CHAPTER THIRTY
British racing fans bitterly resented the intrusion of American jockeys, trainers, and owners into what had been their own private preserve, just as the British aristocracy complained when peers began marrying wealthy American heiresses and installing them in their hereditary castles.
“Trainers and Stables” Albert J. William
It was well past teatime and growing dark when Charles returned to Newmarket that evening and dropped Jack Murray off at the Stag Hotel. If they had returned an hour earlier, he would have gone back to Hardaway House to change, and hence would have discovered and read Kate’s urgent note. But the hour was late and he was expected for dinner at the home of Bradford ’s fiancee’s parents, so he drove straight on to Wolford Lodge.
Edith Hill’s mother and stepfather lived in a small, newly built Tudor-style plaster-and-timber house, behind an iron fence some distance off the Cambridge Road. Charles gave his hired horse into the care of a ragged boy who came out to greet him. Edith herself answered his knock and led him into the sitting room, where Edith’s mother and stepfather were chatting with Bradford. A fire blazed cheerfully beneath a mantel ornately draped with a tassled red-velvet flounce, and after the cool out-of-doors, the room seemed stifling. It seemed small, as well, because it was crowded with large pots of green foliage and a dozen oddly shaped tables decorated with exotic-looking souvenirs, many carved of ivory. On the walls were displayed foreign-looking tapestries and hangings, as well as several large paintings of elephants and peacocks and a gilt-framed photograph of the Taj Mahal. A tiger-skin rug was artfully draped over a large bamboo chair with an arched back, beside which stood a trunk inlaid with many colorful woods. It appeared that the Hogsworths had spent some time in India.
“So sorry to be late,” Charles said apologetically, when Edith had introduced him to Colonel and Mrs. Harry Hogsworth, who was a small woman with gray hair, dressed in a stiff purple poplin and old-fashioned beaded dolman. “I drove out to Snailwell this afternoon, and the errand took longer than I expected. I didn’t take time to dress, I fear. Please forgive me.”
“No matter about the dress,” Colonel Hogsworth boomed. “We’re quite informal here.” He was a large, loud-voiced man with gray side-whiskers, heavy jowls, and an air of outspoken jovialty better suited to the Guards’ noisy clubroom than his wife’s small parlor. “Snailwell, eh? Not to be forward, but what was your lordship doing out there? Nothing but sheep and cattle and miserable little cottages overrun with dirty children.”
“Edith,” murmured her mother, “do be a good girl and fetch his lordship a brandy.” To Charles, she explained delicately: “After so long a stay in Bombay, I fear that we find English butlers arrogant and clumsy. The colonel has promised to turn up an Indian for us. Until then, we have vowed to do without, even if it means answering our own door.”
Charles bowed to Mrs. Hogsworth as Edith, lovely in a pale yellow gown, poured for him. She handed him the snifter with a glance of mute apology, and Charles smiled at her.
Bradford remarked, “I suppose you were looking after that business for the Jockey Club, Sheridan. Did you manage to locate the veterinary who did the doping?”
Taking his brandy, Charles glanced at Bradford in some surprise, then remembered that the two of them had not spoken since breakfast that morning-before Owen North had asked him to take on the investigation into Alfred Day’s murder. A great deal had happened in a relatively few hours, and Bradford knew none of it. He was trying to decide what sort of answer he should make when the colonel, in his emphatic way, broke in.
“Horse doping.” He gave a disgusted grunt and went to stand before the fire, blocking most of its heat. “Nasty business. Worst disgrace ever visited on British racing. All the doing of those bloody Americans. Don’t understand why the stewards don’t put their foot down. No stomach, I suppose.”
“Now, Colonel,” his wife said in a cautionary tone.
“Don’t ‘now, Colonel’ me, Clarice,” Colonel Hogsworth said angrily. “I mean what I say. Appalling disgrace. Damn those Americans.”
With a little sigh, Mrs. Hogsworth leaned toward Charles and confided, “I’m afraid that my husband is rather vehement on the subject of people who come from the States, Lord Charles.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He doesn’t like them. Particularly those from Brazil. Something to do with coffee, I believe.”
“Mama,” Edith said quietly, “ Brazil is in South America.”
“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Hogsworth replied. “It’s near Texas, I understand.” She shivered a little. “One hears so many strange stories about Texas. It must truly be a wild place.”
“No true horse lover likes the Americans!” the colonel exclaimed, rising to his toes, his jowls reddening. “No care for the horses. Buy ’em, dope ’em, run ’em, and shoot ’em when they’ve run their hearts out. In it for the money, that’s all. And now they’re corrupting honest English stables.”
Mrs. Hogsworth made yet another attempt to retrieve the conversation. “Well, then, Lord Charles!” she exclaimed, smiling brightly. “Pray tell me what you think of our Edith’s engagement to Lord Bradford. We’re quite pleased, of course.” She bestowed a kindly glance on Bradford. “Edith and his lordship seem to have so many common interests. Edith occasionally helps her godfather, Cecil Rhodes, by writing a letter or two for him. Not a position, of course, just an occasional offer of help. It was at his office that they met.” She tilted her head to one side, like a bird. “Your lordship has heard of Mr. Rhodes, I’m sure. He’s going to put a stop to that ridiculous Boer business down there in Argentina. The idea of those savages, daring to rise against their Queen!”
Charles was saved the embarrassment of answering this preposterous remark by the colonel, who turned round to say to Bradford: “Don’t suppose you’ve heard the latest news, since you and Edith were traipsing round Cambridge all day. One of the local bookmakers, rather clever chap by the name of Alfred Day, was murdered last night-by an American trainer, I understand. Jesse Clark. Shot him dead with a revolver as big as a cannon. Aimed to keep Day from organizing the bookmakers against doping.”
“Really, Colonel,” Mrs. Hogsworth said in a plaintive tone, “Shooting isn’t a fit subject for-”
“Actually, Mama,” Edith said cheerfully, “ Bradford has told me all about the murder. He and Lord Charles saw the poor man’s dead body, terribly bloody and quite shot full of holes, in the alley behind the Great Horse. In fact, they were the ones who summoned the constable.”
With a little gasp, Mrs. Hogsworth raised her hand to her mouth. “Goodness gracious!” she exclaimed weakly. “But I do so wish we would not speak of-”
“Did you now?” Colonel Hogsworth said, pulling his furry eyebrows together. “Capital, what? Did y’see Clark there too? Did the police nab him? Cert’nly hope so. Americans can’t be allowed to go around shooting civilized folk as if Newmarket were the Wild West.”
“I don’t think it’s been definitely established that Mr. Day was killed by Mr. Clark,” Charles said mildly.
“Well, if it’s not, it soon will be,” the colonel said in a settled tone, rising once again to his toes. “The Newmarket police may be slow, but they’re thorough. Always get their man.” He shook his head, glowering. “It’s not just the trainers and their doping, y’know. It’s the whole damned American invasion-don’t try to stop me, Clarice, it’s true. That pesky little jockey Sloan, for one. Outrageous! Hit a waiter in the face with a champagne bottle at the last Ascot. And those American gamblers, a whole string of ’em, coming over with their pockets full of gold. Heavy plungers, and all’s well if they win. But if they lose, they simply abscond.”
“You mean,” Mrs. Hogsworth said with a look of incredulity, “that the Americans don’t pay their lawful debts?”
