The Complete Four Just Men (42 page)

Sir Isaac had driven straight to the house on the hill leading to the Minster, which Black had engaged for two days. He was in a very bad temper when at last he reached his destination. Black was sitting at lunch.

Black looked up as the other entered. ‘Hullo, Ikey,’ he said, ‘come and sit down.’

Sir Isaac looked at the menu with some disfavour.

‘Thanks,’ he said shortly, ‘I’ve lunched on the train. I want to talk to you.’

‘Talk away,’ said Black, helping himself to another cutlet. He was a good trencherman – a man who found exquisite enjoyment in his meals.

‘Look here. Black,’ said Isaac, ‘things are pretty desperate. Unless that infernal horse of mine wins today I shall not know what to do for money.’

‘I know one thing you won’t be able to do,’ said Black coolly, ‘and that is, come to me. I am in as great straits as you.’ He pushed back his plate and took a cigar-case from his pocket. ‘What do we stand to win on this Timbolino of yours?’

‘About £25,000,’ said Sir Isaac moodily. ‘I don’t know if the infernal thing will win. It would be just my luck if it doesn’t. I am afraid of this horse of Gresham’s.’

Black laughed softly. ‘That’s a new fear of yours,’ he said. ‘I don’t remember having heard it before.’

‘It’s no laughing matter,’ said the other. ‘I had my trainer, Tubbs, down watching her work. She is immensely fast. The only thing is whether she can stay the distance.’

‘Can’t she be got at?’ asked Black.

‘Got at!’ said the other impatiently. ‘The race will be run in three hours’ time! Where do you get your idea of racing from?’ he asked irritably. ‘You can’t poison horses at three hours’ notice. You can’t even poison them at three days’ notice, unless you’ve got the trainer in with you. And trainers of that kind only live in novels.’

Black was carefully cutting the end of his cigar. ‘So if your horse loses we shall be in High Street, Hellboro’?’ he reflected. ‘I have backed it to save my life.’ He said this in grim earnest.

He rang a bell. The servant came in.

‘Tell them to bring round the carriage,’ he said. He looked at his watch. ‘I am not particularly keen on racing, but I think I shall enjoy this day in the open. It gives one a chance of thinking.’

Chapter 12

The race

The curious ring on the Carholme was crowded. Unusually interested in the Lincoln handicap was the sporting world, and this, together with the glorious weather, had drawn sportsmen from north
and south to meet together on this great festival of English racing.

Train and steamer had brought the wanderers back to the fold. There were men with a tan of Egypt on their cheeks, men who had been to the south to avoid the vigorous and searching tests of an English winter; there were men who came from Monte Carlo, and lean, brown men who had spent the dark days of the year amongst the snows of the Alps.

There were regular followers of the game who had known no holiday, and had followed the jumping season with religious attention. There were rich men and comparatively poor men; little tradesmen who found this the most delightful of their holidays; members of Parliament who had snatched a day from the dreariness of the Parliamentary debates; sharpers on the look-out for possible victims; these latter quiet, unobtrusive men whose eyes were constantly on the move for a likely subject. There was a sprinkling of journalists, cheery and sceptical, young men and old men, farmers in their gaiters – all drawn together in one great brotherhood by a love of the sport of kings.

In the crowded paddock the horses engaged in the first race were walking round, led by diminutive stable-lads, the number of each horse strapped to the boy’s arm.

‘A rough lot of beggars,’ said Gresham, looking them over. Most of them still had their winter coats; most of them were grossly fat and unfitted for racing. He was ticking the horses off on his card; some he immediately dismissed as of no account. He found Lady Mary wandering around the paddock by herself. She greeted him as a shipwrecked mariner greets a sail.

‘I’m so glad you’ve come,’ she said. ‘I know nothing whatever about racing.’ She looked round the paddock. ‘Won’t you tell me something. Are all these horses really fit?’

‘You evidently know something about horses,’ he smiled. ‘No, they’re not.’

‘But surely they can’t win if they’re not fit,’ she said in astonishment.

‘They can’t all win,’ replied the young man, laughing. ‘They’re not all intended to win, either. You see, a trainer may not be satisfied his horse is top-hole. He sends him out to have a feeler, so to speak, at the opposition. The fittest horse will probably win this race. The trainer who is running against him with no hope of success will discover how near to fitness his own beast is!’

‘I want to find Timbolino,’ she said, looking at her card. ‘That’s Sir Isaac’s, isn’t it?’

He nodded.

‘I was looking for him myself,’ he said. ‘Come along, and let’s see if we can find him.’

In a corner of the paddock they discovered the horse – a tall, upstanding animal, well muscled, so far as Horace could judge, for the horse was still in his cloths.

‘A nice type of horse for the Lincoln,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I saw him at Ascot last year. I think this is the fellow we’ve got to beat.’

‘Does Sir Isaac own many horses?’ she asked.

