CHAPTER EIGHT
“Would Sir Albertus do this to his own horse?” I asked, passing St. Just the tacks that had inspired Blinken’s panic. Piggott stood with us behind the rubbing-down house, while grooms within yelled insults and encouragement to one another prior to the third and final race of the day.
“Piggott?” St. Just dumped the metal into Piggott’s callused hand. “What say you?”
Piggott was small, as jockeys/grooms tended to be, his hands larger than one would expect for his frame. He looked to be in his late twenties—seasoned, fast approaching senior for his profession. His countenance was pleasant, as if smiles were more frequent than frowns. His hair was sandy, his eyes blue, and his gaze troubled.
“I’ve seen these put into a jumper’s boots,” he said. “Makes ’em bolt away from a fence because the points bite into the horse’s flesh when he lands. He’ll get around a course quick as lightning, though he might well wreck along the way.”
Even when put to the low brush fences set up for the previous race, jumpers often wore boots to protect forelegs and pasterns.
“Both tacks were under the saddle cloth,” I said. “Up near the withers. My guess is, they didn’t bother the horse until the jockey’s weight was in the saddle.”
“That suggests Sir Albertus had a hand in matters.” St. Just watched a tidy little chestnut colt walk past us across the lane. The groom holding the lead rope occasionally patted the horse’s damp neck and kept up a soft, steady patter until the beast settled to lipping at a patch of dry grass.
“How do you implicate Sir Albertus?” I asked.
“Because,” Piggott said, “at a meet like this, the owner tells the jockey whether to mount at the stable yard and then parade down to the course, or to mount just before the start. Chalmers didn’t ride in the fillies’ race. He coulda ridden down from the yard, but he didn’t. He mounted up at the starting line.”
“That doesn’t necessarily implicate Sir Albertus.” The baronet himself joined the chestnut and his groom, the conversation apparently genial. “Anybody in that throng at the starting line could have slipped these under the saddle before the girths were tightened.”
St. Just swiveled his gaze to me. “If you were an owner, and you had paid one hundred pounds for a chance at fifteen hundred pounds, would you be watching the clouds and birds at the starting line, or would you be having a last word with your jockey, looking over the saddle and bridle, making sure the girth was snug but not too snug? Focusing intently on your horse?”
Clearly, St. Just would be doing those things. “If I wanted to signal great confidence in my runner, or that I had many hundreds of pounds to fritter away on his training, then I might offer cordial good wishes to the competition and eye them up carefully instead.”
Piggott smiled. “Gotta point, milord. It’s a damned farce on race day, half the time. Part fashionable parade, part melee. Sir Albertus is one of them bluff-and-hearty fellows, according to Chalmers. Beefsteak and porter for every meal, a hound snoring at every hearth.”
“Blinken is a talented creature.” St. Just watched the grazing chestnut. “Horses have memories that make elephants look absent-minded. Today’s mistreatment will haunt that colt at every starting line.”
“Every time somebody tightens his girth, more like,” Piggott observed. “I don’t see a hounds-and-horses man mistreating a talented youngster like that. Why would he do such a thing?”
Motive. It all came down to motive. So Blinken endured the worst five minutes of his life, which had probably been more frightening than truly painful, by human standards. Sir Albertus might have concluded that five minutes of misery for the horse was worth the cost of a month’s oats.
“The chestnut won, didn’t he?” I asked as across the way, Sir Albertus patted the chestnut’s muscular neck and ambled away.
“Handily,” St. Just said. “Damnation.”
“Sir Albertus mighta been just congratulating the winning groom,” Piggott said, though his tone was uncertain. “The better owners do. Makes ’em look sporting. They congratulate everybody—the jockey, the groom, the owner, his wife, the horse.” Piggott handed me the nasty little tacks. “Will you say something to Sir Albertus?”
“Perhaps later. I would rather not make my first bow to Sir Albertus and then commence making accusations as well.”
