by Dick Francis
‘Well, unofficially, I wish you luck,’ said Lodge. ‘But be careful.’
‘Sure,’ I said, standing up.
Lodge came to the street door of the police station and shook hands. ‘Let me know how you get on,’ he said.
‘Yes, I will.’
He raised his hand in a friendly gesture, and went in. I resumed my interrupted journey to the Cotswolds. My wrenched shoulders were aching abominably, but as long as I concentrated on Bill’s accident I could forget them.
It struck me that both the accident and the affair of the horsebox should give some clue to the mind which had hatched them. It was reasonable to assume it was the same mind. Both events were elaborate, where some simpler plan would have been effective, and the word ‘devious’ drifted into my thoughts and I dredged around in my memory chasing its echo. Finally I traced it to Joe Nantwich and the threatening letter who had reached him ten days late, but decided that Joe’s troubles had nothing to do with Bill’s.
Both the attack on Bill and the warning to me had been, I was certain, more violent in the event than in the plan. Bill had died partly by bad luck; and I would have been less roughly handled had I not tried to escape. I came to the conclusion that I was looking for someone with a fanciful imagination, someone prepared to be brutal up to a point, and whose little squibs, because of their complicated nature, were apt to go off with bigger bangs than were intended.
And it was comforting to realise that my adversary was not a man of superhuman intelligence. He could make mistakes. His biggest so far, I thought, was to go to great lengths to deliver an unnecessary warning whose sole effect was to stir me to greater action.
For two days I did nothing. There was no harm in giving the impression that the warning was being taken to heart.
I played poker with the children and lost to Henry because half my mind was occupied with his father’s affairs.
Henry said, ‘You aren’t thinking what you’re doing, Alan,’ in a mock sorrowful tone as he rooked me of ten chips with two pairs.
‘I expect he’s in love,’ said Polly, turning on me an assessing female eye. There was that, too.
‘Pooh,’ said Henry. He dealt the cards.
‘What’s in love?’ said William, who was playing tiddly-winks with his chips, to Henry’s annoyance.
‘Soppy stuff,’ said Henry. ‘Kissing, and all that slush.’
‘Mummy’s in love with me,’ said William, a cuddly child.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Polly loftily, from her eleven years. ‘In love means weddings and brides and confetti and things.’
‘Well, Alan,’ said Henry, in a scornful voice, ‘you’d better get out of love quick or you won’t have any chips left.’
William picked up his hand. His eyes and mouth opened wide. This meant he had at least two aces. They were the only cards he ever raised on. I saw Henry give him a flick of a glance, then look back at his own hand. He discarded three and took three more, and at his turn, he pushed away his cards. I turned them over. Two queens and two tens. Henry was a realist. He knew when to give in. And William, bouncing up and down with excitement, won only four chips with three aces and a pair of fives.
Not for the first time I wondered at the quirks of heredity. Bill had been a friendly, genuine man of many solid virtues. Scilla, matching him, was compassionate and loving. Neither was at all intellectually gifted; yet they had endowed their elder son with a piercing, exceptional intelligence.
And how could I guess, as I cut the cards for Polly and helped William straighten up his leaning tower of chips, that Henry already held in his sharp eight-year-old brain the key to the puzzle of his father’s death.
He didn’t know it himself.
SEVEN
The Cheltenham National Hunt Festival meeting started on Tuesday, March 2nd.
Three days of superlative racing lay ahead, and the finest ’chasers in the world crowded into the racecourse stables. Ferries from Ireland brought them across by boat and plane load; dark horses from the bogs whose supernatural turn of foot was foretold in thick mysterious brogue, and golden geldings who had already taken prizes and cups galore across the Irish Sea.
Horse-boxes from Scotland, from Kent, from Devon, from everywhere, converged on Gloucestershire. Inside, they carried Grand National winners, champion hurdlers, all-conquering handicappers, splendid hunters: the aristocrats among jumpers.
With four big races in the three days reserved for them alone, every amateur jockey in the country who could beg, borrow or buy a mount hurried to the course. A ride at Cheltenham was an honour: a win at Cheltenham an experience never to be forgotten. The amateur jockeys embraced the Festival with passionate fervour.