‘A few,’ he said. ‘He is a remarkable man.’

‘Why do you say that?’ she asked.

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘Well, one knows . . . ’

Then he realized that it wasn’t playing cricket to speak disparagingly of a possible rival, and she rightly interpreted his silence.

‘Where does Sir Isaac make his money?’ she asked abruptly.

He looked at her. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘He’s got some property somewhere, hasn’t he?’

She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I am not asking,’ she went on quickly, ‘because I have any possible interest in his wealth or his prospects. All my interest is centred – elsewhere.’

She favoured him with a dazzling little smile.

Although the paddock was crowded and the eyes of many people were upon him, the owner of the favourite had all his work to restrain himself from taking her hand.

She changed the subject abruptly. ‘So now let’s come and see your great horse,’ she said gaily.

He led her over to one of the boxes where Nemesis was receiving the attention of an earnest groom.

There was not much of her. She was of small build, clean of limb, with a beautiful head and a fine neck not usually seen in so small a thoroughbred. She had run a good fourth in the Cambridgeshire of
the previous year, and had made steady improvement from her
three-year-old to her four-year-old days.

Horace looked her over critically. His practised eye could see no fault in her condition. She looked very cool, ideally fit for the task of the afternoon. He knew that her task was a difficult one; he knew, too, that he had in his heart really very little fear that she could fail to negotiate the easy mile of the Carholme. There were many horses in the race who were also sprinters, and they would make the pace a terrifically fast one. If stamina was a weak point, it would betray her.

The previous day, on the opening of the racing season, his stable had run a horse in a selling plate, and it was encouraging that this animal, though carrying top weight, beat his field easily. It was this fact that had brought Nemesis to the position of short-priced favourite.

Gresham himself had very little money upon her; he did not bet very heavily, though he was credited with making and losing fabulous sums each year. He gained nothing by contradicting these rumours. He was sufficiently indifferent to the opinions of his fellows not to suffer any inconvenience from their repetition.

But the shortening of price on Nemesis was a serious matter for the connection of Timbolino. They could not cover their investments by ‘saving’ on Nemesis without a considerable outlay.

Horace was at lunch when the second race was run. He had found Lord Verlond wonderfully gracious; to the young man’s surprise his lordship had accepted his invitation with such matter-of-fact heartiness as to suggest he had expected it. ‘I suppose,’ he said, with a little twinkle in his eye, ‘you haven’t invited Ikey?’

Gresham shook his head smilingly.

‘No, I do not think Sir Isaac quite approves of me.’

‘I do not think he does,’ agreed the other. ‘Anyway, he’s got a guest of his own, Colonel Black. I assure you it is through no act of mine. Ikey introduced him to me, somewhat unnecessarily, but Ikey is always doing unnecessary things.

‘A very amiable person,’ continued the earl, busy with his knife and fork; ‘he “lordshipped” me and “my lorded” me as though he were the newest kind of barrister and I was the oldest and wiliest of assize judges. He treated me with that respect which is only accorded to those who are expected to pay eventually for the privilege. Ikey was most anxious that he should create a good impression.’

It may be said with truth that Black saw the net closing round him. He knew not what mysterious influences were at work, but day by day, in a hundred different ways, he found himself thwarted, new obstacles put in his way. He was out now for a final kill.

He was recalled to a realization of the present by the strident voices of the bookmakers about him; the ring was in a turmoil. He heard a voice shout, ‘Seven to one, bar one! Seven to one Nemesis!’ and he knew enough of racing to realize what had happened to the favourite.

He came to a bookmaker he knew slightly. ‘What are you barring?’ he asked.

‘Timbolino,’ was the reply.

He found Sir Isaac near the enclosure. The baronet was looking a muddy white, and was biting his finger-nails with an air of perturbation.

‘What has made your horse so strong a favourite?’

‘I backed it again,’ said Sir Isaac.

‘Backed it again?’

‘I’ve got to do something,’ said the other savagely. ‘If I lose, well, I lose more than I can pay. I might as well add to my liabilities. I tell you I’m down and out if this thing doesn’t win,’ he said, ‘unless you can do something for me. You can, can’t you, Black, old sport?’ he asked entreatingly. ‘There’s no reason why you and I should have any secrets from one another.’

Black looked at him steadily. If the horse lost he might be able to use this man to greater advantage.

Sir Isaac’s next words suggested that in case of necessity help would be forthcoming.

‘It’s that beastly Verlond,’ he said bitterly. ‘He put the girl quite against me – she treats me as though I were dirt – and I thought I was all right there. I’ve been backing on the strength of the money coming to me.’

‘What has happened recently?’ asked Black.

‘I got her by myself just now,’ said the baronet, ‘and put it to her plain; but it’s no go. Black, she gave me the frozen face – turned me down proper. It’s perfectly damnable,’ he almost wailed.

