High Stakes

by Dick Francis

  ‘I don’t think there would be any question of anyone thinking it a fiddle, this time, I said.

  ‘There you are, then. Quite a few would all of a bleeding sudden be finding they were swallowed up by that smarmy bastard. Just like my poor old boss.’

  I reflected for a minute or two. ‘I think it would be better if you stayed in the betting shop until we’re certain which day the horse is going to run. I don’t imagine they would risk letting him loose without backing him, so we must suppose that his first race is IT. But if possible I’d like to be sure. And you might hear something, if you’re still in the shop.’

  ‘Keep my ears flapping, you mean?’

  ‘Absolutely. And eyes open.’

  ‘Philby won’t have nothing on me,’ Bert said.

  Charlie stretched out to the makings of the sandwich and assembled a smaller edition for himself.

  ‘Now, transport,’ I said. ‘I’ve hired all the vehicles we need from a firm in Chiswick. I was there this morning, looking them over. Owen took a Land-Rover and trailer from there to Gatwick to meet Black Fire and ferry him to his stable, and he’s coming back by train. Then there’s the caravan for you, Charlie, and the car to pull it. Tomorrow Owen is driving those to Reading and leaving them in the station car park, again coming back by train. I got two sets of keys for the car and caravan, so I’ll give you yours now.’ I went through to the sittingroom and came back with the small jingling bunch. ‘Whichever day we’re off, you can go down to Reading by train and drive from there.’

  ‘Fine,’ Charlie said, smiling broadly.

  ‘The caravan is one they hire out for horse shows and exhibitions and things like that. It’s fitted out as a sort of office. No beds or cookers, just a counter, a couple of desks, and three or four folding chairs. Owen and I will load it with all the things you’ll need before he takes it to Reading.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Finally there’s the big van for Owen. I’ll bring that here tomorrow and put the shopping in it. Then we should be ready.’

  ‘Here,’ said Bert. ‘How’s the cash, like?’

  ‘Do you want some, Bert?’

  ‘It’s only, well, seeing as how you’re hiring things left right and centre, well, I wondered if it wouldn’t be better to hire a car for me too, like. Because my old banger isn’t all that bleeding reliable, see? I wouldn’t like to miss the fun because of a boiling bleeding radiator or some such.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Much safer.’ I went back to the sitting-room, fetched some cash, and gave it to Bert.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I don’t need that much. What do you think I’m going to hire, a bleeding golden coach?’

  ‘Keep it anyway.’

  He looked at me dubiously. ‘I’m not doing this for bread, mate.’

  I felt humbled. ‘Bert… Give me back what you don’t use. Or send it to the Injured Jockeys’ Fund.’

  His face lightened. ‘I’ll take my old boss down the boozer a few times. Best bleeding charity there is!’

  Charlie finished his sandwich and wiped his fingers on his handkerchief. ‘You won’t forget the sign-writing, will you?’ he said.

  ‘I did it today,’ I assured him. ‘Want to see?’

  We trooped down to the workshop, where various painted pieces of the enterprise were standing around drying.

  ‘Blimey,’ Bert said. ‘They look bleeding real.’

  ‘They’d have to be,’ Charlie nodded.

  ‘Here,’ Bert said, ‘seeing these makes it seem, well, if it’s all going to happen.’

  Charlie went home to a bridge-playing wife in an opulent detached in Surrey and Bert to the two-up two-down terraced he shared with his fat old mum in Staines. Some time after their departure I got the car out and drove slowly down the M4 to Heathrow.

  I was early. About an hour early. I had often noticed that I tended to arrive prematurely for things I was looking forward to, as if by being there early one could make them happen sooner. It worked in reverse that time. Allie’s aeroplane was half an hour late.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, looking as uncrushed as if she’d travelled four miles, not four thousand. ‘How’s cold little old England?’

  ‘Warmer since you’re here.’

  The wide smile had lost none of its brilliance, but now there was also a glow in the eyes, where the Miami sun shone from within.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ I said.

  ‘I wouldn’t miss this caper for the world.’ She gave me a kiss full of excitement and warmth. ‘And I haven’t told my sister I’m coming.’

