quite close to her home. Several summers ago, ’95, I think it was, she went to the Continent for a few weeks, and when she came back to London, sent her butler to the bank for the jewel box. He returned, distraught, with word that the bank had delivered the box to her some three weeks before. He was accompanied by an equally distraught bank officer, who showed Mrs. Langtry the handwritten order for the box. She immediately pointed out that the signature wasn’t hers. It was forged from the Pear’s Soap advertisement which bears her name.”
“But they were her own jewels,” Kate pointed out. “If she connived in their theft, she was only stealing from herself.”
“But there’s more,” Charles said. “Shortly after the theft, she sued the bank for negligence, for the full amount of the loss. George Lewis represented her, I think. She settled for something like ten thousand pounds. I remember being surprised that Lewis didn’t press for more.”
“So it’s possible that she had the bank’s settlement,” Bradford remarked, “and the jewels as well.”
“Or the money they fetched,” Charles said. “They were probably fenced immediately.”
“Not a bad little coup, especially when the value of the publicity is counted into it,” Bradford said. “I’m sure that once people learned of the loss, attendance at her plays shot up immediately.” He frowned. “But what’s this about a conspiracy to get rid of Edward Langtry, Kate? And who the devil was this man she was talking to?”
“Lillie never called him anything but that nickname,” Kate said, “and I didn’t catch more than a glimpse of him as he left. I cannot say for certain that there was a conspiracy, or how deeply Lillie was involved. She didn’t contradict him, though, only pleaded with him not to talk about it for fear of being overheard. Before they parted, they were openly quarreling. They actually traded blows.” She shook her head, as if not quite believing what she had heard. “I don’t suppose he was injured, but she had to go to supper at the Rothschilds with a badly bruised cheek. She excused it to me by saying that she had run into an open door in the hallway.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Bradford said dryly. “When she was involved with that fellow Baird-the man people called the Squire-she sported black eyes and bruises quite regularly. When someone asked her why she put up with it, she said that for every black eye the Squire gave her, she got five thousand pounds worth of apology-or so
“An apology?” Charles murmured, “or blackmail?”
“Both, perhaps,” Bradford replied in an ironic tone. “She went for a weekend in Paris with Bobby Peel, who had promised to buy her some new Worth gowns. When the Squire caught up with her, he beat the both of them. She was in hospital for a fortnight, and it was said that she suffered a broken nose. But she came out the richer by fifty thousand pounds and the title to his yacht. She called it the
Kate looked thoughtful. “This man Baird, the Squire-he’s dead?”
“He died in New Orleans five or six years ago,” Bradford said. “Drank himself to death, according to the newspapers. At the time, it was quite a story-in part because of Mrs. Langtry’s disappointment. Baird was worth some three or four million pounds, and she apparently expected to inherit. But he executed a codicil a few days before he departed for America, leaving everything to his mother. The Gilded Lily didn’t get a penny.”
“I wonder-” Kate began. But she didn’t get to finish. There was a loud knocking at the door, and Patrick burst in, wild-eyed. His shirt was torn and dirty, his nose dripped blood, and there was blood smeared on his hand and on his shirt and knickers. He looked utterly panic-stricken.
Charles, taken aback, leapt to his feet with an exclamation of concern. Bradford, too, stood quickly and came forward. But Kate, to her great credit, scarcely batted an eyelash.
“Patrick!” she said warmly, “how very delightful to see you! I was so pleased when his lordship told me that you would be here tonight.” She rose and went toward the boy. “My goodness, how tall you’ve grown, in such a very short time.” She bent over and kissed him on both cheeks, then, looking down at his hand, added, with only the slightest concern in her voice, “You seem to have gotten into quite a bit of blood, though. Did you meet with an accident on your way?”
Kate’s warm calm seemed to steady the boy. He took in a breath, straightened his shoulders, and turned to Charles. “It’s Mr. Day, the bookmaker, sir. He’s in the alley, behind the Great Horse.” He looked down at his bloody hand and grimaced. “He’s dead. Somebody killed him.”
“By Jove!” Bradford exclaimed. “Old Badger’s dead?” He started toward the door. “Well, then, let’s have a look. Come on, Sheridan. You too, boy. You can show us where you found him.”
Kate put out a hand. “I think,” she said, “that Patrick might stay here with me.”
Charles stood and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, meeting his wife’s eyes. “Patrick found the body, Kate, so the constable will want to speak with him. Stay here by the fire, my dear. We’ll be back in a little while.”
For a moment he thought she might argue to keep the boy with her. Then she reached for her shawl. “I’m coming too,” she said firmly.
This time, Charles knew better than to object.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The first report of doping in racing horses in England occurred at Worksop, where an edict in 1666 banned the use of “exciting substances…” Since time immemorial horses had been dosed with whiskey before races, but toward the end of the nineteenth century the pace accelerated. Stimulating doping as we know it today was apparently born and bred in the New World and came to the Old World about the year 1900…
Drugs and the Performance Horse Thomas Tobin, 1981
It was nearly an hour later when the group rejoined in Bradford ’s lodging. The constable had been summoned, Patrick’s scanty evidence taken, and the body of Alfred Day, bookmaker, borne off to the surgery of a nearby doctor, who would perform an autopsy the following morning. But as Kate watched the proceedings, she thought that it didn’t require a doctor to confirm that the man had died violently. Anyone observing the corpse, even in the flickering light of the constable’s lantern, would have remarked on the bloody hole in the front of his brown waistcoat and realized that it was made by a gun, fired at close range.
Bradford went directly to the sideboard. “I think a brandy is in order,” he said, and began to pour.
“Patrick and I will have tea,” Kate said, with a glance at the boy, whose face was still very white. “And perhaps you might see whether there is any bread and butter in the pantry. While Patrick washes up,” she added, with a suggestive smile at the boy. She went to the gas kettle and lit it.
Bradford handed a brandy to Charles. “I think Mrs. Hardaway is still awake. I’ll see what she can find for us.”
A little later, Kate sat on one end of the sofa, pouring hot tea and passing a plate of bread and butter and slices of cake to Patrick, on the other end of the sofa. To her surprise, he took only one slice of bread and butter and declined the cake, explaining in a serious tone that all apprentice jockeys had to be very careful of their weight, for the lighter they were, the more likely they were to ride. To herself, Kate thought worriedly that Patrick could scarcely be much lighter, but she kept her concern to herself.
By mutual consent, there was little said about the dead man in the alleyway, other than Bradford’s remark that Newmarket was a betting town and saw its share of violent quarrels, which usually took place over money or women and often resulted in bloodshed. Kate observed that the crime had nothing to do with them, aside from the unfortunate happenstance of Patrick’s stumbling over the body, and changed the subject,
