Felix Francis - Dick Francis's Gamble

“And how do you know this?” I asked with a degree of skepticism.

“Shenington told me so himself. Even used it as his excuse for not paying my bills.”

“So why are you still running his horses?” I asked. “Did he pay the entry fee for this race?”

“No, of course not,” he said. “I paid it.”

“You’re mad,” I said.

“He has promised me all the prize money if it wins.”

We both watched on the screen as the horses swung past the grandstands for the first time. The daylight was now so dismal that, in spite of the different silks, it wasn’t easy to spot which horse was which, but they were all racing closely packed, and there was still a long way to go. All of them remained in with a chance at the prize money, but that wouldn’t be much, I thought, just a few thousand pounds at most. I looked at the race conditions in the race program. The prize to the winner was just over four thousand, and a month’s training fees for six horses would be at least double that. The win would hardly pay off much of what Martin was owed, even if Shenington kept his promise, which somehow I doubted.

By the time the runners passed the grandstand for the second time, their number had been reduced by fallers from fifteen to twelve, and those twelve were no longer closely bunched together but spread out over more than a furlong. And if it had been difficult to tell them apart last time around, it was almost impossible to do so now as they raced towards the television camera, each with a uniform mud-splattered brown frontage. Only when the horses swung away onto their final circuit was it feasible to tell them apart by the colored patterns on the backs of the jockeys’ silks.

Both Jan’s and Martin’s horses were still in the leading group, although even those appeared tired and leaden-footed as they reached the highest point of the course and then swung left-handed down the hill towards the finishing straight. Three and a half miles was a very, very long way in such heavy going.

Just as Jan had feared, the young jockey on her horse took the lead too soon. Even on the screen, it was clear to see that the horse didn’t enjoy being on her own in front, and the mare started to falter and weave about, almost coming to a complete stop just before the last fence. She would have probably refused to jump altogether if another horse hadn’t galloped past and given her a lead to hop over the obstacle with almost zero forward motion, not that the other horse seemed that keen to win the race either.

That horse too swung from side to side, as the jockey kept looking around as if he was wondering where all the other horses had gone. The answer was that most of them had pulled up on their way down the hill, figuring, quite rightly, that they didn’t have any chance of winning.

Only three of the original fifteen starters actually crossed the finishing line, with Martin Gifford’s horse home first. Jan’s mare was second, finishing at a walk and some twenty lengths behind the winner, and then one of the others finally staggered up the hill to be third and a very long way last.

The rain eased a little, and Claudia and I made our way over to the white plastic rails that ran across between the parade ring and the unsaddling enclosure to watch the exhausted horses come in.

Jan wasn’t very pleased. “She could have won that,” she said, referring to her mare. “I told the stupid little arse not to hit the front too soon. Certainly not until after the last, I told him, and then what does he do? God help me.” Martin Gifford, meanwhile, was beaming from ear to ear, which was more than could be said for his horse’s owner.

Viscount Shenington looked fit to explode with fury, and he gave the victorious rider such a look that I wondered if this young man, like Billy Searle before him, had also won a race which he’d previously agreed to lose, not that he’d had much choice in the matter. Short of pulling up during the run-in, or purposely falling off, he’d had no alternative but to win.

And Lord Shenington was certainly a nob.

Perhaps I would look at the records to see if Billy had ever ridden any of Shenington’s horses.

“I’m freezing,” said Jan, coming over to us again after the horses had been led away. “Either of you two fancy a Whisky Mac to warm up? I’m buying.”

As the rain began to fall heavily once again, the three of us scampered over to the Arkle Bar on the lower level of the grandstand.

“How well do you know Viscount Shenington?” I asked Jan as we sipped our mixture of Scotch whisky and ginger wine.

“I know of him, of course,” she said. “But not well enough to speak to.”

“We’re guests in his box,” Claudia said.

“Are you indeed?” Jan said. “He does seems to have quite a lot of clout in racing, and his father is a long-standing member of the Jockey Club.”

“He’s a client of the firm’s,” I said. “But not one of mine.” She smiled at me. She was my client, she was saying but without using the words, and don’t forget it.

“Do you know if he’s got any financial troubles?” I asked her.

“How would I know anything about his finances?” she said. “You’re the specialist in that department.”

True, I thought, but he wasn’t my client, and I could hardly ask Gregory.

We watched the fourth race on a television in the bar, the winner again coming in exhausted and smothered in thick mud.

“They ought to do something when the going’s as heavy as this,” Jan said.

“Do what?” Claudia asked.

“Make the races shorter or reduce the weights.”

“You can’t realistically reduce the weights,” I said. “Half of them are carrying overweight already.” Most amateur jockeys were taller and heavier than the professionals.

“The races should be made shorter, then. Most of these poor horses are finishing half dead. Three and a half miles is too far in this mud.”

She was right, of course, but how could the clerk of the course predict the course conditions when planning the races several months in advance?

“Right,” said Jan decisively, finishing her drink, “I’ve had enough of this misery. I’m going home.”

“Can’t we go too?” Claudia asked, shivering.

“Not yet,” I said. “I’ve still got to talk to Viscount Shenington.”

Claudia looked far from happy.

“I’m sure Jan would take you back to Mum’s place, if you’d like,” I said. “It’s only a mile or so down the road from here.”

“No problem,” said Jan.

“Here,” I said, taking my mother’s house key from my pocket. “I’ll be back by ten, and I’ll collect Mum from Joan’s on the way.”

Claudia took the key but slowly, as if nervous.

“Jan will see you into the cottage,” I said, trying to be reassuring. “Then lock yourself in, and open the door only for me.”

Suddenly, she wasn’t so sure about going back to the cottage on her own, but I could see that she was very cold, and she was also not yet fully recovered from her operation. Truth be told, I would be much happier if she went with Jan as I could then concentrate on what I had to ask Shenington, and be quick about it.

“OK,” she said. “But please don’t be long.”

“I won’t,” I said. “I promise.”

Shenington’s box was much emptier when I went back up there before the fifth race, and there was no sign of Ben.

“He’s had to go back to Oxford,” explained his father as I removed my Barbour and hung it on a hook by the door, the rainwater running down the waxed material and dripping off the sleeves onto the carpet. “He said to say good-bye.”

“Thank you,” I said. “He’s a very nice young man. You should be proud of him.”