Charles bowed to Mrs. Hogsworth as Edith, lovely in a pale yellow gown, poured for him. She handed him the snifter with a glance of mute apology, and Charles smiled at her.

Bradford remarked, “I suppose you were looking after that business for the Jockey Club, Sheridan. Did you manage to locate the veterinary who did the doping?”

Taking his brandy, Charles glanced at Bradford in some surprise, then remembered that the two of them had not spoken since breakfast that morning-before Owen North had asked him to take on the investigation into Alfred Day’s murder. A great deal had happened in a relatively few hours, and Bradford knew none of it. He was trying to decide what sort of answer he should make when the colonel, in his emphatic way, broke in.

“Horse doping.” He gave a disgusted grunt and went to stand before the fire, blocking most of its heat. “Nasty business. Worst disgrace ever visited on British racing. All the doing of those bloody Americans. Don’t understand why the stewards don’t put their foot down. No stomach, I suppose.”

“Now, Colonel,” his wife said in a cautionary tone.

“Don’t ‘now, Colonel’ me, Clarice,” Colonel Hogsworth said angrily. “I mean what I say. Appalling disgrace. Damn those Americans.”

With a little sigh, Mrs. Hogsworth leaned toward Charles and confided, “I’m afraid that my husband is rather vehement on the subject of people who come from the States, Lord Charles.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He doesn’t like them. Particularly those from Brazil. Something to do with coffee, I believe.”

“Mama,” Edith said quietly, “ Brazil is in South America.”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Hogsworth replied. “It’s near Texas, I understand.” She shivered a little. “One hears so many strange stories about Texas. It must truly be a wild place.”

“No true horse lover likes the Americans!” the colonel exclaimed, rising to his toes, his jowls reddening. “No care for the horses. Buy ’em, dope ’em, run ’em, and shoot ’em when they’ve run their hearts out. In it for the money, that’s all. And now they’re corrupting honest English stables.”

Mrs. Hogsworth made yet another attempt to retrieve the conversation. “Well, then, Lord Charles!” she exclaimed, smiling brightly. “Pray tell me what you think of our Edith’s engagement to Lord Bradford. We’re quite pleased, of course.” She bestowed a kindly glance on Bradford. “Edith and his lordship seem to have so many common interests. Edith occasionally helps her godfather, Cecil Rhodes, by writing a letter or two for him. Not a position, of course, just an occasional offer of help. It was at his office that they met.” She tilted her head to one side, like a bird. “Your lordship has heard of Mr. Rhodes, I’m sure. He’s going to put a stop to that ridiculous Boer business down there in Argentina. The idea of those savages, daring to rise against their Queen!”

Charles was saved the embarrassment of answering this preposterous remark by the colonel, who turned round to say to Bradford: “Don’t suppose you’ve heard the latest news, since you and Edith were traipsing round Cambridge all day. One of the local bookmakers, rather clever chap by the name of Alfred Day, was murdered last night-by an American trainer, I understand. Jesse Clark. Shot him dead with a revolver as big as a cannon. Aimed to keep Day from organizing the bookmakers against doping.”

“Really, Colonel,” Mrs. Hogsworth said in a plaintive tone, “Shooting isn’t a fit subject for-”

“Actually, Mama,” Edith said cheerfully, “ Bradford has told me all about the murder. He and Lord Charles saw the poor man’s dead body, terribly bloody and quite shot full of holes, in the alley behind the Great Horse. In fact, they were the ones who summoned the constable.”

With a little gasp, Mrs. Hogsworth raised her hand to her mouth. “Goodness gracious!” she exclaimed weakly. “But I do so wish we would not speak of-”

“Did you now?” Colonel Hogsworth said, pulling his furry eyebrows together. “Capital, what? Did y’see Clark there too? Did the police nab him? Cert’nly hope so. Americans can’t be allowed to go around shooting civilized folk as if Newmarket were the Wild West.”

“I don’t think it’s been definitely established that Mr. Day was killed by Mr. Clark,” Charles said mildly.

“Well, if it’s not, it soon will be,” the colonel said in a settled tone, rising once again to his toes. “The Newmarket police may be slow, but they’re thorough. Always get their man.” He shook his head, glowering. “It’s not just the trainers and their doping, y’know. It’s the whole damned American invasion-don’t try to stop me, Clarice, it’s true. That pesky little jockey Sloan, for one. Outrageous! Hit a waiter in the face with a champagne bottle at the last Ascot. And those American gamblers, a whole string of ’em, coming over with their pockets full of gold. Heavy plungers, and all’s well if they win. But if they lose, they simply abscond.”

“You mean,” Mrs. Hogsworth said with a look of incredulity, “that the Americans don’t pay their lawful debts?”

“Hard to believe, but that’s the case, m’dear. When our English chaps lose, they lose honorably. They pay up, even if it takes the family’s last shilling. Take Lord Hunt, f’r instance, handing over Glenoaks to Henry Radwick so he could settle fair and square. That’s the way to lose, by Jove!” He punched the air. “You may be bloody and sore, but stand up and take your losses like a man-that’s a sportsman for you. Not the Americans, though. Not an ounce of honor, not a shred. That sniveling little fellow John Bass, for instance. Took the boat back to New York owing Alfred Day sixty thousand pounds on the Derby.”

“Sixty thousand pounds?” Charles murmured in some amazement, thinking back to his conversation with Badger’s clerk. That was an enormous loss for a bookmaker, even one as successful as Day. Why hadn’t Oliver Moore mentioned it? But then, perhaps he hadn’t known about it. Perhaps it had been a private wager, off the books. He frowned, wondering who the devil John Bass was, and whether the loss might have had anything to do with Alfred Day’s murder.

“Sixty thousand pounds,” the colonel repeated emphatically, with some satisfaction. “I heard Lord Hunt talking about it at the stable this afternoon, when I went over to have a look at one of my horses.”

“Colonel Hogsworth is speaking of the Grange House Stable,” Bradford said in a meaningful tone, with a glance at Charles. To Hogsworth, he remarked, “ Sheridan is planning to have a couple of horses trained at the Grange. We were there yesterday, as a matter of fact, to have a look around. Old Angus Duncan used to train for my father at Marsden Manor, you know. He’s quite an impressive fellow.”

The colonel pursed his lips. “I’d think twice about putting my horses there if I were you, Lord Charles,” he said judiciously. “I’m pulling out as soon as I find another stable. Old Angus is fine, as you say, but I don’t like the idea of that nephew of his taking over. Pinkie, his name is.”

“Oh?” Charles asked, raising his eyebrows. “Pinkie is assuming responsibility for the stable? Nothing was said of that.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a stout lady in a stained apron open the door and signal to her mistress that dinner was ready.

“Well, it’s so,” the colonel said. “I shouldn’t wonder if the stable goes right downhill when Angus is gone. Afraid Pinkie does not have his uncle’s upstanding character. Been involved in several rather shady-”

“Dinner has been announced,” Mrs. Hogsworth said, standing. “Tonight is the serving maid’s night out, so we shall be served by our cook.” She stood and took Charles’s arm. “And might I suggest that we find some other subject for our dinner discussion than horses and murders?” She smiled sweetly at Bradford, who was taking Edith in. “Perhaps you and Edith could tell us, Lord Marsden, what you did in Cambridge today. And after we’ve eaten, dear Edith has agreed to honor us with a few songs.”