CHAPTER NINE
“You take the early shift,” I said, “when I’ll be expected at supper and cards. I will arrange for Joe Corrie to take the hours following your stint, then I will relieve him. St. Just will take the last watch.”
“Corrie’s a good sort,” Atticus replied as he led Atlas to a paddock bordered by stately oaks. “Sings Welsh lullabies to his horses.”
“I thought he was from Yorkshire.”
“He’s Welsh on the dam side. Says Atlas is a handsome specimen. Denton agrees but says Atlas has too much bone to be fashionable.”
My tiger had gone horse mad with a vengeance. “I have too much bone to be fashionable. Ergo, my mount must be sturdy. What else did Denton say?”
“That Blinken coulda beat Rubicon by two lengths. Says Rubicon has speed, but he overjumps, like he’s afraid to let the brush touch him. That means he’s spending more time in the air than he needs to, and a horse with a tidier style and equal speed can gain on him at every fence. Denton said some other things.”
We reached the designated paddock, which didn’t offer much in the way of grass. Near the oaks, which would provide morning shade, some viable grazing remained. The rest of the patch was brown for want of rain.
“He’ll eat this down in two nights,” I said. “What else did Denton say?”
Atticus turned Atlas out, and the horse, being a sensible fellow, rolled thoroughly upon gaining his liberty. He was fit enough to roll from side to side, which he did several times, then got up and shook, sending a cloud of dust wafting on the early evening breeze.
“Berkshire needs rain,” Atticus said as the dust dissipated. “Woglemuth said he’s never seen it this dry so early in the year.”
A verse from the book of Matthew popped into my head: He maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust. Who had unjustly benefited today from Blinken’s torment?
“Tell me what else Denton said.”
“That the hard ground will see more than one horse lamed and more than one jockey brought low. It’s good for taking off in front of the jumps—solid, like—but murder on the landings. A half ton of horse needs the ground to give some when he comes down, or that’s what Denton says. He don’t race over fences if he can help it. Says that’s a foolishness reserved for younger men.”
And Atticus, who had only rudimentary experience riding over the lowest, safest of obstacles and mostly at a trot, considered himself one of those younger men. Heaven defend the boy.
“Atticus, I realize you are learning a great deal of horsemanship from the jockeys and grooms, and that is all to the good, but somebody tampered with a horse today. Our primary focus must be on determining who and why.”
Across the paddock, Atlas made unerringly for the remaining green grass.
“None of the jockeys expected Rubicon to win,” Atticus said, “but Woglemuth won a packet on him. Said he’s seen the horse at the gallops, and today’s race—three miles, low jumps—was perfect for him. He’s no good over longer distances or higher jumps. Perfect for Blinken, too, or was supposed to be.”
This was news. “When did Woglemuth place his bet?”
“Before the parade down to the start. He was watching Rubicon being saddled and said the horse had fire in his eyes today. Put a fiver on him and won twenty-five pounds. That’s a fortune, guv. A bloody fortune.”
“Language, young man.” Though Atticus was right—a footman new to his livery could expect annual wages on the order of five pounds, along with an allowance for beer, candles, and livery.
“Who took the bet?”
“Sir Albertus. They know each other because they’re neighbors.”
The bet went some way toward exonerating Sir Albertus of interfering with his own horse, if my earlier interview with him had not.
“Who else lost money on Blinken?”
“Lots of people. Blinkie’s a good ’un, according to Woglemuth. Sir Albie’s pride and joy—one of ’em—and a local favorite. Pierpont took some bets that backed Blinkie, so he’s ahead. Wickley took some, too, because Pierpont did. They favored Rubicon because he’s out of… I forget who. Some mare who’s horse royalty. They liked Rubicon’s breeding better’n Blinkie’s, though they don’t care for Rubicon’s build. Too stocky.”
Atticus started back down the path to the stable, chattering away about shoulder angles (very important for a jumper), pasterns, quarters, and other equine anatomical features. While I was happy to see him expanding his knowledge in a useful direction, I was also preoccupied with his report.
The stable master had made twenty-five pounds on a single bet with the local squire. I expected the lordlings and popinjays to throw money around with studied carelessness, but I hadn’t realized how far the wagering side of the game could extend.
For twenty-five pounds, Woglemuth, Denton, Corrie, or even Atticus might be tempted to toss a race. To toss several races, and they were each in a position to do exactly that.
“Atticus, I know you will take utmost care with Atlas, but I’d also like you to keep a close eye on Rubicon.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. A hunch. He was an unlikely winner today, or a less-than-certain winner, and Pierpont and Wickley both made money on his performance. The odds of him winning go up every time he’s victorious.”