“You’ll begin with some reconnoitering,” St. Just said as Sir Albertus strolled back in the direction of the starting line. “Always a sound precaution. Piggott, our thanks for your perspective. Go do some reconnoitering of your own in the rubbing-down house, why don’t you?”
“Always happy to lend a hand and reminisce about me days of glory,” Piggott said, saluting with two fingers. “Milords, tread carefully.”
“He can look after himself,” St. Just said as Piggott marched off to gather intelligence. “I’ve met Sir Albertus. Would you like an introduction?”
“I would. Skullduggery at the starting line notwithstanding, protocol should be observed.”
The runners for the third race were beginning to mill about outside the rubbing-down house. A few horses yet had empty saddles, though not for long. The steward gave the signal to line up, and then another field of hurdlers took off.
“Whoever set out to take the race from Blinken chose well,” I said as the initial cheers died down. “Between the first and third races, everybody would be busy, either collecting winnings from the first race or preparing a runner for the third. The timing speaks to a mind that can plan ahead.”
“Or to blind luck.” St. Just kept a keen eye on the thundering field. “Tenneby could have run the hurdles first.”
“Then the flat racers would have had to navigate ground disturbed by the greater weight and thrust of jumpers. I don’t know much about racing, St. Just, but I know the flat racers like smooth terrain.”
He muttered something along the lines of, “Don’t we all?” as we crossed the course. Sir Albertus made for the viewing structure at the top of the incline, and the old boy was spry, damn him.
I was tired, thirsty, and vexed.
The horses cleared the first set of jumps on the uphill side of the course without a mishap and continued on to the sweeping left-hand curve. The jumps on the downhill side rewarded boldness. A brave effort could pick up two strides on the competition, while a botched approach—taking off too close to the jump or too far away—could have the opposite result.
Sir Albertus joined a knot of spectators that included Pierpont and Wickley, as well as Evelyn Tenneby and several other ladies. Hyperia had apparently shaken free of her admirers for the nonce. Perhaps she was sorting Healy out, a thankless and overdue exercise.
The horses began the uphill climb for the second and final time, the smaller field able to navigate the jumps more easily. The pace picked up around the long curve, and the final dash—downhill, over jumps, then a short run-in to the finish—saw three horses pass the post simultaneously.
“A dead heat,” St. Just said. “Don’t have those very often. The stewards will confer. What’s wrong?”
I was looking beyond the course to the tree line along the lane that led back to the stable yard. Hyperia faced her brother, though her back was to me.
“She’s upset,” I said. “You can tell she’s upset from her posture.”
“ You can tell.” St. Just spoke quietly. “West appears to be raising his voice to a lady in public. Shall you trounce him, or shall I?” St. Just started down the hill, while all around us the crowd speculated about who had won.
Rubicon by a nose seemed to be the consensus. A bit symbolic, that.
“St. Just, wait. Hyperia will not thank us for meddling.”
I might as well have told the sea to quiet its surging tides. St. Just kept on marching, and thus I did as well.
“It’s not meddling if the stupid git can still walk when I’m done with him.” The rising blaze of a black Irish temper in full gallop illuminated his blue eyes.
“He is her brother ,” I retorted. “I don’t like it, but he is the man in authority over her, and he controls her funds. Hyperia deals with him carefully.”
We crossed the course again. The lane was deserted, but for Hyperia and Healy two dozen yards ahead. The whole crowd was waiting on the stewards’ decision apparently.
When we were fifteen yards shy of the altercation, Hyperia backhanded Healy smartly across the cheek, then stalked off without benefit of an escort.
“She deals with him carefully ,” St. Just said, slowing to a halt and rubbing a hand across his chin. “I see what you mean. What in blazes is going on, Caldicott?”
“I don’t know, and I intend to find out. The situation qualifies as a delicate predicament. Hyperia is protective of Healy. I am protective of Hyperia. I proceed cautiously.”
“Who is protective of you?”
Hyperia had been, from time to time. I did not want her to have to choose between the dunderheaded males in her life, though.
