Lenchen flaps her hand at her clodhopping husband and says, “This is hardly a topic for the ballroom, my dear.”

  Knollys, embarrassed, mumbles something about the local cemetery, and young Hélène says brightly, “Cemetery? Que veut dire ceci?”

  Alix, who picks up the child’s piercing remark, and is always grateful of an opportunity to join in the pleasantries, provides our French guests with a definition of the word, and then supple­ments their vocabulary with some others, such as mausoleum, sepulcher and crypt. Meanwhile, I’m close enough to Knollys to ask, “Did you make a list of the wreaths?”

  “So far as possible, sir.”

  “Apart from mine . . . ?”

  “Lord Falmouth, his first patron.”

  “Naturally, and . . . ?”

  “The Duke of Westminster.”

  “Oh, where?” says Alix, looking around the room. “I haven’t seen him.”

  “The Marchioness of Ormonde,” continues Knollys, who is as accustomed as I to Alix going off on tangents. “Count Kinsky.”

  “So ’andsome!” murmurs the Comtesse, equally at sea.

  “Sir George Chetwynd.”

  It amounts to a catalog of the racing aristocracy. After I’ve heard it out, I say with confidence, “My wreath was the largest, I presume?”

  The sequence of the dance constrains me to wait for an answer, and when it comes, it’s Knollys at his most diplomatic: “Yours had pride of place, sir.”

  I blink in surprise. “Not the largest?”

  He shakes his head.

  I say in his ear as we pass, “Tell me, who so far forgot himself as to send a wreath larger than mine?”

  “The Dowager Duchess of Montrose.”

  “Carrie Montrose!” I say in outrage.

  “Who is this Montrose?” asks the Comtesse.

  “Mes sentiments, exactement,” I tell her.

  Supper is taken in the dining room. The band of the Norfolk Regiment play Bizet, while I play host to my French guests—not to mention the three hundred others who swoop on the Mousse de Saumon aux Concombres and the Ortolans à L’Aspic as if they haven’t seen food in a fortnight. I suppose the dancing gives them an appetite. The Duc de la Trémouille attacks the Noisette d’Agneau à l’Anglaise as if he were taking revenge for Waterloo.

  After the strawberries, the plates are cleared, coffee and cigars are handed around and I become an object of surpassing interest, for no one may rise to respond to a call of nature until I get up from my chair.

  I stand and make an expansive gesture that signals relief for all who need it. This is also the cue for frisky debutantes to slip away from their chaperons and make assignations in the corridors.

  I cross to the table where Francis Knollys is seated with some kindred spirits, among them Christopher Sykes and Lord Arthur Somerset, who is known to us all in the Marlborough House set as Podge.

  Before the dancing resumes, I mean to obtain a more coherent account of the funeral. The cortege, Knollys informs us, consisted of six funeral carriages of family mourners, the hearse itself, a large brake loaded with wreaths and floral tributes and up to twenty private carriages. Although the principal racehorse own­ers had not considered it appropriate to attend, the Turf was honorably represented by Mr. Tattersall, of the famous firm; John Porter and Tom Jennings, two of the most distinguished trainers of recent years; Tom Cannon, Fred’s old rival in the saddle; and my co-investigator, Charlie Buckfast. Wholly unfit to be included in such company (I’m compelled to mention the monster because he will figure in our story) was Abington Baird, the notorious amateur rider known as the Squire.

  The cortege left Falmouth House at 2 p.m. and drove the mile or so into town along the road beside the Heath, past a continuous line of stable lads, who showed touching respect for the great Fred by posting themselves like guards of honor at a state funeral. In the long main street of Newmarket, where every shop was closed, with blinds drawn at all the windows, the townsfolk stood three and four deep, oblivious of the rain. The tide of people at the cemetery gates delayed the cortege for some minutes, for the police had stopped the public from entering. Only the immediate family entered the small chapel for the funeral service. Then Archer was laid to rest in a plot lined with laurel leaves and white chrysanthemums, beside the graves of his wife and infant son. I heard that his father was too distressed to attend.