Atticus stopped on the path and stared at the hard-packed ground. “So not the next time out, but three races on, he’ll be the favorite who’s put out of commission?”
“Possibly. You’d best take a nap if you’re to remain up past your bedtime. The day has been long, and you’ll go short of sleep tonight.”
We resumed walking. I was intent on returning to the manor house and making myself presentable for the supper gathering. I had no idea what thoughts filled Atticus’s young head.
“May I take Atlas out for the gallops tomorrow?”
Well, of course, complete with polite diction. “You may hack him up to the gallops. Walk, trot, a little canter. You are not to race him, Atticus, or you will lose your saddle privileges for a very long time.”
“I can ride out with the jockeys?”
“Yes, provided you keep to a sedate pace and go as an observer.” My own words filled me with foreboding. “Look for who is pushing his horse too hard for a mere practice run, who is having trouble getting a decent pace from his horse. Eyes open, Atticus. Ears open. Trouble is afoot, and we’re supposed to sort it out.”
I was supposed to sort it out, but Atticus had a valuable contribution to make as well.
“Right. I’ll see everything and hear everything and report everything, guv, and keep my mouth shut. Promise.” He sped off, doubtless to polish a spotless saddle and spread the news of his good fortune.
All through supper—I was paired with Sir Albertus’s spinster sister, Miss Cornelia Reardon—I worried that I should have denied Atticus tomorrow’s outing. I distracted myself by watching Healy West flirt with Miss Tenneby and Hyperia flirt with Wickley, while Pierpont tossed his curls and smiled knowingly at his wineglass.
“When were you going to tell me about Blinken’s bad luck?” Tenneby asked as we returned from escorting the ladies to the parlor for their postprandial tea.
“I take it Sir Albertus has already alerted you?” We spoke quietly, while Wickley called for toasts in honor of a fine day of racing.
“Sir Albertus was furious,” Tenneby replied, “and I’m none too pleased myself. A simple tactic, and one that should have been simple to prevent had the stewards been doing their jobs.”
“One steward to oversee fifteen horses and jockeys isn’t enough. I’ll want to have a look at the card for the day after tomorrow. At all the cards, in fact. What do you know of Rubicon’s owner?”
Footmen opened the French doors, which was the signal for those who preferred to smoke to enjoy their cigars under the night sky. Tenneby motioned me onto the terrace.
“I hardly know Rubicon’s owner to greet her in the churchyard. She’s a widow. Inherited the horse from her spouse and said the old boy would want the colt to have his outings. The deceased, one Mortimer Tucker, has a property about five miles to the east. Cut from the same cloth as Sir Albertus. Family made a fortune in cooperage, I believe, and Tucker always had a runner or two in his stable. Tucker Junior is here. The blond fellow with the ruddy cheeks. Goes by his middle name, Quillon. Seems a pleasant sort.”
I made a note to chat with Tucker Junior when he was less flushed with victory, so to speak, and we had some privacy.
“If you’ll make my excuses, Tenneby, I’ll find my bed. This has been a long day.”
“One understands, but, my lord…” Tenneby’s usually cheerful countenance looked for once serious. “I did not appreciate hearing from Sir Albertus of the sort of mischief you are here to prevent.”
I was tired, I wanted a full soaking bath, and I was uneasy about Atticus joining the morning gallops. I was not about to put up with a birching from the man who’d invited all and sundry to his race meeting and recruited me only as an afterthought to see to security.
“Shall I leave, Tenneby? If it weren’t for me, neither you nor Sir Albertus would have any idea what went amiss with Blinken. Sir Albertus was willing to assume Blinken had simply had a bad day. The next bad day might see a jockey injured or killed.”
“You mistake my point. I’m very pleased that you found the reason behind Blinken’s poor performance—I have already alerted Woglemuth to the method used—but I hope in future you will bring your findings directly to me.”
Now that I’d aired the offer, part of me did want to leave. These men and their motives were too numerous and devious for one former reconnaissance officer to best in the time allotted. I would fail, the next jockey would not be so lucky as Chalmers had been, and I’d have an injury or a death on my already overburdened conscience.
But if I blew retreat on the first day of the meet, I’d be abandoning Hyperia to her dimwitted brother and disappointing Atticus, who was keenly enjoying the gathering.
No retreat. Not yet. Not when, as Hyperia had pointed out, we’d established that foul play was most definitely afoot.