  ‘Great,’ I said with satisfaction; and took her home to the flat.

  The change of climate was external. We spent the night, our first together, warmly entwined under a goosefeather quilt: more comfortable, more relaxed and altogether more cosy than the beach or the fishing boat or my hotel bedroom on an air-conditioned afternoon in Miami.

  We set off early next morning while it was still dark, shivering in the chill January air and impatient for the car heater to make an effort. Allie drove, concentrating fiercely on the left-hand business, telling me to watch out that she didn’t instinctively turn the wrong way at crossings. We reached the fruit stall on the A34 safely in two hours and drew up there in the wide sweep of car-parking space. Huge lorries ground past on the main route from the docks at Southampton to the heavy industry area at Birmingham; a road still in places too narrow for its traffic.

  Each time a heavy truck breasted the adjoining hill and drew level with us, it changed its gears, mostly with a good deal of noise. Allie raised her voice. ‘Not the quietest of country spots.’

  I smiled. ‘Every decibel counts.’

  We drank hot coffee from a thermos flask and watched the slow grey morning struggle from gloomy to plain dull.

  ‘Nine o’clock,’ said Allie, looking at her watch. ‘The day sure starts late in these parts.’

  ‘We’ll need you here by nine,’ I said.

  ‘You just tell me when to start.’

  ‘Okay.’

  She finished her coffee. ‘Are you certain sure he’ll come this way?’

  ‘It’s the best road and the most direct, and he always does.’

  ‘One thing about having an ex-friend for an enemy,’ she said. ‘You know his habits.’

  I packed away the coffee and we started again, turning south.

  ‘This is the way you’ll be coming,’ I said. ‘Straight up the A34.’

  ‘Right.’

  She was driving now with noticeably more confidence, keeping left without the former steady frown of anxiety. We reached a big crossroads and stopped at the traffic lights. She looked around and nodded. ‘When I get here, there’ll only be a couple of miles to go.’

  We pressed on for a few miles, the road climbing and descending over wide stretches of bare downlands, bleak and windy and uninviting.

  ‘Slow down a minute,’ I said. ‘See that turning there, to the left? That’s where Jody’s stables are. About a mile along there.’

  ‘I really hate that man,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve never met him.’

  ‘You don’t have to know snakes to hate them.’

  We went round the Newbury by-pass, Allie screwing her head round alarmingly to learn the route from the reverse angle.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Now what?’

  ‘Still the A34. Signposts to Winchester. But we don’t go that far.’

  ‘Right.’

  Through Whitchurch, and six miles beyond we took a narrow side road on the right, and in a little while turned into the drive of a dilapidated looking country house with a faded paint job on a board at the gate.

  Hantsford Manor Riding School.

  First class instruction. Residential Accommodation.

  Ponies and horses for hire or at livery.

  I had chosen it from an advertisement in the Horse and Hound because of its location, to make the drive from there to the fruit stall as simple as possible for Allie, but now tha
t I saw it, I had sinking doubts.

  There was an overall air of life having ended, of dust settling, weeds growing, wood rotting and hope dead. Exaggerated, of course. Though the house indoors smelt faintly of fungus and decay, the proprietors were still alive. They were two much-alike sisters, both about seventy, with thin wiry bodies dressed in jodhpurs, hacking jackets and boots. They both had kind faded blue eyes, long strong lower jaws, and copious iron grey hair in businesslike hairnets.

  They introduced themselves as Miss Johnston and Mrs Fairchild-Smith. They were glad to welcome Miss Ward. They said they hoped her stay would be comfortable. They never had many guests at this time of year. Miss Ward’s horse had arrived safely the day before and they were looking after him.

  ‘Yourselves?’ I asked doubtfully.

  ‘Certainly, ourselves.’ Miss Johnston’s tone dared me to imply they were incapable. ‘We always cut back on staff at this time of year.’

  They took us out to the stables, which like everything else were suffering from advancing years and moreover appeared to be empty. Among a ramshackle collection of wooden structures whose doors any self-respecting toddler could have kicked down, stood three or four brick-built boxes in a sturdy row; in one of these we found Black Fire.

