T Kinsey - Death Around the Bend (A Lady Hardcastle Mystery Book 3)

‘What, dear?’ said Sir Hector.

‘I thought you were going to ask Miss Armstrong something.’

‘I was, dear. Just getting round to it. Give a chap a chance.’

‘Ask me what, sir?’ I said.

‘Well, you see, m’dear, the thing is, Jimmy and I aren’t nearly so young as we once were, so we’ve had to change the rules a bit this year. We used to race the go-carts ourselves, but at our age . . . You know how it is. Reactions not what they used to be. Joints not what they used to be, either. Eyesight’s a bit shabby, too, to tell the truth. So this year, we decided we ought to nominate someone to drive for us. A champion, d’you see?’

‘I see,’ I said. ‘And . . . ?’

‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘And I chose you. Spoke to Emily about it. She said you were disappointed you couldn’t drive the racin’ car at her pal’s place. So we thought this would be the next best thing.’

‘Oh, Sir Hector, that’s wonderful,’ I said. ‘But I’m not dressed for it.’ I indicated my uniform.

‘We thought of that,’ he said. ‘See the memsahib and she’ll kit you out in some overalls. Might be a bit big for you, but I’m sure everything will roll up. Will you do it?’

‘I’d be honoured, Sir Hector,’ I said.

Jimmy Amersham had picked a young lad from Woodworthy as his champion. They both smirked when they saw me in my ill-fitting overalls, battered leather helmet, and goggles. Their smirks faded when Bert and Sir Hector wheeled the go-cart out of the old stable yard and onto the drive beside Jimmy’s horse-drawn wagon.

I didn’t know much about the mechanics of wheeled vehicles, but I could tell that there was something clever about Sir Hector’s go-cart. The shell was of beaten tin, and looked sleek and modern, of course. But there was something going on with the wheels. They weren’t the wobbly wheels that kids pinched from abandoned prams; they were sturdy, with thick tyres. And the chassis looked like something Mr Waterford would have designed for one of Lord Riddlethorpe’s racing cars.

‘What do you think, Jimmy, old chap?’ said Sir Hector. ‘D’you think I’ve got a chance this year?’

‘Never give up hope, m’boy,’ said Jimmy, with a great deal more cheer than his expression might have predicted.

‘Let’s see whatcha got, then,’ said Sir Hector, who was clearly enjoying his friend’s discomfort.

Reluctantly, Jimmy and the village lad manoeuvred a couple of planks to serve as a ramp at the back of the wagon. They lifted the tarpaulin to reveal their go-cart. Superficially, it appeared very similar. The hammered tin shell was suitably modern, and just different enough from Sir Hector’s so as not to be a direct copy. It was obvious where its inspiration had come from, though. The real differences were in the wheels and the chassis. Jimmy had used much thinner wheels mounted on a much flimsier frame.

‘We tried somethin’ like that a month or so ago,’ said Sir Hector with a grin. ‘Had to abandon it. Wheels kept comin’ off.’

Jimmy was not best pleased.

‘What’s the matter, Jimmy, old chap?’ said Sir Hector. ‘Did my pigeon-proofin’ spoil your spyin’?’

‘Put the kibosh on it good and proper,’ said Jimmy ruefully.

‘Put up a tarpaulin to stop your camera pigeons seein’ into the yard.’

Jimmy laughed delightedly. ‘You cunning old buffer. How on earth did you fathom that? I thought we’d definitely got you on that one. Pal of mine put me on to it. You remember Tug Wilson? Commanded the HMS Whatchamacallit. Lives in Cheltenham now. He read about it in some journal or other and thought it would be just the job for beating you.’ He chuckled. ‘Ah well,’ he said at length. ‘Cheats never whatnot, and all that. Can’t be helped. You tumbled me, then?’

‘Knew somethin’ was up when you kept beatin’ me. M’friend Emily suggested camera pigeons, so we put up the tarpaulin.’

‘She’s a wee bit too clever, your pal,’ said Jimmy. ‘Cleverer than Tug and me, at any rate. Come on, then, old boy, shall we race?’

‘We can’t let our public down, old chap. Are you ready, drivers?’

We nodded.

The rules were simple. We started on opposite sides of the road. We were to be given a shove to get us going. If we came off the road, we were allowed to enjoin such spectators as were willing to help get us going again.

I sat in the cart and waited for the starter’s signal. The steering seemed simple enough, as did the brakes. I thought of poor Ellis Dawkins, and double-checked that everything was properly connected. The starter raised his flag. We were off.

A heavy cart is a fast cart in gravity racing, and the substantial farm lad in Jimmy’s go-cart should have had the advantage. Fortunately, my own diminutive size was offset by the bulk of the chassis that Sir Hector and Bert had built. We were neck and neck as we arrived at the first bend, but that was where Sir Hector’s new design really came into its own. My opponent forced me to the outside of the turn, but even so, I managed to keep pace with him. His wheels looked a little shaky, but mine were firmly planted, guiding me exactly where I pointed them.

I gained a little ground on the straight, but it was the next bend that saw his undoing. I was on the inside as we approached, and had confidence enough in my little machine that I decided not to brake. John had begun to slow on the approach, but when he saw that I wasn’t bothering, he laid off the brakes, and we both hit the bend at full pelt.

I took it easily, holding my line as the little go-cart shot round the curve. John wasn’t so lucky. Despite his brave efforts, he couldn’t control the cart, and biffed sideways into the hedge. A barrage of colourful curses was followed by urgent entreaties to the assembled crowd to give him a push. And what a mighty push they gave him.

I could hear him thundering up behind me as we neared the home straight. One last little bend and we’d be home. But he was gaining. The push had really given him an extra burst of speed, and as I glanced over my shoulder, I could see his front wheel drawing level with my back wheel.

As we came to the last bend, he had one last trick to try. He was on the inside again, and as I turned in, he kept going straight ahead. I clipped his wheel, but he carried on. He was trying to push me off the road.

But then I learned why Lord Riddlethorpe needed Mr Waterford. Engineering was everything in motor racing, and it turned out to be rather important in go-cart racing, too. Jimmy Amersham’s flimsy front wheel design was no match for Sir Hector’s machine, and John’s attempt to push me aside was thwarted when the mounting gave way and the wheel bounced off down the road on its own.

I pulled ahead again as John tried to nurse the three-wheeled go-cart on towards the finishing line.

The cheers as I crossed the line were equal to anything I might have heard at Brooklands. And certainly more than I’d have got at Codrington Hall.

I’d won a race at last.

I was still in my overalls as I stood on the village green with Lady Hardcastle. We were sipping cider from Old Joe’s makeshift stall, while I accepted congratulations from the villagers. No one had told us that there was as much rivalry between Littleton and Woodworthy in the event as there was between Sir Hector and Jimmy. The pride of the village had been resting on my shoulders, it seemed.

‘Well done, Armstrong,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud heartily. ‘Knew you could do it.’