  “Was anything said about the suicide?” I ask Knollys.

  “By the vicar, sir?”

  “By anyone at all.”

  “It was generally spoken of as a dreadful tragedy.”

  “Not as a mystery?”

  “Not that I heard, sir.”

  “Podge” Somerset has been listening keenly, yet draws back now and takes an unwarranted interest in his cigar, as if it just flew into his hand. I’m not standing for that kind of evasion.

  “What do you know about it?” I ask.

  “Nothing worth saying at all,” he hedges.

  “Out with it, Podge. You may be well padded, but you’re very transparent.”

  He flushes scarlet. “I would only care to comment, sir, that I’m not surprised Archer shot himself. He was in very bad odor after the Cambridgeshire.”

  “Oh? Who with?”

  “My brother Edward for one.”

  “What does Edward have to complain about? His horse was well beaten.”

  “It was stopped.”

  I stare at him in amazement. He’s telling me that Carlton, the 4-1 favorite, was not allowed to win. You often hear ill-founded accusations after a favorite fails to please, but this comes from the owner. If true, it warrants a Jockey Club inquiry, at the least.

  I’m trying to follow the logic of what he’s just suggested, but he’s lost me. Even if Carlton were stopped, why should Archer be blamed? Woodburn was the rider, not Archer.

  He explains, “Woodburn was bribed by Archer to throw the race.”

  I’m speechless.

  He adds, “Since his wife died, Archer had nothing to live for except his racing. Winning the Cambridgeshire became his obsession. He would use any means. He decided Carlton was the main threat, so he paid Woodburn to lose, but he reckoned without the outsider. He was devastated. That’s why he killed himself, Bertie.”

  After a moment to contain myself, I say, “Podge, do you know what you’re suggesting—that the greatest jockey in the kingdom was corrupt?”

  “I say it, sir.”

  Christopher Sykes, that beanpole of a fellow with sad eyes and the longest face you ever saw, who was manifestly sent into the world to be a victim of practical jokes, and unendingly tries to convince me otherwise, asks Podge, “Have you spoken to Woodburn? Have you accused him to his face of taking a bribe?”

  “My brother has.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “The man denies it. Naturally he would. His livelihood is at stake.”

  “Then you have some other proof?”

  Podge begins to flounder. “Not exactly proof, but I’m darned sure we could obtain it if we tried. Now that Archer’s dead, it seems churlish to pursue it.”

  At this, I see red. “That’s decent of you, I must say! You and your brother slander a man who is scarcely in his grave and then admit you haven’t a shred of proof to support you. But you’re such fair-minded fellows that you’re not even proposing to supply the proof. Fair-minded, my arse! You’re a muckraker of the worst sort, Somerset, and I’ve heard as much as I can stand.”

  With that, I march back to the ballroom, and as I go, I’m sorry to say, I strike panic into numbers of my guests, who step backward and press themselves against the wall—always a sign that I’m glaring at people. You may think I was unduly harsh on Podge considering that I’d practically commanded him to expound his theory. Perhaps I was. I had a strong respect for Archer. In my opinion he was neither bad, nor mad, and I shall prove it.

  While the first waltz after supper is in progress, I compose myself by sitting with the Earl and Lady de Grey, or Fred and Gladys as I know them. Fred is the best shot in England, and that’s saying a lot, but it is the lot, so far as anyone is aware, except possibly Gladys. She dotes on him, so perhaps there’s more to the little man than we give him credit for, though between ourselves, he caught her on the rebound, lucky fellow. She was married first to the fourth Earl of Lonsdale, who treated her disgracefully. His sudden death was a blessed release for Gladys. She’s still only twenty-seven, and, I don’t mind repeat­ing, a fascinating creature. I ask her to dance.

