Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

14

On Monday morning, James drove Anne back to London and changed into the most debonair of his suits. Anne had to return to work, despite James’s suggestion that she should accompany him to Ascot. She felt the others would not approve of her presence and would suspect that James had confided in her.

Although James had not told her the details of the Monte Carlo exercise, Anne knew every step of the planned proceedings at Ascot and she could tell that James was nervous. Still, she would be seeing him that night and would know the worst by then. James looked lost. Anne was only thankful that Stephen, Robin and Jean-Pierre held the baton most of the time in this relay team — but the idea that was taking shape in her mind just might surprise them all.

Stephen rose early and admired his gray hair in the mirror. The result had been expensively achieved the previous day in the hairdressing salon of Debenhams. He dressed carefully, putting on his one respectable gray suit and blue checked tie. These were brought out for all special occasions, ranging from a talk to students at Sussex University to a dinner with the American Ambassador. No one had told him the colors clashed and the suit sagged unfashionably at the elbow and knees, because by Stephen’s standards it was elegance itself. He traveled from Oxford to Ascot by train, while Jean-Pierre came from London by car. They met up with James at the Belvedere Arms at 11 am, almost a mile from the course.

Stephen immediately telephoned Robin to confirm that all three of them had arrived and asked for the telegram to be read over to him.

‘That’s perfect, Robin. Now travel to Heathrow and send it at exactly 1 pm.’

‘Good luck, Stephen. Grind the bastard into the dust.’

Stephen returned to the others and confirmed that Robin had the London end under control.

‘Off you go, James, and let us know the minute Harvey arrives.’

James downed a bottle of Carlsberg and departed. The problem was that he kept bumping into friends and he could hardly explain why he was prevented from joining them.

Harvey arrived at the members’ car park just after midday, his white Rolls Royce shining like a Persil advertisement. The car was being stared at by all the racegoers with an English disdain which Harvey mistook for admiration. He led his party to the private box. His newly tailored suit had taxed the ingenuity of Bernard Weatherill to the utmost. A red carnation in his buttonhole and a hat to cover his bald head left him nearly unrecognizable, and James might have missed him had it not been for the white Rolls Royce. James followed the little group at a careful distance until he saw Harvey enter a door marked ‘Mr Harvey Metcalfe and Guests.’

‘He’s in his private box,’ said James.

‘Where are you?’ asked Jean-Pierre.

‘Directly below him on the ground level by a course bookmaker called Sam O’Flaherty.’

‘No need to be rude about the Irish, James,’ said Jean-Pierre. ‘We’ll be with you in a few minutes.’

James stared up at the vast white stand, which accommodated 10,000 spectators in comfort and gave an excellent view of the racecourse. He was finding it hard to concentrate on the job in hand as once again he had to avoid relations and friends. First was the Earl of Halifax, and then that frightful girl he had so unwisely agreed to take to Queen Charlotte’s Ball last spring. What was the creature’s name? Ah yes. The Hon. Selina Wallop. How appropriate. She was wearing a miniskirt that was a good four years out of fashion and a hat which looked as if it could never come into fashion. James jammed his trilby over his ears, looked the other way and passed the time by chatting to Sam O’Flaherty about the 3.20, the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes. O’Flaherty quoted the latest odds on the favorite at the top of his voice:

‘Rosalie at 6:4, owned by that American, Harvey Metcalfe, and ridden by Pat Eddery.’

Eddery was on the way to becoming the youngest-ever champion jockey — and Harvey always backed winners.

Stephen and Jean-Pierre joined James at the side of Sam O’Flaherty’s bag. His tick-tack man was standing on an upturned orange box beside him and swinging his arms like a semaphore sailor aboard a sinking ship.

‘What’s your fancy, gentlemen?’ Sam asked the three of them.

James ignored Stephen’s slight frown of disapproval.

‘£5 each way on Rosalie,’ he said, and handed over a crisp £10 note, receiving in return a little green card with the series number and ‘Sam O’Flaherty’ stamped right across the middle.

‘I must presume, James, this is an integral part of your as yet undisclosed plan,’ said Jean-Pierre. ‘What I should like to know is, if it works, how much do we stand to make?’