“Let us agree,” I said, “that I will drop by your apartment each day prior to supper. If you have need of me at some other point in the day, send word through your first footman, assuming he is loyal. We can meet in the earl’s suite, if that suits, and I’m sure his lordship won’t mind the intrusion.”
“That will do.”
“When can I have the race cards?”
“They’re in the desk in the library. I was planning to ask the ladies to copy them out tomorrow morning. Do you know if Blinken will scratch? I forgot to ask Sir Albertus.”
“I have no idea. I’m off to bed, though in future, Tenneby, before you relay word of my activities or findings to your staff, I wish you’d first confer with me.”
Tenneby stared past my shoulder into the night. “Are you saying I cannot trust Woglemuth? You might as well insult my sister, Caldicott. Insult the earl, if you must, but don’t impugn my stable master.”
Such a straightforward soul, bothersomely so. “Your stable master made twenty-five pounds off Rubicon’s win. He knew both horses, knew their prospects and abilities, and he still bet five pounds on Rubicon. I don’t question where he came by such a sum, but I do wonder how he had the confidence to risk it. Whether he was involved in today’s scheme or not, he’ll mention the tacks to your grooms, and they will mutter into their beer when other grooms can overhear them, and thus my job has become harder.”
“Because nobody will dare try to use the tacks again? How can that make your job harder?”
Cupid in his clouds wasn’t this devoid of guile. “Because the malefactors will use other means , Tenneby. Means harder to discover. Moreover, now that they know we’re on to them, I’ve lost the advantage of surprise. If I stay out here with you much longer, I will lose the advantage of relative anonymity too. You’ll have my reports, but I’ll have your silence in return. Are we agreed?”
He nodded at me, though his expression suggested I wasn’t a very nice fellow and whoever had invited me should think again before adding me to another guest list.
I was halfway across the terrace before it occurred to me that Tenneby might like to know I planned to do sentry duty in the stable yard, but then, he hadn’t asked for my plans. He’d asked me to report results.
I went up to my room, and when I rang for a bath, I was told the gentlemen guests had been asked to limit their bathing to the river for the nonce in light of the shortage of water.
To the river I did go, and by the light of a half-moon, I did bathe at length. The water was too low to admit of swimming any distance, but by the time I was finished, I was considerably cleaner and cooler. I sat on the ground, my back resting against a handy birch sapling, and prepared to snatch a much-needed forty winks.
I was floating on the outermost reaches of slumber when I felt the ground reverberate with the regular rhythm of a horse moving at the walk.
* * *
I am afflicted with a peculiar defect of memory. At intervals having no discernible pattern, I forget nearly every fact and experience ever to befall me. I say nearly , because faculties such as speech, how to ride a horse or brew a cup of tea—faculties having a strong physical component—yet remain. A much larger catalog is obliterated: My name, my familial connections, my course of studies at Oxford, my entire Peninsular misadventure, and my country of origin elude me. I know neither the day of the week nor the identities of my nearest and dearest.
The familiar becomes alien, and I am a stranger to myself.
Thus far, the lapses have been temporary, lasting from a quarter hour to the better part of a day. I dwell in fear of the moment when my memories abandon me permanently, though I have yet to see a progression in that direction.
Upon first rising from the drifting slumber I’d enjoyed beside the river, I felt the same disorientation that occurs when my memory fails. For the space of a half-dozen heartbeats, I knew not where I was, why I’d come to be there, or why the sound of hoofbeats should hold my interest. The moon and stars told me night was not well advanced, and yet, beneath the trees, all was dark.
As the horse walked by not six feet from where I sat, my mind righted itself. I was at the Acres, grabbing a catnap prior to taking a shift on sentry duty. A groom might be taking a horse to the river for watering, but… no.
Human footfalls had not accompanied the hoofbeats. Either the horse was at liberty, or somebody was on its back.
“No drink for you, me lad,” said a soft voice. “You’re for the Downs and a hearty gallop.”
The rider spoke too softly for me to discern an accent, and the hoofbeats faded into the night. I let myself resume dozing, confident that Atticus would have noted the identity of any groom or jockey taking a horse out for solitary exercise.
The horse came back some thirty minutes later and was followed shortly thereafter by another mount bound for the Downs. One groom was apparently working without assistance. When a third horse had been ridden out to the Downs, I made my way to the stable.
“Pleasant night, isn’t it?” I remarked, the signal prearranged to let Atticus know who approached. He’d chosen to secret himself outside Maybelle’s stall, where his perch would be in shadows, but he’d have a view of the whole stable yard.
