Bruce Alexander - The Price of Murder

“Oh, it’ll be good enough,” he assured me. “There’s a lot of good horses and a lot of good riders. But that ain’t really what I had in mind.”

“What then?”

“Well, this right here-the Shepherd’s Bush Common-is about the best, and cert’ny the longest course round London.”

“Just look at it,” put in Mr. Baker as he gestured toward the large expanse before us. “There’s a full eight acres here the way it’s laid out. And when horses make it four times round carrying their riders, that’s quite a stretch for them.”

“I can see that,” I assured him.

“Only thing wrong with it,” said Patley, “is that it’s laid out kind of peculiar.”

“Peculiar in what way?”

“Take a look at it. See? It goes from the start, to there, to up here where we are, and then back to the start again. In other words, it’s a triangular course.”

“They laid it out that way to make it long as they could,” said Mr. Baker, “but it makes for an awful big scramble and pileup here.”

“Where?” I asked, not quite understanding.

“Right here, where we are in this horse cart. See, Jeremy, this cart where we’ve taken our places to watch all, this serves as the ‘Distance Post.’ They’ve all got to go round it and sometimes it gets kind of crowded. If they fail to circle it, or haven’t circled it by the time the leader has made one full tour of the course, then they must drop out of all the following heats. You understand now, don’t you?”

“Oh, well, yes-yes, of course.” Or so I said. In truth, I had understood only a portion of it. Yet, it seemed to me that I should understand quite all after I had watched a heat of the race run.

“Good lad,” said both together in what seemed a single voice.

I hung over the side of the cart and studied the final preparations for the race at some distance. Two drummer boys beat a rat-tat-tat upon their drums, signaling that the horses were to come forward to the starting line.

As they came up, I asked, “Which of the riders is Deuteronomy Plummer?”

“Aw, I heard you met him and came to watch him particular,” said Mr. Patley. “Well, that’s the man, third along the line. See?”

Yes, I did see. There was little to distinguish him from the rest of the jockeys-only the colors that he wore, which were green and white. They were indeed a colorful lot. Every color of the rainbow and all mixtures thereof were there at the starting line. As I studied them, a thought occurred to me, and I thought it might be wise to frame it in a question to my tutors.

“Both of you seem to agree that this corner of the course can get quite crowded as the horses round the cart. Is that right?”

“Oh, it is indeed.”

“Right as ever can be.”

“Then this must be a dangerous spot from which to watch.”

“Well,” said Mr. Baker, “you might say so, but it’s a great place to see the action, ain’t it, Patley?”

“Oh, none better, not in all Shepherd’s Bush Common.”

“But dangerous,” said I.

“Well, I’ll tell you what. If the cart starts to go over-and it’s been known to happen-just get over to the other side and jump clear, far as you can,” said Mr. Baker.

“Good advice,” said Mr. Patley.

Not in the least comforted by what I had heard, I returned to my study of the horses and riders at the starting line. I concentrated my gaze upon Mr. Deuteronomy and the beautiful red mount beneath him. Did beauty, in this case, mean quality, I asked them.

“Aw, he’s a beauty, in truth, ain’t he?” said Patley. “Name is Pegasus, and from what I hear he deserves it. Ain’t he the horse with wings in the storybooks?”

“Onliest thing to be afraid of,” said Mr. Baker, “is that he looks headstrong, and might not run the race Deuteronomy tells him to. This is his first race, y’see.”

A bugler on horseback appeared, put his horn to his lips, and blew a call. The horses at the starting line didn’t care for that at all-and Pegasus least of all. He broke ranks with the rest, and it was all that his bearded rider could do to bring him back into place.

“Oh, he’s a good horse, all right. He’s ready to go,” said Patley.

“That call was just to the stragglers, but there ain’t no stragglers, so in just a minute, or maybe less. .”

Quite without warning, a shot was fired. I looked about me, half-expecting one of the crowd to fall wounded. But no, ’twas rather the signal for the heat to begin. Yet not all the horses, or their riders, seemed to know that. Horses reared. Riders fell. Nearly half were left at the starting line. The rest, who had got off to a good start, thundered toward us. There must have been a dozen or more on the long straightaway, and to see a small army of large animals coming direct at our horse cart at full gallop made me most uneasy. Without quite willing it so, I found myself pulling to the far side of the cart, from which Mr. Baker had advised me to jump if-

“Easy there, Jeremy,” Mr. Patley shouted to me above the noise of the crowd and the horses. “No need to jump yet.”

At that I nodded my understanding, though I reserved my agreement for a bit later.

The pack was upon us. I was surprised to see that Pegasus-and Mr. Deuteronomy-were not in the lead. No, nothing of the kind. Horse and rider were comfortably in the middle. They circled wide round us as the rest jammed in tight at the apex of the triangle. Whips flashed. Jockeys pushed back and forth, one at the other. Horses were thrown against our cart. They bit. Riders howled and threatened. Then, fast as they had come, they were gone, down the far leg of the triangle to its base, where all but Pegasus were involved in the same sort of close combat as we had witnessed here, near at hand; again, Pegasus gave it a wide berth and fought to keep his place, which was comfortably in the middle of the pack. Then did they come up at us again, and they fought ever harder to make it round us at the apex.

So was it with each successive tour of the course-until, at the end of the fourth, a gray won the heat. Pegasus, ridden by Mr. Deuteronomy, came in a modest third. I was quite disappointed by the performance, and I said as much to my companions.

“Aw, not so, not a bit of it,” said Mr. Baker to me. “Remember, Jeremy, what we just seen was no more than the first of four heats. Ain’t that so?”

I allowed that it was. “Nevertheless,” said I, “would it not be a matter of honor to at least try to win every heat?”

“No, listen, Jeremy. This is the way Deuteronomy does it with every horse he rides. The only honor involved here is winning the race.”

“Just look at Pegasus,” said Patley. “He ain’t even properly worked up a sweat.” And it was true. As his rider started him round the course to cool him off, the big red seemed not to glisten, as did the rest.

It appeared that the winning gray-named Storm Cloud, as I recall-looked as if he had fought a great battle to win the heat-and indeed, he had. He was applauded by those who had bet the heat and won. (Nevertheless, he was one of three eliminated in the next heat.)

When Mr. Deuteronomy passed us by, leading Pegasus, we applauded him warmly. And for his part, he accepted it in good spirit, removing his jaunty little cap and waving it in response. Yet I noted something odd: though he waved, he did not smile. The features of his face, seen close, were cold and unmoving as any statue’s.

“Now, you just wait, Jeremy,” said Mr. Baker. “Next two heats will go just like this one. Pegasus won’t win, but he’ll finish close enough that he’ll have a spot for himself in the final heat.”

“And what will happen in that one?” I asked, though I’d guessed the answer, of course.