  I’m still brooding over Podge’s monstrous allegation. Even supposing the unthinkable were true, and Archer actually did pay a bribe to another jockey, the thwarting of his plan was hardly grounds for suicide. All right, the Cambridgeshire was about the only race of note that he never won, and the wasting he was willing to endure to make good the omission was extraordinary, even obsessive, to use Podge’s phrase. Yet at twenty-nine he could have looked forward to other Cambridgeshires. Plenty of jockeys go past forty. Why stake his reputation, indeed his life, on the outcome of this one race?

  Gladys de Grey interrupts my brown study by remarking, “Perhaps in this case feminine intuition may be of assistance.”

  I frown. “What makes you say that?”

  She smiles. She looks bewitching in a diamond tiara, with a rope of antique pearls wound in triple around her neck and suspended in a long loop from her bare shoulders across her bosom to the level of her waist. She tells me, “Like every other woman in the room, I’ve been watching you, sir. It’s evident that you have something on your mind. Would I be right in divining that it is not unconnected with a sad event at Newmarket?”

  “Good Lord, Gladys, how the deuce . . . ?”

  “I have my sources.”

  I affect a stern look. “Don’t be evasive with me, young lady, or . . .”

  Another smile dawns. “Or what, Your Royal Highness? How do you deal with evasive females—shut them up in the Tower, or is that a thing of the past?”

  The dance is coming to an end. I signal to Signore Curti to prolong it, and I confide to Gladys, “The punishment I propose for you is far more severe than a spell in the Tower. I shall force you to dance with me until you promise to cooperate.”

  She says solemnly, “How could I not cooperate with a man who dances as divinely as this? I am utterly at your mercy, sir. I shall tell all. I saw you in earnest conversation with a certain gentleman who arrived late for the ball, so I asked Charlotte Knollys where her brother had been today.”

  “Ah.”

  She sighs. “Now you’re no longer impressed.”

  “Untrue. Let’s put this intuition of yours to the test. Where would you look for an explanation of Fred Archer’s suicide?”

  She raises her eyebrows as if the answer is obvious. “Cherchez la femme, I should think.”

  I stop dancing and cause a shunt down the length of the ballroom. “A woman. Archer had no time for women.”

  “He married one,” says Gladys flatly.

  “Yes, but she died.”

  “. . . leaving him alone in the world with a beautiful house and oodles of money. Of course there was a woman ready to fill the gap.”

  “Name her, then.”

  Gladys smiles wickedly and recites a verse that was current a year or two ago:

  “Isn’t Craw a lucky boy

  With Carrie Red and Corrie Roy?

  Corrie Roy and Carrie Red—

  One for the stable and one for the bed.”

  I’d better translate. “Craw” was the late Stirling Crawfurd, a distinguished figure of the Turf, and Corrie Roy won the Cesare-witch for him. “Carrie Red” was his buxom and energetic wife.

  I say with a gasp of disbelief, “Carrie Montrose?”

  Gladys nods.

  I’ve given up any pretension of dancing. I lead her to the side of the ballroom. “Gladys, that’s grotesque! Carrie Montrose must be almost seventy!”

  “Sixty-eight. Why is it grotesque if an old woman desires a young man, when the reverse is so acceptable?”

  I sidestep that one. “Are you serious—about Carrie Montrose?”

  Her brown eyes lock with mine, and she almost dares me to challenge her. “Believe me, she was actively pursuing him. She offered to marry him.”

  “How can you know this?”

  “I listen, Bertie. What else is there for a respectable married lady to do but take an interest in what the not-so-respectable ones are doing?”

  She follows that with a penetrating look. The fact has not escaped me that she has addressed me for the first time as Bertie. I escort her back to the best shot in England, thinking, after all, that they are well matched.

  CHAPTER 7

  The ball ended officially at 2 a.m. on Saturday morning. After the last carriages had left, my houseguests amused themselves for a while with my barrel organ, until, toward 3 a.m., I bade good night to the ladies and led the gentlemen to the smoking room. I have noticed many times that there’s nothing like a smoking-room party in the small hours to bring out the true character of one’s associates. Randolph got up a noisy game with the French in the bowling alley next door; Christian sank into my favorite armchair and snored; Knollys went straight to the brandy; Podge Somerset, wishing he were a million miles away after his dressing-down, wandered about the walls studying my Leech pictures as if he had never set eyes on them in his life; and the Great Xtopher (Sykes) tried to prove himself indispensable by poking the fire.

