Dead Cert.
by d.i.c.k Francis.
ONE
The mingled smells of hot horse and cold river mist filled my nostrils. I could hear only the swish and thud of galloping hooves and the occasional sharp click of horse-shoes striking against each other. Behind me, strung out, rode a group of men dressed like myself in white silk breeches and harlequin jerseys, and in front, his body vividly red and green against the pale curtain of fog, one solitary rider steadied his horse to jump the birch fence stretching blackly across his path.All, in fact, was going as expected. Bill Davidson was about to win his ninety-seventh steeplechase. Admiral, his chestnut horse, was amply proving he was still the best hunter "chaser in the kingdom, and I, as often before, had been admiring their combined back view for several minutes.Ahead of me the powerful chestnut hindquarters bunched, tensed, sprang: Admiral cleared the fence with the effortlessness of the really great performer. And he"d gained another two lengths, I saw, as I followed him over. We were down at the far end of Maidenhead racecourse with more than half a mile to go to the winning post. I hadn"t a hope of catching him.The February fog was getting denser. It was now impossible to see much farther than from one fence to the next, and the silent surrounding whiteness seemed to shut us, an isolated string of riders, into a private lonely limbo. Speed was the only reality. Winning post, crowds, stands and stewards, left behind in the mist, lay again invisibly ahead, but on the long deserted mile and a half circuit it was quite difficult to believe they were really there.It was an eerie, severed world in which anything might happen. And something did.We rounded the first part of the bend at the bottom of the racecourse and straightened to jump the next fence. Bill was a good ten lengths in front of me and the other horses, and hadn"t exerted himself. He seldom needed to.The attendant at the next fence strolled across the course from the outside to the inside, patting the top of the birch as he went, and ducked under the rails. Bill glanced back over his shoulder and I saw the flash of his teeth as he smiled with satisfaction to see me so far behind. Then he turned his head towards the fence and measured his distance.Admiral met the fence perfectly. He rose to it as if flight were not only for birds.And he fell.Aghast, I saw the flurry of chestnut legs threshing the air as the horse pitched over in a somersault. I had a glimpse of Bill"s bright-clad figure hurtling head downwards from the highest point of his trajectory, and I heard the crash of Admiral landing upside down after him.Automatically I swerved over to the right and kicked my horse into the fence. In mid-air, as I crossed it, I looked down at Bill. He lay loosely on the ground with one arm outstretched. His eyes were shut. Admiral had fallen solidly, back downwards, across Bill"s unprotected abdomen, and he was rolling backwards and forwards in a frantic effort to stand up again.I had a brief impression that something lay beneath them. Something incongruous, which ought not to be there. But I was going too fast to see properly.As my horse pressed on away from the fence, I felt as sick as if I"d been kicked in the stomach myself. There had been a quality about that fall which put it straight into the killing cla.s.s.I looked over my shoulder. Admiral succeeded in getting to his feet and cantered off loose, and the attendant stepped forward and bent over Bill, who still lay motionless on the ground. I turned back to attend to the race. I had been left in front and I ought to stay there. At the side of the course a black-suited, white-sashed First-Aid man was running towards and past me. He had been standing at the fence I was now approaching, and was on his way to help Bill.I booted my horse into the next three fences, but my heart was no longer in it, and when I emerged as the winner into the full view of the crowded stands, the mixed gasp and groan which greeted me seemed an apt enough welcome. I pa.s.sed the winning post, patted my mount"s neck, and looked at the stands. Most heads were still turned towards the last fence, searching in the impenetrable mist for Admiral, the odds-on certainty who had lost his first race for two years.Even the pleasant middle-aged woman whose horse I was riding met me with the question "What happened to Admiral?""He fell" I said."How lucky" said Mrs Mervyn, laughing happily.She took hold of the bridle and led her horse into the winner"s unsaddling enclosure. I slid off and undid the girth buckles with fingers clumsy from shock. She patted the horse and chattered on about how delighted she was to have won, and how unexpected it was, and how fortunate that Admiral had tripped up for a change, though a great pity in another way, of course.I nodded and smiled at her and didn"t answer, because what I would have said would have been savage and unkind. Let her enjoy her win, I thought. They come seldom enough. And Bill might, after all, be all right.I tugged the saddle off the horse and, leaving a beaming Mrs Mervyn receiving congratulations from all around, pressed through the crowd into the weighing room. I sat on the scales, was pa.s.sed as correct, walked into the changing room, and put my gear down on the bench.Clem, the racecourse valet who looked after my stuff, came over. He was a small elderly man, very spry and tidy, with a weatherbeaten face and wrists whose tendons stood out like tight strung cords.He picked up my saddle and ran his hand caressingly over the leather. It was a habit he had grown into, I imagined, from long years of caring for fine-grained skins. He stroked a saddle as another man would a pretty girl"s cheek, savouring the suppleness, the bloom."Well done, sir" he said; but he didn"t look overjoyed.I didn"t want to be congratulated. I said abruptly "Admiral should have won.""Did he fall?" asked Clem anxiously."Yes" I said. I couldn"t understand it, thinking about it."Is Major Davidson all right sir?" asked Clem. He valeted Bill too and, I knew, looked upon him as a sort of minor G.o.d."I don"t know" I said. But the hard saddle-tree had hit him plumb in the belly with the weight of a big horse falling at thirty miles an hour behind it. What chance has he got, poor beggar, I thought.I shrugged my arms into my sheepskin coat and went along to the First-Aid room. Bill"s wife, Scilla, was standing outside the door there, pale and shaking and doing her best not to be frightened. Her small neat figure was dressed gaily in scarlet, and a mink hat sat provocatively on top of her cloudy dark curls. They were clothes for success, not sorrow."Alan" she said, with relief, when she saw me. "The doctor"s looking at him and asked me to wait here. What do you think? Is he bad?" She was pleading, and I hadn"t much comfort to give her. I put my arm round her shoulders.She asked me if I had seen Bill fall, and I told her he had dived on to his head and might be slightly concussed.The door opened, and a tall slim well-groomed man came out. The doctor."Are you Mrs Davidson?" he said to Scilla. She nodded."I"m afraid your husband will have to go along to the hospital," he said. "It wouldn"t be sensible to send him home without an X-ray." He smiled rea.s.suringly, and I felt some of the tension go out of Scilla"s body."Can I go in and see him?" she said.The doctor hesitated. "Yes," he said finally, "but he"s almost unconscious. He had a bit of a bang on the head. Don"t try to wake him."When I started to follow Scilla into the First-Aid room the doctor put his hand on my arm to stop me."You"re Mr York, aren"t you?" he asked. He had given me a regulation check after an easy fall I"d had the day before."Yes.""Do you know these people well?""Yes. I live with them most of the time."The doctor closed his lips tight, thinking. Then he said, "It"s not good. The concussion"s not much, but he"s bleeding internally, possibly from a ruptured spleen. I"ve telephoned the hospital to take him in as an emergency case as soon as we can get him there."As he spoke, one of the racecourse ambulances backed up towards us. The men jumped out, opened the rear doors, took out a big stretcher and carried it into the First-Aid room. The doctor went in after them. Soon they all reappeared with Bill on the stretcher. Scilla followed, the anxiety plain on her face, deep and well-founded.Bill"s firm brown humorous face now lolled flaccid, bluish-white, and covered with fine beads of sweat. He was gasping slightly through his open mouth, and his hands were restlessly pulling at the blanket which covered him. He was still wearing his green and red checked racing colours, the most ominous sign of all.Scilla said to me, "I"m going with him in the ambulance. Can you come?""I"ve a ride in the last race," I said. "I"ll come along to the hospital straight after that. Don"t worry, he"ll be all right." But I didn"t believe it, and nor did she.After they had gone I walked along beside the weighing room building and down through the car park until I came to the bank of the river. Swollen from recently melted snow, the Thames was flowing fast, sandy brown and grey with froths of white. The