Without any further explanation, he unsealed a deck of cards and placed them in front of one of the men at the table. I recognized him as Hugh Grosvenor, the Duke of Westminster, the bluest of the blue bloods at the table and one of the two richest men in England, if not the world. He was well-known for betting over £100,000 in an evening, losing that much one night and gaining it back the next. Across from him was his competitor for the title of the wealthiest, Nathan Rothschild, the first Jewish peer in the Empire. The others were all titled men; dukes, an earl, and a marquess.
Most of the men had a snifter of brandy sitting in front of them that was regularly topped up by their valets. With a bit of a flourish, the American chap in the blue suit uncorked a large bottle of Jack Daniels and placed it beside Miss Martha. She tipped it up to her lips and took a small gulp. I was glaring at the chap when he slipped back to his place beside me. He leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Relax Doc. It’s iced tea.”
Chapter Twelve
Place Your Bets
DURING THE FIRST HOUR OF PLAY, the game went back and forth. One chap, who was already well into his cups before the game started and had been swilling more brandy with each set, passed the mark for losing rounds and had to give up his seat. He was replaced by an eager looking young viscount. A few of the players engaged in friendly chit-chat and attempted to draw Miss Martha into conversation. She smiled and provided cryptic one-word answers.
At one point during the second hour, Miss Martha was down by at least twenty thousand and I had again begun to worry. That concern was quickly vanquished when she raked in an enormous pot in a round of poker and ended up a thousand to the good. By the ten o’clock break she had slowly but surely increased her lead over everyone else at the table. Several other fellows had been eliminated and replaced, but there were some who were clearly very skilled players, who were not drinking or smoking, and who were also well ahead on the evening.
As the players returned to their chairs, all were seated except for Nathan Rothschild. He stood behind his chair and looked directly at Miss Martha.
“Young lady,” he said to her. “I do not know who you are, and you are altogether too beautiful to be the devil incarnate, but you are simply not human. In the past four hours you have not made a single mistake, your have finessed us relentlessly, not forgotten a single card that has been played, called every one of our bluffs, and bluffed every one of us without pity. While it is not at all sporting on my part, I did not arrive at my station in life by not knowing when to cut my losses. So I will give up my place and wish you good luck, which I am quite certain is the last thing you need.”
With the crowd murmuring, he stepped back and sat down among the spectators. He was replaced by another chap, a Mr. Fitzroy Simpson, the first player who bore no title but who was the principle owner of several railways and known to squander vast sums upon the turf.
The turnover in players was now happening more often. As they departed, they left their losings on the table. The bets were steadily increasing in amounts, the pots had reached well over £15,000 a hand and the tension in the room was palpable. There was no conversation among the players, although there was a constant quiet buzz in the room as the spectators followed the increasing stakes. Occasionally they gave a round of applause when someone, most often Miss Martha, pulled off a daring bluff or finesse. As the midnight hour approached, the room had become rather hot and stuffy and two of the players removed their suit jackets and vests and played in their shirt sleeves.
“Oh,” said Miss Martha. “Good idea. I’m going to join you. She unclasped and removed her white satin jacket and handed it to my wife. She was now sitting upright, her bare shoulders and abundant cleavage fully exposed and disrupting the concentration of her opponents. By the end of the second hour past midnight, she must have been up by over fifty thousand pounds. The railway magnate had lost his limit and graciously gave up his chair, paying some sincere compliments to Miss Martha as he did so. His place was taken by a short, somewhat chubby chap who I recognized immediately. It was Baron Julian, Lord Biggleswade, and he had, as Atherstone had predicted, become heavier and balding.
He was introduced and smiled at the spectators and the rest of the table. “A pleasure to be part of this event and, on behalf of the members of Boodles, my appreciation for opening this event to gentlemen from all the finer clubs. And it is a particular joy to be playing across from such a pretty young filly. Of course, we all know what stallions like to do to fillies.”