But one amateur jockey, Alan York, felt none of this passionate fervour as he drove into the car park. I could not explain it to myself, but for once the hum of the gathering crowd, the expectant faces, the sunshine of the cold invigorating March morning, even the prospect of riding three good horses at the meeting, stirred me not at all.
Outside the main gate I sought out the newspaper seller I had spoken to at Plumpton. He was a short, tubby little Cockney with a large moustache and a cheerful temperament. He saw me coming, and held out a paper.
‘Morning Mr York,’ he said. ‘Do you fancy your horse to day?
‘You might have a bit on,’ I said, ‘but not your shirt. There’s the Irishman to be reckoned with.’
‘You’ll do him, all right.’
‘Well, I hope so.’ I waited while he sold a newspaper to an elderly man with enormous race glasses. Then I said, ‘Do you remember the taxi-drivers fighting at Plumpton?’
‘Couldn’t hardly forget it, could I?’ He beamed.
‘You told me one lot came from London and one from Brighton.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Which lot were which?’ I said. He looked mystified. I said ‘Which lot came from London and which came from Brighton?’
‘Oh, I see.’ He sold a paper to two middle-aged ladies wearing thick tweeds and ribbed woollen stockings, and gave them change. Then he turned back to me.
‘Which lot was which, like? Hm… I see ’em often enough, you know, but they ain’t a friendly lot. They don’t talk to you. Not like the private chauffeurs, see? I’d know the Brighton lot if I could see ’em, though. Know ’em by sight, see?’ He broke off to yell ‘Midday Special’ at the top of his lungs, and as a result sold three more papers. I waited patiently.
‘How do you recognise them?’ I asked.
‘By their faces, o’course.’ He thought it a foolish question.
‘Yes, but which faces? Can you describe them?’
‘Oh, I see. There’s all sorts.’
‘Can’t you describe just one of them?’ I asked.
He narrowed his eyes, thinking, and tugged his moustache. ‘One of ’em. Well, there’s one nasty looking chap with sort of slitty eyes. I wouldn’t like a ride in his taxi. You’d know him by his hair, I reckon. It grows nearly down to his eyebrows. Rum looking cove. What do you want him for?’
‘I don’t want him,’ I said. ‘I just want to know where he comes from.’
‘Brighton, that’s it.’ He beamed at me. ‘There’s another one I see sometimes, too. A young ted with sideboards, always cleaning his nails with a knife.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ I said. I gave him a pound note and his beam grew wider. He tucked it into an inside pocket.
‘Best of luck, sir,’ he said. I left him, with ‘Midday Special’ ringing in my ears, and went in to the weighing room, pondering on the information that my captors with the horse-box came from Brighton. Whoever had sent them could not have imagined that I had seen them before, and could find them again.
Preoccupied, I suddenly realised that Pete Gregory was talking to me. ‘…Had a puncture on the way, but they’ve got here safely, that’s the main thing. Are you listening, Alan?’
‘Yes, Pete. Sorry. I was thinking.’
‘Glad to hear you
can,’ said Pete with a fat laugh. Tough and shrewd though he was, his sense of humour had never grown up. Schoolboy insults passed as the highest form of wit for him; but one got used to it.
‘How is Palindrome?’ I asked. My best horse.
‘He’s fine. I was just telling you, they had a puncture…’ He broke off, exasperated. He hated having to repeat things. ‘Oh well… do you want to go over to the stables and have a look at him?’
‘Yes, please,’ I said.
We walked down to the stables. Pete had to come with me because of the tight security rules. Even owners could not visit their horses without the trainer to vouch for them, and stable boys had passes with their photographs on, to show at the stable gate. It was all designed to prevent the doping or ‘nobbling’ of horses.
In his box I patted my beautiful ’chaser, an eight-year-old bay with black points, and gave him a lump of sugar. Pete clicked his tongue disapprovingly and said, ‘Not before the race,’ like a nanny who had caught her charge being given sweets before lunch. I grinned. Pete had a phobia on the subject.
