Wednesday morning gave me my first taste of the biting Yorkshire wind, and one of the lads, as we scurried round the yard with shaking hands and running noses, cheerfully assured me that it could blow for six months solid, if it tried. I did my three horses at the double, but by the time the horse box took me and one of them out of the yard at twelve-thirty I had decided that if the gaps in my wardrobe were anything to go by, October's big square house up the drive must have very efficient central heating.
About four miles up the road I pressed the bell which in most horse boxes connects the back compartment to the cab. The driver stopped obediently, and looked enquiringly at me when I walked along and climbed up into the cab beside him.
'The horse is quiet,' I said, 'and it's warmer here.'
He grinned and started off again, shouting over the noise of the engine. 'I didn't have you figured for the conscientious type, and I was damn right. That horse is going to be sold and has got to arrive in good condition... the boss would have a fit if he knew you were up in front.'
I had a pretty good idea the boss, meaning Inskip, wouldn't be at all surprised; bosses, judging by myself, weren't as naive as all that.
'The boss can stuff himself,' I said unpleasantly.
I got a sidelong glance for that, and reflected that it was dead easy to give oneself a bad character if one put one's mind to it. Horse box drivers went to race meetings in droves, and had no duties when they got there. They had time to gossip in the canteen, time all afternoon to wander about and wag their tongues. There was no telling what ears might hear that there was a possible chink in the honesty of the Inskip lads.
We stopped once on the way to eat in a transport cafe, and again a little further on for me to buy myself a couple of woollen shirts, a black sweater, some thick socks, woollen gloves and a knitted yachting cap like those the other lads had worn that bitter morning. The box driver, coming into the shop with me to buy some socks for himself, eyed my purchases and remarked that I seemed to have plenty of money. I grinned knowingly, and said it was easy to come by if you knew how; and I could see his doubts of me growing.
In mid-afternoon we rolled in to a racing stable in Leicestershire, and it was here that the scope of Beckett's staff work became apparent. The horse I was to take back and subsequently care for was a useful hurdler just about to start his career as a novice 'chaser, and he had been sold to Colonel Beckett complete with all engagements. This meant, I learned from his former lad, who handed him over to me with considerable bitterness, that he could run in all the races for which his ex-owner had already entered him.
'Where is he entered?' I asked.
'Oh, dozens of places, I think Newbury, Cheltenham, Sandown, and so on, and he was going to start next week at Bristol.' The lad's face twisted with regret as he passed the halter rope into my hand. 'I can't think what on earth persuaded the Old Man to part with him. He's a real daisy, and if I ever see him at the races not looking as good and well cared for as he does now, I'll find you and beat the living daylights out of you, I will straight.'
I had already discovered how deeply attached racing lads became to the horses they looked after, and I understood that he meant what he said.
'What's his name?' I asked.
'Sparking Plug... God awful name, he's no plug... Hey, Sparks, old boy... hey, boy... hey, old fellow...' He fondled the horse's muzzle affectionately.
We loaded him into the horse box and this time I did stay where I ought to be, in the back, looking after him. If Beckett were prepared to give a fortune for the cause, as I guessed he must have done to get hold of such an ideal horse in so few days, I was going to take good care of it.
Before we started back I took a look at the road map in the cab, and found to my satisfaction that all the race courses in the country had been marked in on it in indian ink. I borrowed it at once, and spent the journey studying it. The courses where Sparking Plug's lad had said he was entered were nearly all in the south. Overnight stops, as requested. I grinned.
The five race courses where the eleven horses had won were not, I found, all as far north as I had imagined. Ludlow and Stafford, in fact, could almost be considered southern, especially as I found I instinctively based my view of the whole country from Harrogate. The five courses seemed to bear no relation to each other on the map: far from presenting a tidy circle from which a centre might be deduced, they were all more or less in a curve from north east to south west, and I could find no significance in their location.
