“Ah, Sheridan. Kind of you to join us.”
“Thank you, Admiral,” Charles said. Admiral Owen North was an acquaintance and a Fellow, as was Charles, of the Royal Photographic Society. He was also an avid amateur entomologist with an outstanding collection of photographs of rare arachnids taken on his travels around the world. As well, he was a prominent member of the Jockey Club and a Club steward, responsible for the orderly running of the races and for hearing objections filed against jockeys or owners.
The admiral gestured at the other two men. “You’re perhaps acquainted with Sir Joshua Granville and Lord Richard Longford. Gentlemen, Lord Charles Sheridan. At my request, he set up the automatic camera that photographed today’s finish. All went well with the experiment, I take it, Sheridan?”
“It did,” Charles said. “My assistant should have the photographs ready within the hour. If you intend to continue the practice, he proposes to train the Epsom staff and work out some method of rapid development and printing, so that if the finish is in question, there can be a timely resolution.”
Charles did not offer a detailed technical report, for he knew that Granville and Longford had little interest in the intricacies of stop-action photography. It had been one of his passions since he had heard Eadweard Muybridge speak on the subject at the Royal Institution in 1882. Muybridge’s photographs of animal locomotion had impressed Charles with the idea that in addition to accurately documenting what the eye could see, photography might also reveal things that happened too fast for the eye to see and the mind to grasp. Over the last two decades, the sensitivity of emulsions and the speed of lenses had improved markedly, allowing him to conduct his own stop-action experiments. And just a few years ago, the Thornton-Pickard Company had introduced a revolutionary focal-plane shutter. This device, which resembled two roll-type window shades joined by a length of chain on each edge, allowed the exposure to be reduced to one one-thousandth of a second-a speed more than adequate to freeze a galloping horse. But none of this was of interest to these worthy gentlemen. All that concerned them was that single, frozen instant when the first horse crossed the finish line, and that Charles could guarantee to give them.
“Good show, Sheridan!” Sir Joshua exclaimed. He had rheumy eyes and a bulbous red nose that seemed almost to glow, and he stood and shook hands eagerly with Charles. But Lord Richard, a gaunt, bent old man of some seventy-odd years, remained slumped in his chair, peering suspiciously through his pince-nez.
“Somersworth, isn’t it, rather?” he asked. “Fine old name. I knew your father, the third baron. A damn good stable he had. And your brother too, of course. Somersworth,” he repeated, with emphasis. “Fine old name.”
“I prefer Sheridan, sir,” Charles said firmly, and took the remaining chair.
Upon his brother’s death several years before, Charles had reluctantly assumed Robert’s responsibilities: the management of the family estates in England, including those at Somersworth, where his mother still lived; and the family peerage in the House of Lords, where his liberal leanings had earned him few friendships. But while Charles was prepared to make accommodations to duty, he held firm on three counts. He would not play more than a minor role in Society, which he considered a tedious, trivial enterprise. He would not abandon his interests in the natural sciences, photography, and the new forensic technologies. And he would most definitely not assume the title of Somersworth when he had a perfectly serviceable name of his own.
“Hem,” Lord Richard remarked critically, making a tent of his fingers. Sir Joshua cleared his throat and put on a neutral expression, but said nothing. North signaled to a footman waiting in the corner, who brought Charles a cup of steaming coffee and a brandy. When he had left the room, the admiral spoke again.
“Afraid it’s not just the photography that we wanted to discuss with you, Sheridan,” he said soberly. “We have a rather significant difficulty before us, and we hope you’ll agree to lend a hand.”
Charles raised his eyebrows. “An objection’s been filed, then, I take it.”
“Exactly!” Sir Joshua cried in some agitation. He sat forward in his chair, his hands on his knees, and his nose seemed to glow more brightly than before. “Exactly so, sir. An objection.”
North sighed. “It’s the tragedy at the corner, as you might have guessed. Objections have been lodged against both Gladiator and Flying Fox by Squire Mannington, owner of Ricochet.”
“But Ricochet didn’t finish,” Charles said. “And neither did Gladiator. I couldn’t see what happened at the corner, but only six of the eight starters came home.”
“Gladiator jumped the rail and bolted into the crowd, just at the top of the straightaway,” North replied. “His jockey was killed outright, and several spectators were injured, one seriously. Ricochet broke a fetlock and had to be destroyed.”
“A bad business,” Lord Richard said gloomily, tapping his lips with a shriveled finger.
“A very bad business indeed,” the admiral said, returning to his chair. “Those who witnessed the affair are agreed that the objection has a certain validity. But Gladiator’s jockey is dead and a penalty can scarcely be entered against him. And since Ricochet had to be destroyed, it seems pointless to take the win from Flying Fox.”
Charles pursed his lips. “I wonder what the squire intends to gain by his objections.”
“No good, I’ll tell you that!” Sir Joshua exclaimed, growing still more agitated. “Go on, North. Go on.”
“We fear,” the admiral said, “that Squire Mannington may mean to use the objection as a preliminary step in a lawsuit against Lord Reginald Hunt, the owner of Gladiator, and against the Duke of Westminster, Flying Fox’s owner.” He smiled dryly. “As you might surmise, the stewards are not anxious to be called to testify in such a suit.” He glanced at the others. “Have I summarized the situation adequately?”
Lord Richard gave a curt nod. “Oh, indeed,” Sir Joshua said nervously. “Very well said, Admiral. Well said indeed, sir.”
Charles reflected that a lawsuit was the very last thing the Jockey Club ever wanted, but he only said, “The reports I’ve heard were vague and confused. What actually happened?”
Admiral North rose once more and went to stand before the fire, lifting his coattails to warm himself. “They were running clear into the corner, Flying Fox and Ricochet in the lead by several lengths, Count Bolo trailing, Gladiator on the outside. Gladiator began coming up fast and crossed in front of Count Bolo toward the rail, forcing Flying Fox into Ricochet. Flying Fox recovered, but Ricochet stumbled and went down. Gladiator jumped the rail, throwing his jockey. The boy’s neck was broken.”
“Dead on the spot,” Sir Joshua muttered. He touched his nose tenderly. “Pity. A fine young rider. Won the Cambridgeshire for me on Fairfax. Was hoping he’d do the same on Haycock.”