No prescribed reply met my ears. Fearing the worst, I advanced on Maybelle’s stall and found my loyal tiger sitting on the ground, back against the stall door, side anchored to a half barrel of drooping tulips. A nudge to the sole of his boot confirmed that the lad was far gone in the arms of Morpheus.
Too much excitement and too much responsibility loaded onto his small shoulders, when I should have known better. He was a growing boy, and however much he might demand to be part of my investigations, he needed his rest.
I retreated across the stable yard, found a pebble of appropriate size, and pitched it against the stone wall beside Maybelle’s door.
Atticus stirred, stretched, and snuggled closer to the potted flowers. I approached, making certain that my boots scraped the hard earth. When I offered the greeting a second time, I was rewarded with a sleepy answer.
“Bit warm,” Atticus said, yawning and rising. “The stars are glorious, though.”
“That, they are. Off to bed with you, unless you have anything to report?”
We spoke softly. The sounds of horses munching hay and stirring in their stalls counterpointed our speech. A precocious nightingale began his courting arias, and I was taken back to nights on Spain’s north coast. Battles had been won and lost, war waged for miles in every direction, and yet, the little bird graced the air day and night with his song.
“Nothing to report, guv. Cobbles make a miserable bed.”
“To the manor with you, then. If you’re of a mind to take a bath, stop by the river. Male guests are asked to make that substitution in light of the dry weather. I can’t imagine staff is permitted the freedom of the laundry if guests are being restricted.”
“Getting on to parched weather. Denton says the heat will start to build tomorrow, and storms should follow.”
“We will trust in Denton’s prognostications, for the sake of the horses, crops, and humanity. Get thee to bed, Atticus.”
The longer we stood chatting, the more likely we were to deter the late-night galloper from returning his horse to its assigned stall. I was reluctant to let Atticus know he’d failed to uphold a sentry’s role and very much did want to learn who was taking horses for moonlit rides.
“I’m done in,” Atticus said, yawning again. “I mighta dozed off a bit.”
He’d been dead to the world. “We’re not in the army. A bit of dozing is to be expected. I’m sure you would have awoken if anybody had been stirring.”
“Aye. I woulda. Can’t have any more tampering with the horses. Night, guv.”
“Sweet dreams.”
He toddled off. I found a handy patch of shadows on the colt’s side of the stable yard, because the rider had referred to his first mount as a lad.
I used the time to think through potential suspects and found the exercise daunting. As competitive as the owners were, as varied as their stories and as manifold as the means of throwing a race were… my villain could be anybody, several anybodies, or Tenneby himself. He was a bit too dense when it suited him and too shrewd otherwise. Then too, the notion that my presence would ward off mischief had originated with him and was a measure any self-respecting race-fixer would take if he wanted to build a case for his own innocence.
He’d been at the starting line when Blinken had panicked. Most of the owners had been.
I’d been parsing conundrums such as that for a good half hour before the rider returned. As luck would have it, the sole cloud in the entire firmament chose then to obscure the light of the moon, and not a single lantern or torch was lit in the whole stable yard.
My ears still functioned quite well, though, and on the cobblestones forming an apron before the stall doors, I could make out the sound of hooves purposely muffled with cloth. The rider confirmed my suspicions when, after dismounting, he knelt by the horse’s front legs.
I could make out movement but could not discern exact forms, and in no time, the horse had been returned to his stall. The groom mounted the steps above the carriage house, and silence reigned over the stable yard.
I moved cautiously, counting doors, until I came to the stall of the horse who’d just been returned. Dasher, owned by Sir Albertus. A cursory inspection determined that the coats of Sovereign Remedy, owned by Wickley, and Excalibur, Tenneby’s pride and joy, were also slightly damp.
In about five hours, the sun would rise, the stable would stir back to life, and these three horses would be again galloped on the Downs. If tomorrow night’s routine followed the same pattern, by the time colts were again raced the day after tomorrow, these three would be tired young fellows.
“Pleasant night, isn’t it?”
St. Just’s voice startled me so badly I nearly jumped out of my boots. “Bit warm,” I replied softly. “The stars are glorious, though.”
“No rain tomorrow,” he said. “We need damned rain, Caldicott. Tenneby has overscheduled this meet, and the horses won’t hold up for long on this hard ground.” The patch of darkness that was St. Just moved under the overhang, becoming indiscernible from the Stygian shadows. “I had a chat with Healy West about his prodigy of a jumper.”
“I take it the news is discouraging?” Hyperia would scold her brother all the way to Coventry if he’d bought a sorry specimen.
