‘And he may have begun to keep the journal so that if anyone threatened him he’d have something up his sleeve,’ Cassie continued. ‘If they tried to lean on him, he’d have something which could hurt them in return. And if anything untoward—’
‘Untoward,’ Theodore mused. ‘I’ve always loved that word when used like that. Anything untoward.’
‘Seriously, Theodore, he must also have used this as a banker. I’ll bet his lawyer knew of its existence—’
‘So that if anything untoward happened to him,’ Theodore agreed, widening his big blue eyes, ‘that would blow the lid off.’
‘I don’t think you’re taking this as seriously as you should, Mr Pilkington,’ Cassie scolded him.
‘Oh, but of course I am,’ Theodore reassured her in return. ‘It’s just that much as I may talk about it, I fancy myself really as no sort of detective at all. However, all things being considered, you really should hand this notebook over to the police.’
‘I should.’
‘But you ain’t going to.’
‘I was just wondering the best way to go about it. You see, with the notebook still in my possession, I reckon I could pressurize Gold into taking my bet and in return he gets the book.’
‘Not the most moral of stands, Mrs Rosse,’ Theodore sighed, taking off his spectacles and holding them up to the light.
‘Of course it’s not, Theodore!’ Cassie retorted. ‘But then we’re not dealing with St Ignatius of Loyola here!’
‘What on earth made you pick on that particular saint?’
‘I don’t know! He was the first one who came into my head, I suppose, that’s why!’
‘Fine, fine.’ Theodore replaced his spectacles and smiled at her.
‘Now you really think this horse of yours can’t be beaten, don’t you?’
‘Any horse can get beaten, Theodore, one way or another,’ Cassie replied. ‘If this was a Flat race, sure – it’d be a ten to one on chance of him losing, but a Flat race this is not. This is a race over hurdles and over hurdles any horse can fall, however good a jumper he may be. He might stand off too far, hit the top and good night. He might slip on landing. Most likely of all, he might get brought down by another horse falling in front of him, and that sort of thing happens all the time, particularly in such fast run and highly competitive races as the Champion Hurdle. But if nothing untoward goes wrong, The Nightingale won’t get beaten. The other horses, good as they are, aren’t within two stone of him, not with the conditions of the race. Five-year-olds and upwards carry twelve stone, four-year-olds eleven stone six, and mares are allowed an extra five pounds off their backs, right? While if this was a handicap, The Nightingale would be giving them all two stone. So to answer your question, no, he can’t get beaten except—’
‘Except,’ Theodore nodded, ‘by the untoward. The next thing we should talk about is the bet.’
‘It’s taken care of,’ Cassie said shortly. ‘Jack’s underwriting my stake.’
‘To the tune of? I know it’s not really any of my business, but you’ll understand why I ask in a minute.’
‘To the tune of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. I’ve already used Claremore as collateral. In the event of the horse getting beat.’
‘The unlikely event.’
‘Precisely.’
‘But this bet, Cassie. And I have to know this. This isn’t about money, is it? This is about squaring the circle – and if that is the case then surely handing the notebook over to the police would do that nicely.’
‘It’s about more than that, Theodore,’ Cassie replied carefully. ‘People like Gold get away with murder the whole time. Who’s to say the evidence in this book is watertight? It all has to be vouchsafed, doesn’t it? It has to be proved genuine. Everything has to tally. And like an awful lot of other people nowadays I don’t have a very high opinion either of the police or of the law.’
‘You’re still going to have to give the book up, Cassie. You know that. You’re far too honest a woman to hold on to it.’
‘Yes, Theodore,’ Cassie sighed, ‘I know, I know. I just wish there was another way.’
‘There is another way, Cassie, as it happens,’ Theodore replied. ‘It involves bending the rules slightly, but it doesn’t involve breaking the law. You see, I feel there’s something else you should know about Mr Michael Gold.’