“I look after myself. If you’d chat up West about his amazing colt, I’d appreciate it. I’m off to provide my intended my pleasant and doting escort.”
“Dote from a safe distance, lest the lady deal with you carefully too.”
Sound advice. I wasn’t quite able to follow it.
* * *
“Don’t ask.” Hyperia stalked along the dusty lane, skirts swishing. “Don’t ask, don’t lecture, don’t offer speculations meant to be interrogations. He is my brother, Julian, and I must deal with him myself.”
“Far be it from me to meddle.” I did not wing my arm or take the lady’s hand either. “St. Just was threatening to thrash your brother simply for raising his voice to you. I dissuaded him.”
“Good.” Hyperia stomped onward, though her pace slowed slightly. “Would St. Just truly have used his fists?”
“He might have. He grew up with four brothers, and fisticuffs happen. He might instead have offered a tongue-lashing, which the colonel can do with telling accuracy. Had a bit of a reputation in the military.”
“For?”
“He was jolly enough, at least before his brother was killed, but let him see an officer abusing his rank or anybody abusing a horse, and St. Just became the bright angel of justice, on the spot, no quarter given.” Something along these lines had apparently landed St. Just in trouble at Waterloo.
“Nobody is to thrash Healy,” Hyperia replied.
“Nobody save you, though you stopped after a single, symbolic blow. I’m not sure I could have.”
She slowed further. “I should have ignored him, but he started going on about his horse. Healy rides well enough—I have the better seat—but he knows nothing about racing, much less racing over jumps. He says it’s quite the latest rage, and he’ll meet all the right fellows to back his plays at the race meets.”
Equal portions of despair and bewilderment laced her tone.
“I am no expert,” I said, “but as far as I know, the turf set prefer to waste their money wagering on horses rather than on playwrights. They do have money to waste, though, or they pretend to that happy status. Healy isn’t entirely off the mark.”
Hyperia laced her arm through mine. “You are being kind. I appreciate it. Please don’t interfere with Healy, Jules. I will make him see reason eventually. I always do.”
Well, no, she did not. On one or two memorable occasions, my assistance had been vital to preventing a Healy-induced calamity.
“Hyperia, will you let me help you?” I was tempted to remind her of all the times she’d scolded me for keeping my own counsel, for pondering my past in silence. “Just as you have access to venues a gentleman cannot frequent, I can keep a closer eye on Healy in some regards than you can. I will make regular reports and attempt no interventions without your guidance.”
She had slowed to a stroll as we approached the stable yard. “I detest your penchant for logic.”
“No, you do not. You find it a useful foil for intuition and theorizing, just as your own feats of logic often aid my hunches. Healy can be both scheming and impulsive, we know that. Two heads are better than one, and you will be at times kept busy foiling any attempts to fix the races. It’s only fair that I should assist you by keeping an eye on Healy.”
I would keep an eye on him, will she, nill she, but I’d rather do so with Hyperia’s blessing.
“You won’t act against him without my permission, Jules. No thrashings, no threats. He’ll never grow up if he can’t make mistakes and learn from them.”
Healy West had already blundered so egregiously that learning from his mistakes ought by now to have imbued him with the wisdom of the biblical sages.
“No thrashings, no threats. I did ask St. Just to glean what information he could from Healy regarding this wondrous jumper. If St. Just can pursue one topic convincingly, it’s horses.”
“St. Just is unhappy,” Hyperia said as we gained the shade of the trees nearest the stable yard. “He isn’t quite as haunted, but his spirits are still diminished. Did you know him before the war?”
“I did, though he was more Harry’s contemporary than mine.”
“He was a joyous man, Jules. Much loved by his family, in some ways more dear to them than their late Lord Bart. St. Just can dance . He’s grace itself in a ballroom, despite his size.”
