Death At Epsom Downs

turning it in his hands. “Hmmm,” he said thoughtfully. “Yes, I remember. Galahad, owned by Lord Bunt. In the last Derby.”

“Gladiator,” Bradford said loudly, for the doctor had put down his trumpet. “Lord Hunt.”

Scowling, Dr. Polter replied, “That’s what I said, Mr. Murphy. You don’t need to shout.”

“Yes, sir,” Bradford said contritely. “It was Lord Bunt who gave me that bottle and suggested I talk to you. He said to be sure that you gave me the same substance you used on Galahad.” He paused, and asked, enuciating carefully, “What sort of dope was in that bottle?”

“What sort?” the doctor said. “Why, cocaine, to be sure. Much more effective than caffeine or opium. What size?”

“Size?” Bradford frowned. “I don’t know. What sizes does it come in?”

The doctor gave him a look of disgust. “What size horse, Murphy? How high does he stand?”

“Oh,” Bradford said, feeling foolish. “Sixteen hands.” He paused. “I suppose that matters.”

“Of course it matters,” the doctor said sharply, reaching for the package Bradford had brought him. The cat, dislodged from the book, jumped onto the floor and stalked off, tail in the air. “Too much will kill him. Not enough, or administered too long before the start, it won’t do the job. You ought to let Wishard or Clark give you a hand with it.” He took out a pen knife and slit the wrapping. “They know how to do it, you see. They’re scientific, those Americans. They gallop the horse before the race to find out exactly how much dope will push it along. Very scientific.”

Bradford watched as the doctor unwrapped the box and opened it. Inside was another, smaller box. When the lid was opened, Bradford saw that it was filled with a white powder.

“Good thing you brought this with you,” the doctor said, putting a quantity of the powder into a small envelope and sealing it. “Or you would have been out of luck.” He gave the envelope to Bradford. “Pour this into that cough syrup bottle. Fill it with water and shake it until it dissolves. No more than ten minutes before the start, put it down the horse’s throat. Then stand back.”

Bradford looked doubtfully at the envelopes. “Until Lord Bunt told me that you doped with the bottle, I was expecting there’d be some sort of injection.”

“What?” the doctor shouted, and picked up his ear trumpet. “Don’t mumble, Murphy. Speak up!”

Bradford repeated what he had said.

“If it’s an injection you want, you’ll have to see Captain Bean,” the doctor said shortly. “He’s injecting jumpers, I understand. But that’s not something you can do for yourself. If you want to do the administering, use what I’ve given you.” He frowned. “But mind you put up a strong, experienced rider, Murphy. A doped horse wants to run. I told Lord Bunt not to ride that lightweight boy on Galahad, but he didn’t listen.” He gave his head a sad shake. “Hear there’s been an objection.”

“Yes,” Bradford said.

“Don’t like that,” the doctor said darkly. “No need to call attention to doping, don’t you agree? Stewards wouldn’t like that.”

“The stewards?” Bradford asked innocently.

The doctor laughed. “Are you as green as that, young man?” His voice turned bitter. “The stewards know who’s profiting from the American invasion, especially from that boy Sloan. They don’t want to do anything that might upset the applecart.”

“Tod Sloan, the jockey? He’s connected with Wishard and Clark?”

“You are green,” the doctor replied with a sniff. “Lord William Beresford brought Sloan over here, and Sloan brought Wishard and the others. Lord William has arranged with the Prince for Sloan to ride in the Royal colors next season. Who knows? Maybe Wishard will be moving over to Egerton House to show what he can do.”

“But that’s the royal racing-stables!” Bradford exclaimed. “H.R.H. wouldn’t be associated with something as unsportsmanlike as-” He stopped, recollecting himself just in time, and pocketed the envelope. “Your fee?” He leaned closer and shouted. “How much?”

“A tenner ought to do it,” the doctor said.

“Greedy old buzzard,” Bradford muttered, reaching into his pocket.

“What’s that you say, Murphy?” the doctor asked sharply.

“Cheap at twice the price,” Bradford replied.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

At the Jockey Club

Here in her hair the Painter plays the Spider and hath woven a golden mesh t’entrap the hearts of men.

The Merchant of Venice William Shakespeare

Admiral North looked up from the papers on his desk. “Ah, Sheridan,” he said, and stood with a broad smile, extending his hand. “I was just thinking of you, and wondering how you and Murray were getting on with things.” He gestured courteously. “Please, sit down.”

“I thought it was time to let you know what progress we have made,” Charles said, seating himself in one of the leather chairs. “Although I fear that what we have learned is of precious little practical use.” He added, “I was hoping that perhaps you might have learned something you would be willing to share with me.”

“Only a bit of gossip here and there,” the admiral said. “Nothing very material, I’m afraid.” He opened the desk drawer, took out a box of cigars, and pushed them toward Charles. “Help yourself, Sheridan. The finest Cuban. A present from H.R.H.”

“Thank you, no,” Charles said. He was not fond of the Prince’s cigars, costly though they might be. He took out his pipe and while he filled it, tamped it, and lit it, sketched out what he and Murray had pieced together from their inspection of the St. James Street premises; from the proprietor of the Great Horse; and from their questioning of Day’s clerk, the man called Sobersides.

“No progress?” North asked, raising one tufted eyebrow. “On the contrary, Charles, you seem to have made quite a lot of it. You’ve certainly narrowed the field of suspects to a great degree. It sounds to me as if Day was playing a dangerous game that was bound to make him a very unpopular man in several circles.” He clipped off the end of a cigar and lit it. “Organizing the bookmakers against certain stables-that’s a risky business, however one looks at it. I should have thought Badger had been playing the game long enough to know better.”

“He was doing what he thought had to be done,” Charles said, watching North’s face. “Since he hadn’t been able to persuade the Club to rule doping illegal-”

North slammed his fist on his desk so hard that the lamp chimney rattled. “We can’t rule it illegal, damn it!” he exploded angrily. “To do so would be to invite gossip, even scandal. It would suggest that unsportsmanlike behavior has already taken place, that the Club has not properly controlled-” He stopped, recollecting himself, and wiped a drop of spittle from his gray beard. “It would stir up a great deal of Turf controversy and focus undue attention on Turf practices,” he said carefully. “And you know how H.R.H. feels about that. How we all feel about it.”

“Yes, I know,” Charles agreed, “although I must say that from what I have seen, doping injures horses and plays havoc with ordinary betting. And it would seem to encourage a certain criminal element and invite the commission of crime-as Day’s murder suggests.”