by Dick Francis
“Mm.” She stretched, almost purring. “Tell me all.”
I told her a good deal, explaining who everyone was: Sandy Smith, Bruce Farway, the Watermeads, Jericho Rich, Brett, Dave, Kevin Keith Odgen and Jogger. I told her about Nina Young and her metamorphosis.
She inspected the empty cash box standing in all its grime on the newspaper. I showed her the rhyming dictionary and played her the tape of Jogger’s last message, but all the mental agility under the graying dark cap of hair couldn’t unlock the old soldier’s meaning.
“Silly man,” Lizzie said. “Did he fall or was he pushed?”
“Pushing someone into a five-foot-deep inspection pit is not a surefire way of killing them.”
“An accidental push, then.”
“No one has owned up to it.”
With some hesitation I offered to show her the photographs of Jogger in the pit.
“I’m not squeamish,” she protested. “Hand them over.” She studied them at length. “There’s nothing to tell, one way or another.”
“No,” I agreed, taking the photos back and returning them to their packet.
After a pause she asked, “What about these tubes in the thermos flask?”
I took two of the tubes from my safe, where I’d kept them overnight, and gave them to her. She unwrapped each from its tissue and held them up to the light.
“Ten cc’s,” she said, reading the small numbers. “In other words, one tablespoonful.”
“Only one?” I was surprised. I’d thought the tubes held more.
“Only one,” Lizzie confirmed. “A large mouthful.”
“Yuk.”
“Well, yes, it wouldn’t be prudent to drink this.” She put the tubes back into the tissues, and into her purse, just like Nina. “I suppose you want the results like, say, yesterday?”
“It would be helpful.”
“Day after tomorrow,” she promised prosaically. “The best that can be done.”
“I’ll try for patience.”
“Never your best virtue.”
She sniffed the contents of the thermos and poured a little into a spare glass, putting her nose down close to the surface.
“Coffee,” she said. “And the milk’s off.”
“It’s been in the thermos since Thursday at least.”
“Do you want this analyzed as well?”
“What do you think?” I asked.
She said, “I’d think the coffee was just there to cushion the tubes.”
“Leave it, then,” I said.
We drank more champagne and unpacked the picnic, which was the glorious gift of arguably the best restaurant in Scotland, La Potinière at Gullane in East Lothian. “The Browns send you their love,” Lizzie said, referring to the owners. “They want to know when you’re coming back.”
They would want to know six months in advance and even then one might not get a table. Sometimes Lizzie, their close friend, had been down on her knees. This time they’d sent chicken breasts stuffed with a mousseline of cream, hazelnuts and Calvados and a watercress salad with its hazelnut oil dressing packed separately, followed by a light lemon cheesecake that melted to ambrosia on the tongue.
I seldom cared much what I ate. Lizzie deplored it and educated me when she could. I’d have been willing to have graduated at La Potinière.
We companionably watched the first of the Cheltenham races on television, and it was no use looking back, it was three years since I’d finished second in the Champion Hurdle, a bittersweet loss on the day.
“Be glad you’re out of the worry of it,” Lizzie said, watching me watching the jockeys.
“What worry?”
“The worry of someone else being given your rides.”
I smiled. That was, for all jockeys, the worst of worries, and I said, “You’re right. It’s a relief. Now I only have to worry about other transport firms pinching my customers.”
“Which I don’t suppose they do, much.”
“Not so far, luckily.”
The phone rang with a call from Isobel, reporting progress.
“Everything’s OK,” she said. “That new man, Aziz, has phoned from Yorkshire to say they want him to bring back eight animals, not seven, and the eighth is a half-bald old pony that can hardly walk. What do you want him to do?”
“John Tigwood’s there,” I said. “If he’ll be responsible if the pony dies on the way, we’ll ship it. Tell Aziz to get Tigwood to write a note absolving us, and sign and date it, including the time.”
“Right.”
“How did Aziz sound?”
“Fed up,” Isobel said cheerfully. “Can’t blame him.”
