Chapter eleven

It poured with rain at Bristol, a cold, steady unrelenting wetness which took most of the pleasure out of racing.

Kate sent a message that she was not coming because of the weather, which sounded unlike her, and I wondered what sort of pressure Aunt Deb had used to keep her at home.

The main gossip in the weighing-room concerned Joe Nantwich. The Stewards had held an inquiry into his behaviour during the last race on Champion Hurdle day, and had, in the official phrase, 'severely cautioned him as to his future riding'. It was generally considered that he was very lucky indeed to have got off so lightly, in view of his past record.

I found Joe reading the notices. He was whistling through his teeth.

'Well, Joe,' I said, 'what makes you so cheerful?'

'Everything.' He smirked. At close quarters I could see the fine lines round his mouth and the slightly bloodshot eyes, but his experiences had left no other signs of strain. 'I didn't get suspended by the Stewards. And I got paid for losing that race.'

'You what?' I exclaimed.

'I got paid. You know, I told you. The packet of money. It came this morning. A hundred quid.' I stared at him. 'Well, I did what I was told, didn't I?' he said aggrievedly.

'I suppose you did,' I agreed, weakly.

'And another thing, those threatening notes. I fooled them you know. I stayed in the Turkish baths all over the week-end, and they couldn't harm me there.

'I'm glad you think so,' I said, mildly. 'Joe, answer me a question. The man who rings you up to tell you what horse not to win on, what does his voice sound like?'

'You couldn't tell who it is, not by listening to him. It might be anybody. It's a soft voice, and sort of fuzzy. Almost a whisper, sometimes, as if he were afraid of being overheard.’

'Do you mean you'll stop another horse, if he asks you to?' I said.

'I might do. Or I might not,' said Joe, belatedly deciding that he had been speaking much too freely. With a sly, sidelong look at me he edged away into the changing room. His resilience was fantastic.

Pete and Dane were discussing the day's plans not far away, and I went over to them. Pete was cursing the weather and saying it would play merry hell with the going, but that Palindrome, all the same, should be able to act on it.

'Go to the front at half way, and nothing else will be able to come to you. They're a poor lot. As far as I can see, you're a dead cert.'

'That's good,' I said, automatically, and then remembered with a mental wince that Admiral had been a dead cert at Maidenhead.

Dane asked me if I had enjoyed my stay with Kate and did not look too overjoyed by my enthusiastic answer.

'Curses on your head, pal, if you have cut me out with Kate.' He said it in a mock ferocious voice, but I had an uncomfortable feeling that he meant it. Could a friendship survive between two men who were in love with the same girl? Suddenly at that moment, I didn't know; for I saw in Dane's familiar handsome face a passing flash of enmity. It was as disconcerting as a rock turning to quicksand. And I went rather thoughtfully into the changing-room to find Sandy.

He was standing by the window, gazing through the curtain of rain which streamed down the glass.

'We'll need windscreen wipers on our goggles in this little lot,' he remarked, with unabashed good spirits. 'Anyone for a mud bath?

'How did you enjoy your Turkish bath on Sunday?' I asked, smiling.

'Good. Serve the little bastard right,' said Sandy, grinning hugely.

'You sent him those threatening Bolingbroke notes.'

'And what,' said Sandy, with good humour, 'makes you think so?'

'You like practical jokes, and you dislike Joe,' I said. 'The first note he received was put into his jacket while it hung in the changing-room at Plumpton, so it had to be a jockey or a valet or an official who did it. It couldn't have been a bookmaker or a trainer or an owner or any member of the public. So I began to think that perhaps the person who planted the note in Joe's pocket was not the person who was paying him to stop horses. That person has, strangely enough, exacted no revenge at all. But I asked myself who else would be interested in tormenting Joe, and I came to you. You knew before the race that Joe was not supposed to win on Bolingbroke. When he won you told him you'd lost a lot of money, and you'd get even with him. And I guess you have. You even tracked him down to enjoy seeing him suffer.'

'Revenge is sweet, and all that.’ said Sandy.

'Why did you wait as long as ten days before you gave him that first note?' I asked.

'I didn't think of it until then,' he said, frankly. 'But it was a damn good revenge, wasn't it? He nearly got his licence suspended at Cheltenham.’

'And you put him over the rails at Plumpton, too,' I said.

'I never did,' said Sandy, indignantly. 'Did he tell you that? He's a bloody liar. He fell off, I saw him. I've a good mind to frighten him again.' His red hair bristled and his brown eyes sparkled. Then he relaxed. 'Oh, well - I'll think of something, sometime. There's no rush. I'll make his life uncomfortable – ants in his pants, worms in his boots, that sort of thing. Harmless,' and Sandy began to laugh. Then he said, 'As you're such a roaring success as a private eye, how are you getting on with that other business?'

'Not fast enough,' I said. 'But I know a lot more than I did at this time last week, so I haven't lost hope.

You're not giving it up, then?'

'No,' I said.

'Well, the best of British luck,' said Sandy, grinning.