by Dick Francis
‘Speak up,’ said Gowery irritably.
The shorthand writer came across from his table and moved the microphone so that it was nearer Charlie West. Charlie West cleared his throat.
‘What happened during the race?’
‘Well sir… Shall I start from the beginning, sir?’
‘There’s no need for unnecessary detail, West,’ Gowery said impatiently. ‘Just tell us what happened on the far side of the course on the second circuit.’
‘I see, sir. Well… Kelly, that is, I mean, Hughes, sir… Hughes… Well… Like…’
‘West, come to the point.’ Gowery’s voice would have left a lazer standing. A heavy flush showed in patches on Charlie West’s neck. He swallowed.
‘Round the far side, sir, where the stands go out of sight, like, for a few seconds, well, there, sir… Hughes gives this hefty pull back on the reins, sir…’
‘And what did he say. West?’
‘He said, sir, “O.K. Brakes on, chaps.” Sir.’
Gowery said meaningfully, though everyone had heard the first time and a pin would have crashed on the Wilton, ‘Repeat that, please, West.’
‘Hughes, sir, said “O.K. Brakes on, chaps”.’
‘And what did you take him to mean by that, West?’
‘Well sir, that he wasn’t trying, like. He always says that when he’s pulling one back and not trying.’
‘Always?’
‘Well, something like that, sir.’
There was a considerable silence.
Gowery said formally, ‘Mr Cranfield… Hughes… You may ask this witness questions, if you wish.’
I got slowly to my feet.
‘Are you seriously saying,’ I asked bitterly, ‘That at any time during the Lernonfizz Cup I pulled Squelch back and said “O.K., brakes on, chaps?” ’
He nodded. He had begun to sweat.
‘Please answer aloud,’ I said.
‘Yes. You said it.’
‘I did not.’
‘I heard you’
‘You couldn’t have done.’
‘I heard you.’
I was silent. I simply had no idea what to say next. It was too like a playground exchange: you did, I didn’t, you did, I didn’t…
I sat down. All the Stewards and all the officials ranked behind them were looking at me. I could see that all, to a man, believed West.
‘Hughes, are you in the habit of using this phrase?’ Gowery’s voice was dry acid.
‘No, sir.’
‘Have you ever used it?’
‘Not in the Lemonfizz Cup, sir.’
‘I said, Hughes, have you ever used it?’
To lie or not to lie…‘Yes, sir, I have used it, once or twice. But not on Squelch in the Lemonfizz Cup.’
‘It is sufficient that you said it at all, Hughes. We will draw our own conclusions as to when you said it.’
He shuffled one paper to the bottom of his pack and picked up another. Consulting it with the unseeing token glance of those who know their subject by heart, he continued, ‘And now, West, tell us what Hughes did after he had said these words.’
‘Sir, he pulled his horse back, sir.’
‘How do you know this?’ The question was a formality. He asked with the tone of one already aware of the answer.
‘I was just beside Hughes, sir, when he said that about brakes. Then he sort of hunched his shoulders, sir, and give a pull, sir, and, well, then he was behind me, having dropped out, like.’
Cranfield said angrily, ‘But he finished in front of you.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Charlie West flicked his eyes upwards to Lord Gowery, and spoke only to him. ‘My old horse couldn’t act on the going, sir, and Hughes came past me again going into the second last, like.’
‘And how did Squelch jump that fence?’
‘Easy, sir. Met it just right. Stood back proper, sir.’
‘Hughes maintains that Squelch was extremely tired at that point.’
Charlie West left a small pause. Finally he said, ‘I don’t know about that, sir. I thought as how Squelch would win, myself, sir. I still think as how he ought to have won, sir, being the horse he is, sir.’
Gowery glanced left and right, to make sure that his colleagues had taken the point. ‘From your position during the last stages of the race, West, could you see whether or not Hughes was making every effort to win?’
‘Well he didn’t look like it, sir, which was surprising, like.’
‘Surprising?’
‘Yes sir. See, Hughes is such an artist at it, sir.’
‘An artist at what?’
‘Well, at riding what looks from the stands one hell of a finish, sir, while all the time he’s smothering it like mad.’
