18
In the marine sunlight and morning breeze the flags streamed out above the buildings of the town for the first day of the races. The streets were almost blocked by carriages and drays, the din from the taverns overlaid by the sound of an Irish fiddle being played in a taproom. The hucksters who followed the meetings of the flat season had descended on Brighton in their hundreds. There were vendors of 'hokey-pokey', the Neapolitan ice sold for a penny in silver paper; purveyors of sherbet and lemonade, wheeling about a huge block of ice surrounded by lemons; the man with his basket of lobsters crying, 'Champions a bob!'
On the downland high above the sea and the town, where the stand and the enclosure were set, the gypsy encampment of racecourse and fairground prepared for the afternoon's entertainment. Stakes were being driven into the ground and tents erected by barefoot men and women. Tired children were cradled on straw under the wheels of the stationary carts, shaded from the hot sun. Donkeys and thin horses had been turned loose to graze hungrily upon the turf. Everywhere there was a litter of pots and kettles. Candles which had lighted the workers through the night now lay wasted and cold.
To add to the traffic in the streets of the town, processions of horsemen in tawdry tinsel set off down the Race Hill to advertise their entertainments. There were medieval knights and squires, Circassians and Tartars in armour, coarse-looking women parading as the damsels of legend. The cavalcade was preceded by the din of a small brass band, huddled in a gilt cart and drawn by two piebald horses. On a painted cart behind, advertising Newsome's Equestrian Novelties, stood the fifteen-year-old figure of Elaine. Tossing her fair hair, she looked contemptuously round at the spectators. In order to lure the dupes she wore a short pleated ballet-skirt which left bare the greater part of her sturdy young thighs. From time to time the breeze lifted its hem, revealing to the expectant followers only the tight webbed cotton of the pants which covered Elaine's broad hips.
During the morning the appearance of the racecourse changed as the first of a long line of carriages rolled softly on to the turf. Men with spyglasses, ladies with parasols, and servants carrying wicker baskets began the long ceremony of luncheon. There were silk waistcoats and chains, Tom and Jerry hats from the prize-ring, white top hats, fawn waistcoats and trousers, crimson roses in the buttonholes of frock-coats with silk lapels.
By two o'clock the bell rang to clear the course for the novices' handicap, but there was another hour before the race of the day, the Earl of Bristol's Plate for a prize of two hundred guineas. The favourite had gone lame and an outside chance had been scratched, leaving four runners: Cremorne, Prince Rupert, Rainbow and Lalla Rookh. Betting in the ring was heavy, under the shadow of the old grandstand. The withdrawal of the favourite left the race more open. Now it was difficult to put money at long odds on any of the other horses. Prince Rupert was fancied and had shortened to evens by the start. The ring was an exclusively male preserve, crowded by the black silk hats of the wealthy and the bottle-green velvet coats of the heavy swells. The ring was the one place where wealth and crime associated on terms of easy familiarity, the common territory of the aristocrat and the swell mobsman. There was betting in cash and betting 'on the nod' from those to whom the bookmakers allowed credit. Such debts were to be paid by the losers on settling day, the following Monday, in that other famous ring at Tattersalls, near Hyde Park Corner.
Outside the ring at the Brighton course, the professional tipsters drove their desperate trade. A thin, ginger-haired man waited patiently by the gate until each race was over. Then he would wrench off his coat, as in a fit of jubilation, throw it on the ground, and stamp on it in his joy.' 'ere! 'ere! Got it again! Every winner today! Never mind 'ow I gets the tip, gents, but it's straight from the stable! Who'll say half a crown for the winner o' the next race, writ here in this envelope? Every winner today, gents! Who'll say half a crown?'
Somewhere beyond the stewards' enclosure a bell rang to clear the course again for the Bristol Plate. There was an immediate hush across the broad downland, where the afternoon sunlight sparkled on the canary yellow and ultramarine coachwork of the trim carriages. The four runners were under starter's orders and the most heavily-backed race of the programme was about to begin. A single voice in the ring shouted for a last time, 'Evens the favourite!' And then there was silence.