water swirled out of the mist a hundred yards to my right, churned round the bend where I stood and disappeared again into the fog. Troubled, confused, not seeing a clear course ahead. Just like me.For there was something wrong about Bill"s accident.Back in Bulawayo where I got my schooling, the mathematics master spent hours (too many, I thought in my youth) teaching us to draw correct inferences from a few known facts. But deduction was his hobby as well as his job, and occasionally we had been able to side-track him from problems of geometry or algebra to those of Sherlock Holmes. He produced cla.s.s after cla.s.s of boys keenly observant of well worn toe-caps on charwomen and vicars and calluses on the finger tips of harpists; and the mathematics standard of the school was exceptionally high.Now, thousands of miles and seven years away from the sun-baked schoolroom, standing in an English fog and growing very cold, I remembered my master and took out my facts, and had a look at them.Known facts... Admiral, a superb jumper, had fallen abruptly in full flight for no apparent reason. The racecourse attendant had walked across the course behind the fence as Bill and I rode towards it, but this was not at all unusual. And as I had cleared the fence, and while I was looking down at Bill, somewhere on the edge of my vision there had been a dull damp gleam from something grey and metallic. I thought about these things for a long time.The inference was there all right, but unbelievable. I had to find out if it was the correct one.I went back into the weighing room to collect my kit and weigh out for the last race, but as I packed the flat lead pieces into my weight cloth to bring my weight up to that set by the handicapper, the loudspeakers were turned on and it was announced that owing to the thickening fog the last race had been abandoned.There was a rush then in the changing room and the tea and fruit-cake disappeared at a quickened tempo. It was a long time since breakfast, and I stuffed a couple of beef sandwiches into my mouth while I changed. I arranged with Clem for my kit to go to Plumpton, where I was due to ride four days later, and set off on an uninviting walk. I wanted to have a close look at the place where Bill had fallen.It is a long way on foot from the stands to the far end of Maidenhead racecourse, and by the time I got there my shoes, socks and trouser legs were wet through from the long sodden gra.s.s. It was very cold, very foggy. There was no one about.I reached the fence, the harmless, softish, easy-to-jump fence, made of black birch twigs standing upright. Three feet thick at the bottom slanting to half that size at the top, four feet six inches tall, about ten yards wide. Ordinary, easy.I looked carefully along the landing side of the fence. There was nothing unusual. Round I went to the take-off side. Nothing. I poked around the wing which guides the horses into the fence, the one on the inside of the course, the side Bill had been when he fell. Still nothing.It was down underneath the wing on the outside of the course that I found what I was looking for. There it lay in the long gra.s.s, half hidden, beaded with drops of mist, coiled and deadly.Wire.There was a good deal of it, a pale silver grey, wound into a ring about a foot across, and weighted down with a piece of wood. One end of it led up the main side post of the wing and was fastened round it two feet above the level of the top of the birch. Fastened, I saw, very securely indeed. I could not untwist it with my fingers.I went back to the inside wing and had a look at the post. Two feet above the fence there was a groove in the wood. This post had once been painted white, and the mark showed clearly.It was clear to me that only one person could have fixed the wire in place. The attendant. The man whom I myself had seen walk across from one side of the course to the other. The man, I thought bitterly, whom I had left to help help Bill. Bill.In a three mile "chase at Maidenhead one rode twice round the course. On the first circuit there had been no trouble at this fence. Nine horses had jumped it safely, with Admiral lying third and biding his time, and me riding alongside telling Bill I didn"t think much of the English climate.Second time round, Admiral was lengths out in front. As soon as the attendant had seen him land over the fence before this one, he must have walked over holding the free end of wire and wound it round the opposite post so that it stretched there taut in the air, almost invisible, two feet above the birch. At that height it would catch the high-leaping Admiral straight across the shoulders.The callousness of it awoke a slow deep anger which, though I did not then know it, was to remain with me as a spur for many weeks to come.Whether the horse had snapped the wire when he hit it, or pulled it off the post, I could not be sure. But as I could find no separate pieces, and the coil by the outer wing was all one length, I thought it likely that the falling horse had jerked the less secure end down with him. None of the seven horses following me had been brought down. Like me, they must have jumped clear over the remains of the trap.Unless the attendant was a lunatic, which could by no means be ruled out, it was a deliberate attack on a particular horse and rider. Bill on Admiral had normally reached the front by this stage in a race, often having opened up a lead of twenty lengths, and his red and green colours, even on a misty day, were easy to see.At this point, greatly disturbed, I began the walk back. It was already growing dark. I had been longer at the fence than I had realised, and when I at length reached the weighing room, intending to tell the Clerk of the Course about the wire, I found everyone except the caretaker had gone.The caretaker, who was old and bad-tempered and incessantly sucked his teeth, told me he did not know where the Clerk of the Course could be found. He said the racecourse manager had driven off towards the town five minutes earlier. He did not know where the manager had been going, nor when he would be back; and with a grumbling tale that he had five separate stoves besides the central boiler to see to, and that the fog was bad for his bronchitis, the caretaker shuffled purposefully off towards the dim murky bulk of the grandstand.Undecided, I watched him go. I ought, I knew, to tell someone in authority about the wire. But who? The Stewards who had been at the meeting were all on their way home, creeping wearily through the fog, unreachable. The manager had gone; the Clerk of the Course"s office, I discovered, was locked. It would take me a long time to locate any of them, persuade them to return to the racecourse and get them to drive down the course over the rough ground in the dark; and after that there would be discussion, repet.i.tion, statements. It would be hours before I could get away.Meanwhile Bill was fighting for his life in Maidenhead hospital, and I wanted profoundly to know if he were winning. Scilla faced racking hours of anxiety and I had promised to be with her as soon as I could. Already I had delayed too long. The wire, fogbound and firmly twisted round the post, would keep until tomorrow, I thought; but Bill might not.Bill"s Jaguar was alone in the car park. I climbed in, switched on the side lights and the fog lights and drove off. I turned left at the gates, went gingerly along the road for two miles, turned left again over the river, twisted through Maidenhead"s one way streets, and finally arrived at the hospital.There was no sign of Scilla in the brightly lit busy hall. I asked the porter."Mrs Davidson? Husband a jockey? That"s right, she"s down there in the waiting room. Fourth door on the left."I found her. Her dark eyes looked enormous, shadowed with grey smudges beneath them. All other colour had gone from her sad strained face, and she had taken off her frivolous hat."How is he?" I asked."I don"t know. They just tell me not to worry." She was very close to tears.I sat down beside her and held her hand."You"re a comfort, Alan," she said.Presently the door opened and a fair young doctor came in, stethoscope dangling."Mrs Davidson, I think..." he paused, "I think you should come and sit with your husband.""How is he?""Not... very well. We are doing all we can." Turning to me he said, "Are you a relative?""A friend. I am going to drive Mrs Davidson home.""I see," he said. "Will you wait, or come back for her? Later this evening." There was meaning in his careful voice, his neutral words. I looked closely into his face, and I knew that Bill was dying."I"ll wait.""Good."I waited for four hours, getting to know intimately the pattern of the curtains and the cracks in the brown linoleum. Mostly, I thought about wire.At last a nurse came, serious, young, pretty."I am so sorry... Major Davidson is dead."Mrs Davidson would like me to go and see him, she said, if I would follow her. She took me down the long corridors, and into a white room, not very big, where Scilla sat beside the single bed.Scilla looked up at me. She couldn"t speak.Bill lay there, grey and quiet, finished. The best friend a man could wish for.
