“Well,” said Carne, “when we have seen our animal gallop we shall know better how much trust we are to place in him. For my own part I’m not afraid. Vulcanite, as you say, is a good horse, but, if I’m not mistaken, Knight of Malta is a better. Surely this is he coming towards us.”
“That’s him,” said the trainer, with a fine disregard for grammar. “There’s no mistaking him, is there? And now, if you’d care to stroll across we’ll see them saddle.”
The party accordingly descended from the carriage, and walked across the turf to the spot where the four thoroughbreds were being divested of their sheets. They made a pretty group; but even the most inexperienced critic could scarcely have failed to pick out Knight of Malta as the best among them. He was a tall, shapely bay, with black points, a trifle light of flesh perhaps, but with clean, flat legs, and low, greyhound-like thighs, sure evidence of the enormous propelling power he was known to possess. His head was perfection itself, though a wee bit too lop-eared if anything. Taken altogether, he looked, what he was, thoroughbred every inch of him. The others of the party were Gasometer, Hydrogen, and Young Romeo, the last named being the particular trial horse of the party. It was a favourite boast of the trainer that the last named was so reliable in his habits, his condition, and his pace, that you would not be far wrong if you were to set your watch by him.
“By the way, Bent,” said Carne, as the boys were lifted into their saddles, “what weights are the horses carrying?”
“Well, sir, Young Romeo carries 8 st. 9 lb.; Gasometer, 7 st. 8 lb.; Hydrogen, 7 st. 1 lb.; and the Knight, 9 st. 11 lb. The distance will be the Epsom course, one mile and a half, and the best horse to win. Now, sir, if you’re ready we’ll get to work.”
He turned to the lad who was to ride Hydrogen.
“Once you are off you will make the running, and bring them along at your best pace to the dip, where Gasometer will, if possible, take it up. After that I leave it to you other boys to make the best race of it you can. You, Blunt,” calling up his head lad, “go down with them to the post, and get them off to as good a start as possible.”
The horses departed, and Simon Carne and his friends accompanied the trainer to a spot where they would see the finish to the best advantage. Five minutes later an ejaculation from Lord Orpington told them that the horses had started. Each man accordingly clapped his glasses to his eyes, and watched the race before them. Faithful to his instructions, the lad on Hydrogen came straight to the front, and led them a cracker until they descended into the slight dip which marked the end of the first half-mile.
Then he retired to the rear, hopelessly done for, and Gasometer took up the running, with Knight of Malta close alongside him, and Young Romeo only half a length away. As they passed the mile post Young Romeo shot to the front, but it soon became evident he had not come to stay. Good horse as he was, there was a better catching him hand over fist. The pace was all that could be desired, and when Knight of Malta swept past the group, winner of the trial by more than his own length, the congratulations Simon Carne received were as cordial as he could possibly desire.
“What did I tell you, sir?” said Bent, with a smile of satisfaction upon his face. “You see what a good horse he is. There’s no mistake about that.”
“Well, let us hope he will do as well a week hence,” Carne replied simply, as he replaced his glasses in their case.
“Amen to that,” remarked Lord Orpington.
“And now, gentlemen,” said the trainer, “if you will allow me, I will drive you over to my place to breakfast.”
They took their places in the carriage once more, and, Bent having taken the reins, in a few moments they were bowling along the high road towards a neat modern residence standing on a slight eminence on the edge of the Downs. This was the trainer’s own place of abode, the stables containing his many precious charges lying a hundred yards or so to the rear.
They were received on the threshold by the trainer’s wife, who welcomed them most heartily to Merford. The keen air of the Downs had sharpened their appetites, and when they sat down to table they found they were able to do full justice to the excellent fare provided, for them. The meal at an end, they inspected the stables, once more carefully examining the Derby candidate, who seemed none the worse for his morning’s exertion, and then Carne left his guests in the big yard to the enjoyment of their cigars, while he accompanied his trainer into the house for a few moments’ chat.