I spent the rest of the journey back as I spent most of my working hours, letting my mind drift over what I knew of the eleven horses, waiting for an idea to swim to the surface like a fish in a pool, waiting for the disconnected facts to sort themselves into a pattern. But I didn't really expect this to happen yet, as I knew I had barely started, and even electronic computers won't produce answers if they are not fed enough information.
On Friday night I went down to the pub in Slaw and beat Soupy at darts. He grunted, gestured to the bar billiards, and took an easy revenge. We then drank a half pint together, eyeing each other. Conversation between us was almost non-existent, nor was it necessary: and shortly I wandered back to watch the dart players. They were no better than the week before.
'You beat Soupy, didn't you Dan?' one of them said.
I nodded, and immediately found a bunch of darts thrust into my hand.
'If you can beat Soupy you must be in the team.'
'What team?' I asked.
'The stable darts team. We play other stables, and have a sort of Yorkshire League. Sometimes we go to Middleham or Wetherby or Richmond or sometimes they come here. Soupy's the best player in Granger's team. Could you beat him again, do you think, or was it a fluke?'
I threw three darts at the board. They all landed in the twenty. For some unknown reason I had always been able to throw straight.
'Cor,' said the lads. 'Go on.'
I threw three more: the twenty section got rather crowded.
'You're in the team, mate, and no nonsense,' they said.
'When's the next match?' I asked.
'We had one here a fortnight ago. Next one's next Sunday at Burndale, after the football. You can't play football as well as darts, I suppose?'
I shook my head. 'Only darts.'
I looked at the one dart still left in my hand. I could hit a scuttling rat with a stone; I had done it often when the men had found one round the corn bins and chased it out. I saw no reason why I couldn't hit a galloping horse with a dart: it was a much bigger target.
'Put that one in the bull,' urged the lad beside me.
I put it in the bull. The lads yelled with glee.
'We'll win the league this season,' they grinned. Grits grinned too. But Paddy didn't.
Chapter 4.
October's son and daughters came home for the week-end, the elder girl in a scarlet T.R.4 which I grew to know well by sight as she drove in and out past the stables, and the twins more sedately, with their father. As all three were in the habit of riding out when they were at home Wally told me to saddle up two of my horses to go out with the first string on Saturday, Sparking Plug for me and the other for Lady Patricia Tarren.
Lady Patricia Tarren, as I discovered when I led out the horse in the half light of early dawn and held it for her to mount, was a raving beauty with a pale pink mouth and thick curly eyelashes which she knew very well how to use. She had tied a green head-scarf over her chestnut hair, and she wore a black and white harlequined ski-ing jacket to keep out the cold. She was carrying some bright green woollen gloves.
'You're new,' she observed, looking up at me through the eyelashes. 'What's your name?'
'Dan... Miss,' I said. I realized I hadn't the faintest idea what form of address an earl's daughter was accustomed to. Wally's instructions hadn't stretched that far.
'Well... give me a leg up, then.'
I stood beside her obediently, but as I leaned forward to help her she ran her bare hand over my head and around my neck, and took the lobe of my right ear between her fingers. She had sharp nails, and she dug them in. Her eyes were wide with challenge. I looked straight back. When I didn't move or say anything she presently giggled and let go and calmly put on her gloves. I gave her a leg up into the saddle and she bent down to gather the reins, and fluttered the fluffy lashes close to my face.
'You're quite a dish, aren't you, Danny boy,' she said, 'with those googoo dark eyes.'
I couldn't think of any answer to her which was at all consistent with my position. She laughed, nudged the horse's flanks, and walked off down the yard. Her sister, mounting a horse held by Grits, looked from twenty yards away in the dim light to be much fairer in colouring and very nearly as beautiful. Heaven help October, I thought, with two like that to keep an eye on.
I turned to go and fetch Sparking Plug and found October's eighteen-year-old son at my elbow. He was very like his father, but not yet as thick in body or as easily powerful in manner.
'I shouldn't pay too much attention to my twin sister,' he said in a cool, bored voice, looking me up and down, 'she is apt to tease.' He nodded and strolled over to where his horse was waiting for him; and I gathered that what I had received was a warning off. If his sister behaved as provocatively with every male she met, he must have been used to delivering them.