TWO
Early next morning I drove Scilla, worn out from the vigil she had insisted on keeping all night beside Bill"s body, and heavily drugged now with sedatives, home to the Cotswolds. The children came out and met her on the doorstep, their three faces solemn and round-eyed. Behind them stood Joan, the briskly competent girl who looked after them, and to whom I had telephoned the news the evening before.There on the step Scilla sat down and wept. The children knelt and sat beside her, putting their arms round her, doing their best to comfort a grief they could only dimly understand.Presently Scilla went upstairs to bed. I drew the curtains for her and tucked her in, and kissed her cheek. She was exhausted and very sleepy, and I hoped it would be many hours before she woke again.I went along to my own room and changed my clothes. Downstairs I found Joan putting coffee, bacon and eggs and hot rolls for me on the kitchen table. I gave the children the chocolate bars I had bought for them the previous morning (how very long ago it seemed) and they sat with me, munching, while I ate my breakfast. Joan poured herself some coffee."Alan?" said William. He was five, the youngest, and he would never go on speaking until you said "Yes?" to show you were listening."Yes?" I said."What happened to Daddy?"So I told them about it, all of it except the wire.They were unusually silent for a while. Then Henry, just eight, asked calmly, "Is he going to be buried or burnt?"Before I could answer, he and his elder sister Polly launched into a heated and astonishingly well-informed discussion about the respective merits of burial and cremation. I was horrified, but relieved too, and Joan, catching my eye, was hard put to it not to laugh.The innocent toughness of their conversation started me on my way back to Maidenhead in a more cheerful frame of mind. I put Bill"s big car in the garage and set off in my own little dark blue Lotus. The fog had completely gone, but I drove slowly (for me), working out what was best to do.First I called at the hospital. I collected Bill"s clothes, signed forms, made arrangements. There was to be a routine post mortem examination the next day.It was Sunday. I drove to the racecourse, but the gates were locked. Back in the town the Clerk of the Course"s office was shut and empty. I telephoned his home, but there was no answer.After some hesitation I rang up the Senior Steward of the National Hunt Committee, going straight to the top steeplechase authority. Sir Creswell Stampe"s butler said he would see if Sir Creswell was available. I said it was very important that I should speak with him. Presently he came on the line."I certainly hope what you have to say is is very important, Mr York. I am in the middle of luncheon with my guests." very important, Mr York. I am in the middle of luncheon with my guests.""Have you heard, sir, that Major Davidson died yesterday evening?""Yes. I"m very sorry about it, very sorry indeed." He waited. I took a deep breath."His fall wasn"t an accident," I said."What do you mean?""Major Davidson"s horse was brought down by wire," I said.I told him about my search at the fence, and what I had found there."You have let Mr Dace know about this?" he asked. Mr Dace was the Clerk of the Course.I explained that I had been unable to find him."So you rang me. I see." He paused. "Well, Mr York, if you are right, this is too serious to be dealt with entirely by the National Hunt Committee. I think you should inform the police in Maidenhead without delay. Let me know this evening, without fail, what is happening. I will try to get in touch with Mr Dace."I put down the receiver. The buck had been pa.s.sed, I thought. I could imagine the Stampe roast beef congealing on the plate while Sir Creswell set the wires humming.The police station in the deserted Sunday street was dark, dusty-looking and uninviting. I went in. There were three desks behind the counter, and at one of them sat a young constable reading a newspaper of the juicier sort. Keeping up with his crime, I reflected."Can I help you sir?" he said, getting up."Is there anyone else here?" I asked. "I mean, someone senior? It"s about a... a death.""Just a minute sir." He went out of a door at the back, and returned to say, "Will you come in here, please?"He stood aside to let me into a little inner office, and shut the door behind me.The man who rose to his feet was small for a policeman, thick-set, dark, and in his late thirties. He looked more of a fighter than a thinker, but I found later that his brain matched his physique. His desk was littered with papers and heavy looking law books. The gas fire had made a comfortable warm fug, and his ashtray was overflowing. He, too, was spending his Sunday afternoon reading up crime."Good afternoon. I am Inspector Lodge," he said. He gestured to a chair facing his desk, asking me to sit down. He sat down again himself, and began to shape his papers into neat piles."You have come about a death?" My own words, repeated, sounded foolish, but his tone was matter-of-fact."It"s about a Major Davidson..." I began."Oh yes. We had a report. He died in the hospital last night after a fall at the races." He waited politely for me to go on."That fall was engineered," I said bluntly.Inspector Lodge looked at me steadily, then drew a sheet of paper out of a drawer, unscrewed his fountain pen, and wrote, I could see, the date and the time. A methodical man."I think we had better start at the beginning," he said. "What is your name?""Alan York.""Age?""Twenty-four.""Address?"I gave Davidsons" address, explaining whose it was, and that I lived there a good deal."Where is your own home?""In Southern Rhodesia," I said. "On a cattle station near a village called Induna, about fifteen miles from Bulawayo.""Occupation?""I represent my father in his London office.""And your father"s business?""The Bailey York Trading Company.""What do you trade in?" asked Lodge."Copper, lead, cattle. Anything and everything. We"re transporters mainly." I said.He wrote it all down, in quick distinctive script."Now then," he put down the pen, "what is it all about?""I don"t know what it"s about," I said, "but this is what happened." I told him the whole thing. He listened without interrupting, then he said, "What made you even begin to suspect that this was not a normal fall?""Admiral is the safest jumper there is. He"s surefooted, like a cat. He doesn"t make mistakes."But I could see from his politely surprised expression that he knew little, if anything, about steeplechasing, and thought that one horse was as likely to fall as another.I tried again. "Admiral is brilliant over fences. He would never fall like that, going into an easy fence in his own time, not being pressed. He took off perfectly. I saw him. That fall was unnatural. It looked to me as though something had been used to bring him down. I thought it might be wire, and I went back to look, and it was. That"s all.""Hm. Was the horse likely to win?" asked Lodge."Certain," I said."And who did win?""I did," I said.Lodge paused, and bit the end of his pen."How do the racecourse attendants get their jobs?" he asked."I don"t really know. They are casual staff, taken on for the meeting, I think," I said."Why would a racecourse attendant wish to harm Major Davidson?" He said this naively, and I looked at him sharply."Do you think I have made it all up?" I asked."No." He sighed. "I suppose I don"t. Perhaps I should have said, how difficult would it be for someone who wished to harm Major Davidson to get taken on as a racecourse attendant?""Easy," I said."We"ll have to find out." He reflected. "It"s a very chancy way to murder a man.""Whoever planned it can"t have meant to kill him," I said flatly."Why not?""Because it was so unlikely that he would die. I should think