‘£9.10 after tax if Rosalie wins,’ chipped in Sam O’Flaherty, his stub cigar bobbing up and down in his mouth as he spoke.

‘Hardly a great contribution toward $1 million, James. Well, we’re off to the Members’ Enclosure. Let us know the moment Harvey leaves his box. My guess is that around 1.45 he’ll come and look at the runners and riders for the two o’clock, so that gives us a clear hour.’

The waiter opened another bottle of Krug 1964 and began pouring it for Harvey’s guests: three bankers, two economists, a couple of ship owners and a distinguished City journalist.

Preferring his guests to be famous and influential, Harvey always invited people who would find it almost impossible to refuse because of the business he might put their way. He was delighted with the company he had assembled for his big day. Senior among them was Sir Howard Dodd, the aging chairman of the merchant bank that bore his name, but which actually referred to his great-grandfather. Sir Howard was 6 ft 2 in, as straight as a ramrod, and looked more like a Grenadier Guard than a respectable banker. The only thing he had in common with Harvey was the hair, or lack of hair, on his balding head. His young assistant, Jamie Clark, accompanied him. Just over thirty and extremely bright, he was there to be sure his chairman did not commit the bank to anything he might later regret. Although he had a sneaking admiration for Harvey, Clark did not think him the sort of customer the bank should do business with. Nevertheless, he was far from averse to a day at the races.

The two economists, Mr Colin Emson and Dr Michael Hogan from the Hudson Institute, were there to brief Harvey on the parlous state of the British economy. They could not have been more different. Emson was a totally self-made man who had left school at fifteen and educated himself. Using his social contacts, he had built up a company specializing in taxation, which had been remarkably successful thanks to the British Government’s habit of putting through a new Finance Act every few weeks. Emson was 6 ft tall, solid and genial, game to help the party along whether Harvey lost or won. Hogan, in contrast, had been to all the right places — Winchester, Trinity College, Oxford, and the Wharton Business School in Pennsylvania. A spell with McKinsey, the management consultants, in London had made him one of the best-informed economists in Europe. Those who observed his slim, sinewy body would not have been surprised to learn that he had been an international squash player. Dark-haired, with brown eyes that rarely left Harvey, he found it hard not to show his contempt; this was his fifth invitation to Ascot — Harvey, it seemed, was never going to take no for an answer.

The Kundas brothers, second-generation Greeks who loved racing almost as much as ships, could hardly be told apart, with their black hair, swarthy skins and heavy dark eyebrows. It was difficult to guess how old they were, and nobody knew how much they were worth. They probably did not know themselves. Harvey’s final guest, Nick Lloyd of the News of the World, had come along to pick up any dirt he could about his host. He had come near to exposing Metcalfe in the mid-’sixties, but another scandal had kept less juicy stories off the front page for several weeks, and by then Harvey had escaped. Lloyd, hunched over the inevitable triple gin with a faint suggestion of tonic, watched the motley bunch with interest.

‘Telegram for you, sir.’

Harvey ripped it open. He was never neat about anything.

‘It’s from my daughter Rosalie. It’s cute of her to remember, but damn it all, I named the horse after her. Come on everybody, let’s eat.’

They all took their seats for lunch — cold vichyssoise, pheasant and strawberries. Harvey was even more loquacious than usual, but his guests took no notice, aware he was nervous before the race and knowing that he would rather be a winner of this trophy than any he could be offered in America. Harvey himself could never understand why he felt that way. Perhaps it was the special atmosphere of Ascot which appealed to him so strongly — the combination of lush green grass and gracious surroundings, of elegant crowds and an efficiency of organization which made Ascot the envy of the racing world.

‘You must have a better chance this year than ever before, Harvey,’ said the senior banker.

‘Well, you know, Sir Howard, Lester Piggott is riding the Duke of Devonshire’s horse, Crown Princess, and the Queen’s horse, Highclere, is the joint favorite, so I can’t afford to overestimate my chances. When you’ve been third twice before, and then favorite and not placed, you begin to wonder if one of your horses is going to make it.’

‘Another telegram, sir.’

Once again Harvey’s fat little finger ripped it open.

‘ “All best wishes and good luck for the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes.” It’s from the staff of your bank, Sir Howard. Jolly good show.’

Harvey’s Polish-American accent made the English expression sound slightly ridiculous.

