All these physical expansions reflected the Jockey Club’s growing authority over the Turf. In the early days and until about twenty-five years before, racing had been clouded by dishonesty, corruption, and outright crime, with crooked jockeys and stable staff manipulating the performance of horses while corrupt handicappers and race officials affected the outcomes at the course. But Lord George Bentinck had used several major scandals to tighten the Club’s procedures, Admiral Henry Rous had gone on to clean up handicapping, and by the seventies, the Club had written a set of rules that gave them almost complete control over the Turf: the authority to draw up handicaps; to manage the sums and payment of prize-money; to license officials and racecourses; and to govern conduct and punish misconduct. In fact, the only thing the Club refused to regulate was betting, which the stewards had delegated to Tattersall’s Committee a dozen or so years before, retaining only the right to deal with defaulters.
But while the Club’s rules tended toward the autocratic, the stewards themselves might tend toward the lenient, overlooking infractions when they found it politic to do so. In fact, in yesterday’s Sporting Times, Charles had read an irreverent remark to the effect that when it came to the American invasion of trainers and jockeys, the current stewards were “playing Shut-Eye” to such an extent that “they look like the three blind mice.” He wondered whether Admiral North had read that criticism, and how he might feel about it.
At the door, Charles pulled a brass bell. A footman took his umbrella and directed him upstairs, where he found Owen North behind a desk in a well-appointed office with a series of paintings of horses on the walls and an enlarged photograph of the Prince of Wales with Persimmon, who won the Derby in ’96. To Charles’s surprise, the Newmarket chief constable was there as well, perched uneasily on the edge of a chair, turning his bowler hat in his heavy hands. Jack Murray, the Club’s investigator, lounged morosely against a wall.
“Ah, Sheridan,” Admiral North said, rising and extending his hand. His face was troubled and his voice tense. “I’m sorry to bring you out so early, but we are confronted with an unfortunate bit of business.”
“Perfectly all right, Admiral,” Charles said, seating himself.
“This,” the admiral said, gesturing toward the policeman, “is Chief Constable Watson. He has brought me news of a murder in Newmarket. It seems that one of the local bookmakers, Alfred Day, was shot last night in the alleyway behind the Great Horse.”
“As it happens,” Charles said, “a boy of my acquaintance stumbled over the body and brought me word of it. I was there when the constable arrived. Bloody business, I must say.” He glanced at Watson, whose expression was unreadable. “One of your men conducted a brief investigation and the body was taken off to the surgeon’s.” He sat back, crossing his legs, thinking that with the prizefighting, wagering, and general rowdiness in the town, back-alley violence must be a regular occurrence and murders not uncommon. What did this particular death have to do with the Club-or with him?
Rubbing his chin, Owen North at last produced an answer to Charles’s unspoken question. “It’s possible, indeed, even likely, that there’s a connection between the murder of Alfred Day and the business that you and Mr. Murray are currently looking into. At my request, Chief Constable Watson has agreed to take his men off the case and turn the investigation over to you.”
Take his men off the case? Charles thought, surprised. Does the Club wield that kind of power? “I’m not sure I quite understand,” he said, with an interrogatory glance at the policeman, and waited for him to say something.
A red-haired, burly man whose nose was covered with a fine network of tiny broken veins, the chief constable looked as if he’d be much more at his ease in the back room of the Great Horse than in the offices of the Jockey Club. He regarded his hat for a moment.
“Well, sir,” he muttered, “as I told the admiral, sir, it seems as it’s got more to do with the Club than the town. In which case, sir-”
“Indeed, Watson,” the admiral said. “Very well put.” He stood and extended his hand. “Thank you for coming, and for assisting in this matter. I think we need not keep you from your duties any longer.”
“One moment, please,” Jack Murray said, stepping forward. “You’ve talked to the widow, Constable?”
“One of my men took her the news,” the chief constable said. “That was last night, right after it happened.”
“Thank you,” Murray said. He stepped back and fell silent again.
When the chief constable had gone, North sat down again. “Sorry for this, Sheridan,” he said in a low voice. “Afraid it complicates your task, rather.”
Charles regarded this as an understatement. He had hoped, after he’d obtained the bottle from Patrick and had located and spoken with the veterinary surgeon, to make his report and recommendations to the stewards and be done with the matter. An investigation into a shooting in a dark alleyway, with no suspects ready at hand, was no part of his original commitment-and it was much more than a minor complication. The silence was broken by the wheezy chime of the clock on the wall as it struck the half-hour.
“Why is it that you suspect a connection between Day’s death and the doping?” Charles finally asked.
North studied his fingers, straightened the blotter on the desk, and glanced toward the window as though he hoped to find some distraction there. At last he said, reluctantly: “Alfred Day-he was commonly known as Badger-came to me a few days ago, here in this office. He wanted to complain generally about the practice of doping, and specifically as it related to the last running of the Derby. It appears that quite a number of people bet heavily upon Gladiator and have been unable to settle.” His smile was crooked. “He said that he felt doping was bad for business.”
Jack Murray pushed himself away from the wall. “It is, sir,” he said dourly. “For all his other dishonesties, and God knows there were plenty, Badger was an honest bookmaker. He knew horses, and he knew people, and he studied the form book. But doping changes everything, sir. The good bookies hate it, ’cause it makes the outcome less predictable.” He waved his hand, speaking more warmly. “O’ course, they hear the touts and tips, too, and when they think a horse is doped to win, they’re willin’ enough to make their own wager, to cover themselves. But they’re against it, to a man, Admiral. They’d be glad to see it stopped.”
Owen North sat motionless during this speech, his face impassive. He made no answer.
“So it is only Day’s complaint that ties him to the doping?” Charles asked. If he had to look into a murder, particularly one in which half the rogues in Newmarket might be implicated, he’d much rather start with some useful information.
North looked away. “He implied,” he said, “that he could name names, quite important names. Since the matter obviously involved wagering, I suggested that he approach Tattersall’s Committee with his complaint. But he argued that this had to do with the performance of the horse, not the wager, and of course, there is the matter of the objection, which has not yet been settled. He insisted that his complaint was related to the objection, and hence should be heard by the stewards.” The admiral’s eyes were expressionless. “I am sure you understand the stewards’ reluctance to hear such a complaint at this time. In the event, I told him that the matter was under investigation and that he would be contacted.”
“But he didn’t name names,” Charles said, watching the other’s face. He had thought he knew Owen North well, and could testify to his complete straightforwardness. Now, he wasn’t quite sure.
“I’m afraid not.” North turned toward the window so that Charles could see only the shadowed half of his face. “Perhaps you’re thinking that Day’s coming here might have nothing to do with his death, and that the investigation should have been left to the police.” He turned back, his jaw set, his eyes narrowed. He spoke with force. “I know these Newmarket constables, Sheridan. They manage to contain the local thuggery, more or less, and they maintain a decent order at the race meetings. But they cannot be relied upon to keep matters confidential.”