it was simply meant to stop him winning.""Why was such a fall unlikely to result in death?" said Lodge. "It sounds highly dangerous to me."I said: "It could have been meant to injure him, I suppose. Usually, when a horse is going fast and hits a fence hard when you"re not expecting it, you get catapulted out of the saddle. You fly through the air and hit the ground way out in front of where your horse falls. That may do a lot of damage, but it doesn"t often kill. But Bill Davidson wasn"t flung off forwards. His toe may have stuck in his stirrup, though that"s not very likely. Perhaps the wire caught round his leg and pulled him back. Anyway, he fell straight down and his horse crashed on top of him. Even then it was sheer bad luck that the saddle tree hit him in the stomach. You couldn"t even hope to kill a man like that on purpose.""I see. You seem to have given it some thought.""Yes." The pattern of the hospital waiting room curtains, the brown linoleum, came back into my mind in a.s.sociation."Can you think of anyone who might wish to hurt Major Davidson?" asked Lodge."No," I said. "He was very well liked."Lodge got up and stretched. "We"ll go and have a look at your wire," he said. He put his head out into the big office. "Wright, go and see if Hawkins is there, and tell him I want a car if there"s one available."There was a car. Hawkins (I presumed) drove; I sat in the back with Lodge. The main gates of the racecourse were still locked, but there were ways and means, I found. A police key opened another, inconspicuous, gate in the wooden fence."In case of fire," said Lodge, seeing my sideways look.There was no one about in the racecourse buildings: the manager was out. Hawkins drove over the course into the centre and headed down towards the farthest fence. We b.u.mped a good deal on the uneven ground. The car drew up just short of the inside wing, and Lodge and I climbed out.I led the way past the fence to the outer wing."The wire is over here," I said.But I was wrong.There was the post, the wing, the long gra.s.s, the birch fence. And no coil of wire."Are you sure this is the right fence?" said Lodge."Yes," I said. We stood looking at the course set out in front of us. We were at the very far end, the stands a blurred ma.s.sive block in the distance. The fence by which we stood was alone on a short straight between two curves, and the nearest fence to us was three hundred yards to the left, round a shallow bend."You jump that fence," I said, pointing away to it. "Then there"s quite a long run, as you can see, to this one." I patted the fence beside us. "Then twenty yards after we land over this one there is that sharpish left turn into the straight. The next fence is some way up the straight, to allow the horses to balance themselves properly after coming round the bend, before they have to jump. It"s a good course.""You couldn"t have made a mistake in the mist?""No. This is the fence," I said.Lodge sighed. "Well, we"ll take a closer look."But all there was to be seen was a shallow groove on the once white inner post, and a deeper groove on the outer post, where the wire had bitten into the wood. Both grooves needed looking for and would ordinarily have been unnoticed. Both were at the same level, six feet, six inches from the ground."Very inconclusive indeed," said Lodge.We went back to Maidenhead in silence. Glum and feeling foolish, I knew now that even though I could reach no one in authority, I should have found someone, anyone, even the caretaker, the day before, to go back to the fence with me, after I had found the wire, to see it in its place. A witness who had seen wire fastened to a fence, even though it would have been dark and foggy, even though perhaps he could not swear at which fence he had seen it, would definitely have been better than no witness at all. I tried to console myself with the possibility that the attendant had been returning to the fence with his wire clippers at the same time that I was walking back to the stands, and that even if I had returned at once with a witness, it would already have been too late.From Maidenhead police station I called Sir Creswell Stampe. I had parted him this time, he said, from his toasted m.u.f.fins. The news that the wire had disappeared didn"t please him either."You should have got someone else to see it at once. Photographed it. Removed it. We can"t proceed without evidence. I can"t think why you didn"t have sense enough to act more quickly, either. You have been very irresponsible, Mr York." And with these few kind words he put down his receiver.Depressed, I drove home.I put my head quietly round Scilla"s door. Her room was dark, but I could hear her even breathing. She was still sound asleep.Downstairs Joan and the children were sitting on the floor in front of the welcoming log fire playing poker. I had introduced them to the game one rainy day when the children were tired of snap and rummy and had been behaving very badly, quarrelling and shouting and raising tempers all round. Poker, the hitherto mysterious game of the cowboys in Westerns, had worked a miracle.Henry developed in a few weeks into the sort of player you wouldn"t sit down with twice without careful thought. His razor-sharp mathematical mind knew the odds to a fraction against any particular card turning up: his visual memory was formidable; and his air of slight bewilderment, calculated to be misleading, led many an unsuspecting adult straight into his traps. I admired Henry. He could out-bluff an angel.Polly played well enough for me to be sure she would never lose continually in ordinary company, and even William knew a running flush from a full house.They had been at it for some time. Henry"s pile of poker chips was, as usual, three times as big as anyone else"s.Polly said, "Henry won all the chips a little while ago, so we had to share them out and start all over again."Henry grinned. Cards were an open book to him and he couldn"t help reading.I took ten of Henry"s chips arid sat in with them. Joan dealt. She gave me a pair of fives and I drew another one. Henry discarded and drew two cards only, and looked satisfied.The others threw in during the first two rounds. Then I boldly advanced two more chips to join the two on the table. "Raise you two, Henry," I said.Henry glanced at me to make sure I was looking at him, then made a great show of indecision, drumming his fingers on the table and sighing. Knowing his habit of bluffing, I suspected he had a whopper of a hand and was scheming how to get me to disgorge the largest possible number of chips."Raise you one," he said at last.I was just about to put another two chips firmly out, but I stopped and said, "Oh no you don"t, Henry. Not this time," and I threw in my hand. I pushed the four chips across to him. "This time you get four, and no more.""What did you have, Alan?" Polly turned my cards over, showing the three fives.Henry grinned. He made no attempt to stop Polly looking at his cards too. He had a pair of Kings. Just one pair."Got you that time, Alan," he said happily.William and Polly groaned heavily.We played until I had won back my reputation and a respectable number of Henry"s chips. Then it was the children"s bedtime, and I went up to see Scilla.She was awake, lying in the dark."Come in, Alan."I went over and switched on the bedside light. The first shock was over. She looked calm, peaceful."Hungry?" I asked. She had not eaten since lunch the day before."Do you know, Alan, I am," she said as if surprised.I went downstairs and with Joan rustled up some supper. I carried the tray up and ate with Scilla. Sitting propped up with pillows, alone in the big bed, she began to tell me about how she had met Bill, the things they had done together, the fun they had had. Her eyes shone with remembered