‘Sugar will give him more energy,’ I said, giving Palindrome another lump and making a fuss of him. ‘He looks well.’
‘He ought to win if you judge it right,’ said Pete. ‘Keep your eyes on that Irishman, Barney. He’ll try to slip you all with a sudden burst as you go into the water so that he can start up the hill six lengths in front. I’ve seen him do it time and again. He gets everyone else chasing him like mad up the hill using up all the reserves they need for the finish. Now, either you burst with him, and go up the hill at his pace and no faster, or, if you lose him, take it easy up the hill and pile on the pressure when you’re coming down again. Clear?’
‘As glass,’ I said. Whatever one might think of Pete’s jokes, his advice on how to ride races was invaluable, and I owed a great deal to it.
I gave Palindrome a final pat, and we went out into the yard. Owing to the security system, it was the quietest place on the racecourse.
‘Pete, was Bill in any trouble, do you know?’ I said, plunging in abruptly.
He finished shutting the door of Palindrome’s box, and turned round slowly, and stood looking at me vaguely for so long that I began to wonder if he had heard my question.
But at last he said, ‘That’s a big word, trouble. Something happened…’
‘What?’ I said, as he lapsed into silence again.
But instead of answering, he said, ‘Why should you think there was any… trouble?’
I told him about the wire. He listened with a calm, unsurprised expression, but his grey eyes were bleak.
He said, ‘Why haven’t we all heard about it before?’
‘I told Sir Creswell Stampe and the police a week ago,’ I said, ‘but with the wire gone they’ve nothing tangible to go on, and they’re dropping it.’
‘But you’re not?’ said Pete. ‘Can’t say I blame you. I can’t help you much, though. There’s only one thing… Bill told me he’d had a telephone call which made him laugh. But I didn’t listen properly to what he said—I was thinking about my horses, you know how it is. It was something about Admiral falling. He thought it was a huge joke and I didn’t go into it with him to find out what I’d missed. I didn’t think it was important. When Bill was killed I did wonder if there could possibly be anything odd about it, but I asked you, and you said you hadn’t noticed anything…’ His voice trailed off.
‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ I said. Then I asked, ‘How long before his accident did Bill tell you about the telephone call?’
‘The last time I spoke to him,’ Pete said. ‘It was on the Friday morning, just before I flew to Ireland. I rang him to say that all was ready for Admiral’s race at Maidenhead the next day.’
We began to walk back to the weighing room. On an impulse I said, ‘Pete, do you ever use the Brighton taxis?’ He lived and trained on the Sussex Downs.
‘Not often,’ he said. ‘Why?’
‘There are one or two taxi-drivers there I’d like to have a few words with,’ I said, not adding that I’d prefer to have the words with them one at a time in a deserted back alley.
‘There are several taxi lines in Brighton, as far as I know,’ he said. ‘If you want to find one particular driver, why don’t you try the railway station? That’s where I’ve usually taken a taxi from. They line up there in droves for the London trains.’ His attention drifted off as an Irish horse passed us on its way into the paddock for the first race.
‘That’s Connemara Pal or I’m a Dutchman,’ said Pete enviously. ‘I took one of my owners over and tried to buy him, last August, but they wanted eight thousand for him. He was tucked away in a broken down hut behind some pig-styes, so my owner wouldn’t pay that price. And now look at him. He won the Leopardstown novice ’chase on Boxing Day by twenty lengths and wouldn’t have blown a candle out afterwards. Best young horse we’ll see this year.’ Pete’s mind was firmly back in its familiar groove, and we talked about the Irish raid until we were back in the weighing room.
I sought out Clem, who was very busy, and checked with him that my kit was all right, and that he knew the weight I was due to carry on Palindrome.
Kate had told me she was not coming to Cheltenham, so I went in search of the next best thing: news of her.
Dane’s peg and section of bench were in the smaller of the two changing rooms, and he was sitting only one place away from the roaring stove, a sure sign of his rise in the jockeys’ world. Champions get the warmest places by unwritten right. Beginners shiver beside the draughty doors.
He was clad in his shirt and pants, and was pulling on his nylon stockings. There was a hole in each foot and both his big toes were sticking comically out of them. He had long narrow feet, and long, narrow delicately strong hands to match.
