by Dick Francis
‘Toys… You’re talking nonsense.’
‘Toys, licences, what’s the difference. The things we prized most. Someone’s snatched them away. Tricked us out of them. And nobody except us can get them back. Nobody else will bother.’
‘We can apply,’ he said without conviction.
‘Oh, we can apply. In six months time, I suppose. But there’s no guarantee we’d get them. The only sensible thing to do is to start fighting back right now and find out who fixed us. Who, and why. And after that I’ll wring his bloody neck.’
He was still staring at the floor, still hunched. He couldn’t even look me in the face yet, let alone the world. If he hadn’t been such a climbing snob, I thought uncharitably, his present troubles wouldn’t have produced such a complete cave-in. He was on the verge of literally not being able to bear the public disgrace of being warned off.
Well, I wasn’t so sure I much cared for it myself. It was all very well knowing that one was not guilty, and even having one’s closest friends believe it, but one could hardly walk around everywhere wearing a notice proclaiming ‘I am innocent. I never done it. It were all a stinking frame-up.’
‘It’s not so bad for you,’ he said.
‘That’s perfectly true.’ I paused. ‘I came in through the yard.’
He made a low sound of protest.
‘Archie seems to be seeing to everything himself. And he’s worried about his house.’
Cranfield made a waving movement of his hand as much as to ask how did I think he could be bothered with Archie’s problems on top of his own.
‘It wouldn’t hurt you to pay Archie’s mortgage for a bit.’
‘What?’ That finally reached him. His head came up at least six inches.
‘It’s only a few pounds a week. Peanuts to you. Life or death to him. And if you lose him, you’ll never get so many winners again.’
‘You… you…’ He spluttered. But he still didn’t look up.
‘A trainer is as good as his lads.’
‘That’s stupid.’
‘You’ve got good lads just now. You’ve chucked out the duds, the rough and lazy ones. It takes time to weed out and build up a good team, but you can’t get a high ratio of winners without one. You might get your licence back but you won’t get these lads back and it’ll take years for the stable to recover. If it ever does. And I hear you have already given them all the sack.’
‘What else was there to do?’
‘You could try keeping them on for a month.’
His head came up a little more. ‘You haven’t the slightest idea what that would cost me. The wages come to more than four hundred pounds a week.’
‘There must still be quite a lot to come in in training fees. Owners seldom pay in advance. You won’t have to dig very deep into your own pocket. Not for a month, anyway, and it might not take as long as that.’
‘What might not?’
‘Getting our licences back.’
‘Don’t be so bloody ridiculous.’
‘I mean it. What is it worth to you? Four weeks’ wages for your lads? Would you pay that much if there was a chance you’d be back in racing in a month? The owners would send their horses back, if it was as quick as that. Particularly if you tell them you confidently expect to be back in business almost immediately.’
‘They wouldn’t believe it.’
‘They’d be uncertain. That should be enough.’
‘There isn’t a chance of getting back.’
‘Oh yes there damn well is,’ I said forcefully. ‘But only if you’re willing to take it. Tell the lads you’re keeping them on for a bit. Especially Archie. Go down to the yard and tell them now.’
‘Now.’
‘Of course,’ I said impatiently. ‘Probably half of them have already read the Situations Vacant columns and written to other trainers.’
‘There isn’t any point.’ He seemed sunk in fresh gloom. ‘It’s all hopeless. And it couldn’t have happened, it simply could not have happened at a worse time. Edwin Byler was going to send me his horses. It was all fixed up. Now of course he’s telephoned to say it’s all off, his horses are staying where they are, at Jack Roxford’s.’
To train Edwin Byler’s horses was to be presented with a pot of gold. He was a north country business man who had made a million or two out of mail order, and had used a little of it to fulfil a long held ambition to own the best string of steeplechasers in Britain. Four of his present horses had in turn cost more than anyone had paid before. When he wanted, he bid. He only wanted the best, and he had bought enough of them to put him for the two previous seasons at the top of the Winning Owners’ list. To have been going to train Edwin Byler’s horses, and now not to be going to, was a refined cruelty to pile on top of everything else.