  Sykes it was who brought up the subject of Archer again. I suppose he was interceding on Somerset’s behalf, trying to suggest that there might after all be something in the story of bribery, although you can never be certain with Christopher. He’s learned to distract me when the brandy is being served. One evening after dinner at the Marlborough Club, when tedium was setting in, I acted on a whim and tipped my glass of brandy over his head. Nothing remarkable in that, except that the fellow bore it like a philosopher, letting the liquid trickle down the length of his face and beard onto his dress shirt and dinner jacket, before turning a damp face to me and saying in his solemn voice, “As your Royal Highness pleases,” and causing every one of us to howl with laughter. I’m still helpless if I picture it. Naturally, it became a party turn. Now no evening is complete until Sykes has been dowsed with brandy, a full decanter if possible, or had my cigar stubbed out on the back of his hand. His response is always that impeccably obliging, “As your Royal Highness pleases,” and hilarious to hear.

  Before a glass was put in my hand, he said, “There was something I meant to mention earlier, sir, about the Cambridge­shire, but the opportunity passed.”

  I eyed him without much show of interest.

  He moved as close as he dared. “Touching on the possibility—the remote possibility—that the race was not to the fastest, so to speak, I heard from a certain source that a personage not unknown in Turf circles made a tidy sum by backing the outsider that won.”

  “So what?” I commented. “I backed it myself at 25-1.”

  “Sir, this individual netted fifty thousand on the race.”

  “Fifty thou?”

  “He spread his investment over several bookmakers. He dined at Romano’s the same evening and was boasting to all and sundry about his coup.”

  “Well, don’t be so blessed mysterious, Christopher. Who was this lucky blighter?”

  “Baird, sir.”

  After a moment’s hesitation I said warily, “Do you mean Abington Baird? The Squire?”

  Sykes gave a nod and followed it with a grave stare—and no one in my circle can stare more gravely than he.

  I’m not sure how I received this information. I may have whistled, or vibrated my lips like a horse, or uttered a profanity. At any rate, I took the point about Baird. If that monster of iniquity had backed the winner, questions indubitably had to be asked.

  It won’t have escaped you, I’m certain, that Baird’s name has already been raised. He was mentioned to me by Knollys as one of the mourners at Archer’s funeral. And now, in case you suspect me of prejudice, I shall enlighten you about Mr. Baird’s reputa­tion.

  He is a young man still in his twenties, of immense wealth, some three million pounds, which he inherited on his twenty-first birthday. His father and uncles, the seven sons of an impover­ished Scottish farmer, built their fortunes out of coal, iron and the railways. The family firm of William Baird & Company now owns and mines vast areas of Western Scotland, and those brothers who founded it represent all that is estimable in the Scots character: energy, enterprise and foresight, governed by thrift and piety.

  Unhappily, none of this except the money was passed on to the next generation—by which I mean George Alexander Baird, known in racing circles as Mr. Abington or the Squire. He was sent to Eton and Cambridge to be educated as a gentleman and drove his tutors to the point of despair. If rumor is true, he didn’t attend a single lecture while up at Magdalen. He went elsewhere for his schooling, to gambling dens and low public houses and penny gaffs. He consorted with women of doubtful repute. He surrounded himself with an odious gang of roughs and pugilists and took a fiendish delight in giving offense to decent people. One of his favorite tricks upon entering a restaurant or public house was to knock off a stranger’s hat or snatch his cigar. Were the victim so rash as to protest, he was liable to have his nose bloodied by one of the Squire’s pugilistic following. The latter, I may say, included Mitchell and Smith, champions of England.

  It occurs to me on reading over the previous paragraph that certain newspapers obsessed by stories of indiscretions in high places might be tempted to make invidious comparisons. They had better be advised that there is an absolute distinction between private high spirits and public rowdyism.

 

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