CREMORNE: A ROMANCE OF THE DERBY.
_My Bad Derby Book--Backing Cremorne at Ruinous Prices--Death of Agent
in Derby Week--Loss of £10,000--Agent comes to Life--Detection of the
Gross Fraud._
The extraordinary circumstances about to be related for the first
time in print occurred in my green and salad days, and had a lasting
influence on my life. Some of the particulars are known to a few men
in London, and they own, as will the public when they learn the facts,
that a more carefully concocted fraud has seldom been heard of. The man
at the bottom of it is dead now, and my promise of secrecy is no longer
binding.
By the death of a relation I came into a large sum of money, and
started what turned out to be a ruinous speculation--a yearling book on
the Derby; _i.e._, I commenced to lay against the candidates for Epsom
honours when they were a year old, and continued the process until the
judge's decision was known.
Amongst others, I laid heavily against Mr. Savile's horse, Cremorne.
When Cremorne came out as a two-year-old and won his engagements in
such gallant style, he became immediately first favourite for the
Derby, which he eventually won, and my book was anything but an object
for admiration. If the horse kept well through the winter months the
"getting out" would be fearful. The price during the Goodwood week in
the previous July was so short, it was much better to wait the chances
of accident.
When I saw there was no hope of the horse breaking down, I gave orders
to the man who usually did such business for me to pick up quietly
the necessary £10,000 to put my book straight. He carried out the
transaction in a satisfactory manner; and my position then was this,
that if Cremorne proved successful I would neither win nor lose.
It was not pleasant taking 4 or 5 to 1 about a horse you had laid 100
to 1 against. Still everything seemed to favour his victory, and the
bitter pill had to be swallowed _nolens volens_. And if I had not been
the victim of a gross fraud, I should have pulled through.
The Monday before the Derby brought me a letter and a telegram from my
agent, the first comparing the bets he had made for me (which list I
found correct), and the other announcing that he was down with typhoid
fever, and would not be able to attend Epsom. As I had shut up my Derby
book, his inability to be present on that eventful Wednesday did not
so much matter. I went to see the race, and, as everyone is aware,
Cremorne won; and I congratulated myself on not losing over one of the
worst books ever seen. A genial companion turned up in the ring, and we
drank the health of Cremorne in the wine of Champagne.
On the Oaks day I received a telegram intimating the death of my agent,
and later on came a letter from the doctor who attended him, and who
was much mixed up in betting matters. He went by the name of the "Red
Doctor." In his letter he gave me details of the illness, and informed
me the funeral would take place on the following Tuesday, at Norwood
Cemetery. He proposed that I should meet him (the doctor) at the Gaiety
Restaurant on the following day (Saturday) to go over the betting books.
The sudden death of my agent staggered me--it might mean utter ruin!
Everything depended on whether my agent had booked the Cremorne bets to
himself or to me. If his own name had been used I would never receive a
penny of the £10,000.
As my readers can easily imagine, the interval between Friday and
Saturday, though short, was a period of the greatest anxiety to me.
I cursed my stupidity in not having had a clear understanding with
my agent about the booking of bets; but my suspicions had not been
aroused, and there never had been the slightest misunderstanding
between us in our transactions.
I did not keep the "Red Doctor" waiting on Saturday. I met him at
the appointed time, and we immediately retired to one of the tables,
when he produced the only betting-book that, he said, could be found.
I turned eagerly to the Derby entries, but could not see my name
anywhere, and the "doctor" could not give me any explanation. There
were items up to about £8,000 booked in favour of Cremorne, but
underneath each bet was written "For Jessop."
"Who is Jessop?" I enquired. "I don't seem to know the name," and the
reply was that he was a new comer on the turf, an owner of horses, and
reputed very rich.
"There must be another book," I suggested, showing the last letter I
had received from the dead man.
The "doctor" shook his head, saying the agent's wife had searched
everywhere.
"But this means ruin to me," I whispered. "For Monday's settling I
shall be short of £10,000."
"My dear sir, I am very sorry; but what can I do?"
"You see his letter," I said. "What would you advise me to do?"
"I should go to the club on Monday and make enquiry. You will have
got his letter to show. It is quite possible that you may find your
Cremorne bets booked in your own name. The more cautiously you go about
the matter the greater chance you will have of getting your money."
"But there must be another betting-book," I replied angrily.
"One would think so, but such does not appear to be the case."
"I must see his wife," I said hastily.
"Let me persuade you not to do that. The poor woman is heartbroken. Are
you coming to the funeral?"
"It is hard lines," I said, "after such a struggle to square the
confounded book, that there should be any doubt about these bets.
If that £10,000 is not forthcoming I shall have to be declared a
defaulter."
"I wish," he said, "I could give you any comfort, but I know nothing.
Your agent was a very secretive man, and kept all his betting
transactions to himself."
