Horace was unperturbed by the other’s confusion. ‘You needn’t bother yourself,’ he said coolly. ‘I should never think of taking you to a court of justice.’
He turned again to the girl, and the earl claimed the baronet’s attention. The old man had a trick of striking off at a tangent; from one subject to another he leapt like a will-o’-the-wisp. Before Horace had framed half a dozen words the old man was dragging his unwilling victim along a piscatorial road, and Sir Isaac was floundering out of his depths in a morass – if the metaphor be excused – of salmon-fishing, trout-poaching, pike-fishing – a sport on which Sir Isaac Tramber could by no means deem himself an authority.
It was soon after lunch that the train pulled into Lincoln. Horace usually rented a house outside the town, but this year he had arranged to go and return to London on the same night. At the station he parted with the girl.
‘I shall see you on the course,’ he said. ‘What are your arrangements? Do you go back to town tonight?’
She nodded. ‘Is this a very important race for you to win?’ she asked, a little anxiously.
He shook his head.
‘Nobody really bothers overmuch about the Lincolnshire Handicap,’ he said. ‘You see, it’s too early in the season for even the gamblers to put their money down with any assurance. One doesn’t know much, and it is almost impossible to tell what horses are in form. I verily believe that Nemesis will win but everything is against her.
‘You see, the Lincoln,’ continued Horace doubtfully, ‘is a race which is not usually won by a filly, and then, too, she is a sprinter. I know sprinters have won the race before, and every year have been confidently expected to win it again; but the averages are all against a horse like Nemesis.’
‘But I thought,’ she said in wonder, ‘that you were so confident about her.’
He laughed a little. ‘Well, you know, one is awfully confident on Monday and full of doubts on Tuesday. That is part of the game; the form of horses is not half as inconsistent as the form of owners. I shall probably meet a man this morning who will tell me that some horse is an absolute certainty for the last race of the day. He will hold me by the buttonhole and he will drum into me the fact that this is the most extraordinarily easy method of picking up money that was ever invented since racing started. When I meet him after the last race he will coolly inform me that he did not back that horse, but had some tip at the last moment from an obscure individual who knew the owner’s aunt’s sister. You mustn’t expect one to be consistent.
‘I still think Nemesis will win,’ he went on, ‘but I am not so confident as I was. The most cocksure of students gets a little glum in the face of the examiner.’
The earl had joined them and was listening to the conversation with a certain amount of grim amusement. ‘Ikey is certain Timbolino will win,’ he said, ‘even in the face of the examiner. Somebody has just told me that the examiner is rather soft under foot.’
‘You mean the course?’ asked Horace, a little anxiously.
The earl nodded. ‘It won’t suit yours, my friend,’ he said. ‘A sprinter essaying the Lincolnshire wants good going. I can see myself taking £1,500 back to London today.’
‘Have you backed Timbolino?’
‘Don’t ask impertinent questions,’ said the earl curtly. ‘And unnecessary questions,’ he went on. ‘You know infernally well I’ve backed Timbolino. Don’t you believe me? I’ve backed it and I’m afraid I’m not going to win.’
‘Afraid?’
Whatever faults the old man had, Horace knew him for a good loser.
The earl nodded.
He was not amused now. He had dropped like a cloak the assumption of that little unpleasant leering attitude. He was, Horace saw for the first time, a singularly good-looking old man. The firm lines of the mouth were straight, and the pale face, in repose, looked a little sad.
‘Yes. I’m afraid.’ he said. His voice was even and without the bitter quality of cynicism which was his everlasting pose.
‘This race makes a lot of difference to some people. It doesn’t affect me very much,’ he said, and the corner of his mouth twitched a little. ‘But there are people,’ he went on seriously, ‘to whom this race makes a difference between life and death.’ There was a sudden return to his usual abrupt manner. ‘Eh? How does that strike you for good melodrama, Mr Gresham?’
