by Dick Francis
“How old is Nagrebb?” I asked.
“Not Nagrebb. I’m not going there.”
“Is he sixty or more?”
“He doesn’t look it, but his son’s over thirty. What does it matter?”
“All the owners or trainers of the dead horses have been men of sixty or more.”
He stared. “So what?”
“So I don’t really know. I’m just looking for similarities.”
“They all know me,” Ken said. “They’ve got that in common.”
“Do they all know Oliver?”
Ken thought it over. “I don’t suppose he’s met Wynn Lees. He probably knows the others. They all know Carey, of course.”
“Well, they would. But other things ... is there anything else that links them?”
“I can’t see the point really,” he said, “but I suppose anything’s worth a try.”
I said, “We have a cruel-to-horses pervert, a gaga old man, a scrap metal dealer, an unscrupulous show-jumping trainer, the old tyrant father of Russet Eaglewood and a steward.”
“What steward?”
“Ronnie Upjohn.”
“But his horse lived.”
“He’s the right age.”
“It’s nonsense,” Ken said. “You’ll never get anywhere that way. A quarter of the population’s over sixty.”
“I expect you’re right.” I paused, then said, “Did they all know your father?”
He gave me a slightly wild look but didn’t shirk the question.
“Old Mackintosh obviously did,” he said. “Wasn’t that odd? I didn’t know I looked so like him as all that.”
“Who else?”
“I don’t know. He was a vet in this area, so I expect he knew most of them.”
“And of course he knew of Wynn Lees.”
“But it couldn’t matter now, after all this time.”
“Just fishing around,” I said. “Do they all know each other?”
He frowned. “Eaglewood knows Lees and Mackintosh and Fitzwalter and Upjohn. Don’t know about Nagrebb. The three trainers all know each other well, of course. They meet all the time at the races. Nagrebb’s in a different world. So is Wynn Lees.”
“And all this started since Wynn Lees came back from Australia.”
“I suppose it did.”
Wholly depressed, we finished our drinks and drove to Thetford Cottage. Belinda, looking tired, had already told Vicky and Greg about Scott, so we passed a long subdued evening without cheer. Vicky offered to sing to raise our spirits but Belinda wouldn’t let her. She and Ken left at ten and the rest of us went to bed in relief.
IN THE MORNING I went back to the hospital, drawn as if by a magnet, but there was nothing happening. The Portakabin doors were shut. The car park, usually over-filled, was half empty. There were two police cars by the hospital but no barrier to keep other cars out.
I parked near the front entrance and went in and found Ken, Oliver, Jay and Lucy all sitting glumly silent in the office.
“Morning,” I said.
They couldn’t raise a greeting between them.
“Carey’s closed the practice,” Ken said, explaining the general atmosphere. “He got the secretary to phone all the people with small-animal appointments to cancel them. She was doing it in the Portakabin when we arrived. Now she’s in there answering the phone and telling people to find other vets.”
“I didn’t think he would do this to us,” Lucy exclaimed. “He didn’t even ask us.”
“He hasn’t the right,” Oliver said. “It’s a partnership. He can resign from it if he likes—and the sooner the better—but he can’t just put us all out of work like this.”
Jay said, “It isn’t as if any of these disasters touched my cattle. I’m going to phone all my clients and tell them I’ve set up on my own.”
“Sometimes you need the hospital,” Ken said.
“I’ll rent the theater when I need it.”
“Good idea,” Oliver said.
I didn’t bother to point out that as they jointly owned the hospital and each paid a share of the mortgage, it might not be as simple as they thought to disengage from it. Not my business, though.
“Is Carey here?” I asked.
They shook their heads. “He came. He told us. We were speechless with shock. He left.”
“And the police? Their cars are here.”
“In the theater,” Lucy said. “Don’t know what they’re doing.”
As if on cue, the police constable appeared in the doorway and asked the vets to go with him to join the Superintendent. They trooped out and followed him up the passage and I might have tried to tack on unobtrusively, but the telephone on the desk gave me a better idea and I phoned Annabel at the Jockey Club instead.
“Oh, good,” she said when I announced myself, “I didn’t know how to reach you. Some people I know need a new sharer in their flat. Are you interested?”
“Fervently,” I said.
“When can you come?”
“This evening,” I said.
“Can you pick me up at my house at six?”
“I’ll be there and I’m highly grateful.”
“Have to go now. ’Bye.”
“‘Bye,” I said, but she’d already gone. I put down the receiver thinking that life wasn’t all doom and gloom after all.
Almost immediately the phone rang again and after a moment or two, as no one ran back from the theater, I picked it up and said “Hewett and Partners, can I help you?” just like Ken.
A voice on the other end said, “This is the Parkway Chemical Company. We need to speak to Kenneth McClure about a letter we received from him this morning.”
I said, “I’m Kenneth McClure.” Lie abroad for your country ... !
“Fine. Then I’m answering your query. I’m the sales manager, by the way. Condolences on your fire.”
“Thanks. It’s a mess.”
“Will you be needing replacements for what you’ve lost?”
“Yes, we will,” I said. “If you can send us the past invoices, we can make up a new shopping list.”
