by Dick Francis
‘O.K.,’ I said. ‘Let’s get him out.’
He was surprised. ‘What, out here on the road?’
‘That’s right,’ I agreed.
‘But he’s warm enough now. He’s dried off, like, on the journey up.’
‘All the same…’ I said, and helped the box driver, who said his name was Clem, unload the River God. Deus ex machina I thought irrelevantly, and nothing much about this one either was divine.
I removed the rug, folded it, and returned it to the box. Then with Clem holding the horse’s farm-stained head collar I went along to my car and took off my jacket, and in shirt sleeves collected from the boot my bag of gear.
‘What are you going to do?’ Clem asked.
‘Tidy him up.’
‘But I had to meet you at three… you were early but it’s a quarter past already.’
‘I left time enough,’ I said. ‘We’re not due until four thirty.’
‘Did you reckon he’d look this rough, then?’
‘Thought he might.’
Once I was committed to turning up with the horse I was also committed to defend what he looked like. I took out hand clippers, two pairs of scissors, a heavy steel comb and some wax tapers, and set to work.
Clem held the horse’s head and watched while with comb in one hand and lighted taper in the other I worked on the rough coat, singeing off all the too-long, sticking out hair which in a good stable would have been removed by daily brushing. The tiny candle flame was too small to disturb the horse, who felt no fear or pain, and he looked a lot less like a throwback to a carthorse when I’d finished. Next I clipped out the mane between his ears and over his withers, then snipped off the worst of the whiskers round his muzzle, and with a large pair of scissors finally straightened the bottom of his tail.
‘’Struth,’ Clem said. ‘He looks a different horse.’
I shook my head. Nothing but care, good food and brushing could bring a shine to that coat. He looked like a poor boy after a haircut, tidy but still poor.
Before we loaded him up again I wound neat dark blue bandages round his forelegs and buckled on the clean rug I’d brought from my own yard. Eliza Doolittle off to the ball, I thought, but it was the best I could do.
6
Kerry Sanders looked from Nicol to Constantine in carefully camouflaged anxiety while they inspected her gift. One of Brevett’s own men was showing him off, trotting him now and then or making him stand with his legs arranged as for a photograph.
River God could move, I’d give him that. A good strong walk and a straight collected trot. Nothing to be ashamed of in that department.
Constantine was saying comfortingly, ‘My dear girl, I realise you got him at very short notice. I’m sure he’ll make up into a very good performer one of these days. Look at those legs… the bone is there.
‘I hope he’ll win for Nicol,’ she said.
‘Of course he will. He’s a very lucky boy to be given such a generous present.’
The lucky boy himself drew me aside and said abrasively ‘Couldn’t you have found me something better?’
I had ridden against him often enough in races, at the end of my career and the beginning of his, and he knew me as well and as little as any jockey in the changing room.
‘She gave me two days… and its form isn’t bad.’
‘Would you have ridden it?’
‘Definitely. And if it turns out no good, I’ll sell it for you later.’
He sucked his teeth.
‘It did quite well in a bad stable,’ I said. ‘It should improve a mile in yours.’
‘D’you think so?’
‘Give it a try.’
He smiled sourly. ‘And don’t look a gift horse in the teeth?’
‘She wanted to please you,’ I said.
‘Huh. Buy me, more like.’
‘Happy birthday,’ I said.
He turned to watch Kerry Sanders talking to his father, the neat small feminine figure overshadowed by the large protecting paternal male. As before the Sanders wrappings were as uncluttered as gold bricks and the slanting autumn sunlight drew fire from the diamond knuckledusters.
‘At least she’s not after his money,’ Nicol said. ‘I had her checked out. She’s way ahead.’
For an also-ran, Constantine was not doing so badly. Clem’s horsebox stood on a clear quarter acre of front drive with Clem himself fidgeting around for a signal that he could set off home. There were buildings along two sides of the mini parade ground, a modern garage and stable block at one end set at right angles to a much older, slightly austere stone house. Not quite a mansion, but more than enough for two.
The outside surface was being cleaned, with nearly one third showing warm cream instead of forbidding grey. One could see that it would look a good deal more welcoming when it was finished, but the effect meanwhile was undignified piebald. One should not, I reflected, ever make the mistake of thinking one would catch its master at such public disadvantage.
Nicol strode over to the man leading River God and the man nodded and took the horse away to the stables.
Kerry Sanders looked a fraction disappointed until Nicol rejoined her and said, ‘Thought I’d just try it. Can’t wait, you see.’
River God came back with saddle and bridle, and Nicol swung easily onto his back. He trotted him a little round the gravel and then took him through a gate into a railed field alongside and quickened the pace to a working canter. Constantine Brevett watched with heavy good humour, Kerry Sanders with hope, Clem with impatience and I with relief. Whatever I thought of his financial methods, Ronnie North had delivered the goods.
Nicol came back, handed the reins to the stableman, and strode over and kissed Kerry Sanders with enthusiasm on the cheek.
‘He’s great,’ he said. His eyes shone. ‘Absolutely great.’
