“We know,” Charles said sympathetically. “It’s too bad.”
Patrick’s head came up. “It wasn’t Johnny’s fault,” he said, in quick defense of his friend. A look of guilt washed over his face. “I had the chance to warn him and didn’t. If I’d told him, maybe he would have ridden differently-or not at all.”
“I doubt that’s so,” Bradford said gently. “When a horse turns savage, there’s not much a jockey can do except try to hold on. And your friend couldn’t reject a ride he’d agreed to and hope to keep riding-especially at the Derby.”
“Gladiator’s not a savage horse!” Patrick exclaimed. “At least, not by nature.” Kate heard the indignation and outrage in his voice and realized how much he was altered from the boy she had known. “Whatever they made him drink,” he said roughly, “that’s what made him wild. The ones who poured that stuff down the horse-they’re the ones who killed Johnny.”
Charles took the pipe out of his mouth. “Did either of the two men happen to say what the substance was?”
“No, they didn’t.” Patrick looked at Charles. “Do you know what it was, sir?”
“Not specifically, no.” Charles pulled on his pipe. “It had to have been a stimulant of some sort. Caffeine, perhaps, or cocaine or heroin-or some sort of mixture.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, sir,” Patrick said, “why are you interested in what happened to Gladiator?”
“Because some of the men who monitor racing,” Charles replied, “want to make doping illegal. It’s unfair, and dangerous, both to the horse and to other horses and riders.”
“If you had some of the stuff,” Patrick said slowly, “would that help?”
Charles regarded him. “I’m more keen to know who used it, and you’ve already helped to answer that question.” He paused. “Although, from a scientific point of view, I should certainly like to know what it is, so that an attempt can be made to develop a reliable chemical test, using blood or urine, or even the horse’s saliva. Without such a test, it will never be possible to say for sure whether or not a horse has ben doped.” He puffed on his pipe. “Do you know where I might obtain the stuff?”
Patrick looked up, hesitating.
“It’s all right, Patrick,” Kate said, putting a hand on the boy’s arm. “You can tell us. No one will be angry.”
“Well, then,” he said, “I nicked the bottle.”
The corners of Bradford ’s mouth quirked. “You nicked the bottle?”
Patrick nodded. “When Mr. Angus made me Gladiator’s traveling lad, he said I was responsible for anything that happened to the horse, and that I should keep a close eye on him to make sure he wasn’t interfered with. I’d never seen the surgeon before, and I don’t think much of Mr. Pinkie.” He made a face. “He’s Mr. Angus’s nephew and he’s supposed to be the second head trainer, but he’s more interested in betting on the races than he is in training the horses and taking good care of them. I couldn’t stop them from doing what they were doing, but I thought-” He shook his head, and Kate saw him trying to swallow his anger. “I saw where the surgeon tossed the bottle. After the race, I picked it up and put it with Gladiator’s gear. It wasn’t quite empty.”
“I see,” Charles said gravely. “And where is this bottle now?”
“It’s under the floorboard in the loft where I sleep,” Patrick said. There was an evident note of relief in his voice, and Kate thought that he was glad to be able to share his secret with someone, and perhaps also glad to get rid of the incriminating bottle. “I’ll give it to you. Maybe you can find out what’s in it.” He shuddered. “I don’t ever want to see Gladiator like that again-his eyes staring and the sweat pouring off him in buckets, and running as if the devil was after him.”
“That bottle,” Charles said. “Can you bring it here tomorrow night, without being detected?”
“I think so, sir. The lads work hard all day, and sleep hard, too. We don’t bed down the horses until Mr. Angus comes round to feel their legs and tendons and look them over. As soon as he’s come and gone, it’s supper and bed. Five o’clock in the morning comes awf’lly early. That’s when we take the horses out for first exercise.”
Kate smiled. “Five o’clock will come early tomorrow, too,” she reminded him, and Charles stood.
“Her ladyship is right,” he said. “It’s late, my boy. But just one or two more questions before you go. When and where is Gladiator racing next?”
“There’s a handicap here at Newmarket,” Patrick said promptly. “On Friday.”
“Thank you,” Charles said. “Do you know who’ll be riding?”
Kate saw a hopeful look cross Patrick’s face, then fade away. She knew he was wishing that he could ride the horse, and knowing at the same time that this was impossible.
“No, sir,” he said finally. “Besides Johnny Bell, there are two other jockeys who regularly ride for the stable, Bill Stevens and Dan Watts. It’ll be one of them, most like.”
And with that, Patrick went out into the night, Kate was driven back to Regal Lodge, and the eventful Monday was concluded.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Sporting Life of England!
The Charter of the Isle!
Perish the traitor, heart and hand,
That would, with dastard wile,
Sow discord, jealousy, or strife,
Among the gallant band
Who share and shield our Sporting Life,
The Charter of the Land!
Late 18th-century song in praise of the Jockey Club
As he had previously planned, Bradford took himself off the next morning to spend the day with his fiancée in Cambridge-but not before reminding Charles that they were to have dinner that night at Wolford Lodge, the home of Edith’s mother, on the Cambridge Road.
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy Edith’s stepfather,” he said as he left. “Colonel Harry Hogsworth, his name is. He has several horses at the Grange House Stable. He may be able to give us some useful information.”
Charles was breakfasting on the omelet and toast that Mrs. Hardaway had brought up for him and reading an article in the Manchester Guardian about the annulment of Alfred Dreyfus’s sentence and the order for his return from Devil’s Island to face a second court-martial at Rennes. It was a case Charles had followed since Dreyfus’s first trial in 1894, and he couldn’t help but feel both relief and dismay: relief at the hope that the French military tribunal would eventually see reason and clear Captain Dreyfus, who had so obviously been made a scapegoat; and dismay that the man would have to undergo yet another humiliating trial. The fundamental unfairness of this ugly business, this appalling miscarriage of justice, had gnawed at Charles for five long years now, but there was nothing that could be done. Events would simply have to take their course.