Horace shook his head in bewilderment. ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow you at all, Lord Verlond.’
‘You may follow me in another way,’ said the earl briskly. ‘Here is my car. Good morning.’
Horace watched him out of sight and then made his way to the racecourse.
The old man had puzzled him not a little. He bore, as Horace knew, a reputation which, if not unsavoury, was at least unpleasant. He was credited with having the most malicious tongue in London. But when Horace came to think, as he did, walking along the banks of the river on his way to the course, there was little that the old man had ever said which would injure or hurt innocent people. His cynicism was in the main directed against his own class, his savageness most manifested against notorious sinners. Men like Sir Isaac Tramber felt the lash of his tongue.
His treatment of his heir was, of course, inexcusable. The earl himself never excused it; he persistently avoided the subject, and it would be a bold man who would dare to raise so unpleasant a topic against the earl’s wishes.
He was known to be extraordinarily wealthy, and Horace Gresham had reason for congratulating himself that he had been specially blessed with this world’s goods. Otherwise his prospects would not have been of the brightest. That he was himself enormously rich precluded any suggestion (and the suggestion would have been inevitable) that he hunted Lady Mary’s fortune. It was a matter of supreme indifference to himself whether she inherited the Verlond millions or whether she came to him empty-handed.
There were other people in Lincoln that day who did not take so philosophical a view of the situation.
Sir Isaac had driven straight to the house on the hill leading to the Minster, which Black had engaged for two days. He was in a very bad temper when at last he reached his destination. Black was sitting at lunch.
Black looked up as the other entered. ‘Hullo, Ikey,’ he said, ‘come and sit down.’
Sir Isaac looked at the menu with some disfavour.
‘Thanks,’ he said shortly, ‘I’ve lunched on the train. I want to talk to you.’
‘Talk away,’ said Black, helping himself to another cutlet. He was a good trencherman – a man who found exquisite enjoyment in his meals.
‘Look here. Black,’ said Isaac, ‘things are pretty desperate. Unless that infernal horse of mine wins today I shall not know what to do for money.’
‘I know one thing you won’t be able to do,’ said Black coolly, ‘and that is, come to me. I am in as great straits as you.’ He pushed back his plate and took a cigar-case from his pocket. ‘What do we stand to win on this Timbolino of yours?’
‘About £25,000,’ said Sir Isaac moodily. ‘I don’t know if the infernal thing will win. It would be just my luck if it doesn’t. I am afraid of this horse of Gresham’s.’
Black laughed softly. ‘That’s a new fear of yours,’ he said. ‘I don’t remember having heard it before.’
‘It’s no laughing matter,’ said the other. ‘I had my trainer, Tubbs, down watching her work. She is immensely fast. The only thing is whether she can stay the distance.’
‘Can’t she be got at?’ asked Black.
‘Got at!’ said the other impatiently. ‘The race will be run in three hours’ time! Where do you get your idea of racing from?’ he asked irritably. ‘You can’t poison horses at three hours’ notice. You can’t even poison them at three days’ notice, unless you’ve got the trainer in with you. And trainers of that kind only live in novels.’
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br /> Black was carefully cutting the end of his cigar. ‘So if your horse loses we shall be in High Street, Hellboro’?’ he reflected. ‘I have backed it to save my life.’ He said this in grim earnest.
He rang a bell. The servant came in.
‘Tell them to bring round the carriage,’ he said. He looked at his watch. ‘I am not particularly keen on racing, but I think I shall enjoy this day in the open. It gives one a chance of thinking.’
Chapter 12
The race
The curious ring on the Carholme was crowded. Unusually interested in the Lincoln handicap was the sporting world, and this, together with the glorious weather, had drawn sportsmen from north and south to meet together on this great festival of English racing.
Train and steamer had brought the wanderers back to the fold. There were men with a tan of Egypt on their cheeks, men who had been to the south to avoid the vigorous and searching tests of an English winter; there were men who came from Monte Carlo, and lean, brown men who had spent the dark days of the year amongst the snows of the Alps.
