isn’t saying, and I haven’t approached the stable yet.” He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “I’ve had a bit of a talk with Mr. Lambton, though, in confidence, sir. I trust you don’t mind.”
“That would be George Lambton, the Earl of Derby’s trainer,” Bradford said in an explanatory tone to Charles. “One of the best in the business.”
“Right, sir. Mr. Lambton is deeply concerned about this ‘dastardly doping business,’ as he calls it, sir. He says it’s the Americans who have brought it here, and especially Enoch Wishard and Jesse Clark, the trainers at the Red House Stable in St. Mary’s Square. ‘Yankee alchemists’ is what he calls them.” He looked out from under his eyebrows at Charles. “He says if there’s anything he can do to help, sir, he’s ready.”
“I see,” Charles remarked thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose Mr. Lambton has any evidence to support his opinion that this is a ‘dastardly’ business. Horses injured, anything like that?”
“One horse killed,” Murray said. “Ran into a stone wall after winning a race. Had to be shot.” His face settled back into its former gloomy expression, as two plates of greasy sausages and a cottage pie arrived, supplying a diversion. Charles, however, was not finished with his questions.
“The farrier,” he said. “What is his name? Where is he to be found?”
“Rickaby, sir,” Murray said, around a forkful of sausage. The food did not make him any more cheerful. “Harper’s Farm, near Epsom.”
“Very well, then,” Charles said, “if we are not able to learn the veterinary surgeon’s name by other means, we shall travel to Epsom and impose a few questions on Rickaby.” He paused. “I should think a talk with Jesse Clark might be profitable, as well.”
“Yes, sir,” Murray replied. “If he isn’t at the stables, he lodges at Chubbs, on Highgate Street, off Fitzroy Street.”
Bradford looked at Murray. “I say, old man,” he said, bemused, “is there anything at all that you don’t know?”
“Oh, I’m sure, sir,” Murray replied sadly, and applied himself to his sausages.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Queen of Manoa is based on a fanciful idea that artistically developed might produce a good play, but becomes vulgar clap-trap. Mrs. Langtry’s character is that of an utterly heartless creature, and beautiful as she looked as Lady Violet, she never once moved her audience. Her dresses were charming, her diamonds sparkled and her rubies were above price, perhaps, but these do not touch the heart.
Dramatic Notes 8 September, 1892
Her mistress gone to luncheon, Amelia had taken the back stairs down to the butler’s pantry to inquire of Mr. Williams the hours at which tea and dinner would be served, and about the arrangements for breakfast in the mornings, and hot water, and necessary laundry. A few minutes later, the staff of twenty-minus the butler and the footman, who were serving luncheon upstairs-gathered for their own lunch in the servants’ hall, and Amelia joined them. With a quick query, she discovered that Mrs. Langtry’s personal maid was a stout young woman with cheeks like a cottage loaf. Her name was Margaret Simpson, and Amelia took care to sit beside her.
With so many at table and the butler absent, lunch was a noisy affair, the mutton hash being passed, and potatoes and gravy and stewed cabbage, and bread pudding at the end, with plenty of hot coffee. Amelia was grateful for the clatter, since it gave her an opportunity to talk to Margaret, who welcomed her little confidences and seemed flattered by her attention. Amelia understood why, when it emerged that Margaret was not Mrs. Langtry’s personal maid after all, only an upstairs maid who had been temporarily elevated to the position when Mrs. Langtry’s own maid, Dominique, fell ill and was left behind in London.
But this substitution proved a boon, as Amelia discovered, for the gossipy Margaret lacked the tight-lipped loyalty that Dominique would undoubtedly have displayed. Margaret had come to work at Regal Lodge shortly before Mrs. Langtry acquired it, and, with just a little urging, seemed eager to show off her knowledge of the household and its workings. After lunch, she offered to show Amelia around, and the two of them fell into an easy, friendly conversation that grew even more confiding as they went through the belowstairs area-the kitchen, the scullery, the pantries, the laundry-then up the narrow linoleum-covered service stairs to the second floor.
“If you don’t mind my sayin’ so,” Amelia remarked as they climbed, “twenty seems a large staff for this ’ouse. Only five bedrooms upstairs, is it?” She already knew the number of bedrooms, for she had counted the doors on her way to lunch, subtracting one for the service door.