“And now sit down, sir,” said Bent, when they reached his own sanctum, a cosy apartment, half sitting-room and half office, bearing upon its walls innumerable mementoes of circumstances connected with the owner’s lengthy turf experiences. “I hope you are satisfied with what you saw this morning?”
“Perfectly satisfied,” said Carne, “but I should like to hear exactly what you think about the race itself.”
“Well, sir, as you may imagine, I have been thinking a good deal about it lately, and this is the c6nclusion I have come to. If this were an ordinary year, I should say that we possess out and away the best horse in the race; but we must remember that this is not by any means an ordinary year—there’s Vulcanite, who they tell me is in the very pink of condition, and who has beaten our horse each time they have met; there’s the Mandarin, who won the Two Thousand this week, and who will be certain to come into greater favour as the time shortens, and The Filibuster, who won the Biennial Stakes at the Craven Meeting, a nice enough horse, though I must say I don’t fancy him over much myself.”
“I take it, then, that the only horse you really fear is Vulcanite?”
“That’s so, sir. If he were not in the list, I should feel as certain of seeing you leading your horse back a winner as any man could well be.”
On looking at his watch Carne discovered that it was time for him to rejoin his friends and be off to the railway station if they desired to catch the train which they had arranged should convey them back to town. So bidding the trainer and his wife good-bye, they took their places in the carriage once more, and were driven away.
Arriving at Waterloo, they drove to Lord Orpington’s club to lunch.
“Do you know you’re a very lucky fellow, Carne?” said the Earl of Amberley as they stood on the steps of that institution afterwards, before separating in pursuit of the pleasures of the afternoon. “You have health, wealth, fame, good looks, one of the finest houses in London, and now one of the prospective winners of the Derby. In fact, you only want one thing to make your existence perfect.”
“And what is that?” asked Carne.
“A wife,” replied Lord Amberley. “I wonder the girls have let you escape so long.”
“I am not a marrying man,” said Carne; “how could a fellow like myself, who is here to-day and gone to-morrow, expect any woman to link her lot with his? Do you remember our first meeting?”
“Perfectly, “replied Lord Amberley. “When I close my eyes I can see that beautiful marble palace, set in its frame of blue water, as plainly as if it were but yesterday I breakfasted with you there.”
“That was a very fortunate morning for me,” said the other. “And now here is my cab. I must be off. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” cried his friends, as he went down the steps and entered the vehicle. “Don’t forget to let us know if anything further turns up.”
“I will be sure to do so,” said Simon Carne, and then, as he laid himself back on the soft cushions and was driven by way of Waterloo Place to Piccadilly, he added to himself, “Yes, if I can bring off the little scheme I have in my mind, and one or two others which I am preparing, and can manage to get out of England without any one suspecting that I am the burglar who has outwitted all London, I shall have good cause to say that was a very fortunate day for me when I first met his lordship.”
That evening he dined alone. He seemed pre-occupied, and it was evident t
hat he was disappointed about something. Several times on hearing noises in the street outside he questioned his servants as to the cause. At last, however, when Ram Gafur entered the room carrying a telegram upon a salver, his feelings found vent in a sigh of satisfaction. With eager fingers he broke open the envelope, withdrew the contents, and read the message it contained:
“Seven Stars Music Hall—Whitechapel Road. Ten o’clock.”
There was no signature, but that fact did not seem to trouble him very much. He placed it in his pocket-book, and afterwards continued his meal in better spirits. When the servants had left the room he poured himself out a glass of port, and taking a pencil proceeded to make certain calculations upon the back of an envelope. For nearly ten minutes he occupied himself in this way, then he tore the paper into tiny pieces, replaced his pencil in his pocket, and sipped his wine with a satisfaction that was the outcome of perfected arrangements.