To have been going to ride Edwin Byler’s horses… as I would no doubt have done… that too was a thrust where it hurt.
‘There’s all the more point, then,’ I said. ‘What more do you want in the way of incentive? You’re throwing away without a struggle not only what you’ve got but what you might have… Why in the Hell don’t you get off your bed and behave like a gentleman and show some spirit?’
‘Hughes!’ He was outraged. But he still sat. He still wouldn’t look at me.
I paused, considering him. Then, slowly, I said, ‘All right, then. I’ll tell you why you won’t. You won’t because… to some degree… you are in fact guilty. You made sure Squelch wouldn’t win. And you backed Cherry Pie.’
That got him. Not just his head up, but up, trembling, on to his feet.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘How dare you?’
‘Frankly, just now I’d dare practically anything.’
‘You said we were framed.’
‘So we were.’
Some of his alarm subsided. I stoked it up again.
‘You banded us away on a plate.’
He swallowed, his eyes flicking from side to side, looking everywhere except at me.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Don’t be so weak,’ I said impatiently. ‘I rode Squelch, remember? Was he his usual self? He was not.’
‘If you’re suggesting,’ he began explosively, ‘That I doped…’
‘Oh of course not. Anyway, they tested him, didn’t they? Negative result. Naturally. No trainer needs to dope a horse he doesn’t want to win. It’s like swatting a fly with a bulldozer. There are much more subtle methods. Undetectable. Even innocent. Maybe you should be kinder to yourself and admit that you quite innocently stopped Squelch. Maybe you even did it subconsciously, wanting Cherry Pie to win.’
‘Bull,’ he said.
‘The mind plays tricks,’ I said. ‘People often believe they are doing something for one good reason, while they are subconsciously doing it for another.’
‘Twaddle.’
‘The trouble comes sometimes when the real reason rears its ugly head and slaps you in the kisser.’
‘Shut up.’ His teeth and jaw were clenched tight.
I drew a deep breath. I’d been guessing, partly. And I’d guessed right.
‘I said, ‘You gave Squelch too much work too soon before the race. He lost the Lemonfizz on the gallops at home.’
He looked at me at last. His eyes were dark, as if the pupils had expanded to take up ail the iris. There was a desperate sort of hopelessness in his expression.
‘It wouldn’t have been so bad,’ I said, ‘If you had admitted it to yourself. Because then you would never have risked not engaging a lawyer to defend us.’
‘I didn’t mean to over-train Squelch,’ he said wretchedly. ‘I didn’t realise it until afterwards. I did back him, just as I said at the Enquiry.’
I nodded. ‘I imagined you must have done. But you backed Cherry Pie as well.’
He explained quite simply, without any of his usual superiority. ‘Trainers are often caught out, as you know, when one of their horses suddenly develops his true form. Well, I thought
Cherry Pie might just be one of those. So I backed him, on the off chance.’
Some off chance. Fifty pounds with Newtonnards and fifty pounds on the Tote. Gross profit, two thousand.
‘How much did you have on Squelch?’
‘Two hundred and fifty.’
‘Whew.’ I said. ‘Was that your usual sort of bet?’
‘He was odds on… I suppose a hundred is my most usual bet.’
I had come to the key question, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to ask it, let alone have to judge whether the answer was true. However…
‘Why,’ I said matter-of-factly, ‘Didn’t you back Cherry Pie with your own usual bookmaker?’
He answered without effort. ‘Because I didn’t want Kessel knowing I’d backed Cherry Pie, if he won instead of Squelch. Kessel’s a funny man, he takes everything personally, he’d as like as not have whisked Squelch away…’ He trailed off, remembering afresh that Squelch was indeed being whisked.
‘Why should Kessel have known?’
‘Eh? Oh, because he bets with my bookmaker too, and the pair of them are as thick as thieves.’
