Dead Cert

CHAPTER 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 space, the unprintable jokes, the laughter, the cluster of cold half-undressed men round the red-hot coke 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 apron 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 girth 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 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. 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 Peter 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.

'Hello, 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.'

'OK,' 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 circumstances. 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 attitude, 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 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 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 Peter 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 your 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 in The Times for a racehorse. 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 passport 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 God, 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 as racehorse owner? I don't particularly want to make a frightful boob 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 she finally 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 to 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 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 grass.'

It was nearly time for the first race. I took the delectable Miss Ellery-Penn on to the stands and fulfilled Uncle George's design by introducing her to several brave and charming young men. I unfortunately realized 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 passiveness, 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.