Dick Francis - Under Orders

‘Well, why are ya here then?’ said Paddy.

‘I’m meeting someone,’ I replied.

‘Who?’ he asked.

‘Never you mind.’

‘What about?’

‘It’s none of your business.’

Paddy’s antennae were almost quivering and he could hardly contain himself. He absolutely hated not being ‘in the know’ about everything. He finally bought a Guinness to calm his nerves.

Charles came through the door at the far end. I had called him on the drive north, had very briefly explained to him my little game and he had eagerly agreed to help. He had brought with him a distinguished-looking white-haired gentleman in a tweed suit and a dark blue bow-tie.

‘Ah,’ I said and walked over to greet them, leaving Paddy at the bar.

‘Hello, Charles,’ I said. ‘Thanks so much for coming.’

‘Sid,’ he said, ‘meet Rodney Humphries.’

We sat down on some chairs at a table. I checked to see that we were still in Paddy’s view and caught a glimpse of him staring at us. We spoke with our heads bowed close together and, from Paddy’s position, it must have appeared quite conspiratorial.

‘Rodney lives down the road from me,’ said Charles. ‘He was keen as mustard to come.’

‘Any excuse not to do the gardening,’ said Rodney with a smile.

‘Well, Rodney, if anyone asks you, which they probably won’t, you can give a fictitious name and say that you’re a retired professor of ballistics.’

‘Professor of ballistics, eh? I like that. Retired from anywhere special?’ he asked.

‘Anywhere obscure that no one could check up on.’

He thought for a moment. ‘Professor Reginald Culpepper from the University of Bulawayo, in Rhodesia. In the good old days of UDI, which is when I was out there. That should do. No one will be able to check on that now that it’s Zimbabwe.’

‘Perfect,’ I said, ‘but I hope you won’t need it.’

I watched Paddy out of the corner of my eye. He was a good sort and I felt a little guilty treating him in this way but it was important.

‘Why don’t you just tell… what’s his name?’ said Charles.

‘Paddy, Paddy O’Fitch.’

‘Well, why don’t you just tell Paddy O’Fitch what you want him to know?’

‘Because I want him to tell the right person what he knows and, unless he thinks it’s a secret, he might not do that.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Charles.

‘Secrets burn holes in Paddy’s brain until they reach his mouth. The more secret a thing is, the more likely he is to tell someone. It’s not that he’s malicious, it’s just that he absolutely loves to know something that others don’t and he can’t resist telling them.’

‘So who’s the right person?’ asked Charles.

‘A journalist called Chris Beecher.’

I could see Paddy moving over towards us. He obviously couldn’t resist any longer.

‘So Professor,’ I said loudly, so Paddy would hear, ‘what is your expert opinion?’

Before Rodney/Reginald could say anything I made great play of putting my finger to my lips.

‘Good afternoon, Admiral,’ Paddy said, arriving at our table. He had known who Charles was, but there again, Paddy knew everything. Well, almost everything.

‘Good afternoon,’ replied Charles, getting up.

Neither Charles nor I made any move to introduce Rodney. Charles sat down again and the three of us waited in silence. Paddy eventually seemed to get the message and moved away.

‘See you later then, Sid,’ he said.

‘Right.’

He went off towards the door but couldn’t resist a backwards glance as he went through it.

‘I bet you a pound to a penny that he will be hanging around outside to catch me when I leave.’

‘But I still don’t understand,’ said Charles. ‘Why do you need him to tell this journalist? Why don’t you tell the journalist yourself?’

‘If I went and told Chris Beecher something directly then he probably wouldn’t believe me in the first place and, even if he did, he wouldn’t write it in the newspaper because he would think that I only told him because I wanted him to. This way, if Paddy extracts the secret from me, which I will let him do eventually, and moreover if I tell him that under no circumstances to repeat it to anyone, he’s bound to go and blabber it to his neighbour, who just happens to be Chris Beecher, and Beecher will put it in his newspaper solely because he thinks I don’t want it there.’

‘And what is this great secret?’ asked Rodney. ‘Or can’t I know?’

‘Yes,’ said Charles, ‘can I know too?’

‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘of course you can know. In fact, you should know in case you are approached by Paddy or anyone else. It’s not actually a secret at all and I want everyone to know. It just has to appear to be a secret to Paddy, and also to Chris Beecher. It’s simply that I found a second bullet at Bill Burton’s place and also that I know he didn’t kill himself and the police are now looking for his murderer.’

‘And are they?’ asked Charles.

‘Well, not exactly, but Chris Beecher won’t know that.’

‘I’m none the wiser,’ said Rodney.

‘It’s a long story. Charles will fill you in. I want to go now so that Paddy can begin to needle me. If he asks you, say I asked you to look at a second bullet. Enjoy your day at the races.’

‘I will. Do you have any tips?’ Rodney asked.

‘He’ll tell you to keep your money in your pocket,’ said Charles.

I laughed. He knew me too well.

I went out to the parade ring. As expected, Paddy came up to me as I watched the runners for the first.

‘Who’s the professor then?’ he asked.

I looked suitably appalled that he knew he was a professor. ‘None of your business.’

‘Come on, Sid. What’s he doing here?’

‘I just wanted some advice. Nothing important.’

I hoped he didn’t believe me. I moved onto the stands to watch the race and he followed, as I knew he would. He was now on a mission.

‘So what advice could he give ya that I couldn’t?’

‘You don’t know anything about ballistics.’

‘Ballistics? What the bloody hell is dat?’

‘Exactly! You know nothing about it. So I found someone who does.’

‘What is it?’

‘Look, Paddy,’ I said, ‘I told you, it’s none of your business.’

He was about to ask again when thankfully he was cut off by the public address system. ‘They’re under starter’s orders… they’re off.’

I had always enjoyed riding here and I watched enviously as others did what I longed to do. Towcester is a ‘park’ racecourse set amongst rolling green hills. The fences are inviting and fair but the real challenge for a horse is the last mile to the finish, which is all uphill. The horses passed the stands for the first time and turned right-handed and downhill to start their second circuit, all twelve still packed closely together.

I noticed that Paddy had left my side and had made his way to the end of the stand where he was in earnest conversation with someone I didn’t recognise, sadly not Chris Beecher.

On the far side of the course, one jockey kicked his mount hard in the ribs and they started to move away from the others in their bid for victory. Much too soon, I thought. Many a race had been lost here by horse and rider who have run out of puff on the long incline to the last fence and the finish line. It was an impressive break and soon the horse had established a lead of twenty lengths or more. None of the others seemed to have responded to the move, and I would not have done so either. Experienced jockeys know a thing or two, and going too soon at Towcester is one of them. It was not the way to win races.

At the second last fence, the leader was still in front but by a much-reduced margin that was diminishing with every tired stride. By the last he had been caught by the others and would not have won even if he had not come to grief in a bone-crunching fall.