Fair enough.
‘Well, who was the middle aged man who put the bets on for you?’
‘Just a friend. There’s no need to involve him. I want to keep him out of it.’
‘Could Newtonnards have seen you talking to him by the parade ring before the first race?’
‘Yes,’ he said with depression. ‘I did talk to him. I gave him the money to bet with.’
And he still hadn’t seen any danger signals. Had taken Monty Midgley’s assurance at its face value. Hadn’t revealed the danger to me. I could have throttled him.
‘What did you do with the winnings?’
‘They’re in the safe downstairs.’
‘And you haven’t been able to admit to anyone that you’ve got them.’
‘No.’
I thought back. ‘You lied about it at the Enquiry.’
‘What else was there to do?’
By then, what indeed. Telling the truth hadn’t done much for me.
‘Let’s see, then.’ I moved over to the window again, sorting things out. ‘Cherry Pie won on his merits. You backed him because he looked like coming into form rather suddenly. Squelch had had four hard races in two months, and a possibly over zealous training gallop. These are the straight facts.’
‘Yes… I suppose so.’
‘No trainer should lose his licence because he didn’t tell the world he might just possibly have a flier. I never see why the people who put in all the work shouldn’t have the first dip into the well.’
Owners, too, were entitled. Cherry Pie’s owner, however, had died three weeks before the Lemonfizz, and Cherry Pie had run for the executors. Someone was going to have a fine time deciding his precise value at the moment of his owner’s death.
‘It means, anyway, that you do have a fighting fund,’ I pointed out.
‘There’s no point in fighting.’
‘You,’ I said exasperatedly, ‘Are so soft that you’d make a marshmallow look like granite.’
His mouth slowly opened. Before that morning I had never given him anything but politeness. He was looking at me as if he’d never really noticed me, and it occurred to me that if we did indeed get our licences back he would remember that I’d seen him in pieces, and maybe find me uncomfortable to have around. He paid me a retainer, but only on an annual contract. Easy enough to chuck me out, and retain someone else. Expediently, and not too pleased with myself for it, I took the worst crags out of my tone.
‘I presume,’ I said, ‘That you do want your licence back?’
‘There isn’t a chance.’
‘If you’ll keep the lads for a month, I’ll get it back for you.’
Defeatism still showed in every sagging muscle, and he didn’t answer.
I shrugged. ‘Well, I’m going to try. And if I give you your licence back on a plate it will be just too bad if Archie and the lads have gone.’ I walked towards the door and put my hand on the knob. ‘I’ll let you know how I get on.’
Twisted the knob. Opened the door.
‘Wait,’ he said.
I turned round. A vestige of starch had returned, mostly in the shape of the reappearance of the mean lines round his mouth. Not so good.
‘I don’t believe you can do it. But as you’re so cocksure, I’ll make a bargain with you. I’ll pay the lads for two weeks. If you want me to keep them on for another two weeks after that, you can pay them yourself.’
Charming. He’d made two thousand pounds out of Cherry Pie and had overtrained Squelch and was the direct cause of my being warned off. I stamped on a violent inner tremble of anger and gave him a cold answer.
‘Very well. I agree to that. But you must make a bargain with me too. A bargain that you’ll keep your mouth tight shut about your guilt feelings. I don’t want to be sabotaged by you hairshirting it all over the place and confessing your theoretical sins at awkward moments.’
‘I am unlikely to do that,’ he said stiffly.
I wasn’t so sure. ‘I want your word on it,’ I said.
He drew himself up, offended. It at least had the effect of straightening his backbone.
‘You have it.’
‘Fine.’ I held the door open for him. ‘Let’s go down to the yard, then.’
He still hesitated, but finally made up his mind to it, and went before me through the door and down the stairs.
Roberta and her mother were standing in the hall, looking as if they were waiting for news at a pithead after a disaster. They watched the reappearance of the head of the family in mixture of relief and apprehension, and Mrs Cranfield said tentatively, ‘Dexter…?’
