Charles raised his hat. “Yes, indeed, Mrs. Hardaway,” he said with a slight smile. “But I fear I am rather in a hurry. If you will excuse me-”
“No!” Mrs. Hardaway laid hold of his arm. “I am sorry, my lord, but you must accompany me home immediately. I have something in my keeping that you must have without delay.”
“Well, then,” Charles said, seeing nothing for it but to go with the lady, “you will let me carry your parcels, I hope.”
“Oh, so kind,” Mrs. Hardaway murmured, taking the arm he offered, and they proceeded together down the street.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Wishard perfected his doping into an art and his success rate was phenomenal. Time and time again mediocre or bad horses won totally unexpectedly, and the Americans raked in their winnings.
The Fast Set: The World of Edwardian Racing George Plumptre
[Wishard and his cronies] took approximately two million pounds out of the ring [i.e. from the bookmakers] between 1897 and 1901… This period was known as the era of the “Yankee alchemists.”… The dope that Wishard was using was the newly introduced cocaine.
Drugs and the Performance Horse Thomas Tobin
Contrary to Jack Murray’s expectation, he did not find Jesse Clark when he called at the Red House Stable that morning. Mr. Clark, he was told by the head lad, had gone with Mr. Wishard to Brighton to have a look at a filly that was for sale. They would not return for some time, for they were traveling on to the Continent to examine some horses at a racing stable near Paris.
Murray frowned, wishing he’d had the foresight to come looking for Clark before the man departed. “When did they leave?” he asked.
“Yesterday, on the early train,” the head lad replied, and added that it had been an unscheduled trip. “They wuz plannin’ to be ’ere fer the ten-furlong ’andicap on Friday, but ’eard about this good filly and din’t want to miss the chance o’ gettin”er.”
Of course, Murray thought sardonically. Long years at Scotland Yard had taught him that when people left town immediately after a crime in which they were involved, they usually had a very good reason-and not an innocent one, either. He left the stable, reflecting that both Clark and Baggs were currently unavailable, and that Oliver Moore had done his best to disappear. Of those who had argued with the unfortunate Badger in the Great Horse just prior to his murder, there remained only Pinkie Duncan to be questioned. With any luck at all, Murray would find him at the Grange House Stable. He set off determinedly in that direction.
But Murray was destined to be disappointed in this, as well. For when he reached the Grange House, he was informed by the housekeeper that Mr. Pinkie Duncan had gone to London on business for the day, to return the next. She eyed his green-checked tweed suit and bowler approvingly and added that Mr. Angus Duncan was in the office at the stable, if the gentleman would care to step around.
Murray went into the stableyard and, after an inquiry, located the office. He opened the door, announcing himself. With a frown, Angus Duncan looked up from some race entry forms on which he was working, a mug of tea at his elbow and a pipe curling smoke around his head. Behind him on the wall was a telephone. Murray was not surprised. Most of the stables were finding it to their advantage to be connected by telephone with the various racecourses in order to obtain the latest word on the running of their horses-and sometimes to lay a very late bet or two. Between the newfangled race ticker and the telephone (new at least in the provincial towns), the bookies were sometimes hard pressed to know whether a last-minute bettor was honest or a cheat.
“Wot name did ye say?” Duncan asked, his leathery face creased in a frown.
“Jack Murray, sir,” Murray repeated humbly. “I’m assisting the investigation into the death of Alfred Day.”
Duncan ’s pale eyes narrowed. “Investigation? What investigation? Are ye from the police?”
“No, sir.” Murray spoke in a deferential tone. “This is a private investigation. I fear I’m not at liberty to tell you who has sponsored it. It is, however, being carried out in cooperation with the police.” He nodded at the telephone on the wall. “I’m sure Chief Constable Watson would be glad to vouch for me.”
Duncan considered this for a moment, then shook his head. “No need fer me t’call ’im, since I’ve nothin’ t’ tell. I’m sorry fer Badger,” he added. “ ’E’d ’ad some rough years, but ’e was honest, as bookies go. Which ain’t sayin’ much, o’ course.”
“The proprietor of the Great Horse believes that Jesse Clark may have had something to do with his murder,” Murray said in a tentative tone, watching Duncan ’s face. The morning was gloomy and the gas lamp had been lit, throwing a shadow that exaggerated the old man’s expression. “I don’t suppose you would care to venture an opinion on the subject.”
Duncan ’s mouth tightened. “ Clark, eh?” He cast his pencil onto the table with a grunt, perhaps of satisfaction. “Can’t say I’m much surprised.”
“And why is that, Mr. Duncan?” Murray asked respectfully.
“Because of wot Badger was up to.” The old man leaned back in his chair, picked up his mug of tea, and drank.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Murray frowned. “I’m afraid I must have missed something. What was he up to?”
Duncan wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, smiling contemptuously. “Ye’re an investigator and ye ’aven’t found out wot Badger wuz plannin’? Why, everybody in Newmarket knows ’ow ’e meant t’ wreck the Americans’ game.” He took a long pull on his pipe, removed it from his mouth, and glared at it.
Murray looked quizzical. “Their game? I’m afraid I don’t-”
“Do I ’ave to spell it out fer ye, man?” Duncan demanded sourly. “Their dopin’ game, that’s wot! They’ve been runnin” orses doped t’ win and takin’ a fortune out of the Ring. If they’re not stopped, every bookie in Britain will ’ave ’is pockets pulled inside-out. Badger’s tried more’n once t’ get the stewards to put an end t’it. Then ’e gave up on them and figured t’ do it ’imself, by organizing the Ring. ’E was goin’ t’ let the newspapers in on it, too.”
“Organizing the Ring, eh?” Murray asked. He put on a skeptical look. “I’d say that would be a hard thing to do.”
“Oh, ye would, would ye?” With a short laugh, Duncan leaned forward and tapped his pipe into a china ashtray already full to overflowing with pipe ash. “Well, I’d say ye didn’t know much about Badger, then, or the Ring, neither. Badger knew the bettin’ business, and ’e knew bookies. Wot’s more, the bookies knew Badger, big and lit’le. If anybody could pull ’em together, ’e was the one.” He opened the desk drawer and pulled out a tin of tobacco. “Reckon that’s why ’e wuz killed. That, and the newspapers.” In a tone of scornful rebuke, he added, “Reckon ye should ’ave figgered that out fer yerself, if ye wuz any kind of investigator.”
“I’m sure I should have,” Murray said apologetically. He cleared his throat. “I wonder, sir, while we’re on the subject, what you might think of Eddie Baggs as a possible killer. He was with Jesse Clark at the Great Horse and went out with him shortly after Mr. Day left. The proprietor seems to think-”
“Baggs?” Duncan, frowned. “Eddie Baggs wuz with Clark? Ye’re sure ye din’t get that wrong?”
“Well, I might have.” Murray gave him an uncertain look. “You don’t think they’d have been together?”
“I doubt it,” Duncan said firmly, tapping tobacco into his pipe. “Maybe it was ’appenstance,