happiness. She talked for a long time, all about Bill, and I did not stop her until her lips began to tremble. Then I told her about Henry and his pair of kings, and she smiled and grew calm again.I wanted very much to ask her whether Bill had been in any trouble or had been threatened in any way during the last few weeks, but it wasn"t the right time to do it. So I got her to take another of the sedatives the hospital had given me for her, turned off her light, and said good night.As I undressed in my own room the tiredness. .h.i.t me. I had been awake for over forty hours, few of which could be called restful. I flopped into bed. It was one of those times when the act of falling asleep is a conscious, delicious luxury.Half an hour later Joan shook me awake again. She was in her dressing-gown."Alan, wake up for goodness sake. I"ve been knocking on your door for ages.""What"s the matter?""You"re wanted on the telephone. Personal call." she said."Oh no," I groaned. It felt like the middle of the night. I looked at my watch. Eleven o"clock.I staggered downstairs, eyes bleary with sleep."h.e.l.lo?""Mr Alan York?""Yes.""Hold on, please." Some clicks on the line. I yawned."Mr York? I have a message for you from Inspector Lodge, Maidenhead police. He would like you to come here to the police station tomorrow afternoon, at four o"clock.""I"ll be there," I said. I rang off, went back to bed, and slept and slept.Lodge was waiting for me. He rose, shook hands, pointed to a chair. I sat down. The desk was clear now of everything except a neat, quarto-sized folder placed squarely in front of him. Slightly behind me, at a small table in the corner, sat a constable in uniform, pencil in hand, shorthand notebook at the ready."I have some statements here," Lodge tapped the file, "which I will tell you about. Then I have some questions to ask." He opened the file and took out two sheets of paper clipped together."This is a statement from Mr J. L. Dace, Clerk of the Course of Maidenhead racecourse. In it he says nine of the attendants, the men who stand by to make temporary repairs to the fences during the races, are regularly employed in that capacity. Three of them were new this meeting."Lodge laid down this statement, and took out the next."This is a statement from George Watkins, one of the regular attendants. He says they draw lots among themselves to decide which fence each of them shall stand by. There are two at some fences. On Friday they drew lots as usual, but on Sat.u.r.day one of the new men volunteered to go down to the farthest fence. None of them likes having to go right down there, Watkins says, because it is too far to walk back between races to "have a bit" on a horse. So they were glad enough to let the stranger take that fence, and they drew lots for the rest.""What did this attendant look like?" I asked."You saw him yourself," said Lodge."No, not really," I said. "All he was to me was a man. I didn"t look at him. There"s at least one attendant at every fence. I wouldn"t know any of them again.""Watkins says he thinks he"d know the man again, but he can"t describe him. Ordinary, he says. Not tall, not short. Middle-aged, he thinks. Wore a cap, old grey suit, loose mackintosh.""They all do," I said gloomily.Lodge said, "He gave his name as Thomas Cook. Said he was out of work, had a job to go to next week and was filling in time. Very plausible, nothing odd about him at all, Watkins says. He spoke like a Londoner though, not with a Berkshire accent."Lodge laid the paper down, and took out another."This is a statement from John Russell of the St John Ambulance Brigade. He says he was standing beside the first fence in the straight watching the horses go round the bottom of the course. Because of the mist he says he could see only three fences: the one he was standing beside, the next fence up the straight, and the farthest fence, where Major Davidson fell. The fence before that, which was opposite him on the far side of the course, was an indistinct blur."He saw Major Davidson race out of the mist after he had jumped that fence. Then he saw him fall at the next. Major Davidson did not reappear, though his horse got up and galloped off riderless. Russell began to walk towards the fence where he had seen Major Davidson fall; then when you, Mr York, pa.s.sed him looking over your shoulder, he began to run. He found Major Davidson lying on the ground.""Did he see the wire?" I asked eagerly."No. I asked him if he had seen anything at all unusual. I didn"t mention wire specifically. He said there was nothing.""Didn"t he see the attendant roll up the wire while he was running towards him?""I asked him if he could see either Major Davidson or the attendant as he ran towards them. He says that owing to the sharp bend and the rails round it he could not see them until he was quite close. I gather he ran round the course instead of cutting across the corner through the long rough gra.s.s because it was too wet.""I see," I said despondently. "And what was the attendant doing when he got there?""Standing beside Major Davidson looking down at him. He says the attendant looked frightened. This surprised Russell, because although he was knocked out Major Davidson did not appear to him to be badly injured. He waved his white flag, the next First-Aid man saw it and waved his, and the message was thus relayed through the fog all the way up the course to the ambulance.""What did the attendant do then?""Nothing particular. He stayed beside the fence after the ambulance had taken Major Davidson away, and Russell says he was there until the abandonment of the last race was announced."Clutching at straws, I said, "Did he go back with the other attendants and collect his pay?"Lodge looked at me with interest. "No," he said, "he didn"t."He took out another paper."This is a statement from Peter Smith, head travelling lad for the Gregory stables, where Admiral is trained. He says that after Admiral got loose at Maidenhead he tried to jump a blackthorn hedge. He stuck in it and was caught beside it, scared and bleeding. There are cuts and scratches all over the horse"s shoulders, chest and forelegs." He looked up. "If the wire left any mark on him at all, it is impossible to distinguish it now.""You have been thorough," I said, "and quick.""Yes. We were lucky, for once, to find everyone we wanted without delay."There was only one paper left. Lodge picked it up, spoke slowly."This is the report of the post mortem on Major Davidson. Cause of death was multiple internal injuries. Liver and spleen were both ruptured."He sat back in his chair and looked at his hands."Now, Mr York, I have been directed to ask you some questions which..." his dark eyes came up to mine suddenly, "...which I do not think you will like. Just answer them." His half smile was friendly."Fire away," I said."Are you in love with Mrs Davidson?"I sat up straight, surprised."No," I said."But you live with her?""I live with the whole family," I said."Why?""I have no home in England. When I first got to know Bill Davidson he asked me to his house for a week-end. I liked it there, and I suppose they liked me. Anyway, they asked me often. Gradually the week-ends got longer and longer, until Bill and Scilla suggested I should make their house my headquarters. I spend a night or two every week in London.""How long have you lived at the Davidsons"?" asked Lodge."About seven months.""Were your relations with Major Davidson friendly?""Yes, very.""And with Mrs Davidson?""Yes.""But you do not love her?""I am extremely fond of her. As an elder sister," I said, sitting tight on my anger. "She is ten years older than I am."Lodge"s expression said quite plainly that age had nothing to do with it. I was aware, just then, that the constable in the corner was writing down my replies.I