Her face filled with joy enough to melt the hardest case. Nicol took note of it, and as she and his father turned away to return to the house he gave me a twisted smile and said, ‘See? I’m not always a bastard.’
‘And besides,’ I said, ‘The horse is better than he looks.’
‘Cynical sod. It’s got a mouth like the back end of a rhino.’
‘A ride for a pro, I was told.’
‘The first nice thing you’ve ever said to me.’ He laughed. ‘Come on in and have a drink.’
‘Just a sec….’ I turned away to go over to Clem to give him a fiver and send him off home and found Nicol following me to double the ante. Clem took both notes with cheerfulness, hopped up into the cab and rolled away to the gate.
Champagne stood ready in tulip shaped glasses in the sitting-room to which Nicol led the way, the last rays of sun making the bubbles glisten like silver in liquid gold. Con-stantine handed us a glass each and we drank rather pompously to Nicol’s health. He gave me a private irreverent grin and greatly to my surprise I began to like him.
We sat in cloud nine armchairs and Constantine fussed over Kerry Sanders. She glowed with happiness, the peach bloom cheeks as fresh as a child’s. It was extraordinary, I thought, how clearly and quickly the mental state of a woman showed in her skin.
‘You almost didn’t get a horse at all,’ she told Nicol. ‘The most infuriating thing happened to the first one Jonah bought.’
They listened to the saga in bewilderment, and I added to it by saying that the same two thugs had tried a repeat with River God.
Constantine took up a heavily authoritarian stance which went well with his smooth silver hair and thick black spectacle frames, and assured Kerry that he would see they got their just deserts. As it was fairly likely I had broken Frizzy Hair’s arm I thought he had probably got his already, but I had no quarrel with any plans Constantine might have for finding out what was going on. He had the weight to lean heavily in places where I had none.
‘What do you think, Jonah?’ Nicol asked.
‘Well… I can’t believe either Hearse Puller or River God would themselves be the cause
of so much action. They came from widely different places, so it can’t be anyone close to them resenting them being sold. It seems even crazier when you think that we’ll find out who bought Hearse Puller as soon as he’s entered in a race. Even if he’s changed hands more than once we should be able to trace him back.’
Constantine shook his head heavily and spoke from personal knowledge. ‘Easy enough to cover up a sale if you know how.’
‘Maybe someone simply wanted to stop Kerry giving me a horse,’ Nicol said.
‘But why?’ Kerry asked. ‘Why should they?’
No one knew. ‘Who did you tell about River God?’ I asked her.
‘After last time? You must be crazy. At least when you got another horse I had the sense not to shout it around.’
‘You didn’t tell Lady Roscommon or your hairdresser or Pauli Teksa? None of the same people as last time?’
‘I sure did not. I didn’t see Madge or the hairdresser guy, and Pauli was out of town.’
‘Someone knows,’ Nicol said. ‘So who did you tell, Jonah?’
‘No one. I didn’t tell the man I bought it from who it was for, and I didn’t tell the transport firm where they were taking it.’
‘Someone knew,’ Nicol said again, flatly.
‘Do you have any particularly bad friends?’ I asked him.
‘The professional jockeys all hate my guts.’
‘And the amateurs?’
He grinned. ‘Them too, I dare say.’
Constantine said ‘However jealous the other riders might be of Nicol’s success I cannot see any single one of them going around buying up or stealing horses simply to prevent Nicol riding winners.’
‘They’d have a job,’ Nicol said.
Constantine’s voice was resonant and deep and filled the room to overflowing. Nicol had the same basic equipment but not the obvious appreciation of his own power, so that in him the voice was quieter, more natural, not an announcement of status.
‘What about Wilton Young?’ he said.
Constantine was ready to believe anything of Wilton Young. Constantine saw only one threat to his bid to dominate British racing, and that was a bullet-headed Yorkshire-man with no social graces, a huge mail-order business and the luck of the devil with horses. Wilton Young trampled all over people’s finer feelings without noticing them and judged a man solely on his ability to make brass. He and Constantine were notably alike in ruthlessness and it was no doubt immaterial to their flattened victims that one steamroller wai; smoothly oiled while the other was roughly clanking.
‘Of course,’ Constantine said, his face filling with anger. •Wilton Young.’
‘The two men didn’t have Yorkshire accents,’ I said.
‘What’s that got to do with it?’ Constantine demanded.
‘Wilton Young makes a point of having Yorkshiremen working for him. He looks down on everyone else.’
‘Arrogant little pipsqueak,’ Constantine said.
‘I can’t honestly see him taking such trouble to stop Mrs Sanders giving Nicol a horse for his birthday.’
‘Can’t you?’ Constantine looked down his nose as if he could believe half a dozen more improbable things before breakfast. ‘He’d do anything he could think of to irritate me, however petty.’
‘But how could he have known I was buying the horse for Nicol?’
He took barely three seconds to come up with an answer. ‘He saw you at the sales with Kerry, and he has seen her at the races with me.’
‘He wasn’t at the sales,’ I said.
He shrugged impatiently. ‘All you mean is that you didn’t see him.’