‘More champagne, everybody.’

Another telegram arrived.

‘At this rate, Harvey, you’ll need a special room at the Post Office.’ There was laughter all around at Sir Howard’s feeble joke. Once again Harvey read it out aloud:

‘ “Regret unable to join you Ascot. Heading soonest California. Grateful look out for old friend Professor Rodney Porter, Oxford Nobel Prize Winner. Don’t let English bookies stitch you up. Wiley B., Heathrow Airport.” It’s from Wiley Barker. He’s the guy who did stitch me up in Monte Carlo. He saved my life. He took out a gallstone the size of that bread roll you’re eating, Dr Hogan. Now how the hell am I supposed to find this Professor Porter?’ Harvey turned to the head waiter. ‘Find my chauffeur.’

A few seconds later the smartly clad Guy Salmon flunkey appeared.

‘There’s a Professor Rodney Porter of Oxford here today. Go find him.’

‘What does he look like, sir?’

‘How the hell do I know,’ said Harvey. ‘Like a professor.’

The chauffeur regretfully abandoned his plans for an afternoon at the railings and departed, leaving Harvey and his guests to enjoy the strawberries, the champagne and the string of telegrams that were still arriving.

‘You know if you win, the cup will be presented by the Queen,’ said Nick Lloyd.

‘You bet. It’ll be the crowning moment of my life to win the King George and Elizabeth Stakes and meet Her Majesty The Queen. If Rosalie wins, I’ll suggest my daughter marries Prince Charles — they’re about the same age.’

‘I don’t think even you will be able to fix that, Harvey.’

‘What’ll you do with the odd £81,000 prize money, Mr Metcalfe?’ asked Jamie Clark.

‘Give it to some charity,’ said Harvey, pleased with the impression the remark made on his guests.

‘Very generous, Harvey. Typical of your reputation.’ Nick Lloyd gave Michael Hogan a knowing look. Even if the others didn’t, they both knew what was typical of his reputation.

The chauffeur returned to report that there was no trace of a solitary professor anywhere in the champagne bar, balcony luncheon room or the paddock buffet, and that he’d been unable to gain access to the Members’ Enclosure.

‘Naturally not,’ said Harvey rather pompously. ‘I shall have to find him myself. Drink up and enjoy yourselves.’

Harvey rose and walked to the door with the chauffeur. Once he was out of earshot of his guests, he said: ‘Get your ass out of here and don’t give me any crap about not being able to find him or you can find something for yourself — another job.’

The chauffeur bolted. Harvey turned to his guests and smiled.

‘I’m going to look at the runners and riders for the 2 o’clock.’

‘He’s leaving the box now,’ said James.

‘What’s that you’re saying?’ asked an authoritative voice he recognized. ‘Talking to yourself, James?’

James stared at the noble Lord Somerset, 6 ft 1 in and still able to stand his full height, an M.C. and a D.S.O. in the First World War. He still exuded enthusiastic energy although the lines on his face suggested that he had passed the age at which the Maker had fulfilled his contract.

‘Oh hell. No, sir, I was just... em... coughing.’

‘What do you fancy in the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes?’ asked the peer of the realm.

‘Well, I have put £5 each way on Rosalie, sir.’

‘He seems to have cut himself off,’ said Stephen.

‘Well, buzz him again,’ said Jean-Pierre.

‘What’s that noise, James? Have you taken to a hearing-aid or something?’

‘No, sir. It’s... it’s... it’s a transistor radio.’

‘Those things ought to be banned. Bloody invasion of privacy.’

‘Absolutely right, sir.’

‘What’s he playing at, Stephen?’

‘I don’t know — I think something must have happened.’

‘Oh my god, it’s Harvey heading straight for us. You go into the Members’ Enclosure, Stephen, and I’ll follow you. Take a deep breath and relax. He hasn’t seen us.’

Harvey marched up to the official blocking the entrance to the Members’ Enclosure.

‘I’m Harvey Metcalfe, the owner of Rosalie, and this is my badge.’

The official let Harvey through. Thirty years ago, he thought, they would not have let him into the Members’ Enclosure if he’d owned every horse in the race. Then racing at Ascot was only held on four days a year, jolly social occasions. Now it was twenty-four days a year and big business. Times had changed. Jean-Pierre followed closely, showing his pass without speaking to the official.