The stillness lasted only for a moment. Presently there came a roar from the stand as the horses thundered forward and the backers in the ring surged across to the rails to see them pass. They were away in a few seconds, streaming across the turf between its white-painted rails, curving above the sunlit waves, far across the skyline towards Rottingdean. It was hard to make out the order of the runners from this distance. Prince Rupert and Cremorne appeared to be in front, which was not unexpected. Prince Rupert's jockey rode in a distinctive style, his knees tight to the saddle on which he seemed to be propped rather than sitting. Cremorne's rider sat straight, the reins in his left hand, the whip flourished in his right.
The crowd lost sight of them, only the few spectators in the top of the stand having a clear view of the entire course. In the ring, men craned over the rails, watching the long hill coming down from the east which formed the last stretch of the course, bringing the riders past the stand again. As the first two horses appeared over the brow of the hill, there was a universal roar and a waving of papers. Prince Rupert was in the lead, though not by a great deal, with Cremorne lying back. Then, as the slope began, it seemed that Prince Rupert began to tire. Moreover, Cremorne's powerful shoulders told to his advantage on the hill. The shouting rose to a crescendo as it became apparent that the leadership of the race was about to change, and within twenty seconds Cremorne was past the post, a neck in front of Prince Rupert.
Far away from the tumult on the downs, the promenades and gardens stretching out to Hove were almost deserted in the afternoon sun. Sealskin Kite mused in his Bath chair. He needed no one to tell him the result of the Bristol Plate. That was a matter which had been seen to long before. Of course, he was going to be much richer regardless of the horse that won.
'But old men likes things their own way,' he said comfortably to Mole who was pushing the chair. 'And the world must pamper 'em up a bit, hey?'
Mole grinned, only understanding part of the allusion. But the rider of Prince Rupert had become the object of devotion of a statuesque young blonde who went as Helen Jacoby. The things which she did for him would have sent any man quite wild. And then she told him that five hundred pounds was on Cremorne at three to one, and that as she meant to share everything with him for the future, half of it was his. The Jockey Club forbade riders from placing bets on horses but if the rider of Prince Rupert received a present from the beautiful backer of Cremorne, that was beyond the Club's control.
The old man looked at the sea and clicked his tongue.
'Little bit of a bonus, Moley. Little bit of a bonus, hey?'
And the shrewd old Sealskin smiled fondly at the glittering tide.
Above the plumes of the chestnut trees, the London sky was black with the threat of summer thunder. A warm metallic smell of rain hung in the stagnant air. By four o'clock on Monday afternoon Rotten Row and the shaded walks converging on Hyde Park Corner were busy with the parade of horsemen and equestriennes. The fashionable world leant on the white-painted rails and watched the passing show. Among the last parade of the London season there were little foot-pages, heavy swells walking three and four abreast, children playing, severe-looking ladies of considerable age who steered younger ladies away from the wicked old bucks who leered under the brim of every ribboned bonnet.
Among the idlers at the rails there was a stir of attention and a raising of spyglasses every time that a pretty horse-breaker rode past. The lenses scanned every inch of the pleasant prospect from the girls' roguish little wide-awake hats or pertly cocked cavalier bonnets and plumes, down to the Amazonian riding trousers strapped under the instep of coquettish little boots with military heels.
/> Scandal and fashion had given each young woman her admirers. There was something like a universal sigh as a well-made blonde Venus rode by. With her strong hips, her hair worn in a chignon, blue eyes in a face of doll-like innocence, she was known as Helen Jacoby. Until the robbery of railway gold four years before and the arrest of her keeper, she had been plain Ellen Jacoby. But fashion and a sense of prudence dictated this change of syllable. There was the coltish figure of Maggie Fashion, the curtains of blonde hair neatly ribboned, and behind her, like a page or squire, her companion Tawny Jenny. This Asian beauty, Jennifer Khan, was a curiosity even by the standards of Rotten Row. The sheen of black hair lay in a pretty tangle between her shoulder blades. Her olive-skinned face with its high cheekbones and disdainful almond eyes drew the idlers' glances at once. Unlike her mistress she wore no skirt over the tight, fawn riding trousers. The spyglasses caressed the firm thighs and hips, following wistfully down the Row as if for a last view of the broadened spread of Jennifer Khan's bottom moving suggestively on the saddle.