I doubted if it were possible to be in so small a place as Ascot Sales’ paddock and not know whether Wilton Young was there or not. He had a voice as loud as Constantine’s and a good deal more piercing, and he was not a man who liked to be overlooked.
‘Anyway,’ Nicol said, ‘I’ll bet his bloodstock agent was there. That carrot-headed little Yorkshireman who buys his horses.’
I nodded. ‘So was your own chap, Vic Vincent.’
Constantine had nothing but praise for Vic Vincent.
‘He’s bought me some great yearlings this time. Two he bought at Newmarket last week… classic colts, both of them. Wilton Young will have nothing to touch them.’
He went on at some length about the dozen or so youngsters which according to him were about to sweep the two-year-old board, patting himself on the back for having bought them. Vic Vincent was a great judge of a yearling. Vic Vincent was a great fellow altogether.
Vic Vincent was a great fellow to his clients, and that was about where it ended. I listened to Constantine singing his praises and drank my champagne and wondered if Vic Vincent thought me enough of a threat to his Brevett monopoly to whip away any horse I bought for the family. On balance I doubted it. Vic Vincent looked on me as Wilton Young looked on non Yorkshiremen: not worth bothering about.
I finished the champagne and found Kerry Sanders watching me. For signs of alcoholism, I supposed. I smiled at her and she smiled a little primly back.
‘Kerry my dear, you couldn’t do better, another time, than to consult Vic Vincent…’
‘Yes, Constantine,’ she said.
From Gloucester to Esher I thought about Frizzy Hair a little and Sophie Randolph a lot. She opened her door with the composure all in place and greeted me with a duplicate of the Gatwick kiss, cheek to cheek, a deal too chaste.
‘You found me, then,’ she said.
‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Just over a year.’
‘So you weren’t here when I used to race next door.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Come in.’
She looked different. She was wearing another long dress, not white and black and silver this time, but a glowing mixture of greens and blues. The cut on her forehead had crusted over and her system had recovered from the state of shock. Her hair looked a warmer gold, her eyes a deeper brown, and only the inner self reliance hadn’t changed a jot.
‘How’s your arm?’ I asked.
‘Much better. It itches.’
‘Already? You heal fast.’
She shut the door behind me. The small lobby was an offshoot of the sitting-room which opened straight ahead, warm, colourful and full of charming things.
‘It’s pretty,’ I said, and meant it.
‘Don’t sound so surprised.’
‘It’s just… I thought perhaps your room might be more bare. A lot of smooth empty surfaces, and space.’
‘I may be smooth but I’m not empty.’
‘I grovel,’ I said.
‘Quite right.’
There were no aeroplanes on her walls, but she wore a little gold one on a chain round her neck. Her fingers strayed to it over and over again during the evening, an unconscious gesture from which she seemed to gain confidence and strength.
A bottle of white wine and two glasses stood ready on a small silver tray.
She gestured towards them noncommittally and said, ‘Would you like some? Or don’t you ever?’
‘When Crispin is drunk,’ I said, ‘I drink.’
‘Well, hallelujah.’ She seemed relieved. ‘In that case, take your jacket off, sit on the sofa, and tell me how you got on with my aunt.’
She made no mention at all of my invitation to marry. Maybe she had decided to treat it as a joke, and yesterday’s joke at that. Maybe she was right.
‘Your aunt,’ I said, ‘wouldn’t take my advice if I showed her the way to Heaven.’
‘Why not?’ She handed me a glass and sat down comfortably opposite in an armchair.
I explained why not, and she was instantly angry on her aunt’s behalf.
‘She was swindled.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Something must be done.’
I sipped the wine. Light, dry, unexpectedly flowery, and definitely not supermarket plonk.
‘The trouble is,’ I said, ‘That the kick bac
k system is not illegal. Far from it. To many it is a perfectly sensible business method and anyone who doesn’t take advantage of it is a fool.’
‘But to demand half her profit…’
‘The argument goes that an agent promised a large kick back will raise the auction price much higher than it might have gone, so the breeder positively benefits. Some breeders don’t just put up with having to pay the kick backs, they offer to do so. In those cases everyone is happy.’
‘Except the person who buys the horse,’ she said severely. ‘He comes off badly. Why do the buyers stand for it?’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘What clients don’t know would sink a battleship.’
She looked disapproving. ‘I don’t like the sound of your profession.’ She added, in the understatement of the year, ‘It isn’t straightforward.’
‘What sort of agent you are depends on how you see things,’ I said. ‘Honesty is your own view from the hill.’
‘That’s immoral.’
I shook my head. ‘Universal.’
‘You’re saying that honesty in the bloodstock business is only a matter of opinion.’
‘And in every business, every country, every era, since the world began.’
‘Jonah, you talk nonsense.’
‘How about marriage?’
‘What are the kickbacks?’
‘Oh God,’ I said. ‘You learn fast.’
She laughed and stood up. ‘I’m a lousy cook but if you stay I’ll give you a delicious dinner.’
I stayed. The dinner came out of frozen packs and would have pleased Lucullus; lobster in sauce on shells and duck with almonds and honey. The freezer was the largest item in the small white kitchen. She stocked it up every six months, she said, and did practically no shopping in between.