Thirty-Six
No man’s land was a private room in the Shelbourne hotel overlooking St Stephen’s Green in Dublin, and the elected day was exactly five days before the due date of the Champion Hurdle at Cheltenham. Mike Gold arrived in a large black Mercedes S class, accompanied this time by not one but two minders, watched from the reception hall of the hotel by Cassie, Theodore and the back row of the Lansdowne rugby XV who were all good friends of Theodore’s.
The five of them followed Gold and his muscle as they made their way across the hallway to the lifts, where the back row of the Lansdowne rugby XV put themselves between Gold and his two minders, separating the latter from their employer so that when the lift arrived Gold was obliged to take it in the company of Cassie alone.
‘Explain, if you would,’ Gold said to her hoarsely as the lift doors closed on the two of them.
‘We don’t need them while we do business, Mr Gold. We’re old enough now to look after ourselves,’ Cassie replied, and then watched Gold in silence while the lift sped up three floors. More than anything she was now intrigued to see that he walked with the aid of a stick, and that the tic he had previously had in only one cheek now seemed to be affecting the bottom half of his face.
The room designated for the meeting was furnished only with a large reproduction dining table, twelve chairs, and a sideboard. Cassie took one side of the table, indicating that Gold should sit opposite her. For one moment Gold refused her offer, standing behind his chair and watching Cassie while breathing in and out very slowly and heavily. During that moment Cassie was afraid he might turn on his heel and walk out, but rather than show any such reservation Cassie pretended to ignore Gold’s display of truculence, proceeding instead to take a small package out of her shoulder bag and set it on the table in front of her.
As soon as he saw the package, even though he could not have known what it contained, Gold pulled the chair out and sat down.
‘Can you speak or read French, Mr Gold?’ Cassie enquired.
‘Of course I can’t,’ Gold replied. ‘Why?’
Cassie smiled and opened the cardboard box on the table in front of, taking from it the marbled leather notebook. ‘Because this is in French, Mr Gold,’ she said. ‘That’s why.’
For the first time since his arrival a flicker of emotion showed in Gold’s normally dead eyes. It was not a readily identifiable one, but when she saw it Cassie truly believed it was the nearest Gold could get to fear.
‘You know about this book then, Mr Gold?’ she wondered.
‘How can I know about a book when I don’t know what the book is, Mrs Rosse?’ Gold replied, drumming the fingers of one hand on the polished table top.
‘For a moment you looked rather anxious, Mr Gold. Very well, if you don’t know what this book is, let me tell you. It belonged to the late Jean-Luc de Vendrer, with whom I understand you were acquainted.’
‘I’ve never heard of him,’ Gold replied.
‘I think you have,’ Cassie contradicted. ‘As I was saying, this book belonged to Jean-Luc de Vendrer who is now dead, killed as the result of a car crash last week in France.’
‘Tut-tut,’ Gold growled, clearing his throat as soon as he had spoken. ‘How very sad.’
‘It would have been tragic had his widow not given me this, Mr Gold,’ Cassie countered. ‘Tragic because you might well have got clean away with it.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mrs Rosse.’
Rather than reply directly Cassie chose instead to take a sheaf of typewritten pages from a folder in front of her and push them across the table to Gold.
Gold shot her another look of undiluted hatred then fitting on a pair of Armani tortoiseshell glasses began to read the document in front of him. While he did so Cassie got up from the table, poured herself a glass of water from the carafe on the sideboard and went to stand at the window where she pretended to watch what was going on in the famous gardens which lay at the front of the hotel while in fact what she was looking at was the reflection of Gold reading the translation.
As he read it he neither moved nor changed expression. He simply read the pages through from first to last, paused as if fully to digest the contents, and then tapped them back into a tidy shape. Taking her cue from the noise of him tidying the manuscript Cassie returned to the table.
‘So?’ Gold wondered, drumming his fingers once again on the tabletop. ‘Who’s to say it’s the truth?’
‘There’s enough that’s verifiable in there,’ Cassie replied. ‘As you well know.’
Gold looked at her, the bottom half of his face suddenly convulsed by a violent muscular spasm. When it was over, Gold shook his head and once again cleared his throat.
‘Show me the book,’ he said. ‘I can soon tell whether or not its a fake.’