‘Hughes is in the habit of not riding to win?’
Charlie West worked it out. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Thank you, West,’ Lord Gowery said with insincere politeness. ‘You may go and sit over there at the back of the room.’
Charlie West made a rabbit’s scurry towards the row of chairs reserved for those who had finished giving evidence. Cranfield turned fiercely to me and said, ‘Why didn’t you deny it more vehemently, for God’s sake? Why the Hell didn’t you insist he was making the whole thing up?’
‘Do you think they’d believe me?’
He looked uneasily at the accusing ranks opposite, and found his answer in their implacable stares. All the same, he stood up and did his best.
‘Lord Gowery, the film of the Lemonfizz Cup does not bear out West’s accusation. At no point does Hughes pull back his horse.’
I lifted my hand too late to stop him. Gowery’s and Lord Ferth’s intent faces both registered satisfaction. They knew as well as I did that what West had said was borne out on the film. Sensing that Squelch was going to run out of steam, I’d give him a short breather a mile from home, and this normal everyday little act was now wide open to misinterpretation.
Cranfield looked down at me, surprised by my reaction.
‘I gave him a breather,’ I said apologetically. ‘It shows.’
He sat down heavily, frowning in worry.
Gowery was saying to an official, ‘Show in Mr Newtonnards’ as if Cranfield hadn’t spoken. There was a pause before Mr Newtonnards, whoever he was, materialised. Lord Gowery was looking slightly over his left shoulder, towards the door, giving me the benefit of his patrician profile. I realised with almost a sense of shock that I knew nothing about him as a person, and that he most probably knew nothing about me. He had been, to me, a figure of authority with a capital A. I hadn’t questioned his right to rule over me. I had assumed naively that he would do so with integrity, wisdom and justice.
So much for illusions. He was leading his witnesses in a way that would make the Old Bailey reel. He heard truth in Charlie West’s lies and lies in my truth. He was prosecutor as well as judge, and was only admitting evidence if it fitted his case.
He was dispersing the accepting awe I had held him in like candyfloss in a thunderstorm, and I could feel an unforgiving cynicism growing in its stead. Also I was ashamed of my former state of trust. With the sort of education I’d had, I ought to have known better.
Mr Newtonnards emerged from the waiting-room and made his way to the witnesses’ end of the Stewards’ table, sporting a red rosebud in his lapel and carrying a large blue ledger. Unlike Charlie West he was confident, not nervous. Seeing that everyone else was seated he looked around for a chair for himself, and not finding one, asked.
After a fractional pause Gowery nodded, and the official-of-all-work near the door pushed one forward. Mr Newtonnards deposited into it his well-cared-for pearl-grey-suited bulk.
‘Who is he?’ I said to Cranfield. Cranfield shook his head and didn’t answer, but he knew, because his air of worry had if anything deepened.
Andrew Tring flipped through his pile of papers, found what he was looking for, and drew it out. Lord Plimborne had his eyes shut again. I was beginning to expect that: and in any case I
could see that it didn’t matter, since the power lay somewhere between Gowery and Ferth, and Andy Tring and Plimborne were so much window-dressing.
Lord Gowery too picked up a paper, and again I had the impression that he knew its contents by heart.
‘Mr Newtonnards?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’ He had a faint cockney accent overlaid by years of cigars and champagne. Mid-fifties, I guessed; no fool, knew the world, and had friends in show business. Not too far out: Mr Newtonnards, it transpired, was a bookmaker.
Gowery said, ‘Mr Newtonnards, will you be so good as to tell us about a certain bet you struck on the afternoon of the Lemonfizz Cup?’
‘Yes, my Lord. I was standing on my pitch in Tattersall’s when this customer come up and asked me for five tenners on Cherry Pie.’ He stopped there, as if that was all he thought necessary.
Gowery did some prompting. ‘Please describe this man, and also tell us what you did about his request.’
‘Describe him? Let’s see, then. He was nothing special. A biggish man in a fawn coat, wearing a brown trilby and carrying race glasses over his shoulder. Middle-aged, I suppose. Perhaps he had a moustache. Can’t remember, really.’