There were regular followers of the game who had known no holiday, and had followed the jumping season with religious attention. There were rich men and comparatively poor men; little tradesmen who found this the most delightful of their holidays; members of Parliament who had snatched a day from the dreariness of the Parliamentary debates; sharpers on the look-out for possible victims; these latter quiet, unobtrusive men whose eyes were constantly on the move for a likely subject. There was a sprinkling of journalists, cheery and sceptical, young men and old men, farmers in their gaiters – all drawn together in one great brotherhood by a love of the sport of kings.
In the crowded paddock the horses engaged in the first race were walking round, led by diminutive stable-lads, the number of each horse strapped to the boy’s arm.
‘A rough lot of beggars,’ said Gresham, looking them over. Most of them still had their winter coats; most of them were grossly fat and unfitted for racing. He was ticking the horses off on his card; some he immediately dismissed as of no account. He found Lady Mary wandering around the paddock by herself. She greeted him as a shipwrecked mariner greets a sail.
‘I’m so glad you’ve come,’ she said. ‘I know nothing whatever about racing.’ She looked round the paddock. ‘Won’t you tell me something. Are all these horses really fit?’
‘You evidently know something about horses,’ he smiled. ‘No, they’re not.’
‘But surely they can’t win if they’re not fit,’ she said in astonishment.
‘They can’t all win,’ replied the young man, laughing. ‘They’re not all intended to win, either. You see, a trainer may not be satisfied his horse is top-hole. He sends him out to have a feeler, so to speak, at the opposition. The fittest horse will probably win this race. The trainer who is running against him with no hope of success will discover how near to fitness his own beast is!’
‘I want to find Timbolino,’ she said, looking at her card. ‘That’s Sir Isaac’s, isn’t it?’
He nodded.
‘I was looking for him myself,’ he said. ‘Come along, and let’s see if we can find him.’
In a corner of the paddock they discovered the horse – a tall, upstanding animal, well muscled, so far as Horace could judge, for the horse was still in his cloths.
‘A nice type of horse for the Lincoln,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I saw him at Ascot last year. I think this is the fellow we’ve got to beat.’
‘Does Sir Isaac own many horses?’ she asked.
‘A few,’ he said. ‘He is a remarkable man.’
‘Why do you say that?’ she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Well, one knows . . . ’
Then he realized that it wasn’t playing cricket to speak disparagingly of a possible rival, and she rightly interpreted his silence.
‘Where does Sir Isaac make his money?’ she asked abruptly.
He looked at her. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘He’s got some property somewhere, hasn’t he?’
She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I am not asking,’ she went on quickly, ‘because I have any possible interest in his wealth or his prospects. All my interest is centred – elsewhere.’
She favoured him with a dazzling little smile.
Although the paddock was crowded and the eyes of many people were upon him, the owner of the favourite had all his work to restrain himself from taking her hand.
She changed the subject abruptly. ‘So now let’s come and see your great horse,’ she said gaily.
He led her over to one of the boxes where Nemesis was receiving the attention of an earnest groom.
There was not much of her. She was of small build, clean of limb, with a beautiful head and a fine neck not usually seen in so small a thoroughbred. She had run a good fourth in the Cambridgeshire of the previous year, and had made steady improvement from her three-year-old to her four-year-old days.
Horace looked her over critically. His practised eye could see no fault in her condition. She looked very cool, ideally fit for the task of the afternoon. He knew that her task was a difficult one; he knew, too, that he had in his heart really very little fear that she could fail to negotiate the easy mile of the Carholme. There were many horses in the race who were also sprinters, and they would make the pace a terrifically fast one. If stamina was a weak point, it would betray her.
The previous day, on the opening of the racing season, his stable had run a horse in a selling plate, and it was encouraging that this animal, though carrying top weight, beat his field easily. It was this fact that had brought Nemesis to the position of short-priced favourite.