‘If you didn’t know about the book, Mr Gold,’ Cassie wondered, letting him slide the book across the table, ‘how can you tell whether it’s genuine or not?’
Gold didn’t reply. He just glanced at Cassie briefly, then, returning to the book, carefully counted to page thirteen, laying the book open and pointing to the corner of the page which was capped in gold.
‘Of course I knew about the book,’ he said quickly, his voice now positively larangytic. ‘Why else would the stupid sod de Vendrer have written it?’ Now he had the book he closed and upended it, holding it in both hands before him on the table. ‘And who’s going to stop me walking out with this?’
‘The person on sentry duty outside the door?’ Cassie replied. ‘No, you’re not going anywhere with anything until you hear what I have to say.’ She took the book from him and returned it to safe keeping in her shoulder bag. ‘You might remember last time we met, I tried to lay a bet with you and you refused. Now, Mr Gold, you’re going to unrefuse.’
‘Ah,’ Gold said thoughtfully, taking a cigar in a tube from his inside pocket and undoing it. ‘What a surprise.’
‘It’s a perfectly straightforward deal,’ Cassie continued. ‘You lay me the present odds on offer about my horse—’
‘Three to one.’
‘Four to one with everyone but you, Mr Gold, and those are the odds I want. I want two hundred and fifty thousand to win a thousand thousand.’
‘In your dreams,’ Gold said, rolling the cigar now out of its tube around in his fingers.
‘I don’t think so, Mr Gold, and neither do you,’ Cassie said. ‘You have no choice, and furthermore I want you to lay the bet personally. If the horse obliges I want the money to come from your wallet, not out of your firm.’ She reached into her bag for another document. ‘I have here my banker’s draft for two hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds, which is my stake of two hundred and fifty thousand plus betting tax at ten per cent. It’s made over to you and it’s dated the day after the race. Should the horse lose, the stakeholder’s instructions are for this to be paid into your private account of which you will give me details. In return you will now instruct your bankers and have them write a draft for one million pounds in my favour, to be held by the stakeholders and paid to me on the day following the race in the event of the horse winning. The stakeholders are to be the National Bank of Ireland on College Green, who have also agreed to hold this book in their vaults until the race is over. The book shall be handed over to you whatever the result of the race, but not until the race has been run and the money paid out one way or the other. Then it will be surrendered simultaneously with whichever is the losing draft. I’m not going to ask you for your agreement because this is not a proposition. It’s a statement of fact. However, should you not accept the terms of this statement, this book will be handed straight over to the police.’
‘Which it will not be if I accept what you are proposing,’ Gold said, striking a match for his cigar.
‘No,’ Cassie said without hesitation.
‘I see.’ Gold lit his cigar and stared at her. ‘This is in retribution. You’re asking me to pay for my alleged crimes.’
‘It’s a whole lot better than you just sitting there in jail,’ Cassie replied. ‘That is if they ever get to put you in jail. They bang you up and what do I get? A sense of justice having been done. But I don’t get the horse I had back. I don’t get the future of my family back. I don’t get the life I put in to get this far back. I don’t get anything back. As you know from reading your newspapers, I don’t even get the insurance money that I’m owed for what you did to my horse.’
‘For what I allegedly did to your horse,’ Gold replied. ‘But no, I agree. Sending me to jail would be a short straw.’
‘This way if the horse wins I do at least get compensated,’ Cassie said. ‘This way at least I get something due to me and you won’t have succeeded in ruining me utterly. And as for you, you get the sporting chance you sure as hell don’t deserve, not after what you’ve done—’
‘What I have allegedly done, Mrs Rosse.’
‘What you have undoubtedly done, Mr Gold. At least you get a sporting chance as far as your money goes, because once you strike the bet – in front of witnesses, of course – whatever happens you still get the book.’
‘And get to walk away.’
‘For a price, if the horse wins.’
‘And if the horse doesn’t win?’
‘I lose,’ Cassie told him. ‘A lot more than you lose.’