The agreement I had with Hyperia regarding her past was that I was to ask directly if a subject piqued my curiosity. She could either answer directly or guard her privacy. The decision was hers. At the time we’d reached this understanding, I had found the bargain reasonable and efficient.
I was no longer so fond of the terms, both because they were one-sided and because they denied me the right to conduct reconnaissance that touched on Hyperia’s past. She’d had lovers, or at least one lover, but I knew not who he was or how involved she’d been with him.
“Why are you scowling, Julian?”
A groom led a pair of mares across the lane, taking them down the path that led to the river.
“St. Just was touched by some scandal either at or immediately after Waterloo. Nobody seems to know what happened, but he mustered out directly and went straight to the Windham family seat in Kent. Wasn’t seen for months afterward.”
“Neither were you seen for months after Waterloo.”
“They were difficult months. I hope St. Just does make a full recovery, Perry.”
“He seems in his element here. I take it you are not available to escort me to the house?”
Was that a request for my company? “I am absolutely available, but I’ll be returning to the stable to chat up the grooms, and I hope to set up something like a roster of sentries for after dark.”
The stable yard was deserted, many of its denizens still off at the racetrack. The red, yellow, and white tulips were particularly vivid splashes of color against dusty stone walls and dying grass, but the scene struck me as desolate rather than peaceful.
On the way to the house, I summarized the mischief done to poor Blinken, and Hyperia was appropriately appalled. We made straight for the winter parlor, where I downed two tankards of the ladies’ punch in succession and made myself a large plate of ham-and-cheese sandwiches. Hyperia contented herself with half a sandwich and half a pint of punch.
If nothing else, I had focused her attention on the races rather than on her dunce of a brother. I would rather she confided in me regarding Healy’s latest foolishness, but trust must be earned. I could not exactly comport myself like Healy—blustering and brooding in turn—and expect to garner any esteem in Hyperia’s eyes.
Neither, though, would I sit on my hands and leave him a clear field for disrespecting his sister.
“We know one thing for a certainty,” Hyperia said, putting her empty glass on the table designated for clearing away.
I knew many things for a certainty. I loved Hyperia, for example, and I would not let her brother come between us.
“What unassailable truth have we established?” I asked, refilling my tankard for a third time.
“Your august personage has been insufficient to deter mischief.” Hyperia selected a tea cake from the epergne on the sideboard. “The first day on the racecourse, and somebody is already tampering with one of the horses. So much for your reputation for intimidating malefactors into submission.”
She passed me the tea cake—raspberry icing, my favorite. “You are right, but I would rather the play begin, so to speak, than spend two weeks rattling around the Acres in a state of watchful anticipation. We have also established that Tenneby was right to be concerned about foul play. We have a place to start. That’s an odd sort of relief.”
She brushed her hand through my hair. “Only you, Jules. Only you. I’ll see you at supper.”
My darling swanned off and left me to effect further depredations on the buffet. I also took a full tankard of punch to the veranda and sat in the shade, pondering the various ways Healy West could have provoked the dearest woman in the world to violence upon his person.
* * *
“I knew your brother.” Sir Albertus extended a hand to me in a blatant breach of etiquette. “Fine fellow, was Lord Harry.”
I shook, choosing to appreciate his forthright manner rather than quibble over protocol.
“Your brother had a wonderful sense of the absurd,” Sir Albertus went on. “Had a keen eye for the jumpers too. Not quite as reliable when it came to the flat racing.”
“What would Lord Harry say about Blinken’s performance this afternoon?”
We were enjoying the relative cool of early evening in the shade of the stable yard maples. Sir Albertus had come to look in on his string, a common later-afternoon practice among those who owned racing stock.
While we watched, some horses were led out for a night at grass. Others were given a final grooming for the day. Still others—the mares, predominantly—were taken down to the river.
“My lord, you must believe me when I tell you that Blinken has never behaved in that manner before. He’s a good, steady lad, is Blinken, with plenty of bottom and heart. I was so very disappointed I nearly sat down and wept. Another outing like that, and I won’t be able to sell him to the knacker.”