Gresham himself had very little money upon her; he did not bet very heavily, though he was credited with making and losing fabulous sums each year. He gained nothing by contradicting these rumours. He was sufficiently indifferent to the opinions of his fellows not to suffer any inconvenience from their repetition.
But the shortening of price on Nemesis was a serious matter for the connection of Timbolino. They could not cover their investments by ‘saving’ on Nemesis without a considerable outlay.
Horace was at lunch when the second race was run. He had found Lord Verlond wonderfully gracious; to the young man’s surprise his lordship had accepted his invitation with such matter-of-fact heartiness as to suggest he had expected it. ‘I suppose,’ he said, with a little twinkle in his eye, ‘you haven’t invited Ikey?’
Gresham shook his head smilingly.
‘No, I do not think Sir Isaac quite approves of me.’
‘I do not think he does,’ agreed the other. ‘Anyway, he’s got a guest of his own, Colonel Black. I assure you it is through no act of mine. Ikey introduced him to me, somewhat unnecessarily, but Ikey is always doing unnecessary things.
‘A very amiable person,’ continued the earl, busy with his knife and fork; ‘he “lordshipped” me and “my lorded” me as though he were the newest kind of barrister and I was the oldest and wiliest of assize judges. He treated me with that respect which is only accorded to those who are expected to pay eventually for the privilege. Ikey was most anxious that he should create a good impression.’
It may be said with truth that Black saw the net closing round him. He knew not what mysterious influences were at work, but day by day, in a hundred different ways, he found himself thwarted, new obstacles put in his way. He was out now for a final kill.
He was recalled to a realization of the present by the strident voices of the bookmakers about him; the ring was in a turmoil. He heard a voice shout, ‘Seven to one, bar one! Seven to one Nemesis!’ and he knew enough of racing to realize what had happened to the favourite.
He came to a bookmaker he knew slightly. ‘What are you barring?’ he asked.
‘Timbolino
,’ was the reply.
He found Sir Isaac near the enclosure. The baronet was looking a muddy white, and was biting his finger-nails with an air of perturbation.
‘What has made your horse so strong a favourite?’
‘I backed it again,’ said Sir Isaac.
‘Backed it again?’
‘I’ve got to do something,’ said the other savagely. ‘If I lose, well, I lose more than I can pay. I might as well add to my liabilities. I tell you I’m down and out if this thing doesn’t win,’ he said, ‘unless you can do something for me. You can, can’t you, Black, old sport?’ he asked entreatingly. ‘There’s no reason why you and I should have any secrets from one another.’
Black looked at him steadily. If the horse lost he might be able to use this man to greater advantage.
Sir Isaac’s next words suggested that in case of necessity help would be forthcoming.
‘It’s that beastly Verlond,’ he said bitterly. ‘He put the girl quite against me – she treats me as though I were dirt – and I thought I was all right there. I’ve been backing on the strength of the money coming to me.’
‘What has happened recently?’ asked Black.
‘I got her by myself just now,’ said the baronet, ‘and put it to her plain; but it’s no go. Black, she gave me the frozen face – turned me down proper. It’s perfectly damnable,’ he almost wailed.
Black nodded. At that moment there was a sudden stir in the ring. Over the heads of the crowd from where they stood they saw the bright-coloured caps of the jockeys cantering down to the post.
Unlike Sir Isaac, who had carefully avoided the paddock after a casual glance at his candidate, Horace was personally supervising the finishing touches to Nemesis. He saw the girths strapped and gave his last instructions to the jockey. Then, as the filly was led to the course, with one final backward and approving glance at her, he turned towards the ring.
‘One moment, Gresham!’ Lord Verlond was behind him. ‘Do you think your horse,’ said the old man, with a nod towards Nemesis, ‘is going to win?’
The Complete Four Just Men Page 45