He answered irritably, as if he saw no cause for anxiety in his having shut himself away with a shotgun for thirty-six hours, ‘We’re going down to the yard.’
‘Great,’ said Roberta practically smothering any tendency to emotion from her mother, ‘I’ll come too;’
Archie hurried to meet us and launched into a detailed account of which horses had gone and which were about to go next. Cranfield hardly listened and certainly didn’t take it in. He waited for a gap in the flow, and when he’d waited long enough, impatiently interrupted.
‘Yes, yes, Archie, I’m sure you have everything in hand. That is not what I’ve come down for, however. I want you to tell the lads at once that their notice to leave is withdrawn for one month.’
Archie looked at me, not entirely understanding.
‘The sack,’ I said, ‘Is postponed. Pending attempts to get wrongs righted.’
‘Mine too?’
‘Absolutely.’ I agreed. ‘Especially, in fact.’
‘Hughes thinks there is a chance we can prove ourselves innocent and recover our licences,’ Cranfield said formally, his own disbelief showing like two heads. ‘In order to help me keep the stable together while he makes enquiries, Hughes has agreed to contribute one half towards your wages for one month.’ I looked at him sharply. That was not at all what I had agreed. He showed no sign of acknowledging his reinterpretation (to put it charitably) of the offer I had accepted, and went authoritatively on. ‘Therefore, as your present week’s notice still has five days to run, none of you will be required to leave here for five weeks. In fact,’ he added grudgingly, ‘I would be obliged if you would all stay.’
Archie said to me, ‘You really mean it?’ and I watched the hope suddenly spring up in his face and thought that maybe it wasn’t only my own chance of a future that was worth eight hundred quid.
‘That’s right,’ I agreed. ‘As long as you don’t all spend the month busily fixing up to go somewhere else at the end of it.’
‘What do you take us for?’ Archie protested.
‘Cynics,’ I said, and Archie actually laughed.
I left Cranfield and Archie talking together with most of the desperation evaporating from both of them, and walked away to my aerodynamic burnt orange car. I didn’
t hear Roberta following me until she spoke in my ear as I opened the door.
‘Can you really do it?’ she said.
‘Do what?’
‘Get your licences back.’
‘It’s going to cost me too much not to. So I guess I’ll have to or…’
‘Or what?’
I smiled. ‘Or die in the attempt.’
It took me an hour to cross into Gloucestershire and almost half as long to sort out the geography of the village of Down-field, which mostly seemed to consist of cul-de-sacs.
The cottage I eventually found after six misdirections from local inhabitants was old but not beautiful, well painted but in dreary colours, and a good deal more trustworthy than its owner.
When Mrs Charlie West saw who it was, she tried to shut the front door in my face. I put out a hand that was used to dealing with strong horses and pulled her by the wrist, so that if she slammed the door she would be squashing her own arm.
She screeched loudly. An inner door at the back of the hall opened all of six inches, and Charlie’s round face appeared through the crack. A distinct lack of confidence was discernible in that area.
‘He’s hurting me,’ Mrs West shouted.
‘I want to talk to you,’ I said to Charlie over her shoulder.
Charlie West was less than willing. Abandoning his teenage wife, long straight hair, Dusty Springfield eyelashes, beige lipstick and all, he retreated a pace and quite firmly shut his door. Mrs West put up a loud and energetic defence to my attempt to establish further contact with Master Charlie, and I went through the hall fending off her toes and fists.
Charlie had wedged a chair under the door handle.
I shouted through the wood. ‘Much as you deserve it, I haven’t come here to beat you up. Come out and talk.’
No response of any sort. I rattled the door. Repeated my request. No results. With Mrs West still stabbing around like an agitated hornet I went out of the front door and round the outside to try to talk to him through the window. The window was open, and the sitting-room inside was empty.
I turned round in time to see Charlie’s distant backview disappearing across a field and into the next parish. Mrs West saw him too, and gave me a nasty smile.
‘So there,’ she said triumphantly.