‘It’s all very well for you to laugh,’ said Dane, pulling the tops of the stockings over his knees. ‘They don’t seem to make nylons for size eleven shoes…’
‘Get Walter to get you some stretching ones,’ I suggested. ‘Have you a busy day?’
‘Three, including the Champion Hurdle,’ said Dane. ‘Pete has entered half the stable here.’ He grinned at me. ‘I might just find time to tell you about the Penn household, though, if that’s what you’re after. Shall I start with Uncle George, or Aunt Deb, or…’ He broke off to pull on his silk breeches and his riding boots. His valet, Walter, gave him his under-jersey and some particularly vile pink and orange colours. Whoever had chosen them had paid no regard to their effect against a manly complexion. ‘… Or do you want to hear about Kate?’ finished Dane, covering up the sickening jersey with a windproof jacket.
The changing room was filling up, packed with the extra Irish jockeys who had come over for the meeting and were in high spirits and robust voice. Dane and I went out into the crowded weighing room, where at least one could hear oneself speak.
‘Uncle George,’ he said, ‘is a gem. And I’m not going to spoil him for you by telling you about him. Aunt Deb is the Honourable Mrs Penn to you and me, mate, and Aunt Deb to Kate alone. She has a chilly sort of charm that lets you know she would be downright rude if she were not so well bred. She disapproved of me, for a start. I think she disapproves on principle of everything to do with racing, including Heavens Above and Uncle George’s idea of a birthday present.’
‘Go on,’ I urged, anxious for him to come to the most interesting part of the chronicle before someone else buttonholed him.
‘Ah yes. Kate. Gorgeous, heavenly Kate. Strictly, you know, her name is Kate Ellery, not Penn at all. Uncle George added the hyphen and the Penn to her name when he took her in. He said it would be easier for her to have the same surname as him—save a lot of explanations. I suppose it does,’ said Dane, musingly, knowing full well how he was tantalising me. He relented, and grinned. ‘She sent you her love.’
I felt a warm glow inside. The Cheltenham Festival meeting suddenly seemed not a bad place to be, after all.
‘Thanks,’
I said, trying not to smile fatuously and scarcely succeeding. Dane looked at me speculatively; but I changed the subject back to racing, and presently I asked him if he had ever heard Bill Davidson spoken of in connection with any sort of odd happenings.
‘No, I never did,’ he said positively. I told him about the wire. His reaction was typical.
‘Poor Bill,’ he said with anger. ‘Poor old Bill. What a bloody shame.’
‘So if you hear anything which might have even the faintest significance…’
‘I’ll pass it on to you,’ he promised.
At that moment Joe Nantwich walked straight into Dane as if he hadn’t seen him. He stopped without apology, took a step back, and then went on his way to the changing room. His eyes were wide, unfocused, staring.
‘He’s drunk,’ said Dane, incredulously. ‘His breath smells like a distillery.’
‘He has his troubles,’ I said.
‘He’ll have more still before the afternoon’s much older. Just wait, till one of the Stewards catches that alcoholic blast.’
Joe reappeared at our side. It was true that one could smell his approach a good yard away. Without preamble he spoke directly to me.
‘I’ve had another one.’ He took a paper out of his pocket. It had been screwed up and straightened out again, so that it was wrinkled in a hundred fine lines, but its ball-pointed message was still abundantly clear.
‘BOLINGBROKE. THIS WEEK’, it Said.
‘When did you get it?’ I asked.
‘It was here when I arrived, waiting for me in the letter rack.’
‘You’ve tanked up pretty quickly, then,’ I said.
‘I’m not drunk,’ said Joe indignantly. ‘I only had a couple of quick ones in the bar opposite the weighing room.’
Dane and I raised our eyebrows in unison. The bar opposite the weighing room had no front wall, and anyone drinking there was in full view of every trainer, owner and Steward who walked out of the weighing room. There might be a surer way for a jockey to commit professional suicide than to have ‘a couple of quick ones’ at that bar before the first race, but I couldn’t think of it off-hand. Joe hiccuped.