The Nightingale Sings

by Charlotte Bingham

  But the big bay had lost his advantage and jumped the last half a length down on Eddie’s Treasure and almost a length on Somerset Legend who landed full of running. Still the crowd roared the Irish horse on, refusing to believe he was beat, and once again the horse Cassie had considered might be a little short on guts rallied, sticking his head and neck out to gallop for all he was worth up the hill, the famous hill that for generations had sorted out the men from the boys. Ahead of him Eddie’s Treasure was suddenly beaten, and as the steam went so he veered sharp right across the broad course, leaving McGuire and his mount a clear run after the still galloping grey who by now was all of two lengths up with less than half a furlong to race. How the home crowd cheered their horse home and how the raiders cheered the challenger, with a noise that must have echoed to the top of Cleeve Hill and beyond. With less than fifty yards to run, Sauce For The Goose was half a length down, with twenty to go he was a neck, with five a short head and as they passed the post no-one could separate them.

  ‘Photograph!’ the racecourse commentator called. ‘Photograph between numbers three and nine! Photograph!’

  So close was it the judge called for a second print and didn’t announce his decision until both horses were back in the unsaddling enclosure, steaming like kettles under their sweat sheets. Neither of the two trainers nor their jockeys had the slightest idea which horse had prevailed nor for once did the bookmakers, who went 9/4 on either horse getting the race. Still no announcement came until the crowd began to chant dead-heat! Dead-heat! Just as it seemed that must indeed be the result a voice over the tannoy announced the judge’s final verdict.

  ‘Here is the result of the photograph for the Grand Annual Steeplechase Challenge Cup. First number three, second number nine.’ The rest of the announcement was all but lost in the uproar as the English horse was announced the winner. Cassie smiled at Fred her travelling head lad but he only shook his head with disappointment as she went forward to pat her gallant loser on the neck and to give a hug and a kiss to her equally gallant losing owners, John and Mavis Finnegan.

  ‘The distances—’ the voice on the tannoy continued, ‘the distances were a short head and six lengths.’

  Michael Bird, one of the senior Lambourn trainers who had done a remarkable job to produce the apparently accident-prone Somerset Legend to win in such an exciting fashion, was the first to commiserate with the Claremore party, saying that in a race such as their horses had just run there could be no losers and inviting Sauce For The Goose’s connections for a celebratory drink in his party’s box, as the officials called Horses Away! and the two protagonists were led off by their lads to yet another round of generous applause.

  * * *

  When Cassie finally arrived back at the house outside Stow where she was the guest of two of her owners, Willoughby and Dorothy Manderson, it was snowing.

  ‘Hope we’re not going to have a repeat of that farcical Gold Cup day a few years ago,’ Willoughby said, pouring Cassie a drink with one eye on the television news. ‘Remember? Delayed the race for hours then ran it in a blizzard. What a business.’

  ‘Turn that wretched thing off, Willy,’ Dorothy ordered her husband as she piled yet more logs onto the fire. ‘All it is nowadays is news, more news and yet more news. As if there wasn’t enough to worry about.’

  ‘I don’t know whether this chap’s going to get off or not, you know,’ Willoughby replied more to himself than anyone as he stood right in front of the tiny television set which was balanced precariously on a pile of books. ‘The one who’s meant to have helped his old man shuffle off the mortal coil. Not as clear-cut as it appeared, so it seems.’

  ‘Don’t you know him, Cassie dear?’ Dorothy wondered, trying to find some space for them both to sit on a huge sofa covered in dogs. ‘Isn’t he that chap they commissioned to do your horse or something? For Sandown?’

  ‘Yes he is,’ Cassie answered as lightly as she could before turning her attention back to her host. ‘Why don’t you think he’s going to get off, Willy?’

  ‘Slimy Simon Watkins had a go at him today, that’s why,’ Willoughby answered.

  ‘Once a judge always a judge,’ Dorothy sighed, finally shoehorning two lurchers off the sofa and settling herself down.

  ‘Don’t like Watkins one bit I have to say,’ Willoughby continued regardless of his wife’s observation. ‘But he is a damn’ good counsel when he’s found a bone.’