“The public excitement,” he said to himself, not without a small touch of pride, “has as yet scarcely cooled down from the robbery of the famous Wiltshire jewels. Lord Orpington has not as yet discovered the whereabouts of the gold and silver plate which disappeared from his house so mysteriously a week or two ago, while several other people have done their best to catch a gang of burglars who would seem to have set all London at defiance. But if I bring off this new coup, they’ll forget all their grievances in consideration of the latest and greatest scandal. There’ll be scarcely a man in England who won’t have something to say upon the subject. By the way, let me see how he stands in the betting to-night.”
He took a paper from the table in the window, and glanced down the sporting column. Vulcanite was evidently the public’s choice, Knight of Malta being only second favourite, with The Mandarin a strong third.
“What a hubbub there will be when it becomes known,” said Carne, as he placed the paper on the table again. “I shall have to take especial care, or some of the storm may blow back on me. I fancy I can hear the newsboys shouting: ‘Latest news of the turf scandal. The Derby favourite stolen. Vulcanite missing. An attempt made to get at Knight of Malta.’ Why! It will be twenty years before old England will forget the sensation I am about to give her.”
With a grim chuckle at the idea, he went upstairs to his dressing-room and locked the door. It must have been well after nine o’clock when he emerged again, and, clad in a long ulster, left the house in his private hansom. Passing down Park Lane he drove along Piccadilly, then by way of the Haymarket, Strand, Ludgate Hill, and Fenchurch Street to the Whitechapel Road. Reaching the corner of Leman Street, he signalled to his man to stop, and jumped out.
His appearance was now entirely changed. Instead of the deformed, scholar-like figure he usually presented, he now resembled a common-place, farmerish individual, with iron grey hair, a somewhat crafty face, ornamented with bushy eyebrows and a quantity of fluffy whiskers. How he had managed it as he drove along goodness only knows, but that he had effected the change was certain.
Having watched his cab drive away, he strolled along the street until he arrived at a building, the flaring lights of which proclaimed it the Seven Stars Music Hall. He paid his money at the box office, and then walked inside to find a fair-sized building, upon the floor of which were placed possibly a hundred small tables. On the stage at the further end a young lady, boasting a minimum of clothing and a maximum of self-assurance, was explaining, to the dashing accompaniment of the orchestra, the adventures she had experienced “When Billy and me was courting.”
Acting up to his appearance, Carne called for a “two of Scotch cold,” and, having lit a meerschaum pipe which he took from his waistcoat pocket, prepared to make himself at home. As ten o’clock struck he turned his chair a little, in order that he might have a better view of the door, and waited.
Five minutes must have elapsed before his patience was rewarded. Then two men came in together, and immediately he saw them he turned his face in an opposite direction, and seemed to be taking an absorbing interest in what was happening upon the stage.
One of the men who had entered, and whom he had seemed to recognise—a cadaverous-looking individual in a suit of clothes a size too small for him, a velvet waistcoat at least three sizes too large, a check tie, in which was stuck an enormous horseshoe pin composed of palpably imitation diamonds, boasting no shirt as far as could be seen, and wearing upon his head a top hat of a shape that had been fashionable in the early sixties—stopped, and placed his hand upon his shoulder.
“Mr. Blenkins, or I’m a d’isy,” he said. “Well, who’d ha’ thought of seeing you here of all places? Why, it was only this afternoon as me and my friend, Mr. Brown here, was a-speaking of you. To think as how you should ha’ come up to London just this very time, and be at the Seven Stars Music Hall, of all other places! It’s like what the noos-papers call a go-insidence, drat me if it ain’t. ’Ow are yer, old pal?”
He extended his hand, which Mr. Blenkins took, and shook with considerable cordiality. After that, Mr. Brown, who from outward appearances was by far the most respectable of the trio, was introduced in the capacity of a gentleman from America, a citizenship that became more apparent when he opened his mouth to speak.
“And what was’ee speaking of I about?” asked Mr. Blenkins, when the trio were comfortably seated at table.