“If he’s never behaved like that previously, and he’s competing barely a mile from home, what do you suppose got into him?”
“Chalmers is at a loss, and he knows Blinken as well as anybody could. Claims our Blinkie has the makings of a champion, and I did have hopes. One must nevertheless develop a certain stoicism in the racing business, my lord. The horse that runs like blazes on the dawn gallops cannot muster a decent canter for a midafternoon match. The filly who passes her female competition like a Congreve rocket can’t be bothered to settle if there’s a colt in the field. One learns these things the hard way, of course.”
Sir Albertus fell silent as the victorious chestnut colt, Rubicon, clip-clopped past, the sole charge of the groom holding his lead rope.
“Handsome little devil, isn’t he?” Sir Albertus muttered. “The leggy Thoroughbred is all the rage, but that fellow will stay sound until Judgment Day. Perfect conformation for a jumper, or what we called perfect in my day. Now, if a horse isn’t half starved and walking on stilts, the young gents won’t look at him.”
The chestnut was compact compared to those he’d beaten. “He’s nimble, isn’t he?” I asked. “Puts me in mind of the Iberian breeds. They can lengthen and shorten their strides on the spot and hop a jump as tidily as a cat. Tremendous stamina too.”
Sir Albertus looked at me as if I’d just recited Eclipse’s pedigree for eight generations on the sire side.
“You are correct, sir, and though we don’t bruit it about in polite company, many a mare has that heritage buried in her past. One forgets those details at his peril. Old Temerity used to bang on about Iberian stamina and such. He always rode the Andalusian stock, if he could get it. The build is a bit cobby for me, but he hasn’t my height, you know.”
“I’ve only seen the earl occupying a Bath chair, and our conversation was brief. I don’t suppose Blinken’s groom has any insights to offer?”
Rheumy blue eyes gave me a slow perusal. “Why the curiosity, my lord?”
I thought back to Blinken’s panicked rush from the starting line. “My life depended on my horse in Spain, and many an officer would say the same thing. I’ll introduce you to my gelding, if you like.”
“You brought him here?”
“I am seldom parted from him for long.” Only as I spoke did I realize the truth of my words. I was more willing to leave Atticus behind than I was to part with my mount.
We threaded steps past horses, muck carts, grooms, and other owners as we made our way to Atlas’s stall. My boy was alert, probably anticipating a night under the stars munching what grass he could find, given the dry weather.
“Now that is a handsome horse,” Sir Albertus said. “Seventeen hands? The Iberian types don’t usually come so big.”
“Draft on the dam side, Spanish on the sire. He’s up to my weight, reliably sound,”—I rapped on the nearest wooden board—“and steady as Gibraltar. Gaits as smooth as the Serpentine on a May morning and the manners of a duke.”
Sir Albertus extended a hand toward Atlas. “You might not be smitten with racing, my lord, but you are smitten with this horse. Understandably so.”
“We served together.” I said the words softly, another truth hitting me from a fresh angle. “He knows my secrets.”
Atlas politely sniffed at Sir Albertus’s hand, then turned a questioning eye on me.
“He’s wondering where his groom is,” Sir Albertus said, which was doubtless correct. “Time to romp around the pasture and have a chat over the fence with the lads in the next paddock. Or maybe he’s eager for a turn at the river. Don’t you have a water bucket hung in his stall, my lord?”
“Speak of the devil…”
Atticus came up the barn aisle, using two hands to hold up a bucket. “Guv. Brung himself his water. Had to go to the smithy for it.”
“Don’t let us keep you,” I said, stepping aside so Atticus could open Atlas’s stall door. “You’ll turn him out soon?”
“Aye, when it’s quieter. Never seen such a busy stable, and all for horses ridden for less than thirty minutes of an afternoon.”
Sir Albertus found that sally amusing, though I perceived agendas resting on those short, fast rides that extended to family pride, sibling rivalry, dynastic fortunes, and probably even courtship.