  ‘Exactly what sort of bone has he found, Willy?’ Cassie asked, trying to catch a glimpse of the flickering television screen past her portly host.

  ‘I used to much prefer it when they only had the news on at eight or ten or whenever it was,’ Dorothy sighed, throwing a dog-chewed rubber duck onto the floor. ‘I can’t stand it on the hour every half hour. Really I can’t.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Willoughby mused for a moment before switching the television off altogether. ‘Yes,’ he said, turning to Cassie and looking at her over his spectacles. ‘It won’t add up to much but it’ll give the jury food for thought. Depending on his lordship’s summing up, natch, and there’s another thing. I wouldn’t have said he was the ideal man for this particular job anyway, come to that.’

  ‘Please,’ Cassie said, breathing in deeply to try to calm the sudden feeling of fear inside her. ‘First things first, Willy. The bone the prosecuting counsel found.’

  ‘Ah yes. Yes. Yes. Indeed. Seems—’

  ‘Jolly good sculptor as it happens, Willy, but don’t let that stop you,’ his wife interrupted.

  ‘Seems like he has this nightclub, you understand. And it ran into some financial difficulty, as these places do indeed, as indeed they do. Slimy Simon argued that’s why this painter laddy—’

  ‘Sculptor, Willy,’ Dorothy sighed hopelessly, putting a wildly trembling whippet on her knee.

  ‘Slimy Simon argued that’s why this chap slipped his old man a mickey,’ Willoughby continued. ‘Seems his father was worth enough to get him out of his debt. Seems he stood to inherit about a quarter of a mill. Think it’s hooey meself, but it’s bound to cast some doubt, one would have to say. Depends of course what his side comes back with. They’ve already denied it, of course, but we’ll need to see proof of some sort which will discount profit as a motive. But it’s not looking as open and shut as one would have thought. Particularly not with old beaky Bower presiding.’

  ‘He’s an anti-Exit man, is he, Willy?’ Cassie wondered. ‘You know, against anyone lending a hand.’

  ‘He’s against most things I’d say,’ Willoughby laughed. ‘Particularly anything après circa 1900. If we still had capital punishment he’d be hanging chaps for loitering with intent.’

  ‘Well all I can say is that I jolly well hope there’s someone like this chap round me when my time comes,’ Dorothy said, stroking her still trembling whippet. ‘Now come along, drink up, you lot. Time to get the head in the manger.’

  For the rest of the evening Cassie tried to put all thought of Joel from her head. After all, since he had not bothered to reply to her letter and she had seen him arriving at his trial with Leonora apparently in attendance, it would seem that he had little or no need of her. Yet try as she might she could not put her concern to one side, particularly once she was alone in bed – except for one of the whippets who was determined to share her eiderdown.

  This is preposterous, she thought as she lay with her light still on, stroking the dog’s head. Either Joel is out of my life altogether or he’s not. I made a vow, did I not? That if he didn’t answer the letter or give a good reason for Leonora’s being there that might, then that was it. So what in heaven’s name am I doing lying here and agonizing about what happens to him? At the very worst he’ll get a suspended sentence and that will be that. Then he can go back to his precious club, his studio, and his obviously precious Leonora.

  She put her bedside light out and turned on one side, her bed companion happily settling into her with a deeply contented sigh. Oh, if only men were as easy as yo
u dogs, Cassie whispered to the animal, who at once stuck a paw up to be held. But tired as she was after the excitement of the day, sleep would not come, and unfuriatingly enough all she could see whenever she shut her eyes was Joel. Joel at Claremore sitting in front of the fire, the glass of whisky in his hand catching the glint of the firelight, Joel walking the course at Ascot, Joel returning from his shopping spree in Bantry, Joel routing the restaurant owner, Joel at the kitchen table in her house on Dingle, Joel in bed asleep with his face half turned to her, one arm crooked up over his head, Joel in bed face down and her in bed face up with one of his arms draped over her waist.