“What’s that all about?” Lizzie asked lazily as I put down the receiver, and I explained about the geriatric expedition and gave her a rundown on John Tigwood, profit-making philanthropist.
“A fanatic?”
“He has to be.”
We watched the rest of the races, all, that is, that were shown. Isobel phoned again in midprogram at four to report all well; she was going off home. One of the local horses Harve had driven to Cheltenham had won, had I noticed?
“Yes, terrific.”
“Good for custom at the pub,” she observed, bright girl, reminding me, as it happened, that I hadn’t checked that day on Jogger’s memorial.
I told Lizzie about the memorial, and the reason for it.
“So you don’t think it was an accident!” she said.
“I want it to be.”
When the races had finished, we switched off the television and just talked in general, and later Aziz telephoned direct to my house, saying he hoped I didn’t mind but the office was shut with my own number on its answering machine.
“No, of course not, I don’t mind. Where are you?”
“Chieveley service station; that place north of Newbury. I’m inside, in a phone booth. I wanted to talk to you without them listening.”
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s my first day with you, and I . . .” He stopped, seeking the words. “Do you mind,” he said in a rush, “coming to meet this van wherever it is that I’m taking it?”
“Centaur Care.”
“Yes. These horses aren’t fit to travel. I told Mr. Tigwood but he insisted we bring them. Mrs. Lipton’s worried they’ll die before we unload them . . .”
“All right,” I said decisively. “When you get near Pixhill, call me again on the horse-van phone and I’ll drive round at once. Don’t let the ramps down until I get there. Sit in the cab and write up the log sheet. Do anything. Understand?”
“Thanks.” One short word; a dictionary of meaning.
“See you,” I said.
When I told Lizzie the problem she asked to come with me, and after Aziz had phoned again, round we went.
The scrubby Centaur Care paddock had been overgrazed to the point where dark earth showed between the straggling tufts of grass. The roughly hard-topped parking area had weeds growing through cracks and the small concrete office was streaked with rusty rain marks. Behind it, the stables looked as if a good breeze would flatten them. Lizzie gazed at this magnificent spread speechlessly as we pulled up beside the elderly green paint of the front door.
We’d been there barely a minute before Aziz turned in slowly from the road and brought the nine-van to an exceedingly gentle halt. I walked across to his window as Tigwood and Lorna disembarked from the passenger seats on the other side.
Aziz opened the window and said, “They’re all still alive, I hope.”
There were sounds of the ramps being unbolted on the far side and I hurried round the front and told both Tigwood and Lorna to stop.
“Don’t be silly,” Tigwood said. “Of course we must unload them.”
“I’d be happier to see them first,” I told him reasonably.
“Whatever for?”
“Old horses might like five minutes’ rest at this point. There’s no mad hurry, is there?”
“It’ll soon be
dark,” he pointed out.
“All the same, John, I’ll just rub their noses.”
I opened the rear grooms’ door without waiting for any further objections and heaved myself up to horse level. Three patient old sets of eyes gazed at me, tiredness showing in the angle of the necks and in the lethargically turning ears.
In the space in front of their heads, where often an attendant traveled, stood an untouched bale of hay and the row of plastic containers, all full.
I jumped down from that compartment and opened the center grooms’ door, climbing up again into the space between the middle three stalls and the front three. In the middle three stalls stood another shaky trio, their heads hanging low with fatigue. I wriggled forward through the empty third of the front stalls and inspected the rest of the load, a horse so feeble that it looked as if the partitions themselves were all that were holding him on his feet, and a pathetic pony with acres of hairless skin and its eyes shut.
I descended to ground level and told Tigwood and Lorna that I wanted the veterinarian round to see them before they were unloaded. I wanted an authoritative opinion, I said, that my firm had delivered them in as good a condition as possible.
“It’s none of your business,” Tigwood said furiously. “And it’s an insult to Centaur Care.”