  He stood on fresh straw. There was clean water in his bucket and good-looking hay in his net, and he had his head down to the manger, munching busily at oats and bran. All too clear to see where any profits of the business disappeared: into the loving care of the customers.

  ‘He looks fine,’ I said, and to myself, with relief, confirmed that he really was indeed the double of Energise, and that in the warm distant Miami night I hadn’t been mistaken.

  Allie cleared her throat. ‘Er… Miss Johnston, Mrs Fairchild-Smith… Tomorrow morning I may be taking Black Fire over to some friends, to ride with them. Would that be okay?’

  ‘Of course,’ they said together.

  ‘Leaving at eight o’clock?’

  ‘We’ll see he’s ready for you, my dear,’ said Miss Johnston.

  ‘I’ll let you know for sure when I’ve called my friends. If I don’t go tomorrow, it may be Monday, or Wednesday.’

  ‘Whenever you say, my dear.’ Miss Johnston paused delicately. ‘could you give us any idea how long you’ll be staying?’

  Allie said without hesitation. ‘I guess a week’s board would be fair, both for Black Fire and me, don’t you think? We may not be here for all of seven days, but obviously at this time of year you won’t want to be bothered with shorter reservations.’

  The sisters looked discreetly pleased and when Allie produced cash for the bulk of the bill in advance, a faint flush appeared on their thin cheeks and narrow noses.

  ‘Aren’t they the weirdest?’ Allie said as we drove out of the gates. ‘And how do you shift these damned gears?’

  She sat this time at the wheel of the Land-Rover I’d hired from Ghiswick, learning her way round its unusual levers.

  ‘That one with the red knob engages four-wheeled drive, and the yellow one is for four ultra-low gears, which you shouldn’t need as we’re not aiming to cross ploughed fields or drag tree stumps out of the ground.’

  ‘I wouldn’t rule them out when you’re around.’

  She drove with growing ease, and before long we returned to hitch on the two-horse trailer. She had never driven with a trailer before and reversing, as always, brought the worst problems. After a fair amount of swearing on all sides and the best part of an hour’s trundling around Hampshire she said she guessed she would reach the fruit stall if it killed her. When we returned to Hantsford Manor after refuelling she parked with the Land-Rover’s nose already facing the road, so that at least she wouldn’t louse up the linkage, as she put it, before she’d even started.

  ‘You’ll find the trailer a good deal heavier with a horse in it,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t say.’

  Without encountering the sisters we returned to Black Fire, and I produced from an inner pocket a hair-cutting gadget in the form of a razor blade incorporated into a comb.

  ‘What are you going to do with that?’ Allie said.

  ‘If the two old girls materialise, keep them chatting,’ I said. ‘I’m just helping the understudy to look like the star.’

  I went into the box and as calmly as possible approached Black Fire. He wore a head collar, but was not tied up, and the first thing I did was attach him to the tethering chain. I ran my hand down his neck and patted him a few times and said a few soothing nonsenses. He didn’t seem to object to my presence, so rather gingerly I laid the edge of the hair-cutting comb against his black coat.

  I had been told often that nervous people made horses nervous also. I wondered if Black Fire could feel my fumbling inexperience. I thought that after all this I would really have to spend more time with horses, that owning them should entail the obligation of intimacy.

  His muscles twitched. He threw his head up and down. He whinneyed. He also stood fairly still, so that when I’d finished my delicate scraping he had a small bald patch on his right shoulder, the same size and in the same place as the one on Energise.

  Allie leant her elbows on the closed bottom half of the stable door and watched through the open top half.

  ‘Genius,’ she said smiling, ‘Is nine tenths an infinite capacity for taking pains.’

  I straightened, grinned, patted Black Fire almost familiarly, and shook my head. ‘Genius is infinite pain,’ I said. ‘I’m happy. Too bad.’

  ‘How do you know, then? About genius being pain?’

  ‘Like seeing glimpses of a mountain from the valley.’

  ‘And you’d prefer to suffer on the peaks?’