A photographer broke away from stalking the outrageous hats for which Ascot has such a reputation, and took a picture of Harvey just in case Rosalie won the King George VI Stakes. As soon as his bulb flashed he rushed over to the other entrance, where Linda Lovelace, the star of Deep Throat, the film running to packed houses in New York but banned in England, was trying to enter the Members’ Enclosure. In spite of being introduced to a well-known London banker, Richard Szpiro, just as he was entering the Enclosure, she was not succeeding. She was wearing a top hat and morning suit with nothing under the top coat, and no one was going to bother with Harvey while she was around. When Miss Lovelace was quite certain that every photographer had taken a picture of her attempting to enter the Enclosure she left, swearing at the top of her voice, her publicity stunt completed.

Harvey returned to studying the horses as Stephen moved up to within a few feet of him.

‘Here we go again,’ said Jean-Pierre in French and went smartly over to Stephen and, standing directly between the two of them, shook Stephen’s hand warmly, declaring in a voice that was intended to carry:

‘How are you, Professor Porter? I didn’t know you were interested in racing.’

‘I’m not really, but I was on my way back from a seminar in London and thought it a good opportunity to see how...’

‘Professor Porter,’ cried Harvey. ‘I’m honored to make your acquaintance, sir, my name is Harvey Metcalfe from Boston, Massachusetts. My good friend, Dr Wiley Barker, who saved my life, told me you’d be here today on your own, and I’m going to make sure you have a wonderful afternoon.’

Jean-Pierre slipped away unnoticed. He could not believe how easy it had been. The telegram had worked like a charm.

‘Her Majesty The Queen; His Royal Highness The Duke of Edinburgh; Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother; and her Royal Highness The Princess Anne are now entering the Royal Box.’

The massed bands of the Brigade of Guards struck up the National Anthem.

‘God Save the Queen.’

The crowd of 25,000 rose and sang loyally out of tune.

‘We should have someone like that in America,’ said Harvey to Stephen, ‘to take the place of Richard Nixon. We wouldn’t have any Watergate problems then.’

Stephen thought his fellow American was being just a little unfair. Richard Nixon was almost a saint by Harvey Metcalfe’s standards.

‘Come and join me in my box, Professor, and meet my other guests. The damned box cost me £750, we may as well fill it. Have you had some lunch?’

‘Yes, I’ve had an excellent lunch, thank you,’ Stephen lied — something else Harvey had taught him. He had stood by the Members’ Enclosure for an hour, nervous and pensive, unable even to manage a sandwich, and now he was starving.

‘Well, come and enjoy the champagne,’ roared Harvey.

On an empty stomach, thought Stephen.

‘Thank you, Mr Metcalfe. I am a little lost. This is my first Royal Ascot.’

‘This isn’t Royal Ascot, Professor. It’s the last day of Ascot Week, but the Royal Family always comes to see the King George and Elizabeth Stakes, so everybody dresses up.’

‘I see,’ said Stephen timidly, pleased with his deliberate error.

Harvey collared his find and took him back to the box.

‘Everybody, I want you to meet my distinguished friend, Rodney Porter. He’s a Nobel Prize Winner, you know. By the way, what’s your subject, Rod?’

‘Biochemistry.’

Stephen was getting the measure of Harvey. As long as he played it straight, the bankers and shippers, and even the journalists, would never doubt that he was the cleverest thing since Einstein. He relaxed a little and even found time to fill himself with smoked salmon sandwiches when the others were not looking.

Lester Piggott won the 2 o’clock on Olympic Casino and the 2.30 on Roussalka, achieving his 3,000th win. Harvey was getting steadily more nervous. He talked incessantly without making much sense. He had sat through the 2.30 without showing any interest in the result and consumed more and more champagne. At 2.50 he called for them all to join him in the Members’ Enclosure to look at his famous filly. Stephen, like the others, trailed behind him in a little pseudo-royal entourage.

Jean-Pierre and James watched the procession from a distance.

‘He’s too deep in to climb out now,’ said Jean-Pierre.

‘He looks relaxed enough to me,’ replied James. ‘Let’s make ourselves scarce. We can only get under his feet.’