“Splendid,” he said. “You will remember, though, won’t you, that there are some substances we can’t put in the post? Like last time, you’ll have to send someone to collect it.”
“OK,” I said.
“Last time, according to our records, your messenger was a Mr. Scott Sylvester. He’s been vouched for, but if you send anyone else he’ll need full identification and a covering letter from your partnership laboratory. Even Mr. Sylvester will need identification. Sorry and all that, but we have to be careful, as you know.”
“Yes,” I said. “Could you give us the copies of the invoices as soon as possible?”
“Certainly. We’re getting them together at this moment. They’ll go off today.”
“Could you also send us a copy of the delivery note that I’m sure you gave Scott Sylvester when he collected from you?”
“Certainly, if you like.”
“It would help us restore our records.”
“Of course. I’ll assemble it straightaway.”
“Thank you very much indeed.”
“No trouble. Glad to help.” He put the phone down gently and I stood thinking of the possible significance of what he’d told me.
Scott had personally collected at least one substance that couldn’t be sent through the mail. It might be harmless. It might be anything. I’d wanted to ask the sales manager exactly what Scott had carried, but he’d talked as if I knew, and I hadn’t wanted to make him suspicious. In the morning, or whenever the reply fell through the letterbox at Thetford Cottage, we would find out. Patience, I sometimes thought, was the hardest of virtues.
I REACHED ANNABEL’S house on time at six and she opened the door to my ring.
The clothes this time were baggy black silk trousers and a big top that looked as if it were made of soft white feathers. She’d added silver boots, wide silver belt and silver earrings and c
arried a black swinging cape to put on to keep warm. Her mouth was pink and her eyes were smiling. I kissed her cheek.
“We may as well go straight on in your car,” she said. “The people are expecting us.”
“Fine.”
She told me on the way that they were offering a bed-sitting room but I’d have to accept cleaning and breakfast.
“They say they have to be able to get you out if they don’t like your habits. They don’t want any legal hassle.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“The rent acts, of course.”
I was unclear about the rent acts and got a brief lecture on how it was currently impossible to evict undesirable tenants unless the landlord cleaned for them and preferably provided food.
“Count me in enthusiastically for cleaning and breakfast,” I said. “Suits me fine.”
The flat itself was in an ancient mansion block, on the fourth of six floors and approached by a creaky old lift. The inhabitants were a bearded professor and his intimidated wife. The room they offered was large and old-fashioned with a view of nearby roofs and fire escapes. I didn’t like it much, but it was at least a foothold. We agreed on terms and I gave them a check for a deposit, and Annabel and I descended to the car.
“It’s not awfully good,” she said doubtfully. “I hadn’t seen it before.”
“It’s a start. I’ll look around later for something else.” It had the virtue at least of being within two miles of Annabel’s house, and I hoped I might be crossing those two miles frequently. The bishop’s daughter already had me thinking in such heavy unaccustomed words as permanent, forever and commitment, and common sense told me it was far too soon for that. It had always been too soon; common sense had ever prevailed. Common sense had never come to grips with an Annabel.
“Six-forty,” she said, looking at her outsize black watch. “Brose has fixed up someone for you to meet if you want to. It’s about insuring horses.”
“Yes, please,” I said with interest.
“Brose says this man always drinks in a hotel bar near the Jockey Club’s London quarters and he should be there about now. You could catch him before he leaves.”
“You’re coming, I hope,” I said.
She smiled for answer and I drove while she gave directions to the rendezvous. It wasn’t hard to find but achieving a parking space took up as much time as the journey and I was afraid we’d be too late.
Brose himself was in the bar, talking to a short bald man with a paunch and gold-rimmed glasses. Brose saw us come in, as it was hard to miss Annabel’s arrival anywhere, and waved to us to join him.
“Thought you weren’t coming,” the big man said.
“Parking,” Annabel told him succinctly.
“Meet Mr. Higgins,” he said, indicating the paunch. “His company insures horses.”
We shook hands, completing the introductions. Higgins’s attention fastened on Annabel as if mesmerized while she twirled off the cape and rubbed a ruffling hand over her feathers.
“Er,” he said. “Oh yes, horses.”
I bought drinks for everyone, a bearable pain in the cash flow since Brose, Annabel and I all chose citron pressé, much to the horror of Higgins with his double vodka and tonic. The bar was one of the dark sort, all dim lights and old wood, everything rich-looking and polished and pretending that the Edwardian age still existed, that horses pulled carriages outside in smoke-laden London fog.
Brose said, “Your spot of bother’s in the news. I was just telling Higgs about it. Out of hand, isn’t it?”
“Pretty far,” I agreed.
“What’s happened?” Annabel asked. “What spot of bother?”
Brose looked at her kindly. “Don’t you watch the box? Don’t you read the papers?”
“Sometimes.”
He said, “The Hewett and Partners’ anesthetist was murdered sometime on Monday night. Didn’t the pride of the Foreign Office tell you?”
“I’d have told her this evening,” I said.
Annabel listened in dismay to the short account Brose and I gave her. Brose had actually spoken to Superintendent Ramsey, who’d informed him that inquiries were proceeding.