Beyond the chestnut trees, the riders came out by the tall gates. From Hyde Park Corner, far down Grosvenor Place, carriages of every description waited. There were mail phaetons of the sporting aristocracy, trim cabriolets with high wheels and tall grey horses, open carriages and pairs with parasolled ladies. Among them were a few discreet broughams with their rose-coloured blinds drawn and a terrier or lap-dog peeping out. At the far end there were even plain carts and chaise carts which might almost have belonged to the costermonger trade.
The reason for the unusual crowds in the park and the waiting carriages in Grosvenor Place was universally known. Monday afternoon was by custom 'Settling Day' at Tattersalls. Groups of men stood in casual conversation where White Horse Street turned from Piccadilly. Just beyond was a little lane, busy with men of rank and bookmakers of substance who had come to settle their accounts. At the end of the lane, where a livery stable might have stood, there was a cluster of little buildings and a stout railing. Within the railing a gravelled walk circled an area of shaven grass. This simple plot was the famous Ring of Tattersalls Subscription Rooms. The rooms themselves were entered only by the demi-gods of gambling who were members, but any man could see for himself the Ring where bargains were struck and payments made.
Tattersalls was not the betting office of the working man, which was a consolation to Sealskin Kite. The old Sealskin traded on the knowledge that aristocratic betting was done entirely by trust and credit. When settling day came, a man of honour or his bookmaker who laid off money through Tattersalls must either pay or else raise money on the 'accommodation market' at high interest. In consequence, the value of transactions at Tattersalls on such a day as this, when all England put its accounts in order, might have been the envy of the Stock Exchange or the Bank. Notes of hand, backed by the finest names in the country, changed possession by the hundreds. Tattersalls was the guarantor of integrity in betting as much as the Jockey Club was in the rules of racing.
From the crowded little lane, men came and went, sometimes into the grassy ring, sometimes into the subscription rooms beyond their elegant varnished door. A few yards away the Turf Tavern, where members and non-members congregated to do business, was buzzing with activity.
Bookmakers who had hedged bets with one another to the value of a duke's income, shook hands, drank their ale and came out all square.
There were enough ladies of fashion among the crowd to make the arrival of Helen Jacoby pass unnoticed. She spoke to a man in a silk waistcoast and fawn suiting who touched his white top hat and ran her errand for her. Ten minutes later, she was driven away with a Bank of England bill for £5,000 in her hand. A little of that would go to Prince Rupert's jockey, whose lover she had been by necessity. A little more would go to the girl herself. Most of it would go to the man who kept her and the men who employed him. Who they were she did not know. The name of Sealskin Kite had never been pronounced in her hearing.
Among the others there were perhaps a dozen bookmakers, men who had won and lost in their usual proportions. The proportions were large but they had no cause to complain of that. Those notes which they now exchanged were signed by men known in the House of Lords or the Commons, the army or the city, as figures of probity and trust. They endorsed these banker's draughts and went away secure in the knowledge that payment was safe and trust absolute. Had anyone told them that their businesses and all they possessed belonged, far along a chain of humanity, to an old broker named Sealskin Kite, they would not have understood. Had they taken the trouble to investigate, they would have discovered little more than that Kite was a trader on the exchange in cotton and sugar options.
Where the afternoon sun had moved round to create a pool of shadow by the railings of the Ring, Old Mole stood quietly and watched. He was the man of elegance again in his blue suiting and silk hat, only the hanging yellowed mouth betraying him. Mole had no wish to annoy the old Sealskin by probing the mechanics of the swindle too obviously. But he understood enough. A man who had spent £100,000 backing the four horses equally in the Bristol Plate must have lost. The winner would have brought him £72,000 and the others would have lost him £75,000. A fool's wager, Mole thought. But suppose the money was not his, that it was stolen banker's draughts to be passed untraceably through the processes of bookmaking and settling, wagered in false names and paid to false names? Why then, thought Mole, a man must make his £72,000 clear for nothing.