relaxed. I said, tranquilly, "She was very much in love with her husband, and he with her."Lodge"s mouth twitched at the corners. He looked, of all things, amused. Then he began again."I understand," he said, "that Major Davidson was the leading amateur steeplechase jockey in this country?""Yes.""And you yourself finished second to him, a year ago, after your first season"s racing in England?"I stared at him. I said, "For someone who hardly knew steeple-chasing existed twenty-four hours ago, you"ve wasted no time.""Were you second to Major Davidson on the amateur riders" list last year? And were you not likely to be second to him again? Is it not also likely that now, in his absence, you will head the list?""Yes, yes, and I hope so." I said. The accusation was as plain as could be, but I was not going to rush unasked into protestations of my innocence. I waited. If he wanted the suggestion made that I had sought to injure or kill Bill in order to acquire either his wife or his racing prestige, or both, Lodge would have to make it himself.But he didn"t. A full minute ticked by, during which I sat still. Finally Lodge grinned."Well, I think that"s all, then, Mr York. The information you gave us yesterday and your answers today will be typed together as one statement, and I shall be glad if you will read and sign it."The policeman with the notebook stood up and walked into the outer office. Lodge said, "The coroner"s inquest on Major Davidson is to be held on Thursday. You will be needed as a witness; and Mrs Davidson, too, for evidence of identification. We"ll be getting in touch with her."He asked me questions about steeplechasing, ordinary conversational questions, until the statement was ready. I read it carefully and signed it. It was accurate and perfectly fair. I could imagine these pages joining the others in Lodge"s tidy file. How fat would it grow before he found the accidental murderer of Bill Davidson?If he ever did.He stood up and held out his hand, and I shook it. I liked him. I wondered who had "directed" him to find out if I might have arranged the crime I had myself reported.
THREE
I rode at Plumpton two days later.The police had been very discreet in their enquiries, and Sir Creswell also, for there was no speculation in the weighing room about Bill"s death. The grapevine was silent.I plunged into the bustle of a normal racing day, the minor frustration of a lot of jockeys changing in a smallish s.p.a.ce, the unprintable jokes, the laughter, the cl.u.s.ter of cold half-undressed men round the red-hot c.o.ke stove.Clem gave me my clean breeches, some pants, a thin fawn under-jersey, a fresh white stock for my neck, and a pair of nylon stockings. I stripped and put on the racing things. On top of the nylon stockings (laddered, as always) my soft, light, close fitting racing boots slid on easily. Clem handed me my racing colours, the thick woollen sweater of coffee and cream checks, and the brown satin cap. He tied my stock for me. I pulled on the jersey, and slid the cap on to my crash helmet, ready to put on later.Clem said, "Only the one ride today, sir?" He pulled two thick rubber bands from his large ap.r.o.n pocket and slipped them over my wrists. They were to anchor the sleeves of my jersey and prevent the wind blowing them up my arms."Yes," I said. "So far, anyway." I was always hopeful."Will you be wanting to borrow a light saddle? The weight"s near your limit, I should think.""No," I said, "I"d rather use my own saddle if I can. I"ll get on the trial scales with that first, and see how much overweight I am.""Right you are, sir."I went over with Clem, picked up my six pound racing saddle with its girths and stirrup leathers wound round it, and weighed myself with it, my crash helmet perched temporarily and insecurely on the back of my head. The total came to ten stone, nine pounds, which was four pounds more than the handicapper thought my horse deserved.Clem took back the saddle, and I put my helmet on the bench again."I think I"ll carry the overweight, Clem," I said."Right." He hurried off to attend to someone else.I could have got down to the proper weight-just-by using a three pound "postage stamp" saddle and changing into silk colours and "paper" boots. But as I was riding my own horse I could please myself, and he was an angular animal whose ribs would probably have been rubbed raw by too small a saddle.He, Forlorn Hope, my newest acquisition, was a strongly-built brown gelding only five years old. He looked as though he would develop into a "chaser in a year or two, but meanwhile I was riding him in novice hurdle races to give him some sorely needed experience.His unreliability as a jumper had made Scilla, the evening before, beg me not to ride him at Plumpton, a course full of snares for the unwary.Unbearably strung up, and facing her loss for the first time without the help of drugs, she was angry and pleading by turns."Don"t, Alan. Not a novice hurdle at Plumpton. You know your wretched Forlorn Hope isn"t safe. You haven"t got to do it, so why do you?""I like it.""There never was a horse more aptly named," she said, miserably."He"ll learn," I said. "But not if I don"t give him the opportunity.""Put someone else up. Please.""There isn"t any point in my having a horse if I don"t ride it myself. That"s really why I came to England at all, to race. You know that.""You"ll be killed, like Bill." She began to cry, helplessly, worn out. I tried to reason with her."No, I won"t. If Bill had been killed in a motor crash you wouldn"t expect me to stop driving a car. Steeplechasing"s just as safe and unsafe as motoring." I paused, but she went on crying. "There are thousands more people killed on the roads than on the race-track," I said.At this outrageous statement she recovered enough to point out acidly the difference in the number of people engaged in the two pursuits."Very few people are killed by steeplechasing," I tried again."Bill was...""Only about one a year, out of hundreds," I went on."Bill was the second since Christmas.""Yes." I looked at her warily. There were still tears in her eyes."Scilla, was Bill in any sort of trouble recently?""Why ever do you ask?" She was astounded by my question."Was he?""Of course not.""Not worried about anything?" I persisted."No. Did he seem worried to you?""No," I said. It was quite true. Until the moment of his fall Bill had been the same as I had always known him, cheerful, poised, reliable. He had had, and enjoyed, a pretty wife, three attractive children, a grey stone manor house, a considerable fortune and the best hunter "chaser in England. A happy man. And rack my memory as I would, I could not recall the slightest ruffling of the pattern."Then why do you ask?" said Scilla, again.I told her as gradually, as gently as I could, that Bill"s fall had not been an ordinary accident. I told her about the wire and about Lodge"s investigations.She sat like stone, absolutely stunned."Oh no," she said. "Oh, no. Oh, no."As I stood now outside the weighing room at Plumpton I could still see her stricken face. She had raised no more objections to my racing. What I had told her had driven every other thought out of her head.A firm hand came down on my shoulder. I knew it well. It belonged to Pete Gregory, racehorse trainer, a burly man nearly six feet tall, running to fat, growing bald, but in his day, I had been told, the toughest man ever to put his foot in a racing stirrup."h.e.l.lo, Alan me lad. I"m glad to see you"re here. I"ve already declared you for your horse in the second race.""How is he?" I asked."All right. A bit thin, still." Forlorn Hope had only been in his stable for a month. "I should give him an "easy," coming up the hill the first time, or he"ll blow up before the finish. He needs more time before we can hope for much.""O.K." I