“That means they haven’t a clue,” Brose said. “I offered any service they needed, and that’s where we stand.” He looked at me shrewdly. “What do you know about it that I don’t?”
The newspapers that I’d seen had printed nothing about hoists or staples and I’d supposed the police had their reasons for keeping quiet. I’d have told Brose then but Higgins was looking at his watch, drinking his vodka and showing signs of leaving, so I said to Brose, “Tell you later,” and to Higgins, “I really do want to know about insuring horses.”
The paunch resettled itself. I bought him a refill, which anchored him nicely.
“Brose suggested,” Higgins said in a fruity bass voice, “that I just talk and if you want to ask anything, fire away.”
“Great,” I said.
“Insuring horses,” he began, “is risk business. We don’t do it except as a sideline, understand. Agents phone us and we make a deal. Premiums are high because the risks are high, understand?”
I nodded. “Give us an example,” I said.
He thought briefly. “Suppose you have a good Derby prospect, it’s worth your while insuring it because of the possible future stud value. So we make a deal on how long the policy is to run for and exactly what it covers. That’s accidental death usually, but it could include malicious damage, negligence and death from illness. Most horses don’t die young from natural causes so that’s not as risky as racing. We’d agree to a policy that included death from natural causes but we’d review it every year and increase the premium. After ten years, except for stallions at stud, we might decline at any price, but generally racehorses live well on into their late teens, or middle twenties. That is, if nature takes its whole course. Many people put down their old horses earlier, if it’s more humane.”
“Or cheaper,” Brose said dryly.
Higgins dispatched half his second drink with a nod of sad agreement.
“What about a broodmare?” I asked.
“In foal?”
“In foal to a top stallion.”
“Mm. We’d write a policy as long as the pregnancy was definitely established and proceeding normally. It isn’t usual, but it could be done, especially if the stallion fee has to be paid whether there’s a live foal or not. No foal, no fee is customary. How old a mare?”
“I don’t know.”
“It would depend on her age and her breeding record.”
“I can tell you,” Brose said. “She was nine and had been barren one year but had borne two healthy foals, one colt, one filly.”
Higgins raised his eyebrows until they rose above the gold rims of his glasses. I could feel my own eyebrows going up in unison.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Peter, really. I’m a detective by trade.”
“Sorry.”
“I obtained the list of mares covered by Rainbow Quest last season and checked them. People with sires like Rainbow Quest are choosy about what mares they’ll accept because they need foals of good quality to maintain the stallion’s worth, so that the stud fees stay high.”
“It makes sense,” I agreed.
“So,” Brose said, “I phoned the former owner of that mare you were supposed to have in the hospital and asked him how come he had sold her to Wynn Lees. He said his business was going bad and he needed to sell things. He’d sold his mare at the first decent offer. He’d never heard of Wynn Lees before that, he said, and he couldn’t remember his name without being prompted. Utterly unbusinesslike, no wonder he was in trouble.”
“Was the mare in foal when he sold her?” I asked.
“He says so. Maybe she was, maybe she wasn’t. Maybe he believed she was or maybe he was selling an asset he knew had vanished. Either way, he sold her to Wynn Lees.” He paused. “Did you get tissue samples from the foal?”
I nodded. “Hair. Also the mare’s hair. They’ve been sent off to be matched. They need some of Rainbow Quest’s too.”
“I’ll get that for you,” Brose said. “Which lab’s doing the matching?”
“I’ll have to ask Ken McClure.”
“Ask, and let me know.”
I thanked him profoundly. He didn’t like fraud, he said.
Higgins nodded, saying, “The temptation to kill an insured horse is one reason for the high premiums. Fraud is a major problem. Some of it is absolutely blatant but if we insure a horse and he breaks a leg, we have to pay, even if we think someone’s come along with an iron bar and taken a swipe.”
“Did your company,” I asked, “insure any horses that died during or after surgical operations?”
“Not recently,” he said. “They don’t often die during operations. I can’t swear we haven’t insured one in the past, but I can’t recall that we’ve ever had to pay out for that. Mind you, I’m not saying other companies haven’t. Do you want me to ask around?”
“Would you?”
“For Brose, sure.”
Brose said, “Thanks, Higgs.”
I asked, “Would you ever insure a horse specifically against dying during an operation?”
Higgins pursed his lips. “I would if it was already insured. I would charge an extra one percent premium and pay up if the horse died.”
“It’s all wicked,” Annabel said.
Brose and Higgins, tall and short, lean and fat, easy together like double-act comics, smilingly agreed with her. Higgins after a while said his goodbyes and left, but Brose stayed, saying at once, “Go on about the murder.”
I glanced at Annabel.
“Tell the girl,” Brose said robustly, correctly reading my hesitation. “She’s not a drooping lily.”
“It’s fairly horrific,” I said.
“If it’s too gory, I’ll stop you,” she said.
“There wasn’t any blood.”
I explained about the hoist for lifting unconscious horses. Brose nodded. Annabel listened. I told them Scott had been lifted onto the operating table and left with his arms and legs in the air.