“If St. George is who I think he is, then he’s an infamous morning glory. Has all the speed and will to win in the world if the dew is yet on the grass. Run him after midday, and he’s happy to lollop around a course in excellent form. He’ll clear every jump in perfect style, but he’ll never win, place, or show.”
“And Tenneby has scheduled every race for midafternoon or later. Have you persuaded West of his error?”
“I suggested the horse bore a close resemblance to a colt renowned for fading in the later heats, but quite capable of speed at daybreak. West dismissed the very notion. Bought the horse from a close albeit recent acquaintance. West would never attribute foul motives to such an upright member of the sporting brotherhood.”
“That’s more bad news?”
“The upright member of the sporting brotherhood sells St. George, whose previous nom de scène was Zeus, with a guarantee to buy him back for half the price if he doesn’t perform up to standards. He argues that if Zeus leaves his control, then all manner of bad training or vices might result, so half the price is enough to show good faith.”
Good faith, my blooming aspidistra. “Then this paragon of sporting integrity doubtless demonstrates the horse’s speed in the cool of the next morning, and the bargain is struck.”
“The bargain, as near as Piggott could recall, has been struck four times in two years. Twice for the spring meets, twice for the autumn meets. The purveyor of the equine goods is always careful to subtly alter the horse’s appearance before each sale—roaching the mane, banging the tail, dabbing charcoal on the pasterns—so that only a very thorough examination reveals the ruse.”
“How did Piggott figure it out?”
“St. George’s coat forms double whorls above his eyebrows. You don’t see that very often, particularly not when coupled with spur whorls that point downward.”
Little swirls of hair that remained fixed during a horse’s life were often used to identify an individual specimen if branding was to be avoided. Brands could, in fact, be altered, but the whorls were reliably consistent.
“Are such whorls rare?”
“In that combination, yes. The Byerley Turk was said to have spur whorls, and I do believe West’s horse, whatever its name, has Highflyer in his pedigree.”
“He’s related to Eclipse?” Weren’t they all?
“How can you not know this? Both Eclipse and Highflyer of course trace their lineages back to the foundation sires, but Highflyer is the great-great-grandsire rivaling Eclipse. Highflyer was born two years before Eclipse, and old Richard Tattersall made a fortune breeding Eclipse mares to Highflyer, hence the name of his country manor, Highflyer Hall. Highflyer’s progeny regularly win the Derby when Eclipse’s descendants don’t grab it for themselves. Perhaps you’ve heard of the noted stud Sir Peter Teazle?”
“Somebody names his horse after a knight?”
“I despair of you, Caldicott.” Real consternation came through in those few words. Truly, St. Just, like most cavalry officers I’d served with, was horse mad.
“I despair of Healy West. He’s been taken for a fool, and he’s pinning his fortunes on a no-hoper.”
“Or a late bloomer. Some horses just take time to become competitive, especially over fences. That is not a game for tender youth.”
“Somebody is playing games.” I recounted the evening’s earlier developments. “Somebody is quite possibly over-conditioning those three colts. They’re strong contenders, so they should inspire a lot of wagering.”
“Can you thus eliminate Wickley, Tenneby, and Sir Albertus from among your suspects?”
Good question. Why would an owner tire his own runner? “Doesn’t that depend on how the horses are exercised in the morning? The real conditioning might be intended to happen at night, so an outing in the morning—a mere hack—won’t yield an accurate notion of the horse’s abilities, and neither would it tire him.”
“Devious, but I can tell you it’s been done before. The bookmakers are notorious for watching morning gallops through field glasses and telescopes. They base their odds in part on what they or their spies have seen.”
Logic suggested that Sir Albertus, Tenneby, and Wickley would not have all used the same jockey for a bit of clandestine exercise. Each man would have used his own rider and kept his nocturnal stratagems from the other owners—or tried to.
“Tenneby disclosed the whole business with tacks and Blinken’s tantrum to Woglemuth,” I said. “He doubtless told his lads, and they put a friendly word in many an ear among the competitors. My hunch is, somebody is still intent on fixing races, but they’ve switched tactics.”
St. Just was quiet for a moment. An owl hooted over by the river, a death knell to any mouse daring to come forth for a nocturnal drink.
“You are facing a determined opponent, my lord, and you can be damned sure he or she knows Highflyer from Herod. He’ll have more tricks up his sleeve before you catch him. If you catch him.”
“I know watching and waiting, St. Just. I know evidence forms patterns, and patterns point to answers.”
“Seeing any patterns yet?”
“Not a blessed one.”
I left him chuckling in the darkness, found my bed, and fell into a slumber far more troubled than the respite I’d enjoyed beneath the stars.