‘Of course.’ Gold drew on his cigar, suffered another bad spasm to his face, closed his eyes until the spasm subsided, then opened them again to stare malevolently at Cassie. ‘Your friend Leonora instigated all this, you know,’ he said. ‘Did you know that?’
‘I suspected as much,’ Cassie replied.
‘I think it is important that you know the details, Mrs Rosse,’ Gold continued, never taking his eyes from her. ‘I think it is important you know how much certain people hate you. And how much certain other people hated your husband.’
‘I’m ahead of you there, Mr Gold. We’ve already worked out the motivations, beginning with what happened to your father.’
‘Even so, it’s quite intriguing to learn exactly how the whole enterprise came into being and then took shape.’ Gold tapped some cigar ash into the tray and smiled. ‘I met Mrs Lovett Andrew and her feeble minded husband at the Guineas Meeting at the Curragh, in the spring after your horse had won the Arc and you had refused Mrs Lovett Andrew a share in any syndication as well as announcing your horse was to be kept on in training. We were at a party after the races at a mutual friend’s house where your friend Mrs Lovett Andrew proceeded to get extremely drunk and indiscreet. Both de Vendrer and Brandt were at the meeting because one of their stud farm horses was running and fancied to go close. I’m surprised you didn’t see either of them that day.’
‘I go to the races to watch horses, Mr Gold, not people,’ Cassie replied.
‘Perhaps they kept out of your way,’ Gold suggested. ‘Anyway that was where it all began, that night after the Two Thousand Guineas.’
‘I’d already had threats before that.’
‘You were bound to, Mrs Rosse, when you think about it,’ Gold replied enigmatically. ‘This was one of the happy things about the ensuing business partnership. Certain of us had already been out gunning for you, but none of us had yet thought of a way to really put you down for the count. That particularly inspired idea came from Mrs Charles Lovett Andrew.’
Cassie matched Gold’s stare but said nothin
g, resisting the temptation to react.
‘Yes,’ Gold continued, sounding slightly disappointed that he had failed to get a rise. ‘The actual idea of taking your horse’s balls off was all Leonora’s own, but of course she couldn’t do anything without the proper effort. She is bright, very bright, but no way could she pull something like that off without expert assistance.’
‘Which was where you came in.’
‘Which was where we all came in. This wasn’t nicking a trolley from a supermarket, Mrs Rosse. This was stealing the best-known horse in the world from one of the most famous racetracks. This was keeping the horse hidden not from a handful of clodhopping coppers but from an entire animal-crazy nation. This was getting the animal properly castrated so that it’d be useless for ever more, and then dumping it back in the owner’s back yard without one person seeing or suspecting anything. This was keeping up a campaign against you, your family and your stable without anyone ever being traced, and this was stopping the horse you had so miraculously restored to life from getting to Cheltenham.’
‘But you haven’t done that, Mr Gold,’ Cassie said, managing somehow to keep her voice steady despite being shaken rigid by that final threat.
‘Not yet, Mrs Rosse,’ Gold agreed, ‘but if I were you I wouldn’t count my chickens just yet.’
‘If anything happens to my horse,’ Cassie began, only to be interrupted by the squat, sallow-faced man opposite her.
‘The deal’s off were you going to say?’
‘My very words.’
‘The deal’s off and the book goes to the police.’
‘You got it.’
‘I think so.’
Gold got up with difficulty and with the aid of his walking stick made his way across to the window where he stood smoking his cigar in silence. If he pulled out of the deal because he was confident enough to believe this was going to be a hard case to prove in spite of the existence of de Vendrer’s journal, Cassie was lost because in getting the bet laid was her last chance of salvation. Even if Gold was convicted and sentenced it would only be a Pyrrhic victory since by then the bank would have called in its money and her beloved Claremore would have had to be sold. What Cassie was banking on was that Gold’s conceit would work against him, leading him to imagine that because he had won practically every game so far, the end game was also his for the taking. Besides, he was a bookmaker, a man who had laid odds all his working life, who had examined every eventuality to see how best to profit from it, so at this very moment what Cassie was herself gambling on was that Gold would not be able to resist laying this ultimate wager.
The Nightingale Sings Page 60