Black nodded. At that moment there was a sudden stir in the ring. Over the heads of the crowd from where they stood they saw the bright-coloured caps of the jockeys cantering down to the post.

Unlike Sir Isaac, who had carefully avoided the paddock after a casual glance at his candidate, Horace was personally supervising the finishing touches to Nemesis. He saw the girths strapped and gave his last instructions to the jockey. Then, as the filly was led to the course, with one final backward and approving glance at her, he turned towards the ring.

‘One moment, Gresham!’ Lord Verlond was behind him. ‘Do you think your horse,’ said the old man, with a nod towards Nemesis, ‘is going to win?’

Horace nodded. ‘I do now,’ he said; ‘in fact, I am rather confident.’

‘Do you think,’ the other asked slowly, ‘that if your horse doesn’t, Timbolino will?’

Horace looked at him curiously. ‘Yes, Lord Verlond, I do,’ he said quietly.

Again there was a pause, the old man fingering his shaven chin absently. ‘Suppose, Gresham,’ he said, without raising his voice, ‘suppose I asked you to pull your horse?’

The face of the young man went suddenly red.

‘You’re joking, Lord Verlond,’ he answered stiffly.

‘I’m not joking,’ said the other. ‘I’m speaking to you as a man of honour, and I am trusting to your respecting my confidence. Suppose I asked you to pull Nemesis, would you do it?’

‘No, frankly, I would not,’ said the other, ‘but I can’t – ’

‘Never mind what you can’t understand,’ said Lord Verlond, with a return of his usual sharpness. ‘If I asked you and offered you as a reward what you desired most, would you do it?’

‘I would not do it for anything in the world,’ said Horace gravely.

A bitter little smile came to the old man’s face. ‘I see,’ he said.

‘I can’t understand why you ask me,’ said Horace, who was still bewildered. ‘Surely you – you know – ’

‘I only know that you think I want you to pull your horse because I have backed the other,’ said the old earl, with just a ghost of a smile on his thin lips. ‘I would advise you not to be too puffed up with pride at your own rectitude,’ he said unpleasantly, though the little smile still lingered, ‘because you may be very sorry one of these days that you did not do as I asked.’

‘If you would tell me,’ began Horace, and paused. This sudden request from the earl, who was, with all his faults, a sportsman, left him almost speechless.

‘I will tell you nothing,’ said the earl, ‘because I have nothing to tell you,’ he added suavely.

Horace led the way up the stairs to the county stand. To say that he was troubled by the extraordinary request of the old man would be to put it mildly. He knew the earl as an eccentric man; he knew him by reputation as an evil man, though he had no evidence as to this. But he never in his wildest and most uncharitable moments had imagined that this old rascal – so he called him – would ask him to pull a horse. It was unthinkable. He remembered that Lord Verlond was steward of one or two big meetings, and that he was a member of one of the most august sporting clubs in the world.

He elbowed his way along the top of the stand to where the white osprey on Lady Mary’s hat showed.

‘You look troubled,’ she said as he reached her side. ‘Has uncle been bothering you?’

He shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied, with unusual curtness.

‘Has your horse developed a headache?’ she asked banteringly.

‘I
was worried
about something
I
remembered,’
he said
incoherently.

The field was at the starting-post.

‘Your horse is drawn in the middle,’ she said.

He put up his glasses. He could see the chocolate and green plainly enough.

Sir Isaac’s – grey vertical stripes on white, yellow cap – was also easy to see. He had drawn the inside right.

The field was giving the starter all the trouble that twenty-four high-spirited thoroughbreds could give to any man. For ten minutes they backed and sidled and jumped and kicked and circled before the two long tapes. With exemplary patience the starter waited, directing, imploring almost, commanding and, it must be confessed, swearing, for he was a North-country starter who had no respect for the cracks of the jockey world.

The wait gave Horace an opportunity for collecting his thoughts. He had been a little upset by the strange request of the man who was now speaking so calmly at his elbow.

For Sir Isaac the period of waiting had increased the tension. His hands were shaking, his glasses went up and down, jerkily; he was in an agony of apprehension, when suddenly the white tape swung up, the field bunched into three sections, then spread again and, like a cavalry regiment, came thundering down the slight declivity on its homeward journey.

‘They’re off!’

A roar of voices. Every glass was focused on the oncoming field. There was nothing in it for two furlongs; the start had been a splendid one. They came almost in a dead line. Then something on the rail shot out a little: it was Timbolino, going with splendid smoothness.

‘That looks like the winner,’ said Horace philosophically. ‘Mine’s shut in.’

In the middle of the course the jockey on Nemesis, seeking an opening, had dashed his mount to one which was impossible.

He found himself boxed between two horses, the riders of which showed no disposition to open out for him. The field was half-way on its journey when the boy pulled the filly out of the trap and ‘came round his horses’.