Dick Francis - Dead Heat

“Why not?” I said.

“Horses eat grass, we don’t,” he said.

“What’s that got to do with it?” Bernard asked.

“Grass is very indigestible,” said Toby. “Humans can’t live on it because everything goes through us so fast, the cellulose fibers of grass coming out much the same as they went in, so we wouldn’t get much nutrition from it. Horses have a system for slowing the process down, so there’s time for their system to break the cellulose down.”

“Like cows?” said Bernard.

“Well, not exactly,” Toby went on. “Cows have multiple stomachs, and they chew their cud, which means they constantly regurgitate their food and rechew it. Horses have only one, fairly small stomach, and once food is down there it won’t come back up due to a strong valve at the stomach opening. This valve also means that horses can’t vomit. So they have another method of breaking down the grass. It’s called the cecum, and it’s like a great big sack nearly four feet long and a foot wide that acts as a fermenter. But both the entry point and exit of this sack are near the top, and I think this ball would simply drop to the bottom of the sack and stay there.”

“What would happen then?” I asked him.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Unless you can be sure the ball would float in the cecum, I don’t think it would ever come out. God knows what would happen. I suspect the horse would eventually get seriously ill with colic. You would have to ask a vet. All I know is that surprisingly little actually comes out the back of a horse compared to the amount you put in it at the front, and I really think the ball would be most unlikely to ever be emitted with a horse’s dung. And it would certainly be far too chancy to try it.”

“That puts the kibosh on that theory, then,” I said. “I somehow don’t think that Mr. Komarov leaves anything to chance.”

“Komarov?” said Toby. “Not Peter Komarov?”

“Yes,” I said, surprised. “Do you know him?”

“I know of him,” said Toby. “He sells horses.”

“Yes,” I said. “Polo ponies.”

“Not just polo ponies,” he said. “He also sells lots of racehorses at the bloodstock sales. I’ve bought a few of them myself. For my owners, of course. Is it him you think is trying to kill you?” He sounded somewhat skeptical.

“I think he has something to do with it, yes.”

“Blimey,” he said. “I always thought of him as a pillar of racing society.”

“Why exactly?” I asked him.

“I don’t really know,” he said. “I suppose it’s because he seems to have given a bit of a boost to racing. At least, he’s given a bit of a boost to me!”

“How?”

“I’ve bought some reasonably priced horses from him,” said Toby. “Some of my one-horse owners have been talked into buying a second. Good for training fees.” He smiled.

“Do you know where the horses came from?” I asked.

“Now that you mention it, I think they did all come from Argentina. But that’s nothing special. Lots of racehorses trained here are bred in Argentina. What makes you think Komarov’s responsible?”

“A number of things,” I said. “The most important one being that when I mentioned his name and showed someone one of these balls, I got my arm broken for my trouble. Also, Komarov and his wife were invited to the lunch at Newmarket when the bomb exploded, but they unexpectedly didn’t turn up.”

“That’s not very conclusive,” said Bernard.

“I know,” I replied. “But his name keeps popping up. And he seems somehow connected with lots of what’s been going on.” I paused. “If I was dead certain that it was him, then I’d be telling this to the police. But, I have to admit, I’m slightly afraid they might just laugh at me. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to try it out on you first.” I looked at Toby, Sally and Bernard, but I couldn’t read their minds. I knew that Caroline believed me.

“It does all seem a bit far-fetched to me,” Sally said. She turned to Caroline. “What do you think?”

“I know it’s true,” said Caroline with certainty. “You might ask how I can be sure, so I’ll tell you.” She looked up at me and smiled lopsidedly. “I have been badly frightened by what has happened to Max over the past ten days. I was at the poisoned dinner and was dreadfully ill that night, and we have all seen the photos of the bombing and have heard Max’s description of what it was like after the explosion. There can be no doubting that those things did happen.”

“No,” said Bernard. “No doubt whatsoever.”

“And Max’s car did collide with a bus, and his house did burn down.”

“Yes,” said Bernard. “We don’t doubt those things happened either. The question is whether they were genuine attempts to murder him.”

“I presume,” she said, “that there’s no question that Max did have his arm broken by someone wielding a polo mallet just for mentioning this man Komarov’s name. I saw the mallet.”

Bernard looked around at Toby and Sally. “I think we can agree that Max had his arm broken, but was it because he mentioned Komarov’s name or because he had one of these balls?”

“Both,” I said. “But I was definitely threatened with the mallet before I even showed them the ball. The Komarov name was the key.”

“And,” said Caroline, “someone went into my flat when I was in America.”

“What do you mean?” said Bernard.

“Two men told my neighbor a pack of lies and managed to convince her to let them into my flat. I don’t know why, but we think they must have planted something there that would let them know when we got back.”

“But how did they know where you live?” said Bernard.

“Whoever it was must have followed me there,” I said.

“But why?” said Bernard.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “If someone could fix the brakes on my car the night I had dinner with Caroline, then they only had to follow me to the restaurant to know who I was seeing.”

“But that doesn’t mean they know where she lives,” said Bernard.

“I don’t know,” I said again. “If they saw me with her, they could have found out where she lives. Perhaps they followed her home.”

“That’s surely very unlikely,” said Bernard.

“It was surely unlikely that someone would bomb Newmarket races,” I said, “but they did.” I stared at Bernard. “And you were able to find out where Caroline lives.”

“That’s different,” he said.

“How exactly did you do that?” asked Caroline accusingly. “And you got my telephone number as well. How was that?”

Bernard went bright red, but he refused to say how he did it. He mumbled a bit about databases and so on, and about the data-protection act. As I had suspected, what he had done wasn’t entirely legal.

“But you are sure someone was in your flat,” he said, trying to get us back on track.

“Absolutely positive,” she said. She told them briefly about things being moved in her medicine cabinet. Sally nodded. It must be a girl thing, I thought.

They all sat silently, digesting what Caroline and I had just told them. But were we getting anywhere? I wondered. There were so many questions, and I was far too short of answers.

“Sally,” I said, “do you think we could have some tea?”

“Of course,” she said. She seemed relieved to be able to get up and move. She went out to the kitchen. It somehow broke up the formality of the gathering. Bernard started apologizing to Caroline. Now, that had me worried.

Toby sat and turned the ball over and over in his hands. “I suppose…” he said, almost to himself. “No, that’s ridiculous.”

“What’s ridiculous?” I asked him.