It was nearly two by the time Charles and Bradford arrived at the Devil’s Dike, a small out-of-the-way pub on the Exning Road, and Charles feared that Jack Murray might have given them up and departed. But the Jockey Club investigator was smoking his cigar at an inconspicuous table in the dusky rear, and when Charles and Bradford approached, he stood and extended his hand. When they were all three seated, a burly, bearded man in a stained white apron came to the table to ask what they’d have. They ordered a pitcher of ale, with sausages for Charles and Murray, and cottage pie for Bradford.

“We were at the Grange House Stable this morning,” Charles said, while Jack Murray poured ale. “The horses will be arriving in a few days.”

“Very good, sir,” Murray replied.

He was a man of medium stature, well above middle age, with sparse and graying hair, large, sad eyes, and a mournful expression that seemed permanently written across his face. There was a scrape on his chin where he’d cut himself shaving, his tie was crooked, and the sleeves of his tweed coat were too long, reaching nearly to the tips of his spatulate fingers. If he were noticed at all, which was doubtful, Jack Murray might have been taken for one of those invisible men who spend their mornings and evenings on a grimy train and their days in a dreary London office.

But Charles knew otherwise, for he was acquainted with Murray ’s distinguished thirty-year career at the Yard, and with a few of the difficult cases he had solved. If intelligence, training, and instinct were the necessary qualifications for an investigation into Turf corruption, this retired detective could have easily handled it by himself. Admiral North was right, however; it would be impossible for Murray to carry out an investigation involving gentlemen racehorse owners without attracting attention to himself. He obviously wasn’t a gentleman, although he wasn’t obviously a policeman, either.

“Did you bring Madame Zahray’s report?” Charles inquired.

Murray started, as if he had been recalled from a dream, then reached into his breast pocket and produced an envelope, sealed. “I believe, sir,” he said gloomily, “that this is what you’re after.” His slow, deep voice was flavored with Suffolk.

Charles took the unaddressed envelope, picked up a knife from the table, and slit it. In it was a single sheet of stationery, printed name and address at the top, centered: Lucianna Zahray, 1734 Old Post Road, London. Below this was written, in a spidery hand, the date, and a single sentence: “Regret to report that alkaloids appear present (cocaine most likely possibility) but blood sample insufficient for specific identification.” This telegraphic missive was signed L. Zahray.

Charles handed the letter back to Murray, who read it without expression, then gave it to Bradford.

“Unfortunate,” Bradford said. He raised his eyebrows. “Who the devil is Lucianna Zahray?”

“Madame Zahray,” Charles said, “is a respected analytical chemist of Austrian descent who has been of great help in answering previous questions I have put to her. If she cannot positively identify the drug that was used on Gladiator, no one else in England can. This was a long shot, though, and I’m not surprised that she couldn’t give us an answer. I expected that the sample would prove insufficient.”

Murray spoke in a deeply apologetic tone. “The analytical chemist tested what, exactly, sir? I don’t believe I was told.”

“Blood that was drawn from Gladiator about ninety minutes after the Derby,” Charles said. “Regrettably, it was a small sample, since we obtained it surreptitiously, and the veterinary surgeon was interrupted at his task.” He sighed, thinking that had he known that Patrick was charged with the horse’s care, they might have gotten what they needed a great deal more easily.

“Which leaves us nowhere,” Bradford said, over his glass of ale.

“For the moment, at least,” Charles replied, “although I haven’t given up on the testing just yet. There’s more to be learned there.” To Murray, he added, “Have you come up with anything, Jack? What about the betting?”

Murray cleared his throat. “The horse ran at very long odds, as you know, sir. Lord Reginald Hunt, the owner, wagered heavily on him. Dick Doyle, and the stable too, all laid on.” Martin pulled his thick gray brows together. “When the horse failed to finish, Lord Hunt, for one, had to scramble. It’s said that he paid a hasty visit to Henry Radwick, who wasn’t kind to him. Took Glenoaks and a horse besides. It’s also said that he had a bit on with Alfred Day, off the books, and hasn’t yet covered.”

“Dick Doyle.” Bradford looked thoughtful. “A very astute man, and not a plunger. Doubt he’d lay hard on a whim.” He grinned mirthlessly. “Certainly sounds as if something was on, doesn’t it?”

Charles thought about what Patrick had told him. “Is it known who was with Gladiator before the race, Jack?”

“Mr. Angus Duncan, of course, and Pinkie Duncan-that’s old Angus’s nephew-and the traveling lad, a young boy.” Murray paused. “Also, a veterinary surgeon who arrived with the farrier.”

“The surgeon’s name?”

Murray looked rueful. “Sorry, sir. Haven’t yet learned it. The farrier isn’t saying, and I haven’t approached the stable yet.” He lowered his voice and leaned forward. “I’ve had a bit of a talk with Mr. Lambton, though, in confidence, sir. I trust you don’t mind.”

“That would be George Lambton, the Earl of Derby’s trainer,” Bradford said in an explanatory tone to Charles. “One of the best in the business.”

“Right, sir. Mr. Lambton is deeply concerned about this ‘dastardly doping business,’ as he calls it, sir. He says it’s the Americans who have brought it here, and especially Enoch Wishard and Jesse Clark, the trainers at the Red House Stable in St. Mary’s Square. ‘Yankee alchemists’ is what he calls them.” He looked out from under his eyebrows at Charles. “He says if there’s anything he can do to help, sir, he’s ready.”

“I see,” Charles remarked thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose Mr. Lambton has any evidence to support his opinion that this is a ‘dastardly’ business. Horses injured, anything like that?”

“One horse killed,” Murray said. “Ran into a stone wall after winning a race. Had to be shot.” His face settled back into its former gloomy expression, as two plates of greasy sausages and a cottage pie arrived, supplying a diversion. Charles, however, was not finished with his questions.

“The farrier,” he said. “What is his name? Where is he to be found?”

“Rickaby, sir,” Murray said, around a forkful of sausage. The food did not make him any more cheerful. “Harper’s Farm, near Epsom.”

“Very well, then,” Charles said, “if we are not able to learn the veterinary surgeon’s name by other means, we shall travel to Epsom and impose a few questions on Rickaby.” He paused. “I should think a talk with Jesse Clark might be profitable, as well.”

“Yes, sir,” Murray replied. “If he isn’t at the stables, he lodges at Chubbs, on Highgate Street, off Fitzroy Street.”