Kate looked thoughtful. “This man Baird, the Squire-he’s dead?”

“He died in New Orleans five or six years ago,” Bradford said. “Drank himself to death, according to the newspapers. At the time, it was quite a story-in part because of Mrs. Langtry’s disappointment. Baird was worth some three or four million pounds, and she apparently expected to inherit. But he executed a codicil a few days before he departed for America, leaving everything to his mother. The Gilded Lily didn’t get a penny.”

“I wonder-” Kate began. But she didn’t get to finish. There was a loud knocking at the door, and Patrick burst in, wild-eyed. His shirt was torn and dirty, his nose dripped blood, and there was blood smeared on his hand and on his shirt and knickers. He looked utterly panic-stricken.

Charles, taken aback, leapt to his feet with an exclamation of concern. Bradford, too, stood quickly and came forward. But Kate, to her great credit, scarcely batted an eyelash.

“Patrick!” she said warmly, “how very delightful to see you! I was so pleased when his lordship told me that you would be here tonight.” She rose and went toward the boy. “My goodness, how tall you’ve grown, in such a very short time.” She bent over and kissed him on both cheeks, then, looking down at his hand, added, with only the slightest concern in her voice, “You seem to have gotten into quite a bit of blood, though. Did you meet with an accident on your way?”

Kate’s warm calm seemed to steady the boy. He took in a breath, straightened his shoulders, and turned to Charles. “It’s Mr. Day, the bookmaker, sir. He’s in the alley, behind the Great Horse.” He looked down at his bloody hand and grimaced. “He’s dead. Somebody killed him.”

“By Jove!” Bradford exclaimed. “Old Badger’s dead?” He started toward the door. “Well, then, let’s have a look. Come on, Sheridan. You too, boy. You can show us where you found him.”

Kate put out a hand. “I think,” she said, “that Patrick might stay here with me.”

Charles stood and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, meeting his wife’s eyes. “Patrick found the body, Kate, so the constable will want to speak with him. Stay here by the fire, my dear. We’ll be back in a little while.”

For a moment he thought she might argue to keep the boy with her. Then she reached for her shawl. “I’m coming too,” she said firmly.

This time, Charles knew better than to object.

It was nearly an hour later when the group rejoined in Bradford ’s lodging. The constable had been summoned, Patrick’s scanty evidence taken, and the body of Alfred Day, bookmaker, borne off to the surgery of a nearby doctor, who would perform an autopsy the following morning. But as Kate watched the proceedings, she thought that it didn’t require a doctor to confirm that the man had died violently. Anyone observing the corpse, even in the flickering light of the constable’s lantern, would have remarked on the bloody hole in the front of his brown waistcoat and realized that it was made by a gun, fired at close range.

Bradford went directly to the sideboard. “I think a brandy is in order,” he said, and began to pour.

“Patrick and I will have tea,” Kate said, with a glance at the boy, whose face was still very white. “And perhaps you might see whether there is any bread and butter in the pantry. While Patrick washes up,” she added, with a suggestive smile at the boy. She went to the gas kettle and lit it.

Bradford handed a brandy to Charles. “I think Mrs. Hardaway is still awake. I’ll see what she can find for us.”

A little later, Kate sat on one end of the sofa, pouring hot tea and passing a plate of bread and butter and slices of cake to Patrick, on the other end of the sofa. To her surprise, he took only one slice of bread and butter and declined the cake, explaining in a serious tone that all apprentice jockeys had to be very careful of their weight, for the lighter they were, the more likely they were to ride. To herself, Kate thought worriedly that Patrick could scarcely be much lighter, but she kept her concern to herself.

By mutual consent, there was little said about the dead man in the alleyway, other than Bradford’s remark that Newmarket was a betting town and saw its share of violent quarrels, which usually took place over money or women and often resulted in bloodshed. Kate observed that the crime had nothing to do with them, aside from the unfortunate happenstance of Patrick’s stumbling over the body, and changed the subject, drawing Patrick out about his adventures since leaving school and doing her best to show only interest and to hide the deep concern she felt at the thought of the boy tramping alone across half of southern England.

“Lord Charles tells me that you’re enjoying your work at the stable,” she said, after Patrick had sketched what was no doubt a much-abridged narrative of the months leading up to his coming to Newmarket. She smiled encouragingly. “I’m not surprised. I know how much you have always loved horses. And how very good you are with them.”

Patrick nodded. “I do love horses,” he said. “Especially Gladiator.” There was a pause, and a guarded glance at Bradford, whom he had met for the first time that night. Then, to Charles, a tentative “I was hoping you might help, m’lord.”

“Yes,” Charles said, tamping his pipe and lighting it, “we must talk about the horse. You said that someone made him drink something out of a bottle. Tell us more, please.”

With one more glance at Bradford, Patrick spoke rapidly, as if he were saying something he’d had on his mind for a while. “Well, you see, sir, Gladiator’s a lazy horse-at least, on the track. But when he’s galloped on Southfields or across the Flat on the west side of town, he goes like the wind.” A small, proud smile ghosted across his mouth. “As he did yesterday, with me up.”

“But the horse didn’t run like a lazy horse at the Derby,” Bradford remarked, from the depths of his overstuffed chair.

“No, sir.” Patrick’s face darkened. “Before the race, when the farrier was putting on his plates, Mr. Pinkie and a veterinary surgeon came. They gave Gladiator something in a bottle, and it made him…” He gestured with his hands, helplessly, and Kate saw that there were still traces of the dead man’s blood under his nails. “Right away, it made him act wild. It was all Johnny could do to get him off to a fair start, and when they got to the corner, the horse ran against the rail and-” His voice failed him and he dropped his head.

“We know,” Charles said sympathetically. “It’s too bad.”

Patrick’s head came up. “It wasn’t Johnny’s fault,” he said, in quick defense of his friend. A look of guilt washed over his face. “I had the chance to warn him and didn’t. If I’d told him, maybe he would have ridden differently-or not at all.”

“I doubt that’s so,” Bradford said gently. “When a horse turns savage, there’s not much a jockey can do except try to hold on. And your friend couldn’t reject a ride he’d agreed to and hope to keep riding-especially at the Derby.”

“Gladiator’s not a savage horse!” Patrick exclaimed. “At least, not by nature.” Kate heard the indignation and outrage in his voice and realized how much he was altered from the boy she had known. “Whatever they made him drink,” he said roughly, “that’s what made him wild. The ones who poured that stuff down the horse-they’re the ones who killed Johnny.”