“Look, John,” I said placatingly, “if the owners of those horses care enough about them to give them good homes in their old age, they’ll certainly pay for a veterinarian to make sure they’ve come to no harm from the journey. They’re nice old horses but they’re very tired and I should think you should be grateful to have help with their well-being.”
“John,” Lorna said, “I’m sure Freddie’s right. I do think we should. They were a lot feebler than I expected.”
“Did they drink before they set off?” I asked.
Lorna looked at me worriedly. “Do you think they’re thirsty?” she said. “Aziz was driving so dreadfully slowly.”
“Hm.” Through the open passenger door I asked Aziz to hand me the phone and without more ado got through to the local veterinary surgeon, explaining what I wanted. “Five minutes’ look-see, that’s probably all. But right now, if you could.”
He promised the right now and was as good as his word, a longtime friend who knew I wouldn’t call him out for nothing. He made the same brief inspection as I had and at the end gave me a hollow-eyed look, meaning more than he said.
“Well?” John Tigwood demanded, and listened crossly to the verdict.
“They’re mildly dehydrated and probably hungry. Thin, too, though they’ve been adequately looked after in general. They’ll need good hay and water and a lot of rest. I’ll stay while you unload, I think.”
During the wait for his arrival I’d introduced Lizzie to Tigwood and Lorna. They paid her scant attention, having thoughts only for the horses, and Lizzie herself was content just to watch and listen.
I lowered the rear ramp finally and John Tigwood untied the first of the passengers and led him to the ground, the old legs slipping and unsteady, hooves clattering, eyes frightened. He reached firm footing and stood still, quivering.
“Lorna,” I said, “how old are they?”
She produced a list and handed it to me mutely. The names, ages, and owners of the horses were there, some of them so familiar as to raise my interest sharply.
“But I rode two of them!” I exclaimed. “Some of these were great horses.”
“Surely you realized that?” Lorna said tartly.
“No, I didn’t. Which is which?”
“They have labels on their head-collars.”
I went to the horse Tigwood was holding while the veterinarian looked it over and read the name, Peterman. I fondled the old nose and thought of the races we’d won and lost together twelve and more years earlier, days when the shaky frame had been taut and powerful, a proud head-tossing prince, a star in his time. At twenty-one, his age on the list, he was the equivalent of roughly ninety, in human terms.
“He’s fine,” the veterinarian said. “Just tired.” Tigwood gave me an “I told you so” look of triumph and led my old friend off towards the stables.
“He’s the youngest,” I remarked, reading the list.
The daylight faded as the unloading progressed and I switched on all the horse van’s lights, inside and out, to give passable illumination. The veterinarian gave a provisional thumbs-up to all the travelers except the last two from the forwardmost stalls, both of which had him shaking his head.
The aged pony was the worst. The poor creature could hardly stand, let alone walk down the ramp.
“Advanced laminitis,” the veterinarian said. “Best to put him down.”
“Certainly not,” Tigwood pronounced indignantly. “He’s a much-loved pet. I promised a comfortable home, and that’s what he’ll get. His owner’s fifteen. She made me promise.”
I thought of Michael Watermead’s remark about his own children: “They don’t understand the need for death.” Tigwood understood it, all right, but keeping life going at any cost was where both his income and his fanaticism seemed to lie.
“At least let me dress his alopecia,” the veterinarian suggested, referring to his hair loss, and Tigwood resentfully said, “Tomorrow, then,” and literally pushed the poor little beast until he had to totter down the ramp or fall down altogether.
“It’s disgusting,” Lizzie said under her breath.
Lorna heard and snapped at her, “It’s the people who kill horses just because they’re old who are disgusting.” She was busy stifling her own doubts, I saw. “Old horses have a right to life. Centaur Care is a wonderful institution.”
“Yes,” Lizzie said dryly.
Lorna gave her an unfriendly stare which she then transferred to me.
“You don’t appreciate John’s work,” she accused. “And don’t give me all that crap about putting animals out of their misery. You can’t be sure they’re miserable.”
