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

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.

These thoughts were interrupted when a young man arrived, bearing a note from Admiral North. With apologies, Charles was summoned to the Club at his earliest convenience, within the hour, if at all possible. Reading the note, Charles raised his eyebrows. He wasn’t surprised that Owen North was at Newmarket, for the Jockey Club was officially headquartered here, but he was astonished at such an early-morning summons. He sent the boy back with word that he was on his way, finished his coffee, put on his hat, and set off. Out on the street, he looked up at the lowering gray clouds, turned back, and located a spare black umbrella in the stand in Mrs. Hardaway’s front hallway.

It was not quite raining, but the early June air was dense with drizzle and Charles was glad of the umbrella. As he walked, he passed a dress-shop window and noticed a blue wool shawl that made him think of Kate, the thought of her reminding him of what she had said the evening before. He frowned. Was it possible that Mrs. Langtry had connived at the theft of her jewels-and at the death of her husband? And who was this man who cared for her so passionately that he was willing to steal and kill for her?

These thoughts occupied Charles until he reached the Jockey Club, which was located in a collection of buildings that turned its back on the High Street. These headquarters, Charles knew, had begun as a coffee house, first leased by the Club in the 1750’s and expanded, with an indifferent attention to architecture, over the years. In the early 1880’s, fifty-odd bedrooms had been added to accommodate members coming for the race meetings, and also a suite of apartments for H.R.H. In addition to the buildings on the High Street, the Club had also acquired large tracts of Newmarket Heath from the private individuals who had originally owned them, and its control extended to Newmarket racecourse as well.