This off-color comment was met by some nervous guffaws from some of the gentlemen present, and huffs of disapproval from some of the ladies.
Miss Martha looked at the speaker and a glowing smile spread over her face. “And is that what you do to your fillies, Big Julie?” Again the men laughed and the ladies gave her a round of applause. Baron Julian’s face turned red and he stared as his cards.
Over the next hour, the tension continued to grow. A large poker pot was won by Baron Julian. As he gathered his chips he could not resist gloating. “A shame you lost, Miss. Were you having trouble seeing your cards past your gorgeous big tits?”
Again some men chuckled at the vulgarity. The rest of the crowd looked at each other in embarrassed silence. Miss Martha smiled very sweetly at the Baron and replied, “Oh, sir. You should see how big they get when I am with company I find exciting.” Several of the men present uttered a large “Ha,” and some of the ladies giggled. Again, the Baron’s face turned red.
To my surprise, Miss Martha appeared to be making some very uncharacteristic mistakes. Over the next thirty minutes, she dropped at least £15,000, mostly in hands won by Baron Julian. I gave a concerned glance to Sorrowful, who winked back at me. In the hand before the break, the Baron won again, and this time, he raked in close to £8000. Miss Martha was looking very flustered and reached for her bottle of Jack Daniels. The players rose from their chairs and stepped back to chat with their colleagues, or enjoy a cigarette, or made a beeline to the loo.
The Baron walked over to where Miss Martha was sitting and leaned over her shoulder.
“My dear little girl,” he said. “When you get to the loo you better unload some of your whiskey.”
She looked angrily back at him and snapped, “And while you’re there why don’t you shake hands with shorty?” He raised his hand as if he were about to strike her and was immediately grabbed and restrained by the chap beside him. Miss Martha smiled in feigned sweetness and came over to where her friends were sitting.
“My dear,” said my wife, “are you quite all right? Do you need to get some air? That rude man is getting to you.”
Miss Martha smiled and giggled. “When a player has to use insults and rudeness to distract you, it is a sure sign he is a loser. Any minute now he will try to cheat. Just you watch.”
So watch we did. There only two original players remaining at the table were Hugh Grosvenor and Miss Martha. The Duke of Westminster was down at least £100,000 but had avoided losing enough rounds to be removed from the table, and no one doubted that he could lose another million and not miss it. The Baron won several more hands and continued to direct rude and condescending insults at Miss Martha. She continued to smile.
Sunrise would arrive just before 5:00 am. We had entered the final hour of play. Miss Martha was still up well over £50,000 but had lost money on several of the last rounds, both in whist and poker. At 4:30 am it was her turn as dealer in a round of five-card draw. She dealt the cards and responded to the draw requests from three of the players, including Baron Julian. She drew none herself.
“Getting a bit overconfident, are we Miss?” teased Baron Julian. “Not a good sign.”
The first player was Hugh Grosvenor. Instead of sliding in the agreed upon ante he smiled at the other players and said, “Not much time left. I say we make this a little more interesting. What say we up the ante to £10,000?” The crowd gasped. The Duke had been known to make calls like this in a long game to, as he said, “separate t
he men from the boys.” Everyone nodded, all either too confident in the hands they held or too proud not to go along. The piles of chips were moved into the pot. Grosvenor then led off the bids.
“I will bet £20,000,” he said, keeping his face deliberately blank. Again the crowd gasped. They all knew that they were observing the richest round of cards that had ever been seen in London. The next two players matched his bid but did not raise it. Baron Julian smiled and slid forward his £20,000 and boldly announced a raise of another £10,000. The fifth chap, who was known to be a very astute player, laid down his cards and folded. Now it was up to Miss Martha.
“Okay. £30,000 it is.”