"Has he died rich?" I asked.
"No," he replied; "the widow will only have a moderate income, but
there are no children."
"It is very strange," I continued, "that all these Cremorne bets should
be for 'Jessop.' Where is he to be found?"
"I have no doubt he will be at the club on Monday."
That black Monday came. I could not find the slightest trace of my
Cremorne bets, and there was nothing for it but to suspend payment. For
the £10,000 I had only the letter of the deceased man to show, and that
was of the value of so much waste paper. I made the acquaintance of
Mr. Jessop, and did not like him. He was profuse in his sympathy with
me, and shed a tear over his departed friend. He readily showed me his
book with the Cremorne bets all duly entered, and I saw him receive the
money. There was nothing for me to do but retire. It seemed to me that
my agent bad been grossly careless, or had premeditated a fraud.
I did not attend the funeral, which duly took place on the Tuesday--a
paragraph to that effect appeared in the sporting papers--but some days
afterwards I wended my way to Streatham, where the agent resided, to
see if anything had been heard of another betting-book. The house was
shut up, and the neighbours told me that the desolate widow had gone
away, immediately after the funeral, to some relations in the country.
In answer to my question, they told me she had left no address, but
promised to write. A few weeks elapsed, and I paid another visit to
Streatham. The furniture had been sold, and the house was occupied by
another tenant. Nothing had been heard of the widow.
Walking through Fleet-street one day, two years afterwards, I met a
man the exact counterpart of my agent. The height, manner of walking,
and colour of hair, all corresponded, and his appearance gave me
quite a shock, and if he had worn a moustache, and did not use blue
spectacles, I would have sworn that the dead was alive. I stared at
him, and I thought he started on seeing me, but I put that down to
imagination. Still the man haunted me, and considering the suspicious
circumstances, I determined next time I should meet this individual to
watch his movements. During the two years the mystery of the Cremorne
bets remained as much in the dark as ever, and I had heard nothing of
the widow.
The "Streets of London" was being played at the Princess's Theatre, and
one evening I went to have a look at the piece. Who should I see in the
stalls, arrayed in evening-costume, but the man I met in Fleet-street.
"This time," I said to myself, "you shall not escape. If nothing comes
of it there may be some amusement." I kept well in the background. He
still wore the blue spectacles, and there was no moustache, but when
he took the glasses off to wipe them, there was no doubt any longer in
my mind as to the strong resemblance. "The man must be his brother," I
thought. After the performance he went to the nearest public-house and
had a soda and brandy, and on coming out he hailed a hansom and left.
I was in readiness, and followed in another cab. It was a long ride,
and we did not stop until we were quite in the centre of the East-end.
His cab had been drawn up at a large corner public-house, blazing with
light, and I saw him discharge the cabman and enter.
It was quite evident he was at home here, for he lifted the lid of the
counter and went into the parlour. Did my eyes deceive me? As large as
life behind the counter stood Jessop, superintending the drawing of
beer and measuring out gin, and, if my eyes did not deceive me, the
"Red Doctor" was enjoying a glass of grog in the sanctum beyond. My
excitement knew no bounds. I did not know well what to think! A faint
glimmering of the fraud began to steal into my mind. I had dangerous
men to deal with, and must act cautiously. If the agent's wife would
only appear on the scene the quartet would be complete; and sure
enough, just as the house was being shut up, she came down to the bar
from the upstairs regions.
Next day I told all these particulars to a staunch friend, and together
we paid a visit to the Norwood Cemetery, and beheld the grave with a
modest stone at its head, "Sacred to the Memory of," &c., but if I
had not made a grievous error, the clergyman who had conducted the
service had not prayed over the right man. It was a deep plot, and had
been very successful. The question arose now, how was I to benefit by
the discovery? After much cogitation my friend and I decided to beard
the lion in his den, and one evening when Jessop was out and the "Red
Doctor" not visible we entered and addressed my agent by his name. He
said we were mistaken, but when we enquired about the health of his
wife, Mr. Jessop, and the "Red Doctor," he saw that he was discovered,
and the game was up. He asked us into his parlour, and had the
impudence to become jocular over the infernal game.
"I was hard up," he said, "and was obliged to stand to win both ways
over that Derby."
My money had been booked to Jessop, who would have received my money
to pay with if the horse had not won. The timely reputed death of the
agent saved all explanation.
"Who was the man buried?" I asked.
"Nobody! Only some stones! I saw that everything was conducted properly
myself, and often run up to have a look at the grave."
"But how did you get the certificate?"
"The 'Red Doctor' managed that!"
"A nice conspiracy! You know that you settled me! What money am I going
to have?"
It was difficult to get the three conspirators to come to terms--the
law was powerless--and I had to content myself with £1,000. Cremorne's
Derby calls up anything but pleasant recollections to the writer of
these memoirs.