Paige Robin
Death At Epsom Downs
The seventh book in the Sir Charles Sheridan series, 2001
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
We are grateful to those who helped fill the blanks in our understanding of some of the complex questions involved with Victorian horseracing. Mr. Ian Nelson, a guide at the National Horse Racing Museum in Newmarket, Suffolk, England, provided an invaluable service in reading the manuscript, correcting our errors, and suggesting possibilities we hadn’t considered. We thank him for sharing his knowledge, experience, and enthusiasm with us. Professor Thomas Tobin, of The Equine Research Center of the University of Kentucky at Lexington, and Professor Richard Nash of Indiana University helped to clarify our understanding of the doping of race horses at the turn of the century, while good initial leads to the toxicological issues were offered by our local veterinarian, Dr. Tom Hembree, and pharmacist and toxicologist Luci Zahray, R. Ph., M. S. We also received helpful suggestions of possible source material from members of the Victoria list on the Internet. We are very grateful to our agent, Deborah Schneider, and our editor, Natalee Rosenstein, whose belief in, and support of, Robin Paige has made it possible to move the series from paperback to hardcover.
Robin Paige
a.k.a. Bill Albert
Susan Wittig Albert
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Lord Charles Sheridan, Baron of Somersworth
Lady Kathryn Ardleigh Sheridan, Baroness of Somersworth and mistress of Bishop’s Keep
Patrick, apprentice jockey and stable lad at Grange House
Bradford Marsden, close friend of Charles and Kate
Edith Hill, Bradford Marsden’s fiancée
Albert Edward, His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales
Lillie Langtry (a.k.a. Mr. Jersey), actress, theatrical producer, and racehorse owner
Jeanne-Marie Langtry, Lillie’s daughter
Lord Reginald Hunt, Jockey Club member and racehorse owner
Colonel Harry Hogsworth, racehorse owner
Admiral Owen North, steward of the Jockey Club
Jack Murray, former Scotland Yard detective, now a Jockey Club investigator
Jesse Clark, American trainer
Mr. Angus Duncan, head trainer at Grange House, Newmarket
Mr. James (Pinkie) Duncan, assistant trainer at Grange House and Angus’s nephew
Todhunter Sloan, American jockey
Dr. Septimus Polter, veterinary surgeon
Captain Dick Doyle, Lord Reginald’s racing manager
Henry Manford Radwick, moneylender
Alfred Day (Badger), bookmaker
Eddie Baggs, Alfred Day’s partner
Oliver Moore (Sobersides), Alfred Day’s clerk
Amelia Quibbley, Kate’s maid
Margaret Simpson, Lillie’s maid
CHAPTER ONE
Epsom on Derby Day! It was a national holiday, when a vast concourse of men and women assembled on Epsom Downs to see the race for the Derby Stakes. This was still the England of old-the England in which rich and poor were united by a common love of sport. Here at Epsom, a coster in his cart could still shout a cheery welcome to a Duke in his crested coach, whilst the handsome young coachman behind, resplendent in braid and cockade, could throw a knowing wink to the young scullery maid who whistled at him from the back of a broken-down pony and trap.
The Pocket Venus: A Victorian Scandal Henry Blyth
Walking along the racecourse on her husband’s arm, Amelia Quibbley thought she had never before seen such a crowd. Bookies in checked suits and green silk ties traded cries with betting men in gray overcoats.
“On the Derby, who’ll bet the Derby?”
“What’s the price on the favorite in the Stakes?”
“Five to Two.”
“Done!”
And the half-crowns jingled in the bookie’s bucket, while men in dirty white aprons filled foaming glasses from beer kegs, shouting “Accommodation! ’Commodation here!” A parson in front of a gospel tent pounded a drum, exhorting sinners to turn their backs on the Derby and wager their lives on Christ. Blind beggars cried for alms, a boy on stilts called for coins, and drunken soldiers shouted out popular ditties.
Half-deafened by the din, Amelia said, “I’m thirsty, Lawrence. Shall we ’ave a ginger beer?”
Lawrence ’s handsome dark eyes laughed down at his wife and his arm circled her waist. “A ginger beer ye shall ’ave, ducky, as soon as I find one o’ Badger’s men in the Ring and lay my bit. Badger’s posted the best odds on Ricochet.”
Lawrence paused to peer at a man standing behind a banner that read Alfred Day, Commission Agent, Newmarket. All Bets Paid. “On th’ Derby!” the man was droning, like a sour bagpipe. “On th’ Derby ’ere! Bet th’ Derby!”
“And there’s Badger ’isself, by Gawd!” Lawrence exclaimed. “Stop here, dear. I want to put down a crown.” He stepped up to the banner and raised his voice over the din. “Badger! Say, Badger, wot’s odds on Ricochet?”
“Sev’n to two,” Badger cried. Where other bookmakers were gaudy in suits of black-and-white checks the size of sixpence, with flowing silk ties as green as May and yellow posies pinned to their lapels, he wore a dignified gray frock coat with a pale gray top hat and sparkling diamond rings on both hands. Never mind that the coat was stained and missing a button and the rings most likely paste, he looked almost as fine as a gentleman.
“Sev’n to two on Ricochet,” Lawrence cried. He held up a coin. “ ’Ere ye are.” Badger’s man, a rusty little fellow with a crooked collar, held out an open satchel.
“Drop it in there,” Badger directed. “Right in there, sir. And take care o’yer ticket, or some evildoer will relieve ye of it.” Badger’s man snapped the satchel shut and scribbled in a black book. He tore out the ticket and handed it to Lawrence.
Amelia frowned as Lawrence pocketed the ticket and fell into step beside her, jaunty and proud as a peacock, now that the long-awaited transaction was over. It wasn’t so much the money she minded; they could afford to lose a crown, if it came to that, although she hoped it wouldn’t, with Baby at home needing new boots. But she’d been raised by Scripture and had been taught that betting was against God’s law. It was against common sense, too, as she knew for herself. At the pub where she and Lawrence stopped on their nights out, she’d seen Mr. Starkey, who earned ten shillings a week, lay down five on a horse while eight little Starkeys shivered at home for want of coal. And Mrs. Hartop, the old woman who swept Dedham High Street for nine shillings a week, was regular with her half-crown though she couldn’t pay the butcher. Betting took money from the poor, Amelia did not doubt, and the parson was right to bang on his drum and shout out its evils, even though not a soul was listening.