“Let’s leave the boy to his labors,” Sir Albertus said, ambling down the barn aisle. “People accuse the racehorse of flightiness, but nothing could be further from the truth. Of all horses, the bloodstock must become accustomed to bustle and hum, to hard work, to regular handling, and to farriery from a young age. They simply like their routines, and I cannot fault them for it, being of much the same mentality myself.”
“Blinken knows the starting line routine, doesn’t he?” I’d waited until we were once again out in the fresh air to pose my question.
“You suspect foul play.” Sir Albertus sighed in a manner that conveyed a bowing to the inevitable rather than irritation. “The horse’s groom is a young Yorkshireman, and if ever such a one was sentimental about anything, it’s that young man about his charges. Joe Corrie would not harm a horse in his care for all the gold in Aladdin’s cave. As we speak, he’s probably praying I don’t sell the colt to a passing tinker.”
“Would you sell him to me?”
Sir Albertus studied me more closely, probably trying to determine if I was making a brilliant offer or proving myself to be a fool.
“Not at the present time, and not for the pittance you are likely thinking of offering.” His tone was civil, just. “That’s a good horse, my lord. A very good horse who had a very off day. Nothing more.”
“Have you had other offers?”
“Pity offers by the side of the course. Gestures of consolation. Those are not meant to be taken seriously. I’ve made a few myself. Blinken is not for sale, and he will be back in good form before his next outing.”
“He will be.” I fished the metal tacks out of my pocket. “These were found under his saddle cloth when his gear was removed. Both were bloody, as was the cloth. Do you recognize them?”
Sir Albertus glowered at the tacks and then at me. “They are considered by some to be a training device, not by me. The usual method is to put them in a jumper’s boots so he moves off smartly after landing, as if stung, or so the theory goes. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a quick route to ensuring an otherwise capable horse embarks on the dangerous habit of refusing jumps and ends up with needless infections. I hate the damned things.”
“I believe you. Do you believe me when I tell you that Blinken was set up to fail? Your groom put the saddle on in the stable yard and led Blinken to the starting line. I suspect that while the other jockeys were mounting and owners were tightening girths, somebody slipped these under Blinken’s cloth. As soon as Chalmers was aboard, the colt started acting up.”
“Damnation, my lord,” Sir Albertus swore with quiet vehemence. “That is a serious accusation, and I cannot be heard to entertain such suspicions. Men have been called out for less.”
“Men have been called out for reciting poetry beneath the wrong moonlit window. Do you believe me?”
He stole another glance at the evidence in my hand. “I’m getting too old for this game,” he muttered. “The young fellows think it jolly great fun to break the rules. They are all cordial good sportsmen to look at them, but they don’t know the difference between a prank and cheating.”
“Joe Corrie knows what I found.” I put the offending articles back into my pocket. “I will keep this development under my hat, but if I were you, I would not sell that colt any time soon, and I would keep a close eye on him for the duration of the meeting. I will explain to my groom that a watch is to be kept over Blinken, just as the boy keeps watch over my Atlas.”
Sir Albertus looked torn, but common sense prevailed. The evidence I’d presented fit with what he knew of Blinken and what he’d observed of Blinken’s behavior. Brushing the incident off as a prank—a prank that could have seen Chalmers or any number of jockeys or equines dead or maimed—was beyond him.
“Your discretion is appreciated.” He strode off several paces, then stopped. “Mind your step with this bunch, my lord. They are not a troupe of harmless overgrown boys, though the press likes to depict them that way. They play to win, and I am apparently no longer up to their weight.”
“I take the opposite view. Blinken is sufficiently talented that somebody had to eliminate him as competition for their runner. Your horse’s ability has been noticed, and you had the training and breeding of him.”
He frowned, shook his head, and strode back into the barn.
Atticus chose that moment to emerge with Atlas in tow. I wished, not for the first or last time, that we were all back at Caldicott Hall, enjoying the advance of mild spring weather.