And suppose, he thought, that a man like the old Sealskin had cause to know that Cremorne might win. And suppose he backed him with a bill which cost nothing should the horse lose, over and above the rest. Why then, he would be £20,000 more to the good. True, he thought, Mr Kite was not quite as good as his word. £92,000 was short of £100,000. But Old Mole was not disposed to quarrel. Even the short money would allow a man to buy Buckingham Palace or Windsor Castle, he supposed, and still have enough to stiff a doxy or two.
With this latter thought in his mind, Old Mole shrugged himself off the railings and prepared to leave. His attention was drawn at that moment by the arrival of two equestriennes, Maggie with her blonde veil and the young Moslem Venus who attended her. Mole grinned. He was particularly intrigued by Jennifer Khan, the slight heaviness of the Asian girl's hips in the suggestively tight riding trousers. As the blonde girl went to give her commission to one of the runners, Old Mole sauntered past. His hand came down with audible appreciation on the cheek of Jennifer Khan's seat. She swung round, indignation brightening the dark eyes with their slight upward slant at the outer corners. Old Mole grinned delightedly at the response.
'Better than a kiss in the dark, missy!' he said cheerfully.
He walked on, swinging his stick, thinking that even those two doxies, had they but known it, were probably working hard for the old Sealskin. He sauntered down Piccadilly a few yards to the stand between White Horse Street and Hyde Park Corner. Then with a final flourish of the silvertopped stick, he whistled for a cab.
'It ain't to be complained of, Mr Mole,' said Sealskin Kite wistfully. 'It ain't to be complained of at all. I'm an old man now and, in course, I ain't much more to expect. But I think what I've seen. Men go to death and perdition for a trainload of gold as could never fetch more than £15,000. Men destroy themselves for half that or less. And they risks their lives to get it. No, Mr Mole, it ain't quite so much as £100,000 but it's the tightest little tickle that's been seen in my lifetime.'
He sat, as though he had never moved since the running of the Bristol Plate, in his Bath chair looking out from Brunswick Lawns across the glitter of the afternoon tide. The two men were alone together.
'There's them two women, Mr Kite,' said Mole gently. 'They can't be let go free now. Jane Midge seen you and me when Strap had to get the truth of the Shah Jehan out of her.'
'Shah Jehaney trumpery!' said Kite tetchily.
'They can't be let go free, Mr Kite!'
'No,' said Kite more quietly. 'I don't suppose they can. Not exactl
y free. No.'
'They both gotta be snuffed, Mr Kite. You know that, with all that's at stake. The money. You and me staying out of trouble.'
'Yes,' said Kite, as if agreeing with some observation on the warmth of the afternoon or the clouds in the sky. 'Yes, Mr Mole, I suppose they must. Looking at it all sides up, I think they must.'
A squat barge with rust-coloured sails was making the best of the light breeze as it cleared Shoreham harbour with the tide. Old Mole looked at it absent-mindedly.
'Jack Strap,' he said at last. 'No reason he shouldn't make a job of 'em, same as that Cosima. Once they been smothered, he can make it look like what he likes. Pretty Jane, a famished orphan washed up by the sea. And that jack's woman found at the foot of the cliff, every bone broken by the fall and the smell of the gin-shop on her. Nasty places, cliffs.'
Sealskin Kite emitted the senile buzzing noise between his teeth which was an invariable prelude to speech.
' t’other one first,' he said quietly. 'That little squeak Stunning Joseph. I shan't sleep quite easy until the day they plays the Dead March in Saul over little Joe. Time enough to snuff a pair o' doxies after that.' He watched the halfhearted ripple of a wave along the shingle. 'And another thing, Mr Mole. None of this is to do with Sealskin Kite. See? The old Sealskin been a bit too close to some of the naughtiness over that Cosima person. Eh?'
'Course, Mr Kite,' said Mole deferentially. 'As you say.'
'When pretty Jane and Missy Bella get quietened by Strap,' said Kite, 'the old Sealskin and Mr Mole ain't to be within fifty miles. Savvy?'
'Leaving Strap to his business.'
'Precisely, Mr Mole! Strap knows that until the sad news of their demise is announced to the world, his payment shan't be quite ready for him. 'sides, Jack's a simple boy and he do take his pleasures in such things. No inconvenience to him, Mr Mole. None whatsoever.'
Sergeant Verity and the Swell Mob. Page 20