  Most of all, she saw Joel in her dreams, mangled, tangled, sometimes only half himself, wholly unreal, but he was with her all night long.

  When she woke and was bathed and dressed she found Willoughby already up reading the morning papers.

  ‘Do you have such a thing as a fax machine?’ she wondered. ‘As well as some sort of legal directory with the numbers of law firms in it?’

  Her host took her into his study where from underneath a pile of papers and documents he uncovered an early model of a telephone fax before handing her the required directory.

  ‘Don’t ask me how it works,’ he said as he left the room. ‘I only ever use it for incoming whatsanames.’

  Cassie found the number she needed and then wrote a fax on a plain sheet of notepaper she found in a desk drawer.

  I am thinking of you, she wrote. Whatever you are thinking of – and it must be a considerable amount of things – I am thinking of you throughout your ordeal and praying for the just and proper outcome I know you deserve. Cassie.

  She put no number or address on the sheet which she then faxed under a header sheet to Joel’s QC, marked for the attention of Mr Benson.

  When the message had been transmitted she read it back and sighed.

  There were eleven runners for the three mile Sun Alliance Steeplechase, for which Well Loved, the Claremore runner, was firm favourite. The snow had stopped during the previous evening, leaving just a light mantle on the distant hills around the racecourse, a powdering which very soon melted in the sudden warmth of full sunshine just before racing started. Terry McGuire had been once more booked to ride, but Cassie saw little need for long instructions since he had ridden the young horse to each of his three victories.

  ‘Theatre Royal will probably make it, according to Frankie Taplin his jock,’ Terry McGuire said as he adjusted the silk cap covering his crash hat. ‘But I’d say the danger is Sheepshank. That’s who I’m going to keep tabs on, anyway.’

  Fully in agreement with her pilot’s assessment Cassie wished him good luck and a safe journey as Fred legged McGuire into the plate.

  ‘If I were you, Terry,’ Fred said back over his shoulder as he took hold of the bridle, ‘I’d also keep a look-out for Good On You, the McMahon horse. I heard they’re queuing up to collect already.’

  Cassie looked round to take another look at her Irish-trained rival and saw Mattie for the first time during the meeting, legging Tom Collins up and then standing back to talk to the trainer who was beside him in a wheelchair. She thought she had caught his eye, but apparently Mattie hadn’t seen her for a moment later he had turned away to follow McMahon out of the paddock.

  ‘On all form we must have the beating of the McMahon horse, surely?’ Leslie Unwin the owner of Well Loved asked Cassie. ‘We buried Next in Line at Leopardstown and he had Good On You ten lengths adrift in Punchestown.’

  ‘I agree with Terry,’ Cassie replied. ‘I’d say Sheepshank’s the real danger.’

  As the race unfurled they might as well have saved their predictions since Sheepshank clouted the second fence so hard his jockey had no chance of maintaining contact and was catapulted yards clear of his mount on landing the far side of the fence where he was duly trampled on by most of the pursuing horses. Happily the jockey got up almost immediately, throwing his whip to the ground in enraged despair as he stood helplessly watching the field disappear away from the fence. Coming down the hill for the first time Good On You almost slipped on landing at the fence before the turn into the straight, Tom Collins losing a leather and a good six lengths as a result and leaving Terry McGuire just where he didn’t want to be, namely in the lead by a clear three lengths.

  ‘He can’t make all,’ Cassie groaned as she watched through her glasses. ‘He hates it out front.’

  ‘Take a pull, Terry,’ Leslie Unwin shouted at the top of his voice. ‘Take a pull, you ejeet!’

  Almost immediately McGuire did as told, as if out of all the thousand roars assailing his ears as they jumped what would be the last fence next time round and began the climb up the hill and away from the packed grandstand he had picked up the owner’s single instruction. In return Well Loved did as he was bid and steadied, allowing two of the unfancied horses to charge up past him and give him a good tow going to the next which he jumped fluently if somewhat flamboyantly. Behind him Good On You was second to last and apparently to judge from his action not liking the soft going.