  I let myself out of the loose box and carefully fastened all the bolts.

  ‘You’re either issued with climbing boots, or you aren’t,’ I said. ‘You can’t choose. Just as well.’

  The sisters reappeared and invited us to take sherry: a double thimbleful in unmatched cut glasses. I looked at my watch and briefly nodded, and Allie asked if she might use the telephone to call the friends.

  In the library, they said warmly. This way. Mind the hole in the carpet. Over there, on the desk. They smiled, nodded and retreated.

  Beside the telephone stood a small metal box with a stuck-on notice. Please pay for calls. I dialled the London number of the Press Association and asked for the racing section.

  ‘Horses knocked out of the novice hurdle at Stratford?’ said a voice. ‘Well, I suppose so, but we prefer people to wait for the evening papers. These enquiries waste our time.’

  ‘Arrangements to make as soon as possible…’ I murmured.

  ‘Oh, all right. Wait a sec. Here we are…’ He read out about seven names rather fast. ‘Got that?’

  ‘Yes, thank you very much,’ I said.

  I put down the telephone slowly, my mouth suddenly dry. Jody had declared Padellic as a Saturday Stratford runner three days ago. If he had intended not to go there, he would have had to remove his name by a Friday morning deadline of eleven o’clock…

  Eleven o’clock had come and gone. None of the horses taken out of the novice hurdle had been Padellic.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ I said. ‘He runs tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh.’ Allie’s eyes were wide. ‘Oh golly!’

  12

  Eight o’clock, Saturday morning.

  I sat in my hired Cortina in a lay-by on the road over the top of the Downs, watching the drizzly dawn take the eye-strain out of the passing headlights.

  I was there much too early because I hadn’t been able to sleep. The flurry of preparations all Friday afternoon and evening had sent me to bed still in top gear and from then on my brain had whirred relentlessly, thinking of all the things which could go wrong.

  Snatches of conversation drifted back.

  Rupert Ramsey expressing doubts and amazement on the other end of the telephone.

  ‘You want to do what?’

  ‘Take Energise for a ride in a
horsebox. He had a very upsetting experience in a horsebox at Sandown, in a crash… I thought it might give him confidence to go for an uneventful drive.’

  ‘I don’t think it would do much good,’ he said.

  ‘All the same I’m keen to try. I’ve asked a young chap called Pete Duveen, who drives his own box, just to pick him up and take him for a ride. I thought tomorrow would be a good day. Pete Duveen says he can collect him at seven thirty in the morning. Would you have the horse ready?’

  ‘You’re wasting your money,’ he said regretfully. ‘I’m afraid there’s more wrong with him than nerves.’

  ‘Never mind. And… will you be at home tomorrow evening?’

  ‘After I get back from Chepstow races, yes.’

  The biggest race meeting of the day was scheduled for Chepstow, over on the west side of the Bristol Channel. The biggest prizes were on offer there and most of the top trainers, like Rupert, would be going.

  ‘I hope you won’t object,’ I said, ‘but after Energise returns from his ride, I’d like to hire a security firm to keep an eye on him.’

  Silence from the other end. Then his voice, carefully polite. ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘To keep him safe,’ I said reasonably. ‘Just a guard to patrol the stable and make regular checks. The guard wouldn’t be a nuisance to anybody.’

  I could almost feel the shrug coming down the wire along with the resigned sigh. Eccentric owners should be humoured. ‘If you want to, I suppose… But why?’

  ‘If I called at your house tomorrow evening,’ I suggested diffidently, ‘I could explain.’

  ‘Well…’ He thought for a bit. ‘Look, I’m having a few friends to dinner. Would you care to join us?’

  ‘Yes, I would,’ I said positively. ‘I’d like that very much.’

  I yawned in the car and stretched. Despite anorak, gloves and thick socks the cold encroached on fingers and toes, and through the drizzle-wet windows the bare rolling Downs looked thoroughly inhospitable. Straight ahead through the windscreen wipers I could see a good two miles of the A34. It came over the brow of a distant hill opposite, swept down into a large valley and rose again higher still to cross the Downs at the point where I sat.