said."Come out and see what the going is like," said Pete. "I want to talk to you." He hitched the strap of his binoculars higher on his shoulder.We walked down through the gate on to the course and dug our heels experimentally into the turf. They sank in an inch."Not bad, considering all the snow that melted into it a fortnight ago," I said."Nice and soft for you to fall on," said Pete with elementary humour.We went up the rise to the nearest hurdle. The landing side had a little too much give in it, but we knew the ground at the other end of the course was better drained. It was all right.Pete said abruptly, "Did you see Admiral fall at Maidenhead?" He had been in Ireland buying a horse when it happened and had only just returned."Yes. I was about ten lengths behind him," I said, looking down the course, concentrating on the hurdle track."Well?""Well, what?" I said."What happened? Why did he fall?" There was some sort of urgency in his voice, more than one would expect, even in the circ.u.mstances. I looked at him. His eyes were grey, unsmiling, intent. Moved by an instinct I didn"t understand, I retreated into vagueness."He just fell," I said. "When I went over the fence he was on the ground with Bill underneath him.""Did Admiral meet the fence all wrong, then?" he probed."Not as far as I could see. He must have hit the top of it." This was near enough to the truth."There wasn"t... anything else?" Pete"s eyes were fierce, as if they would look into my brain."What do you mean?" I avoided the direct answer."Nothing." His anxious expression relaxed. "If you didn"t see anything..." We began to walk back. It troubled me that I hadn"t told Pete the truth. He had been too searching, too aware. I was certain he was not the man to risk destroying a great horse like Admiral, let alone a friend, but why was he so relieved now he believed I had noticed nothing?I had just decided to ask him to explain his att.i.tude, and to tell him what had really happened, when he began to speak."Have you got a ride in the Amateur "Chase, Alan?" He was back to normal, bluff and smiling."No, I haven"t," I said. "Pete, look..."But he interrupted, "I had a horse arrive in my yard five or six days ago, with an engagement in today"s Amateur "Chase. A chestnut. Good sort of animal, I should say. He seems to be fit enough-he"s come from a small stable in the West country-and his new owner is very keen to run him. I tried to ring you this morning about it, but you"d already left.""What"s his name?" I asked, for all this preamble of Pete"s was, I knew, his way of cajoling me into something I might not be too delighted to do."Heavens Above.""Never heard of him. What"s he done?" I asked."Well, not much. He"s young, of course..."I interrupted. "What exactly exactly has he done?" has he done?"Pete sighed and gave in. "He"s only had two runs, both down in Devon last autumn. He didn"t fall, but-er-he got rid of his jockey both times. But he jumped well enough over my schooling fences this morning. I don"t think you"d have any difficulty in getting him round safely, and that"s the main thing at this stage.""Pete, I don"t like to say no, but..." I began."His owner is so hoping you"ll ride him. It"s her first horse, and it"s running for the first time in her brand new colours. I brought her to the races with me. She"s very excited. I said I"d ask you...""I don"t think..." I tried again."Well at least meet her," said Pete."If I meet her, you know it"ll be far more difficult for me to refuse to ride her horse."Pete didn"t deny it.I went on, "I suppose she"s another of your dear old ladies about to go into a nursing home from which she is unlikely to return, and wants a final thrill before she meets her fate?"This was the sad tale which Pete had used not long before to inveigle me on to a bad horse against my better judgement. And I often saw the old lady at the races afterwards. The nursing home and her fate were still presumably awaiting her."This one is not," said Pete, "a dear old lady."We came to a stop in the paddock, and Pete looked around him and beckoned to someone. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a woman begin to walk towards us. It was already, without unforgivable rudeness, too late to escape. I had time for one heart-felt oath in Pete"s ear before I turned to be introduced to the new owner of the jockey-depositing Heavens Above."Miss Ellery-Penn, Alan York," said Pete.I was lost before she spoke a word. The first thing I said was, "I"ll be glad to ride your horse."Pete was laughing openly at me.She was beautiful. She had clear features, wonderful skin, smiling grey eyes, dark glossy hair falling almost to her shoulders. And she was used to the effect she had on men: but how could she help it?Pete said, "Right, then. I"ll declare you for the amateurs"-it"s the fourth race. I"ll give the colours to Clem." He went off towards the weighing room."I am so glad you agreed to ride my horse," the girl said. Her voice was low-pitched and unhurried. "He"s a birthday present. Rather a problem one, don"t you think? My Uncle George, who is a dear fellow but just the slightest bit off the beat, advertised advertised in in The Times The Times for a racehourse. My aunt says he received fifty replies and bought this horse without seeing it because he liked the name. He said it would be more amusing for me to have a horse for my birthday than the conventional string of pearls." for a racehourse. My aunt says he received fifty replies and bought this horse without seeing it because he liked the name. He said it would be more amusing for me to have a horse for my birthday than the conventional string of pearls.""Your Uncle George sounds fascinating," I said."But just a little devastating to live with." She had a trick of lifting the last two or three words in a sentence so that they sounded like a question. As if she had added "Don"t you agree?" to her remark."Do you in fact live with him?" I asked."Oh, yes. Parents divorced in the murky past. Scattered to the four winds, and all that.""I"m sorry.""Waste no sympathy. I can"t remember either of them. They abandoned me on Uncle George"s doorstep, figuratively speaking, at the tender age of two.""Uncle George has done a good job," I said, looking at her with the frankest admiration.She accepted this without gaucherie, almost as a matter of course."Aunt Deb, actually. She is faintly more on the ball than Uncle George. Absolute pets, the pair of them.""Are they here today?" I asked."No, they aren"t," said Miss Ellery-Penn. "Uncle George remarked that having given me a pa.s.sport into a new world peopled entirely by brave and charming young men, it would defeat the object if my path were cluttered up with elderly relatives.""I am getting fonder of Uncle George every minute," I said.Miss Ellery-Penn gave me a heavenly smile which held no promises of any sort."Have you seen my horse? Isn"t he a duck?" she said."I haven"t seen him. I"m afraid I didn"t know he existed until five minutes ago. How did Uncle George happen to send him to Pete Gregory? Did he pick the stable with a pin?"She laughed. "No, I don"t think so. He had the stable all planned. He said I could get a Major Davidson to ride for me if the horse went to Mr Gregory"s." She reflected, wrinkling her brow. "He was quite upset on Monday when he read in the paper that Major Davidson had been killed.""Did he know him?" I asked idly, watching the delicious curves at the corners of her red mouth."No, I"m sure he didn"t know him personally. Probably he knew his father. He seems to know most people"s fathers. He just said "Good G.o.d, Davidson"s dead" in a shocked sort of way and went on eating his toast. But he didn"t hear me or Aunt Deb until we had asked him four times for the marmalade!""And that was all?""Yes. Why do you ask?" said