Christina came from Sweden to stay at the Dorchester, giving herself time to purchase a new outfit. She had traveled alone and was met by officers at the airport in case she was pestered by journalists, but none were there. She moved into her suite. Alone in London, she felt a terrible sense of loss. If she saw de Jersey, she had no notion of how she would react. And if he did show, she was expected to give him up. Now she did not know if she could do it.
The officers were ready. It was still only an outside bet that de Jersey would turn up, but it was one on which Rodgers was risking his career. The cost of the investigation and the massive surveillance operation to take place at the racecourse were under review, as were his actions. He had rented his morning suit with his gray silk top hat. At least he would go down looking like a gent, or up looking like one, depending on the outcome of the day.
At last it was Saturday, June 8-Derby Day. The Derby was the fourth race. The first race had been over for twenty minutes, and the horses for the second were cantering to the start. There had been no sighting of de Jersey, but there was a bigger crowd this year than ever before, swelled by the press’s anticipation of a win by Royal Flush and the fact that everyone felt sure the most wanted man in Britain would be there. Some hoped to see a dramatic arrest. Others hoped he would be seen but get away.
De Jersey walked up to a rather drunken reveler and offered him two hundred pounds to exchange suits with him. When the man hesitated, he upped it to three hundred. They went into the men’s cloakroom, and while they switched clothes the flushed boy asked why he hadn’t got a suit already.
“Because I’m Edward de Jersey,” he said and walked out. He disappeared into the crowds.
The boy became hysterical. He forgot to do up his flies because he was so eager to find someone to tell and grabbed a uniformed officer, who tried to fight him off. “He’s here, that man they want, the guy from the jewel robbery!”
“What?”
“What about the reward? Will I get the reward? I’ve just seen him!”
“Oh, yeah, right, you and two hundred others, mate,” said the copper.
“I’m telling you the truth. He’s wearing my bloody suit.”
The rumors started, and the police were galvanized into searching the men’s cloakroom and surrounding areas, but by this time de Jersey had made his way over to the saddling area. He approached his former trainer. “Hello, Donald, it’s me.”
Fleming turned and almost dropped the saddle. “You’re crazy. The place is crawling with cops.”
“I know, but I wanted to give you this. It’s ownership of a certain horse. She’s in the States, Donald, in quarantine, and the foal’s doing well. The foal is yours and Mickey’s. It’s gonna make you both rich.”
Fleming didn’t know how to react or what to say. Suddenly he was close to tears. “I’ll tell Mickey. His wife’s pregnant and-”
De Jersey moved off without another word. Fleming had not even had time to shake his hand.
They had de Jersey on camera, heading out of the saddling area, but when they got there he had disappeared. The next sighting was at a booth selling cockles and mussels. He bought some and paid with a fifty-pound note, telling the vendor to keep the change. Rodgers, accompanied by Sara Redmond, was apoplectic.
The Derby runners were now being paraded in the ring as the jockeys came out to meet the owners and trainers. There was uproar as Royal Flush’s jockey walked out. No matter what he thought about his former boss being a jewel thief, de Jersey had secured him the ride as part of the contract, and Mickey wanted to show his respect. He rode out carrying de Jersey’s colors, holding the silk shirt high above his head. He waved it around madly before it was wrenched away from him by the Sheikh’s bodyguard, but it had been caught on camera, seen by the crowd and by TV viewers around the country.
The police continued searching for de Jersey, but it was like hunting for the Scarlet Pimpernel. He was sighted virtually all over the track as the riders assembled at the start.
Christina, in a box belonging to a major racing family, watched the television broadcast. It was obvious that de Jersey was there, but where? Very distressed, she sat down by the TV screen as an officer entered the box and asked if she had seen her husband.
“No, I haven’t. Please, leave me alone.”
He left, but two officers were positioned outside. If Christina walked out, they would be right on her tail, but she remained seated, holding an untouched glass of champagne, her eyes on the screen. When she had seen Mickey Rowland wave her husband’s colors, she had almost dropped the glass. The owners of the box had given up attempting to make her feel part of their celebrations. To some extent her presence made everyone anxious, and the thought that her husband might appear heightened their excitement to fever pitch. In the end Christina excused herself and said she was going to the cloakroom.
She knew she was being followed, and when she got to the ladies’ room she turned to the officers and gave them a charming smile. “I won’t be a moment, but I don’t think it would be in order for you to join me in here.”
She went into one of the cubicles, closed the door, and leaned against it. The tension was unbearable. She talked herself calm and walked out to look in the mirror. The face that gazed back at her was pale, and her eyes seemed overlarge. Her hands shook as she reapplied her makeup and adjusted her wide-brimmed hat. She took a deep breath and walked out. The two officers stood aside as she joined them. “I think I’d like to go and watch the race in the owners’ and trainers’ stand.”
“Okay, Mrs. de Jersey, but we will have to accompany you.”
“I understand.”
They moved off, and the crowds knew something was up. Even if they didn’t recognize the beautiful woman with two uniformed officers at either side of her, they moved aside to allow the three to pass. A steward tried to bar their entry, but the officers showed their ID. One used a walkie-talkie to report that Mrs. de Jersey had requested to watch the race close to the fence.
The horses were under starter’s orders, and the police now had twenty-five sightings of de Jersey. What they didn’t know was that he wasn’t in the boxes or on the balconies. Instead, he had made his way toward Gypsy Hill, where the buses, the funfair, and all the East End families were gathered. He stuck out like a sore thumb. No one else there was in top hat and tails, and folks started to call his name as they ushered him closer and closer to the rails to watch the race. Among his own people he felt at home, and they gathered around him in an almost protective circle.
One man pushed, shoved, and elbowed his way toward the tall figure. He had broken out in a sweat in his eagerness to get to de Jersey, to touch him, to let him know he was there.
“Eddy, Eddy,” he shouted, standing on tiptoe. He bent down and tried to squeeze between the pressing bodies. “Eddy. Eddy!” He could just see his quarry through the crowd.
“Eddy, it’s me! I know him, let me through!”
De Jersey, hemmed in by men and women, some asking for his autograph, did a half turn and saw the round, sweating face of Harry Smedley. “Let my friend through,” he said and raised an arm as Smedley reached his side.