“These youngsters don’t know how to manage a hard puller,” Lord Richard remarked in an acid drawl. “Easy rides, that’s all they want.”
The admiral pursed his lips. “Squire Mannington asserts that young Bell was riding aggressively, and that he let the horse get out of control.” He sighed. “It’s a pity your camera wasn’t trained on that particular situation, Sheridan. A few photographs would undoubtedly show the right of it.”
Lord Richard scowled. “There’s something here that doesn’t quite meet the eye,” he growled. “Study the form book, and you’ll see that Gladiator’s a damned lazy horse. Done poorly in every race he’s run save one. Hunt shouldn’t have thought him worth entering.”
“But the tipsters had him hot,” Sir Joshua put in quickly, “and there was a great deal of money laid on at the last moment. I myself saw Alfred Day put down Lord Reginald for two thousand pounds just before the off. If the horse had won, as he looked like doing-”
“My point exactly,” Lord Richard snapped. “At 66 to 1, Hunt would have no more need to borrow from Henry Radwick, would he? Family fortunes recouped and all that.”
Hands behind his back, Admiral North pursed his lips and looked up at the ceiling. “None of us like to speak at hazard, for we all know what harm gossip can do to a man’s reputation. But today’s situation is complicated by rumors that Gladiator was visited last week, at the request of his owner, by Jesse Clark. Not,” he added obliquely, “that there is anything necessarily improper about the visit.” He glanced at Charles. “If you take my point.”
Charles picked up his brandy. “I do indeed,” he said. Although his father and brother had been racing men, the Turf had never attracted Charles. However, he had certainly heard enough London gossip to understand the admiral’s concern. Jesse Clark was an American trainer who had come to England with another American, Enoch Wishard. Wishard was financed by a Chicago hotel magnate, John Drake. Drake and his racing partner, William Gates-Bet-a-Million Gates, as he was known in America -had established quite a large stable at Newmarket. Members of the Jockey Club were scandalized by the huge amounts these men bet on Wishard’s horses, and they snubbed the Americans whenever they could.
But over the past two years, Wishard’s stable had demonstrated an interesting pattern. A horse would follow a string of losses with a surprising victory at long odds, upon which Drake and Bet-a-Million had happened to lay a large wager. If this had happened once or twice, it might have been sheer good fortune; but it occurred with increasing regularity, and people began to whisper that Wishard was doping horses with some sort of stimulant that made them run like the wind. Charles had heard that some members of the Club were anxious to declare doping contrary to The Rules of Racing, but that others refused, perhaps because they themselves wanted to give it a go, or because they weren’t convinced that it was the doping that made the difference. In any event, the Club had not as yet acted. Doping was legal and the situation showed no signs of being altered.
Still, the stewards ought to do something, Charles thought. An uncontrollable horse was a danger to all the horses and riders in the field, as today’s Derby had demonstrated, and artifically manipulating a horse’s performance was unsportsmanlike and wreaked havoc with the form book. There was a good deal of resentment among owners and trainers about the practice-and especially among the bookmakers, who were at risk of losing substantial sums of money. Having paid out more than they could afford, some now refused the Americans’ bets-when they could, for the wager was often delivered by one of Bet-a-Million’s strongmen, whose persuasion was hard to resist.
The room was silent except for the hissing of the coal fire in the grate. Admiral North’s gaze had returned to the ceiling. Lord Richard’s eyes were focused on his tented fingers. Sir Joshua was staring at the fire.
At last, the admiral spoke. “Since you see our problem, Sheridan, perhaps you would be so kind as to help us further its resolution. What do you say to undertaking an inquiry for us?”
Charles put down his snifter, frowning. “I am here today to set up a high-speed camera, which is entirely within my field of expertise.” He spread his hands. “I don’t know enough about Turf practices to be of much help to you, Admiral.”
“Don’t add modesty to your other faults, Somersworth,” Lord Richard said gruffly.
“Anyway,” Charles went on, “you have your own investigator. Jack Murray is a good man. Why not use him?”
The admiral gave Charles a dry smile. “We have sounded H.R.H.’s feelings on this subject, Sheridan. As you might guess, he’s concerned to stave off any possible scandal connected with racing.”
That came as no surprise, Charles thought. It was only ten years earlier that Sir George Chetwynd, once a senior steward of the Jockey Club, had been hailed into court by the Earl of Durham, accused of instructing his jockeys to pull horses-hold them back from winning. The messy libel suit resulted in a great deal of notoriety in the press, something the Club, and Society itself, utterly abhorred. This humiliation had been followed not long after by the Tranby Croft affair, which took place at the running of the St. Leger and resulted in yet another accusation of cheating, this time at baccarat. Everyone involved, including the Prince of Wales, made an extraordinary effort to hush up the scandal, but the Tranby Croft affair, too, went to court. The press rubbed its collective hands in glee when the Prince was called to the witness box, and the Queen, when she read the papers, was said to have flown into hysterics. From that time on, every scandal in any way associated with the Turf had been hushed up as quickly as possible, no matter what the cost to individuals. Even the whisper of unsportsmanlike conduct, especially when money was involved, was enough to send a shiver through the entire Establishment, from bottom to top.
Admiral North was going on. “His Majesty, in fact, is the one who suggested that we ask you to undertake an inquiry for us, Sheridan. He tells us that he has every confidence in your investigative abilities, and in your discretion, as well. As for Jack Murray, he cannot make his way among the owners. You have-if you will pardon my saying so-the appropriate credentials. And Murray will be available to you for, shall we say, the dirty work.”
“But of course,” Sir Joshua put in hurriedly, “there won’t be any… dirty work. After all, we’re dealing with gentlemen.”
Lord Richard gave a contemptuous snort. “Gentlemen! These Americans may be rich as lords, but they’re common as dirt. We want them out of English racing, Somersworth. Send them back where they came from, or pack them off to France. But do it on the hush. We can’t afford any scandal.”
The admiral frowned. “I don’t know that we have to go quite so far as that, Lord Richard. H.R.H. does suggest, however, that we find some way to keep the American practice from spreading to English stables, without attracting undue attention to it with an outright ban. All very quietly, of course,” he added delicately. “Out of view of the press. To that end, we hope to keep Squire Mannington from pressing his objections, if at all possible.” He turned to Charles. “I would take it as a personal favor, Charles if you would be so kind as to help us.”
Damn and blast, Charles thought, more in resignation than anger. Owen North was a cagey strategist. He knew that a suggestion from the Prince of Wales was tantamount to a royal command, and that Charles would find it almost impossible to refuse. He sighed. He wasn’t eager to undertake the Herculean task of cleaning out the Jockey Club’s stables, for he suspected that the corruption was already widespread. But there was no good reason to postpone the inevitable. And he might as well put the best face on it.