Murmurs of wonder swept the room and a small round of applause was given. Now the bid passed to Grosvenor. He raised another £10,000 and slid £40,000 into the center of the table. The next two fellows laid down their cards and folded, obviously smart enough to know when to stop losing a fortune. The Baron met the bid but did not raise. The final bid went to Miss Martha, who also met the bid.
“I believe it is showdown time,” Miss Martha said with a smile, looking over to Hugh Grosvenor.
He laughed and said, “I really have nothing at all. I just thought we needed a little more excitement.” He laid his cards on the table, showing three Kings. It was, in truth, not a bad hand, and we all wondered what the other two must be holding.
Lord Biggleswade smiled a triumphal smile. “Lady Luck has been smiling on me. It does not get much better, now does it?”
With a hand flourish for each card he laid on the table, he showed four Aces and a King of Diamonds. He began to reach forward to gather the chips.
“Uh, uh. Not so fast, my good man,” said the Duke. “Miss. Your hand please.”
Miss Martha shrugged and, one at a time laid her cards down. The first was a two of spades, one of the weakest cards in a deck. It was followed by the three of spades, which was in turn followed by the four. She paused and looked at the crowd with a grin spreading across her face. The entire room stopped breathing. She then laid down the five. She held the last card close to her chest and then slowly placed the ace of spades on the table. A straight flush. The second highest hand in poker. The pot was hers. The crowd erupted into cheers and applause. Over £100,000 was moved across the table toward her. Hugh Grosvenor was beaming at her.
“Well done, my dear. Well done. Bravely played, indeed,” he enthused.
The other two players reached across the table and shook her hand in congratulations.
“Sit down,” barked the baron. “The night is not over. There is still time for two more hands. Your Lordship, I believe you are the dealer. Pray proceed.”
As the Duke began to shuffle the cards, the General Secretary of Brooks leaned his head down to the ear of the baron. I watched as his eyes went wide and his face reddened. Without a word he rose from his chair, turned and walked out of the room.
I was very confused and leaned over to the chap beside me. “What was that all about?”
He whispered back, “Biggleswade is not a member at Brooks, so he had no account here. He can only play to the limit of his deposit. He must have passed that mark on the last round. So he has to drop out. Those are the rules.”
There was murmuring throughout the room. Sunrise would come in less than ten minutes. Hugh Grosvenor, the Duke of Westminster stood and addressed all of the guests.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as there is not sufficient time for another full round may I suggest that we declare the game over and give our congratulations to this exceptional young woman.”
A roar of applause and hurrahs went up. The Duke continued. “I do believe that a round of Champagne is called for. And some breakfast.”
Several of the younger women came forward to congratulate Miss Martha. She responded graciously and invited them all to visit her in New York. About half an hour later we made our way out of the club and onto the sidewalk.
“Good heavens,” said my wife. “How much did you win? Your parents will be very thrilled when they hear about it.”
A look of fear came over the young woman’s pretty face. “Oh no. You can’t let them know. My mom would have fifty fits.”
Chapter Thirteen
Real Gamblers Don’t Cry
HAVING HAD ENOUGH NAIL-BITING EXCITEMENT, my wife, Mary, and I took Miss Martha to Kew Gardens and the Tower of London. She enjoyed it, or, at least, she was sufficiently gracious to convince us that she did.
On the third day, Holmes called us all together, and we gathered in Baker Street.
“I was afraid that we might not have a response to our note in Sporting News,” he said to us. “This morning a message was delivered to the desk at the Metropole providing us with our next step in finding Sir Galahad.”
He passed around the note. It ran:
Fee £10,000. Cash only. Breeding mare in heat to be brought to stable near London next week. Confirm to Sporting News agony. Galahad.
“Good lord,” I exclaimed. “£10,000 stud fee. That is unheard of. Preposterous.”
“For a horse,” said the man in the blue suit, “what can win the Kentucky Derby, it’s a bargain. It’s a deal, except we need a mare. You got one of those, Mr. Sherlock?”