I thought it quite easy to be sure when they were, but I was not going to argue, and besides, I’d known many old horses to live healthily and happily into their middle twenties. My father, the trainer, had looked after his favorite horses until they died in the fields, feeding them oats all winter to keep them well-fleshed and warm. They had all looked better than the thin crowd of today.
I said, “It’s nice to see old Peterman again and I’m sure the owners will appreciate your personal attention.”
“And John’s!”
“And John’s,” I said.
We all three watched Tigwood lead the pony towards the paddock, the sore hooves flinching at every slow step, the head bobbing low with pain. The fifteen-year-old owner, I thought, was full of love but had no mercy, a cruel combination.
Lorna tossed her fair hair, admitting no criticism. The veterinarian shook his head, Lizzie went on looking disgusted, Aziz shrugged. He’d brought them back alive: his involvement ended there.
Tigwood let the pony loose in the paddock and returned to open his office door. We all trooped in behind him, filling a functional space about fifteen feet square, lit by fluorescent strips and lined with filing cabinets. The brown composition flooring was softened by two large patterned rugs, and framed photographs of old horses in sunlit fields crowded the walls. Tigwood crossed to a pair of metal desks standing side by side, one holding a computer and printer, and the other the normal impedimenta of the pre-computer age. A row of collecting tins stood on one of the filing cabinets and a tea-making machine on another. Bookshelves conspicuously displayed publications on the medical problems and care of aged thoroughbreds. There were three comfortable-looking wool-covered armchairs and some decent blue curtains at the two windows. If any of the horses’ owners ever turned up on the doorstep, the setup would give the message that here every penny was devoted to the cause, while at the same time due regard was paid to the luxury level normal to racehorse owners.
Give him his due, I thought, Tigwood had got it right; inside, at any rate.
He demanded, and the veterinarian wrote, a brief statement to the effect that six horses (names attached) had traveled without incident from Yorkshire and had arrived in good condition. One horse (name attached) showed signs of exhaustion and required special care. One pony with laminitis needed veterinarian attention. All had been transported by Croft Raceways and entrusted to Centaur Care.
Satisfied, Tigwood made a photocopy and handed it to me with a smirk, saying, “You’ve made a lot of fuss about nothing, Freddie. You can pay the veterinarian’s bill, I’m not going to.”
I shrugged. I’d called for the help and received it, and I didn’t mind paying. The statement, in fact, had insulated me from any accusation of negligence Tigwood might think of making once he received my account. I said I was very glad the horses had been all right, but that it was nice to be sure, wasn’t it?
With varying emotions we all left the office again, the veterinarian driving off with a wave and Tigwood and Lorna climbing back into the horse van for the run to the farmyard, where they’d both left their cars that morning. Lizzie and I followed the van, Lizzie asking whether it hadn’t all been a storm in a teacup.
“Didn’t your driver overreact?” she said.
“Maybe. But he’s new today. And there can’t be much wrong with his driving if he got them all here on their feet.”
Lorna and Tigwood left the farmyard separately in individual shades of huff.
Aziz said awkwardly, “Sorry for all that.” No white teeth. Shiny eyes downcast.
“Don’t be sorry,” I reassured him. “You did right.”
Lizzie and I left him refilling his fuel tanks and went home, deciding to pause there briefly and go out to eat.
There were three callback messages on the answering machine, two business, and one Sandy Smith.
I called him back first and listened to him tell me that this was out of hours, like, and unofficial.
“Thanks, Sandy.”
“Well, they did the postmortem of Jogger yesterday in the morgue of Winchester Hospital. Cause of death, broken neck. He hit the back of his head at the bottom of his skull, the top two vertebrae were dislocated, same as in hanging, but he wasn’t hanged, no rope marks. Anyway, the inquest opens tomorrow in Winchester. They’ll only want identification, which I’m doing myself as there’s no next-of-kin, and Bruce Farway’s statement, and the police photos. Then the coroner will adjourn the inquest for three weeks or so for inquiries. Routine for all accidents. You won’t be needed.”