Miss Ellery-Penn, curiously."Oh, nothing special," I said. "Bill Davidson and I were good friends."She nodded. "I see." She dismissed the subject. "Now what do I have to do in my new role of racehorse owner? I don"t particularly want to make a frightful b.o.o.b on my first day. Any comments and instructions from you will be welcome, Mr York.""My name is Alan," I said.She gave me an appraising look. It told me plainer than words that although she was young she was already experienced at fending off unwelcome attentions and not being rushed into relationships she was not prepared for.But finally she smiled, and said, "Mine is Kate." She bestowed her name like a gift; I was pleased to receive it."How much do you know about racing?" I asked."Not a thing. Never set foot on the Turf before today." She gave the capital letter its full value, ironically."Do you ride, yourself?""Positively not.""Perhaps your Uncle George is fond of horses? Perhaps he hunts?" I suggested."Uncle George is the most un-addicted man to horses I have ever met. He says one end kicks and the other bites, and as for hunting, he says that he has cosier things to do than chase bushy tailed vermin in the gravest discomfort over waterlogged countryside in the depths of winter."I laughed. "Perhaps he bets. Off the course?" I asked."Uncle George has been known to ask, on Cup Final day, what has won the Derby.""Then why Heavens Above?""Wider horizons for me, Uncle George says. My education has been along the well-tramped lines of boarding school, finishing school and an over-chaperoned tour of Europe. I needed to get the smell of museums out of my nose, Uncle George said.""So he gave you a racehorse for your twenty-first birthday," I stated matter-of-factly."Yes," she said: then she looked at me sharply. I grinned. I had jumped her defences, that time."There"s nothing special for you to do as an owner," I said, "except go along to those stalls over there," I pointed, "before the fourth race, to see your horse being saddled up. Then you"ll go into the parade ring with Pete, and stand around making intelligent remarks about the weather until I arrive and mount and go out for the race.""What do I do if he wins?""Do you expect him to win?" I asked. I was not sure how much she really knew about her horse."Mr Gregory says he won"t."I was relieved. I did not want to her to be disappointed."We"ll all know much more about him after the race. But if he should come in the first three, he will be unsaddled down there opposite the weighing room. Otherwise, you"ll find us up here on the gra.s.s."It was nearly time for the first race. I took the delectable Miss Ellery-Penn on to the stands and fulfilled Unce George"s design by introducing to her several brave and charming young men. I unfortunately realised that by the time I came back from riding in the novice hurdle, I should probably be an "also ran" in the race for Miss Ellery-Penn"s attentions.I watched her captivating a group of my friends. She was a vivid, vital person. It seemed to me that she had an inexhaustible inner fire battened down tight under hatches, and only the warmth from it was allowed to escape into the amused, slow voice. Kate was going to be potently attractive even in middle age, I thought inconsequently, and it crossed my mind that had Scilla possessed this springing vitality instead of her retiring, serene pa.s.siveness, Inspector Lodge"s implications might not have been very far off the mark.After we had watched the first race I left Kate deciding which of her new acquaintances should have the honour of taking her to coffee, and went off to weigh out for the novice hurdle. Looking back, I saw her setting off to the refreshment room with a trail of admirers, rather like a comet with a tail. A flashing, bewitching comet.For the first time in my life I regretted that I was going to ride in a race.
FOUR
In the changing-room Sandy Mason stood with his hands on his hips and laid about him with his tongue. His red hair curled strongly, his legs, firmly planted with the feet apart, were as rigid as posts. From the top to toe he vibrated with life. He was a stocky man in his thirties, on the short side, very strong, with dark brown eyes fringed disconcertingly by pale, reddish lashes.As a jockey, a professional, he was not among the top dozen, but he had had a good deal of success, mainly owing to his fighting spirit. Nothing ever frightened him. He would thrust his sometimes unwilling mounts into the smallest openings, even occasionally into openings which did not exist until he made them by sheer force. His aggressiveness in races had got him into hot water more than once with the Stewards, but he was not particularly unpopular with the other jockeys, owing to his irrepressible, infectious cheerfulness.His sense of humour was as vigorous as the rest of him, and if I thought privately that some of his jokes were too unkindly practical or too revoltingly obscene, I appeared to be in a minority."Which of you sods has half-inched my balancing pole?" he roared in a voice which carried splendidly above the busy chatter to every corner of the room. To this enquiry into the whereabouts of his whip, he received no reply."Why don"t you lot get up off your fannies and see if you"re hatching it," he said to three or four jockeys who were sitting on a bench pulling on their boots. They looked up appreciatively and waited for the rest of the tirade. Sandy kept up a flow of invective without repeating himself until one of the valets produced the missing whip."Where did you find it?" demanded Sandy. "Who had it? I"ll twist his b.l.o.o.d.y arm.""It was on the floor under the bench, in your own place."Sandy was never embarra.s.sed by his mistakes. He roared with laughter and took the whip. "I"ll forgive you all this time, then." He went out into the weighing room carrying his saddle and whacking the air with his whip as if to make sure it was as pliable as usual. He always used it a good deal in the course of a race.As he pa.s.sed me where I stood just inside the changing room door, his eyes lifted to mine with one of the darting, laughing glances which made him likeable in spite of his faults. I turned and watched him go over and sit on the scales, parking the whip on the table beside him. He said something I couldn"t hear, and both the Clerk of the Scales and the Judge, who was sitting there learning the colours so that he could distinguish them at the finish, laughed as they checked him against their lists and pa.s.sed him for the race.There had been rumours, a while back, that Sandy had "stopped" a few horses and had been rewarded handsomely by bookmakers for the service. But nothing had been proved, and the official enquiry had lasted barely an hour. Those who had felt the rough edge of Sandy"s practical jokes believed him capable of anything. Everyone else pointed out that stopping a horse was entirely out of character for one who had been in trouble for trying too ruthlessly to win.Watching the free and easy way he handled the two racing officials, I could understand that in face of that friendly, open manner, the Stewards at the enquiry must have found it impossible, in the absence of solidly convincing evidence, to believe him guilty. The general opinion among the jockeys was that Sandy had "strangled" a couple at one stage, but not during the past few months."Stopping" a horse can be done by missing the start, setting off some lengths behind, and staying at the back. Then the crooked jockey can ride a fairly honest finish from the second last fence, when he is closely under the eyes of the crowd, secure in the knowledge that he has left his horse far too much to do and cannot possibly win. It is rare enough, because a jockey seen to do it regularly soon finds himself unemployed.During my o