The laughter was genuine, the appreciation sincere. Rus spent time chatting quietly to Adelaide; while Barnaby entertained the General and Eugenia, Dillon and Pris exchanged opinions on card games, curricle racing, and dogs.
But when the last course was cleared and the covers drawn, the General looked around and smiled. “Perhaps, in the circumstances, Lady Fowles, Miss Blake, and I will retire to the drawing room and leave you four to your deliberations.”
“Indeed.” Eugenia pushed back her chair. “But don’t take too long. We’ll expect you to join us for tea.”
The men stood as she did. The General offered Eugenia his arm; with Adelaide on his other side, the three left the room, already chatting.
Dillon sank back into his chair next to Pris. Barnaby remained opposite; Rus switched chairs to sit beside him. Before they could say a word, the door swung open and Jacobs entered carrying the port decanter on a tray.
He halted, blinked.
Dillon glanced at Pris, but she was frowning at the tabletop. He jogged her elbow; when she looked up, with his head he indicated Jacobs, waiting, uncertain what to do. Pris stared, then looked back at Dillon. He opened his eyes wide at her.
She realized. “Oh! Yes-do go ahead.” She waved distractedly. “What ever it is you do.”
“Pour three glasses,” Dillon instructed Jacobs, “then take the decanter to the General in the drawing room. I’m sure Lady Fowles won’t mind.”
“Very good, sir.”
Jacobs set the three glasses at Dillon’s elbow. He passed two to Rus and Barnaby, then lifted his and sipped.
“To success,” Barnaby said, and drank.
Rus and Dillon murmured agreement, then Dillon set down his glass. “The first thing we need to decide is: do we have the full picture? Or at least enough of the picture to act?”
Folding his arms, Barnaby leaned on the table. “Let me paint what we have so far. There’s someone, possibly a single man-let’s call him Mr. X-a gentleman and a hardened gamester who wagers and wins massive sums. For men like that, it’s not just the money but the thrill of winning that matters, and to play at the level that gives them thrills, they have to have money. Buckets of it.
“Let’s start from last autumn. Collier wagered heavily and lost. Mr. X heard of it. Over winter, he approached Collier, who was facing ruin, became his silent partner, and set up the conditions for running horse substitutions. Over the spring season, at least two substitutions were successfully run, proving for Mr. X that he had all the necessary pieces-the owners, trainers, horses, betting agents, sharp bookmakers-everything needed to generate very large sums of cash.”
“But after the season ended, he fell out with Collier.” Dillon met Barnaby’s eyes. “Mr. X acted decisively to remove a threat to his scheme-he killed Collier.”
Barnaby nodded. “Mr. X might already have had Cromarty and Aberdeen lined up, but regardless, his racket rolled on without a hitch.”
“It’s possible,” Dillon put in, “that changing stables every season was always a part of his plan. That makes it almost impossible for the authorities to stop his scheme-we’re only alerted after the race is run, usually not until weeks later, and then it’s the end of the season. Even if after this season we started monitoring Cromarty, if next season’s substitutions are run by Aberdeen…the authorities will always be one very big step behind Mr. X.”
Barnaby frowned at the tabletop. “One thought occurs-given his gambling connections, did Mr. X organize for Collier, and Cromarty and Aberdeen, to be induced into debt so he could then recruit them?” Barnaby looked at Dillon. “I’m not saying Collier, Cromarty, and Aberdeen are angels acting wholly under duress, but their roles in Mr. X’s scheme might not have been by choice.”
Dillon stared at Barnaby. “That’s…a distinctly black twist. But yes, given the way owners sometimes bet on their runners, it’s possible Mr. X is preying on the industry in that sense, too.”
Pris shivered. “This Mr. X seems not only black-hearted, but conscienceless, too.”
Dillon, Rus, and Barnaby shared a glance, then Barnaby went on, “So to this season. Mr. X ran a highly successful substitution early through Cromarty, here, with Flyin’ Fury, netting very large sums.”
“However,” Dillon said, “running substitutions at Newmarket has side effects Mr. X might not appreciate. Because Newmarket is the home of the Jockey Club, running substitutions here strikes at the core of the industry itself. If this keeps on, there’ll be anarchy. Literally. The Flyin’ Fury substitution was bad enough, but substituting Blistering Belle will be immeasurably worse-a premier race in one of the premier meets at the premier racetrack. The wagering will be intense, the furor afterward commensurately enormous. The punters won’t stand for it, and nor will the ton.”
“But,” Barnaby said, “regardless of the outcry, and it’ll be you and the Committee who’ll have to weather the worst, there will still be no way to stop Mr. X, especially not if he keeps switching stables and tracks.”
Grimly, Dillon nodded. “Knowing a substitution scam is active doesn’t make it any easier to stop.”
“Unless,” Rus put in, “you know about a substitution before it occurs. Which brings us to Blistering Belle.”
Barnaby considered, then shook his head and sat back. “Even so…”
Dillon grimaced. “Halting the substitution of Blistering Belle by stopping the substitute from running will switch some wagers to the next favorite in the race and void others entirely. Money will still be lost and won through the bookmakers, it just won’t be as much. And while Mr. X won’t get his accustomed and undoubtedly expected reward, he won’t lose much either-certainly nothing he can’t afford. Most worryingly, however, it won’t shut down his scheme. He’ll just shift to using Aberdeen, and even if we manage to expose Aberdeen’s runners before any substitutions are affected, Mr. X will just lie low for the season.”
“Or use some other owner we’ve yet to link to him.” Pris frowned. After a moment, she continued, frustration clear in her tone, “There’s no simple, obvious way forward, is there? No obvious ‘this is what we should do’?”
Rus and Barnaby shook their heads.
“It’s the trickiest, messiest crime I’ve ever heard of,” Barnaby said. “Quite aside from Mr. X, there’s an enormous cast of wrongdoers here, all of whom deserve some mea sure of retribution, yet even though we know of the impending crime and how to stop it, if we do, we won’t touch the majority of those involved, and Mr. X and his scheme not at all.”
“He’s a spider in the center of his web,” Dillon said, his gaze on his fingers slowly tapping the table. “We can break a few connections, even destroy part of the web, but that won’t harm the spider. Once we retreat, he’ll just crawl back out of hiding, respin his web, making new connections, and then continue to lure, catch, and devour his prey.”
They could all see the analogy; all were silent, thinking, then Barnaby stirred. He looked at Dillon. “What’s our minimum here-what damage can we do if we expose Cromarty with Blistering Belle?”
When Dillon glanced at him, Barnaby fleetingly grinned. “You’ve looked into it, haven’t you?”
Dillon returned the grin, but then sobered. “I have, and the answer’s not heartening. The only way we can prove anything illegal is to expose the substitute for Blistering Belle immediately before the race is run. Cromarty, Harkness, and Crom will be charged with attempting to perpetrate a substitution. But if Harkness was persuaded to protect Cromarty by swearing Cromarty knew nothing about it, Harkness and Crom would face jail-Newgate most likely-but Cromarty would get off with a fine and a reprimand for not paying sufficient attention to what was going on in his stable.”