Amused, I fetched Sparking Plug, mounted, and followed all the other horses out of the yard, up the lane, and on to the edge of the moor. As usual on a fine morning the air and the view were exhilarating. The sun was no more than a promise on the far distant horizon and there was a beginning-of-the-world quality in the light. I watched the shadowy shapes of the horses ahead of me curving round the hill with white plumes streaming from their nostrils in the frosty air. As the glittering rim of the sun expanded into full light the colours sprang out bright and clear, the browns of the jogging horses topped with the bright stripes of the lads' ear-warming knitted caps and the jolly garments of October's daughters.
October himself, accompanied by his retriever, came up on to the moor in a Land Rover to see the horses work. Saturday morning, I had found, was the busiest training day of the week as far as gallops were concerned, and as he was usually in Yorkshire at the week-end he made a point of coming out to watch.
Inskip had us circling round at the top of the hill while he paired off the horses and told their riders what to do.
To me he said, 'Dan; three-quarter speed gallop. Your horse is running on Wednesday. Don't over-do him but we want to see how he goes.' He directed one of the stable's most distinguished animals to accompany me.
When he had finished giving his orders he cantered off along the broad sweep of green turf which stretched through the moorland scrub, and October drove slowly in his wake. We continued circling until the two men reached the other end of the gallops about a mile and a half away up the gently curved, gently rising track.
'O.K.' said Wally to the first pair. 'Off you go.'
The two horses set off together, fairly steadily at first and then at an increasing pace until they had passed Inskip and October, when they slowed and pulled up.
'Next two,' Wally called.
We were ready, and set off without more ado. I had bred, broken and rebroken uncountable race-horses in Australia, but Sparking Plug was the only good one I had so far ridden in England, and I was interested to see how he compared. Of course he was a hurdler, while I was more used to flat racers, but this made no difference, I found: and he had a bad mouth which I itched to do something about, but there was nothing wrong with his action. Balanced and collected, he sped smoothly up the gallop, keeping pace effortlessly with the star performer beside him, and though, as ordered, we went only three-quarters speed at our fastest, it was quite clear that Sparking Plug was fit and ready for his approaching race.
I was so interested in what I was doing that it was not until I had reined in not too easy with that mouth and began to walk back, that I realised I had forgotten all about messing up the way I rode. I groaned inwardly, exasperated with myself: I would never do what I had come to England for if I could so little keep my mind on the job.
I stopped with the horse who had accompanied Sparking Plug in front of October and Inskip, for them to have a look at the horses and see how much they were blowing. Sparking Plug's ribs moved easily: he was scarcely out of breath. The two men nodded, and I and the other lad slid off the horses and began walking them round while they cooled down.
Up from the far end of the gallop came the other horses, pair by pair, and finally a bunch of those who were not due to gallop but only to canter. When everyone had worked, most of the lads remounted and we all began to walk back down the gallop towards the track to the stable. Leading my horse on foot I set off last in the string, with October's eldest daughter riding immediately in front of me and effectively cutting me off from the chat of the lads ahead. She was looking about her at the rolling vistas of moor, and not bothering to keep her animal close on the heels of the one in front, so that by the time we entered the track there was a ten yard gap ahead of her.
As she passed a scrubby gorse bush a bird flew out of it with a squawk and flapping wings, and the girl's horse whipped round and up in alarm. She stayed on with a remarkable effort of balance, pulling herself back up into the saddle from somewhere below the horse's right ear, but under her thrust the stirrup leather broke apart at the bottom, and the stirrup iron itself clanged to the ground.
I stopped and picked up the iron, but it was impossible to put it back on the broken leather.
'Thank you,' she said. 'What a nuisance.'
She slid off her horse. 'I might as well walk the rest of the way.'
I took her rein and began to lead both of the horses, but she stopped me, and took her own back again.
'It's very kind of you,' she said, 'but I can quite well lead him myself.' The track was wide at that point, and she began to walk down the hill beside me.