They headed into the champagne bar, which was filled with red-faced men who looked as if they spent more time drinking than they did watching the racing.

‘Isn’t she beautiful, Professor? Almost as beautiful as my daughter. If she doesn’t win today I don’t think I’m ever going to make it.’

Harvey left his little clique to have a word with the jockey, Pat Eddery, to wish him luck. Peter Walwyn, the trainer, was giving final instructions before the jockey mounted and left the Enclosure. The ten horses were then paraded in front of the stand before the race, a custom only carried out at Ascot for the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes. The gold, purple and scarlet colors of Her Majesty The Queen’s horse Highclere led the procession, followed by Crown Princess, who was giving Lester Piggott a little trouble. Directly behind her came Rosalie, looking very relaxed, fresh and ready to go. Buoy and Dankaro trotted behind Rosalie, with the outsiders Mesopotamia, Ropey and Minnow bringing up the rear. The crowd rose to cheer the horses and Harvey beamed with pride, as if he owned every horse in the race.

‘...and I have with me today the distinguished American owner, Harvey Metcalfe,’ said Julian Wilson into the BBC TV outside-broadcast camera. ‘I’m going to ask him if he’d be kind enough to give me his views on the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes, for which he has the joint favorite, Rosalie. Welcome to England, Mr Metcalfe. How do you feel about the big race?’

‘It’s a thrill to be here, just to participate in the race once again. Rosalie’s got a great chance. Still, it’s not winning that matters. It’s taking part.’

Stephen flinched. Baron de Coubertin, who had first made that remark when opening the 1896 Olympics, must have turned in his grave.

‘The latest betting shows Rosalie to be the joint favorite with Her Majesty The Queen’s Horse, Highclere. How do you feel about that?’

‘I’m just as worried about the Duke of Devonshire’s Crown Princess. Lester Piggott is always hard to beat on a great occasion. He won the first two races and he’ll be all set for this one — Crown Princess is a fine little filly.’

‘Is a mile and a half a good distance for Rosalie?’

‘Results this season show it’s definitely her best distance.’

‘What will you do with the £81,240 prize money?’

‘The money is not important, it hasn’t even entered my mind.’

It had certainly entered Stephen’s mind.

‘Thank you, Mr Metcalfe, and the best of luck. And now over for the latest news of the betting.’

Harvey moved back to his group of admirers and suggested that they return to watch the race from the balcony just outside his box.

Stephen was fascinated to observe Harvey at such close quarters. He had become nervous and even more mendacious than usual under pressure — not at all the icy, cool operator they had all feared him to be. This man was human, susceptible and could be beaten.

They all leaned over the rails watching the horses being put into the stalls. Crown Princess was still giving a little trouble while all the others waited. The tension was becoming unbearable.

‘They’re off,’ boomed the loudspeaker.

As twenty-five thousand people raised glasses to their eyes, Harvey said, ‘She’s got a good start — she’s well placed,’ continuing to give everybody a running commentary until the last mile, when he became silent. The others also waited in silence, intent on the loudspeaker.

‘They’re into the straight mile — Minnow leads the field around the bend — with Buoy and Dankaro, looking relaxed, just tucked in behind him — followed by Crown Princess, Rosalie and Highclere...

‘As they approach the six-furlong marker — Rosalie and Crown Princess come up on the stand side with Highclere making a bid...

‘Five furlongs to go — Minnow still sets the pace, but is beginning to tire as Crown Princess and Buoy make up ground...

‘Half a mile to go — Minnow still just ahead of Buoy, who has moved up into second place, perhaps making her move too early...

‘Three furlongs from home — they’re quickening up just a little — Minnow sets the pace on the rails — Buoy and Dankaro are now about a length behind — followed by Rosalie, Lester Piggott on Crown Princess and the Queen’s filly Highclere all making ground...

‘Inside the two-furlong marker — Highclere and Rosalie move up to challenge Buoy — Crown Princess is right out of it now...

‘A furlong to go...’

The commentator’s voice rose in pitch and volume.

‘It’s Joe Mercer riding Highclere who hits the front, just ahead of Pat Eddery on Rosalie — two hundred yards to go — they’re neck and neck — one hundred yards to go — it’s anybody’s race and on the line it’s a photo finish between the gold, purple and scarlet colors of Her Majesty the Queen and the black-and-green check colors of the American owner, Harvey Metcalfe — M. Moussac’s Dankaro was third.’