“As a matter of fact, sir, I do. An excellent one, who will be itching to meet a stallion on Monday. With your permission, I shall respond and appear to be most eager. If Sir Galahad is willing then we, the representatives of an American syndicate, will take our mare for breeding in a few days. You will have to be ready to play your parts. Now excuse me for a few minutes while I draft our reply.”
He sat down at the writing desk and picked up his pen. His first two efforts were thrown into the trash, and then he brought the third version to us for our approval.
Sir Galahad: Fee confirmed. Estrous on Tuesday and Wednesday. Please confirm rendezvous location. Reply to Metropole.
“I think that should do the trick,” he said. “Watson, would you mind again dropping this off. If it appears in the Sunday paper that will give us sufficient time to prepare.”
“Certainly, Holmes,” I replied. “And just where do you plan to find a mare in heat for a Tuesday breeding session?”
“One of the finest in the kingdom,” he said with a grin, “will be waiting.”
The notice was placed. It appeared on Sunday and by Monday morning a reply had been received telling us to be at the North Dulwich Station with the mare at 10:00 am the following day. I could not imagine where Holmes would find a mare in heat and wondered what his alternative plan was. However, I dutifully showed up at Baker Street at 7:00 am on Tuesday morning, dressed in a dark suit and wearing gold-rimmed glasses, and trying to look very much like an American accountant.
Holmes was waiting for me. He was wearing an American-cut suit jacket with a design of Royal Stewart tartan and tan trousers. He had one of his favorite wigs on his head, covered by a fedora hat. I thought it quite comical and suggested that he could secure employment as a warning post to divert traffic. He did not appear to find this amusing. While we were standing in the front room another man, not one of the Americans, came down the hall from the bedroom that had once been mine. His suit jacket was a bright red and black check with matching trousers. He had a Bowler hat on his head, thick dark-rimmed glasses and a handlebar mustache. He was somewhat shorter than I and had a narrow pointed face. I kept looking at this fellow for nearly a minute before I exploded in laughter and fell back onto the sofa.
“Enough, Watson,” shouted Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. “You will act with respect even if I am wearing a ridiculous costume.”
I bit my lip and stood up again. “Inspector,” I said, “always good to see you again.” But then I could not help myself and I started to laugh again. I thought he was going to take a few strips off my hide but, fortunately, laughter is contagious and he was soon laughing along with me. Even Holmes joined in.
“I have never,” I sputtered, “seen three Englishmen looking so ridiculo
us.”
“We are looking,” said Holmes, “like three gentlemen from America who are involved in the sport of horse racing.”
“Same thing,” said Lestrade, and we laughed some more.
“And where, might I ask,” I asked, “are the real Americans?”
“They are meeting us in Herne Hill in an hour, along with our lovely heated mare.”
We endured the gawking and stares of the passengers as we took the short hop from Victoria Station south to Herne Hill. We were met at the station by Miss Martha, Sorrowful, and the chap in the blue suit. They were standing beside a very fine looking horse trailer, attached to a small motorized tractor. I could see the trailer wobbling from time to time as its passenger shifted herself around inside. Miss Martha rushed up to us.
“Mr. Holmes. She’s beautiful. Where did you find her? She has to be the most perfect mare I have ever seen. She’s just like Black Beauty. Can we call her Black Beauty?”
“Most certainly,” said Holmes, clearly pleased with himself. He opened the top of the Dutch door on the back of the trailer and I observed a gleaming black back end of a large mare. She was pawing and whining and letting us know that she was not altogether happy.
“Very well, Holmes,” I said. “Where in heaven’s name did you find her?”
“I had some help.”
“Mycroft, no doubt,” I said.
“Precisely.”
“Mycroft does not own any horses.”
“He has friends who do.”
It then struck me. “Did that mare come down from Sandringham?”
“Yes. I believe that Black Beauty was from Norfolk. Is that not correct, Miss Martha?”
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four Page 13