On closer inspection she was not a bit like her sister Patricia. She had smooth silver blonde hair under a blue head scarf, fair eye lashes, direct grey eyes, a firm friendly mouth, and a composure which gave her an air of graceful reserve. We walked in easy silence for some way.
'Isn't it a gorgeous morning,' she said eventually.
'Gorgeous,' I agreed, 'But cold.' The English always talk about the weather, I thought: and a fine day in November is so rare as to be remarked on. It would be hotting up for summer, at home...
'Have you been with the stable long?' she asked, a little further on.
'Only about ten days.'
'And do you like it here?'
'Oh, yes. It's a well run stable...'
'Mr Inskip would be delighted to hear you say so,' she said in a dry voice.
I glanced at her, but she was looking ahead down the track, and smiling.
After another hundred yards she said, 'What horse is that that you were riding? I don't think that I have seen him before, either.'
'He only came on Wednesday...' I told her the little I knew about Sparking Plug's history, capabilities and prospects.
She nodded. 'It will be nice for you if he can win some races. Rewarding, after your work for him here.'
'Yes,' I agreed, surprised that she should think like that.
We reached the last stretch to the stable.
'I am so sorry,' she said pleasantly, 'but I don't know your name.'
'Daniel Roke,' I said: and I wondered why to her alone of all the people who had asked me that question in the last ten days it had seemed proper to give a whole answer.
'Thank you,' she paused: then having thought, continued in a calm voice which I realised with wry pleasure was designed to put me at my ease, 'Lord October is my father. I'm Elinor Tarren.'
We had reached the stable gate. I stood back to let her go first, which she acknowledged with a friendly but impersonal smile, and she led her horse away across the yard towards its own box. A thoroughly nice girl, I thought briefly, buckling down to the task of brushing the sweat off Sparking Plug, washing his feet, brushing out his mane and tail, sponging out his eyes and mouth, putting his straw bed straight, fetching his hay and water, and then repeating the whole process with the horse that Patricia had ridden. Patricia, I thought, grinning, was not a nice girl at all.
When I went in to breakfast in the cottage Mrs Allnut gave me a letter which had just arrived for me. The envelope, postmarked in London the day before, contained a sheet of plain paper with a single sentence typed on it.
'Mr Stanley will be at Victoria Falls three p.m. Sunday.'
I stuffed the letter into my pocket, laughing into my porridge.
There was a heavy drizzle falling when I walked up beside the stream the following afternoon. I reached the gully before October, and waited for him with the rain drops finding ways to trickle down my neck. He came down the hill with his dog as before, telling me that his car was parked above us on the little used road.
'But we'd better talk here, if you can stand the wet,' he finished, 'in case anyone saw us together in the car, and wondered.'
'I can stand the wet,' I assured him, smiling.
'Good... well, how have you been getting on?'
I told him how well I thought of Beckett's new horse and the opportunities it would give me.
He nodded, 'Roddy Beckett was famous in the war for the speed and accuracy with which he got supplies moved about. No one ever got the wrong ammunition or all left boots when he was in charge.'
I said 'I've sown a few seeds of doubts about my honesty, here and there, but I'll be able to do more of that this week at Bristol, and also next week-end, at Burndale. I'm going there on Sunday to play in a darts match.'
'They've had several cases of doping in that village in the past,' he said thoughtfully. 'You might get a nibble, there.'
'It would be useful...'
'Have you found the form books helpful?' he asked, 'have you given those eleven horses any more thought?'
'I've thought of little else,' I said, 'and it seems just possible, perhaps it's only a slight chance, but it does just seem possible that you might be able to make a dope test on the next horse in the sequence before before he runs in a race. That is to say, always providing that there is going to be another horse in the sequence... and I don't see why not, as the people responsible have got away with it for so long.' he runs in a race. That is to say, always providing that there is going to be another horse in the sequence... and I don't see why not, as the people responsible have got away with it for so long.'
He looked at me with some excitement, the rain dripping off the down-turned brim of his hat.