Harvey stood paralyzed, waiting for the result. Even Stephen felt a little sympathy for him. None of Harvey’s guests dared to speak for fear they might be wrong.

‘The result of The King George VI and The Queen Elizabeth Stakes.’ Once again the loudspeaker boomed out and silence fell over the whole course:

‘The winner is No. 5, Rosalie.’

The rest of the result was lost in the roar of the crowd and the bellow of triumph from Harvey. Pursued by his guests, he raced to the nearest lift, pressed a pound note into the lift-girl’s hand and shouted, ‘Get this thing moving.’ Only half of his guests managed to jump in with him. Stephen was among them. Once they reached the ground floor, the lift gates opened and Harvey came out like a thoroughbred, past the champagne bar, through the rear of the Members’ Enclosure into the Winners’ Enclosure, and flung his arms around the horse’s neck, almost unseating the jockey. A few minutes later he triumphantly led Rosalie to the little white post marked ‘FIRST.’ The crowd thronged around him, offering their congratulations.

The Clerk of the Course, Captain Beaumont, stood by Harvey’s side, briefing him on the procedure that would be followed when he was presented. Lord Abergavenny, the Queen’s Representative at Ascot, accompanied Her Majesty to the Winners’ Enclosure.

‘The winner of The King George VI and The Queen Elizabeth Stakes — Mr Harvey Metcalfe’s Rosalie.’

Harvey was in a dream world. Flashbulbs popped and film cameras followed him as he walked toward the Queen. He bowed and received his trophy. The Queen, resplendent in a turquoise silk suit and matching turban that could only have been designed by Norman Hartnell, said a few words, but for the first time in his life Harvey was speechless. Taking a pace backward, he bowed again and returned to his place accompanied by loud applause.

Back in his box the champagne flowed and everybody was Harvey’s friend. Stephen realized this was not the moment to try anything clever. He must bide his time and watch his quarry’s reaction to these changed circumstances. He stayed quietly in a corner, letting the excitement subside, and observed Harvey carefully.

It took another race before Harvey was half back to normal and Stephen decided the time had now come to act. He made as if to leave.

‘Are you going already, Professor?’

‘Yes, Mr Metcalfe. I must return to Oxford and mark some scripts before tomorrow morning.’

‘I always admire the work you boys put in. I hope you enjoyed yourself?’ Stephen avoided Shaw’s famous riposte, ‘I had to, there was nothing else to enjoy.’

‘Yes, thank you, Mr Metcalfe. An amazing achievement. You must be a very proud man.’

‘Well, I guess so. It’s been a long time coming, but it all seems worthwhile now... Rod, it’s too bad you have to leave us. Can’t you stay on a little longer and join my party at Claridge’s tonight?’

‘I should have liked that, Mr Metcalfe, but you must visit me at my college at Oxford and allow me to show you the university.’

‘That’s swell. I have a couple of days after Ascot and I’ve always wanted to see Oxford, but I never seem to have found the time.’

‘It’s the university Garden Party next Wednesday. Why don’t you join me for dinner at my college on Tuesday evening and then we can spend the following day looking at the university and go on to the Garden Party?’ Stephen scribbled a few directions on a card.

‘Fantastic. This is turning out to be the best vacation I’ve ever had in Europe. How are you getting back to Oxford, Professor?’

‘By train.’

‘No, no,’ said Harvey. ‘My Rolls Royce will take you. It’ll be back well in time for the last race.’

And before Stephen could protest, the chauffeur was called for.

‘Take Professor Porter back to Oxford and then return here. Have a good trip, Professor. I’ll look forward to seeing you next Tuesday at 8 pm Great meeting you.’

‘Thank you for a wonderful day, Mr Metcalfe, and congratulations on your splendid victory.’

Seated in the back of the white Rolls Royce on his way to Oxford, the car which Robin had boasted he and he alone would travel in, Stephen relaxed and smiled to himself. Taking a small notebook from his pocket he made an entry:

‘Deduct 98 pence from expenses, the price of a single second-class ticket from Ascot to Oxford.’