The top half of the surgery door stood open. Bradford opened the lower door and went inside, carrying both the package from the postmistress and Patrick’s bottle, wrapped in brown paper. There was a waiting room just large enough for two empty chairs, with a door in the opposite wall, standing open. Bradford went to it and put his head through.

“Dr. Polter?” he asked.

A stooped, gray-haired man was sitting at a cluttered table with a soot black cat draped across his shoulders like a fur piece, peering at the pages of a large book through a magnifying glass. The room in which he sat was cluttered as well, heaped around with piles of books, papers, medicine bottles, surgical implements, and baskets of oddments, everything strewn here and there in no apparent order. Several large colored drawings of the anatomy of horses and cows were pinned to the walls, and on a hook by the door hung a lantern, a waterproof cape, a large waterproof hat, and a pair of waterproof fishing trousers. Beneath them stood an umbrella and a pair of Wellingtons.

The man had taken no notice of him. “Dr. Polter?” Bradford said again, raising his voice, and then, when the man still did not respond, shouted “Dr. Polter?”

“Eh?” The man looked up and Bradford saw that he was getting on in years, in his seventies, perhaps. “What d’you say? Are you looking for me?”

“Dr. Polter,” Bradford said, loudly and distinctly, “I’ve brought you this.” He handed over the package the postmistress had entrusted to him. “From the post office in Exning.”

The cat jumped down from the doctor’s shoulders and sat on the book he had been reading, licking a paw. “You’re the new letter carrier, then?” Dr. Polter asked, in the overly loud voice of the hard-of-hearing. He set the package on the table beside him, and squinted at Bradford. “Bit old for the job, aren’t you? Must be new here, too. Don’t remember seeing you around the village.”

“I’m not the mail carrier,” Bradford said loudly.

“Not the mail carrier? Then why are you carrying the mail?” The cat yawned, flicked its tail, and began to sniff delicately at the package.

“I’ve come to ask you some questions, Dr. Polter,” Bradford said, louder still. “About horse doping.” On the way to Exning, he had given careful thought to the approach he would take with the doctor and had decided to be direct and straightforward, thinking that he might thereby catch his informant off guard and startle him into revealing what he knew. But he had not counted on the doctor’s being deaf.

“Questions about what, did you say?” the doctor asked. He reached under his chair and picked up a large green-painted ear trumpet, putting it to his ear. “Speak up, or I won’t hear you, young man.”

“Horse doping,” Bradford said loudly into the bell of the trumpet, then repeated the words, feeling foolish. It was one thing to put questions to a man in a normal tone of voice, quite another to shout them at him in simplified form, as if they were both idiots.

“Ah.” The cat abandoned the package and lay down on the doctor’s book, purring. “Horse doping, eh? What sort of horse is it you want to dope? Where is it running?” The doctor eyed Bradford ’s dark green tweed jacket, green cloth breeches, ivory waistcoat and tie, and added, with raised brows, “Not a trainer, I’ll warrant. Owner, I s’pose.” He held the trumpet in Bradford ’s direction. “What sort of horse, eh? What sort of horse?”

Bradford leaned forward. This was not the tack he had planned to take, but under the circumstances, it would have to do. “I own a three-year-old colt,” he said distinctly. “I want to run him to win in the ten-furlong handicap at Newmarket on Friday.”

“Friday, eh?” Dr. Polter stroked the cat, frowning. “Don’t know why you’ve come to me directly, Mr.-what did you say your name was?”

“ Murray,” Bradford said, deciding of a sudden that he would rather not give his real name. “Jack Murray, sir.”

“Well, Mr. Murphy, weren’t you told that I usually work through trainers? Prefer not to deal with owners-they get in the way.” He scowled. “If you want to race a doped horse, take it to Clark and Wishard, at the Red House stable, in Newmarket. They’re experts in that game.”

“Yes, I know about Wishard and Clark,” Bradford said. “But I…” He smiled rather foolishly, then put his mouth to the trumpet and said, in an approximation of a whisper: “I’m alone in this, don’t you know. Just my own little secret. Not particularly keen on anyone else knowing about it. Particularly the Americans.”

Dr. Polter thought about this for a moment, still stroking the cat. “I see,” he said finally. “Well, I s’pose it can’t hurt. Run your colt to lose, you say?”

“No,” Bradford said emphatically. “I want to run him to win.” He leaned into the trumpet. “To win, sir!”

“Ah. Well, then, you’ll want some speedy balls.” He pushed his chair back.

“Speedy balls?” Bradford put on a confused look. “No, I don’t think so. Actually, a friend gave me this.” He pulled Patrick’s bottle out of its wrapping and put it on the table in front of Dr. Polter. “You used it on his horse recently, and he was quite pleased with the outcome. Wonder if you’d be so good as to sell me a dose, and to give me some idea what’s in it. I’ll pay your price, of course,” he added quickly. “Whatever you ask.”

At the mention of money, a crafty look crossed the doctor’s face, and he picked up the bottle, turning it in his hands. “Hmmm,” he said thoughtfully. “Yes, I remember. Galahad, owned by Lord Bunt. In the last Derby.”

“Gladiator,” Bradford said loudly, for the doctor had put down his trumpet. “Lord Hunt.”

Scowling, Dr. Polter replied, “That’s what I said, Mr. Murphy. You don’t need to shout.”

“Yes, sir,” Bradford said contritely. “It was Lord Bunt who gave me that bottle and suggested I talk to you. He said to be sure that you gave me the same substance you used on Galahad.” He paused, and asked, enuciating carefully, “What sort of dope was in that bottle?”

“What sort?” the doctor said. “Why, cocaine, to be sure. Much more effective than caffeine or opium. What size?”

“Size?” Bradford frowned. “I don’t know. What sizes does it come in?”

The doctor gave him a look of disgust. “What size horse, Murphy? How high does he stand?”

“Oh,” Bradford said, feeling foolish. “Sixteen hands.” He paused. “I suppose that matters.”

“Of course it matters,” the doctor said sharply, reaching for the package Bradford had brought him. The cat, dislodged from the book, jumped onto the floor and stalked off, tail in the air. “Too much will kill him. Not enough, or administered too long before the start, it won’t do the job. You ought to let Wishard or Clark give you a hand with it.” He took out a pen knife and slit the wrapping. “They know how to do it, you see. They’re scientific, those Americans. They gallop the horse before the race to find out exactly how much dope will push it along. Very scientific.”

Bradford watched as the doctor unwrapped the box and opened it. Inside was another, smaller box. When the lid was opened, Bradford saw that it was filled with a white powder.

“Good thing you brought this with you,” the doctor said, putting a quantity of the powder into a small envelope and sealing it. “Or you would have been out of luck.” He gave the envelope to Bradford. “Pour this into that cough syrup bottle. Fill it with water and shake it until it dissolves. No more than ten minutes before the start, put it down the horse’s throat. Then stand back.”

Bradford looked doubtfully at the envelopes. “Until Lord Bunt told me that you doped with the bottle, I was expecting there’d be some sort of injection.”

“What?” the doctor shouted, and picked up his ear trumpet. “Don’t mumble, Murphy. Speak up!”

Bradford repeated what he had said.

“If it’s an injection you want, you’ll have to see Captain Bean,” the doctor said shortly. “He’s injecting jumpers, I understand. But that’s not something you can do for yourself. If you want to do the administering, use what I’ve given you.” He frowned. “But mind you put up a strong, experienced rider, Murphy. A doped horse wants to run. I told Lord Bunt not to ride that lightweight boy on Galahad, but he didn’t listen.” He gave his head a sad shake. “Hear there’s been an objection.”