Death At Epsom Downs

“And keep clear,” Lord Hunt warned. With a glance at the horse, he hunched his shoulders and added, unnecessarily, “He’s spirited today.”

Maniacal was a better description, Patrick thought, for Gladiator was behaving as though the very devil was in him. He glanced uneasily at Johnny. His friend was not the strongest of the two or three jockeys who rode for the stable. He was known to be at his best with novice or reluctant runners, handling them lightly and expertly, knowing instinctively when and how to bring them on. Patrick wondered uneasily how he would fare with Gladiator, who seemed to be growing wilder by the moment.

“The more spirit, the better,” Captain Doyle said emphatically. “He stands at 66 to 1.” He grinned at Lord Hunt. “Shades of last year’s dark-horse Derby, eh, my lord? Jeddah at 100 to 1. Those with something on that horse went home wealthy.” From Captain Doyle’s sly look, Patrick felt that he must have gone home wealthy too. He wondered how much the captain had bet on Gladiator.

Brightening, Lord Hunt clapped the jockey on the shoulder. “Bring him home the winner, Johnny, and I’ll see there’s a handsome present for you.”

Nervously, Johnny touched his cap. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

“Right,” said the captain, and he and Lord Hunt left hurriedly for the stands, making a detour through the crowded betting ring for a last-minute wager.

The field was collecting and the starter called the preliminary warning. Patrick held Gladiator’s head while Mr. Angus gave Johnny a leg up. The horse reared angrily, snorting and pawing the air, and Patrick leaped out from under the flashing hoofs. But Johnny had found his seat and managed to keep it, and after a moment he seemed to be in control. But the start was not propitious. It took ten minutes and several false starts to get the runners to the line and pointed in the right direction, but finally the flag came down and they were off. The starting bell tolled, the men shouted, and Patrick watched, his heart in his mouth, as the horses grew smaller in the distance.

He could not have guessed that the end of it all would be much worse than the beginning. Gladiator would disgrace himself, and his friend Johnny Bell would die without knowing who won the Derby.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Finish

On Epsom Downs when racing does begin, Large companies from every part come in, Tag-rag and Bob-tail, Lords and Ladies meet, And Squires without Estates, each other greet…

1735 race-course ditty

In this world there are only two tragedies. One is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it.

Lady Windemere’s Fan, 1892 Oscar Wilde

“Kate!” Jennie Churchill exclaimed excitedly, turning from a conversation with a fashionably dressed lady. “How delightful to see you!” She leaned forward to brush a kiss on Kate’s cheek, then glanced around. “Is Charles with you?”

Kathryn Ardleigh Sheridan was no racing enthusiast, but the Derby was as much a national holiday as a race, and since she now called England her home, she had begun to think she should attend the race one of these years. Then the Jockey Club stewards had invited her husband, Lord Charles, to set up a camera that would automatically photograph the finish. The Prince of Wales extended an invitation to her to watch the race from the Prince’s stand, and the question of her attendance was settled. Not that Kate was especially impressed by royal invitations, or had any personal interest in the social circus that surrounded H.R.H. But she had recently embarked on a writing project-an ironic novel featuring the racing set, written under her usual pseudonym of Beryl Bardwell- and she was on the lookout for ideas and material. She also knew she would encounter a few special friends at the race, Lady Randolph Churchill among them. Kate and Jennie-both Americans, both married to Englishmen-had been close friends since the preceding autumn, when Charles had helped Jennie and her son Winston deal with an ugly blackmail scheme.

“Charles is down on the course, setting up a camera to record the finish,” Kate said in response to Jennie’s question. She stepped forward to be introduced to the other lady, who was costumed in an elegant wine-colored silk and a fur wrap against the spring chill, her large hat trimmed in fur and feathers. She was smoking a cigarette in a long ivory holder and observing Kate with a supercilious air.

“Lady Charles Sheridan,” Jennie said, “I should like to present Mrs. Langtry, whom you have undoubtedly seen on the stage.” She gave Mrs. Langtry a restrained smile, and Kate thought that perhaps Jennie did not really like the woman. “Here at Epsom,” Jennie added, “you will hear Mrs. Langtry spoken of as ‘Mr. Jersey,’ the name under which her horses run.”

Kate turned with real interest to Mrs. Langtry: the Jersey Lily, once known as the loveliest woman in England, beautiful enough to capture the Prince of Wales as her lover and clever enough to keep him as a friend and sponsor even after he had transferred the royal affections to the Countess of Warwick, and more recently, to Mrs. Keppel. Now in her forties, Mrs. Langtry was still almost beautiful, Kate thought, her chestnut hair gleaming, her movements graceful, her figure ripely mature, if perhaps rather too abundantly endowed. But she had an actress’s self-assured awareness of her beauty, and her calculating glance and the cool, half-amused curl of her lips gave her an arch, disdainful look.

Kate was immediately intrigued. “I have indeed seen you perform, Mrs. Langtry, some years ago in New York, in Agatha Tylden. I thought the character of Mrs. Tylden perfectly suited to you.” The title role had been that of a powerful, energetic woman who inherited a shipping business and became so fully engaged with it that she rejected a worthy lover-only to marry him after her business failed and he rescued her from bankruptcy. At the time, Kate had admired the play but thought that she would have put a different ending to it. Surely a woman of Agatha Tylden’s power and resourcefulness could have arranged her own financial recovery without having to rely upon marriage to save her.

At Kate’s compliment, Mrs. Langtry thawed slightly. “Ah, Agatha Tylden,” she said in a reminiscent tone. “A very satisfying play. Every performance sold out, and the crowds made it difficult for me to reach the Holland House, where I was staying. ‘Langtry fever,’ the newspapers called it.” She gave a tolerant chuckle. “It was all quite amusing, I must say, and very flattering.”

Kate started to reply, but Mrs. Langtry, disregarding her, went on. “One does so enjoy roles that are written exclusively for one, of course, with one’s experiences in mind. The next will be that of Mrs. Trevelyan in Sidney Grundy’s The Degenerates-quite a daring play. No doubt some will be scandalized by its picture of modern smart society.” She smiled and flicked her cigarette ash.

Jennie Churchill gave an ironic cough. “Lady Charles also has another name,” she remarked dryly, “one that I’m sure you’ll recognize. Her novels and stories are read both in England and America. She writes under the pen name of Beryl Bardwell.”

Kate smiled inwardly. As Beryl Bardwell’s work gained in popularity, her identity had become more widely known, but she doubted that Lady Randolph would have mentioned it just now had she not wanted to put Mrs. Langtry in her place. The strategy seemed to have succeeded, for Mrs. Langtry’s large blue-gray eyes- those smoky lavender eyes that had held princes in thrall-widened perceptibly.

“Beryl Bardwell!” she exclaimed, her manner warming. “My dear Lady Charles, I am quite speechless! I must confess myself to be one of your most devoted followers. You write with such sensibility, such passion. Your characters are so real!” Kate might have spoken, but Mrs. Langtry did not give her time. “I was deeply impressed by a story of yours, ‘The Duchess’s Dilemma.’ I thought when I read it that it might be easily adapted to the stage, and that the role of the duchess would be marvelously suited to me. What