CHAPTER NINE

Charles and Bradford had gone to the small smoking room for an after-lunch smoke and conversation. Bradford settled in one chair with his cigar, Charles with his pipe in the other. Bradford eyed his friend curiously, noticing the lines of tension around the mouth, half-hidden behind the brown beard.

“Well, what’s on your mind, Sheridan?” he asked. “You could scarcely eat for wanting to talk about it, but you didn’t say a word.”

“I thought it might bore Miss Hill,” Charles said, filling his pipe. While he tamped it down, he told Bradford what had happened at the Derby -the catastrophe at Tattenham Corner, and the death of Johnny Bell-and afterwards, with the stewards. “I’m afraid I had no choice but to agree to look into the affair,” he concluded ruefully. “Since they had already consulted H.R.H., I could hardly say no.”

Bradford frowned. “It was Hunt’s horse that’s suspected of being doped to win? I shouldn’t have thought Reggie would go for that sort of thing. But of course, after taking that big loss on Tarantula last year, he might be willing to try almost anything to recoup.” His frown deepened. “And I had no idea, Charles, that you knew enough about racing to-”

He stopped, thinking that what he had been about to say was no compliment to his friend. But they had been acquainted since Eton and near neighbors since Charles’s marriage to Kate, and Bradford knew that while Charles’s father and brother had both kept horses, his own interests lay elsewhere, with fossils and bats, and such anomalous oddities as fingerprints and ballistics and X-ray machines.

Charles did not appear to have taken offense. “It’s true that I don’t know enough about racing to be involved with this investigation,” he said pleasantly. He settled back into the leather chair and propped his boots on the hassock. “But you do, old chap.”

“Afraid you’re right,” Bradford murmured ironically, putting a match to his cigar. It was his great ill luck that he had grown up with racing: racehorses in the family stable, trainers and stablelads on the family payroll, and the Marsden Stud as the chief subject of his father’s conversation. In fact, the Old Man’s foolish devotion to his equine bloodlines had been largely responsible for the loss of the Marsden fortune, for he had insisted on keeping his stable-among other ruinously extravagent entertainments-until his creditors finally forced him to sell up. By the time of Lord Marsden’s death, some two years before, almost the whole of Bradford ’s inheritance had been handed over to the banks and moneylenders. It was not a unique situation, of course: the same circumstance was occurring across England as the old landed elite, its vigor spent and its wealth wasted, dwindled into impoverishment. Almost all the sons of the leisure class were now faced with the same problem that confronted Bradford: how to find a socially acceptable occupation that yielded enough income to survive. Some, like Bradford, had gone into finance and business; others pursued American heiresses; still others pursued Lady Luck.

But the father’s expensive lesson had not been wasted on the son. While Bradford might make the occasional bet, he had seen enough of racing to know how foolish it was to wager one’s future on the horses. Not that his own early speculations had proved any more productive than his father’s, unfortunately: he’d lost a potful of money in one of Harry Dunstable’s automotive stock swindles and almost as much in a failed Canadian mining scheme. But things had definitely changed since he became associated with Cecil Rhodes and the Rhodesian Mining Consortium, on whose board of directors he served. Due to the recent gold discoveries, the Consortium stock he’d purchased looked like being worth something, enough to permit him to marry. He lingered on the thought of Edith, whom he had met in the Consortium’s London office, the imagining of her like champagne in his veins. A rare and wonderful girl, vivacious and lively, and smart as a whip as well, with enough ambition and strategic good sense for the two of them. She was all this, and Cecil Rhodes’s goddaughter, as well. Think of that-Cecil Rhodes’s goddaughter! Bradford’s mother might not think the marriage was advantageous-the poor old creature was blinded by tradition-but Bradford knew better. The possibilities made him almost giddy.

Charles cleared his throat, and Bradford came back with a start to the conversation. “Between the two of us, I think we should be able to handle the investigation,” Charles said. “Admiral North has also promised to lend the Club’s investigator, a retired Scotland Yard policeman.” He lit his pipe and blew out the match. “I hope you’ll agree to help, Marsden. You have to admit, it’s a rather interesting affair. I think the admiral is right when he says that a great deal may hang on it.”

“I agree,” Bradford said, “and in a different circumstance, I’d join you in an instant.” He’d like nothing better, in fact, than to dig up a racing scandal and drop it into the reluctant hands of the Jockey Club stewards. But he had other important matters to attend to. “Edith and I expect to be married very soon, Mama notwithstanding.”

“She doesn’t approve?” Charles asked.

“Does Mama ever approve of anything?” Bradford countered. “I don’t expect to bring her round to our view, so I’ve decided to ignore hers. For the next two weeks, I’ve taken temporary lodgings near Edith’s mother’s, at Newmarket, to make myself available for wedding consultations and the like.” He paused to tap the ash off his cigar, not wanting to disappoint his friend, or to miss what sounded like an interesting game. If the investigation didn’t range too far afield-“Which stable is it you’ll be looking into?”

“Grange House Stable, on the Moulton Road, just outside Newmarket,” Charles said. “But of course, if you-”

“Grange House!” Bradford exclaimed. “Why, that’s only a mile or two from the lodgings I’ve taken. It’s the stable where old Angus Duncan trains now. Twenty years ago, though, he trained for my father. And if I’m not mistaken, Edith’s stepfather has a horse or two in training there.” He studied the tip of his cigar. “How were you thinking I might help?”

“I plan to bring down two suitable horses from Somersworth to stable at Grange House. I thought that might allow me to get a look at their practices. Since you know Duncan, perhaps you would introduce me.” Charles stroked his brown beard thoughtfully. “You might also go with me to the stable a time or two. It shouldn’t take you away from Miss Hill, but you might find it a bit intriguing.”

More than a bit, Bradford thought, feeling a flicker of excitement. “The wedding is to be a simple one, so I’m sure I could be spared for a bit of nosing around.” He narrowed his eyes. “In fact, I should rather relish putting a stop to some of the ugly things that are happening in racing these days.”

Charles nodded. “The issue seems to be doping, particularly the use of stimulants, although sedatives are used as well. Apparently the practice isn’t much known here in England, but from the reading I’ve done, it seems to be widespread in America, especially on the smaller tracks.”