  The field which were still all on their feet bar Sheepshank streamed into the back straight almost in a line, with Bishop’s Mitre leading, followed by Draughty, Pile On The Cash, and then Well Loved who was back on the bridle and going well within himself, Terry McGuire perched up on him still as a field mouse with a lovely loose loop of rein.

  ‘Bar a fall,’ Leslie Unwin said in Cassie’s ear. ‘We have them bar a fall.’

  To the Claremore party this seemed to be completely the right assessment since their horse was literally lobbing along while the rest of the field were already being hard ridden to keep in a race which had been run at a cracking gallop for a three mile steeplechase. Over the last open ditch they lost Draughty, who simply seemed to miss seeing the notoriously difficult fence altogether and crashed to the ground just in front of Well Loved who simply sidestepped him without losing impetus as the field then turned and swept down the famous hill for the last time. Now McGuire began to make his move, creeping up on Bishop’s Mitre with every stride until as they lined up for the fence at the bottom of the hill he was half a length off the leader. Into the air they rose almost together, but even before they landed Cassie could see Bishop’s Mitre had met it all wrong, having been forced by McGuire’s tactics to take off half a stride earlier than perhaps the horse had wanted. As a result he caught the top of the fence, twisted in the air and plunged to the ground as his front legs buckled under him, bringing Well Loved down with him in the process.

  A huge wail went up from the Irish contingent as they saw their banker for the meeting brought down just as it seemed he had the race won, while past the two horses who were still on the ground came Pile On The Cash and going best of all Good On You, whose jockey had got him right back in the race along the back straight. But Cassie wasn’t watching the race any more. Her glasses were trained on the accident on the landing side of the downhill fence where neither of the jockeys not their horses showed any signs of moving.

  ‘He may well just be badly winded,’ Cassie said to her owner who had gone as white as a sheet.

  ‘He’s not moving,’ Leslie Unwin replied. ‘There’s not a sign of any movement at all.’

  ‘Really,’ Cassie tried to reassure him as well as herself. ‘He really could just be very badly winded.’

  Somewhere beyond there was a sea of noise cascading around and over the Claremore party, but they heard and saw nothing except the casualties. Already the St John’s Ambulance men were on the course with the jockeys as were some officials, one of whom was waving a flag to summon the veterinary surgeon in attendance, while on the inside of the course an ambulance proper sped its way to the scene.

  ‘I’m going down,’ Cassie said to her owner. ‘You stay here.’

  ‘I’d rather come with you,’ he replied. ‘Hell or high water.’

  The two of them fought their way down through the crowd, which was moving in the opposite direction now that the race
was over. Somehow they got down to the track leading from the course up which the victorious and the vanquished would soon be coming, and made their way over to the far side before they were swept away by a tide of Irish supporters who were all shouting their throats raw. Cassie paid them no heed, her mind only on getting to her horse, and grabbing Leslie Unwin’s hand she pulled him after her, shouting for everyone in front of her to make way. For some reason the crowds fell away from them, as if reading on their faces the disaster that Cassie and her owner thought must await them, and the next moment they were on the racecourse proper, bolting on towards where Cassie now saw the dreaded screens being pulled around the site where the stricken horses lay.

  ‘Leslie—’ she began, half turning to the man beside her, determined once more to turn him back.

  ‘Hell or high water, Cassie,’ he repeated grimly. ‘Owning a horse means just that. Come hell or high water.’

  There were still people on the rails, leaning over as far as they could to get a better view of the death which was to come. Other more sensitive racegoers led each other away. As Cassie and her owner drew nearer, Cassie could see the vet opening the box which she knew contained his humane killer when from behind the screens she suddenly saw the mud-splattered figure of Terry McGuire appear, with Well Loved’s racing saddle draped over one arm.

  ‘Terry!’ she called. ‘Terry – tell them to hold on!’

  But even as he caught sight of her it was too late. The dull thud of the bolt being fired into a horse’s skull carried downwind to where Cassie and Leslie Unwin had slowed suddenly to a shocked walk.

  ‘Oh Christ no,’ Leslie Unwin sighed from the bottom of his heart. ‘Oh Christ no please no, Christ please no.’