The description fitted half the men on the racecourse.
‘He asked me what price I’d give him about Cherry Pie,’ Newtonnards went on. ‘I didn’t have any price chalked on my board, seeing Cherry Pie was such an outsider. I offered him tens, but he said it wasn’t enough, and he looked like moving off down the line. Well…’ Newtonnards waved an expressive pudgy hand, ‘… business wasn’t too brisk, so I offered him a hundred to six. Couldn’t say fairer than that now, could I, seeing as there were only eight runners in the race? Worse decision I made in a long time.’ Gloom mixed with stoicism settled on his well covered features.
‘So when Cherry Pie won, you paid out?’
‘That’s right. He put down fifty smackers. I paid him nine hundred.’
‘Nine hundred pounds?’
‘That’s right, my Lord,’ Newtonnards confirmed easily, ‘Nine hundred pounds.’
‘And we may see the record of this bet?’
‘Certainly.’ He opened the big blue ledger at a marked page. ‘On the left, my lord, just over half way down. Marked with a red cross. Nine hundred and fifty, ticket number nine seven two.’
The ledger was passed along the Stewards’ table. Plimborne woke up for the occasion and all four of them peered at the page. The ledger returned to Newtonnards, who shut it and let it lie in front of him.
‘Wasn’t that a very large bet on an outsider?’ Gowery asked.
‘Yes it was, my Lord. But then, there are a lot of mugs about. Except, of course, that once in a while they go and win.’
‘So you had no qualms about risking such a large amount?’
‘Not really, my lord. Not with Squelch in the race. And anyway, I laid a bit of it off. A quarter of it, in fact, at thirty-threes. So my actual losses were in the region of four hundred and eighty-seven pounds ten. Then I took three hundred and two-ten on Squelch and the others, which left a net loss on the race of one eight five.’
Cranfield and I received a glare in which every unit of the one eight-five rankled.
Gowery said, ‘We are not enquiring into how much you lost Mr Newtonnards, but into the identity of the client who won nine hundred pounds on Cherry Pie.’
I shivered. If West could lie, so could others.
‘As I said in my statement, my Lord, I don’t know his name. When he came up to me I thought I knew him from somewhere, but you see a lot of folks in my game, so I didn’t think much of it. You know. So it wasn’t until after I paid him off. After the last race, in fact. Not until I was driving home. Then it came to me, and I went spare, I can tell you.’
‘Please explain more clearly,’ Gowery said patiently. The patience of a cat at a mousehole. Anticipation making the waiting sweet.
‘It wasn’t him, so much, as who I saw him talking to. Standing by the parade ring rails before the first race. Don’t know why I should remember it, but I do.’
‘And who did you see this client talking to?’
‘Him.’ He jerked his head in our direction. ‘Mr Cranfield.’
Cranfield was immediately on his feet.
‘Are you suggesting that I advised this client of yours to back Cherry Pie?’ His voice shook with indignation.
‘No, Mr Cranfield,’ said Gowery like the North Wind, ‘The suggestion is that the client was acting on your behalf, and that it was you yourself that backed Cherry Pie.’
‘That’s an absolute lie.’
His hot denial fell on a lot of cold ears.
‘Where is this mysterious man?’ he demanded. ‘This unidentified, unidentifiable nobody? How can you possibly trump up such a story and present it as serious evidence? It is ridiculous. Utterly, utterly ridiculous.’
‘The bet was struck,’ Gowery said plonkingly, pointing to the ledger.
‘And I saw you talking to the client,’ confirmed Newtonnards.
Cranfield’s fury left him gasping for words, and in the end he too sat down again, finding like me nothing to say that could dent the preconceptions ranged against us.
‘Mr Newtonnards,’ I said, ‘Would you know this client again?’
He hesitated only a fraction. ‘Yes, I would.’
‘Have you seen him at the races since Lemonfizz day?’
‘No. I haven’t.’
‘If you see him again, will you point him out to Lord Gowery?’
‘If Lord Gowery’s at the races.’ Several of the back ranks of officials smiled at this, but Newtonnards, to give him his due, did not.