This the diffident Mr. Jones, for by that commonplace appellative the seedy gentleman with the magnificent diamonds chose to be called, declined to state. It would appear that he was willing to discuss the news of the day, the price of forage, the prospects of war, the programme proceeding upon the stage, in fact, anything rather than declare the subject of his conversation with Mr. Brown that afternoon.
It was not until Mr. Brown happened to ask Mr. Blenkins what horse he fancied for the Derby that Mr. Jones in any degree recovered his self-possession. Then an animated discussion on the forthcoming race was entered upon. How long it would have lasted had not Mr. Jones presently declared that the music of the orchestra was too much for him, I cannot say.
Thereupon Mr. Brown suggested that they should leave the Hall and proceed to a place of which he knew in a neighbouring street. This they accordingly did, and when they were safely installed in a small room off the bar, Mr. Jones, having made certain that there was no one near enough to overhear, unlocked his powers of conversation with whisky and water, and proceeded to speak his mind.
For upwards of an hour they remained closeted in the room together, conversing in an undertone. Then the meeting broke up, Mr. Blenkins bidding his friends “goodnight” before they left the house.
From the outward appearances of the party, if in these days of seedy millionaires and overdressed bankrupts one may venture to judge by them, he would have been a speculative individual who would have given a five pound note for the worldly wealth of the trio. Yet, had you taken so much trouble, you might have followed Mr. Blenkins and have seen him picked up by a smart private hansom at the corner of Leman Street. You might then have gone back to the “Hen and Feathers,” and have followed Mr. Brown as far as Osborn Street, and have seen him enter a neat brougham, which was evidently his own private property. Another hansom, also a private one, met Mr. Jones in the same thoroughfare, and an hour later two of the number were in Park Lane, while the third was discussing a bottle of Heidseck in a gorgeous private sitting-room on the second floor of the Langham Hotel.
As he entered his dressing-room on his return to Porchester House, Simon Carne glanced at his watch. It was exactly twelve o’clock.
“I hope Belton will not be long,” he said to himself. “Give him a quarter of an hour to rid himself of the other fellow, and say half an hour to get home. In that case he should be here within the next few minutes.”
The thought had scarcely passed through his brain before there was a deferential knock at the door, and next moment Belton, clad in a long great coat, enter
ed the room.
“You’re back sooner than I expected,” said Carne. “You could not have stayed very long with our friend?”
“I left him soon after you did, sir,” said Belton. “He was in a hurry to get home, and as there was nothing more to settle I did not attempt to prevent him. I trust you are satisfied, sir, with the result of our adventure.”
“Perfectly satisfied,” said Carne. “Tomorrow I’ll make sure that he’s good for the money, and then we’ll get to work. In the meantime you had better see about a van and the furniture of which I spoke to you, and also engage a man upon whom you can rely.”
“But what about Merford, sir, and the attempt upon Knight of Malta?”
“I’ll see about that on Monday. I have promised Bent to spend the night there.”
“You’ll excuse my saying so, sir, I hope,” said Belton, as he poured out his master’s hot water and laid his dressing-gown upon the back of a chair, ready for him to put on, “but it’s a terrible risky business. If we don’t bring it off, there’ll be such a noise in England as has never been heard before. You might murder the Prime Minister, I believe, and it wouldn’t count for so much with the people generally as an attempt to steal the Derby favourite.”
“But we shall not fail,” said Carne confidently. “By this time you ought to know me better than to suppose that. No, no, never fear, Belton; I’ve got all my plans cut and dried, and even if we fail to get possession of Vulcanite, the odds are a thousand to one against our being suspected of any complicity in the matter. Now you can go to bed. Goodnight.”
“Good-night, sir,” said Belton respectfully, and left the room.
It was one of Simon Carne’s peculiarities always to fulfil his engagements in spite of any inconvenience they might cause himself. Accordingly the four o’clock train from Waterloo, on the Monday following the meeting at the Music Hall just narrated, carried him to Merford in pursuance of the promise he had given his trainer.
The Victorian Rogues MEGAPACK ™: 28 Classic Tales Page 173