I couldn’t think of anything else to ask him, and I knew I had made no headway at all. It was infuriating. By our own choice we had thrust ourselves back into the bad old days when people accused at racing trials were not allowed a legal defendant. If they didn’t know how to defend themselves: if they didn’t know what sort of questions to ask or in what form to ask them, that was just too bad. Just their hard luck. But this wasn’t hard luck. This was our own stupid fault. A lawyer would have been able to rip Newtonnards’ testimony to bits, but neither Cranfield nor I knew how.
Cranfield tried. He was back on his feet.
‘Far from backing Cherry Pie, I backed Squelch. You can check up with my own bookmaker.’
Gowery simply didn’t reply. Cranfield repeated it.
Gowery said, ‘Yes, yes. No doubt you did. It is quite beside the point.’
Cranfield sat down again with his mouth hanging open. I knew exactly how he felt. Not so much banging the head against a brick wall as being actively attacked by a cliff.
They waved Newtonnards away and he ambled easily off to take his place beside Charlie West. What he had said stayed behind him, stuck fast in the officials’ minds. Not one of them had asked for corroboration. Not one had suggested that there might have been a loophole in identity. The belief was written plain on their faces: if someone had backed Cherry Pie to win nine hundred pounds, it must have been Cranfield.
Gowery hadn’t finished. With a calm satisfaction he picked up another paper and said, ‘Mr Cranfield, I have here an affidavit from a Mrs Joan Jones, who handled the five pound selling window on the Totalisator in the paddock on Lemonfizz Cup day, that she sold ten win-only tickets for horse number eight to a man in a fawn raincoat, middle aged, wearing a trilby. I also have here a similar testimony from a Mr Leonard Roberts, who was paying out at the five pound window in the same building, on the same occasion. Both of these Tote employees remember the client well, as these were almost the only five pound tickets sold on Cherry Pie, and certainly the only large block. The Tote paid out to this man more than eleven hundred pounds in cash. Mr Roberts advised him not to carry so much on his person, but the man declined to take his advice.’
There was another accusing silence. Cranfield looked totally nonplussed and came up with nothing to say. This time, I tried for him. ‘Sir, did this man back
any other horses in the race, on the Tote? Did he back all, or two or three or four, and just hit the jackpot by accident?’
‘There was no accident about this, Hughes.’
‘But did he, in fact, back any other horses?’
Dead silence.
‘Surely you asked?’ I said reasonably.
Whether anyone had asked or not, Gowery didn’t know. All he knew was what was on the affidavit. He gave me a stony stare, and said, ‘No one puts fifty pounds on an outsider without good grounds for believing it will win.’
‘But sir..’
‘However,’ he said, ‘We will find out.’ He wrote a note on the bottom of one of the affidavits. ‘It seems to me extremely unlikely. But we will have the question asked.’
There was no suggestion that he would wait for the answer before giving his judgement. And in fact he did not.
CHAPTER THREE
I wandered aimlessly round the flat, lost and restless. Reheated the coffee. Drank it. Tried to write to my parents, and gave it up after half a page. Tried to make some sort of decision about my future, and couldn’t.
Felt too battered. Too pulped. Too crushed.
Yet I had done nothing.
Nothing.
Late afternoon. The lads were bustling round the yard setting the horses fair for the night, and whistling and calling to each other as usual. I kept away from the windows and eventually went back to the bedroom and lay down on the bed. The day began to fade. The dusk closed in.
After Newtonnards they had called Tommy Timpson, who had ridden Cherry Pie.
Tommy Timpson ‘did his two’ for Cranfield and rode such of the stable’s second strings as Cranfield cared to give him. Cranfield rang the changes on three jockeys: me, Chris Smith (at present taking his time over a fractured skull) and Tommy. Tommy got the crumbs and deserved better. Like many trainers, Cranfield couldn’t spot talent when it was under his nose, and it wasn’t until several small local trainers had asked for his services that Cranfield woke up to the fact that he had a useful emerging rider in his own yard.
Raw, nineteen years old, a stutterer, Tommy was at his worst at the Enquiry. He looked as scared as a two year old colt at his first starting gate, and although he couldn’t help being jittery it was worse than useless for Cranfield and me.