'And make sure you win!' Ralph called after me, with a distinct edge to his voice. I was beginning to wonder just how much he was having on this time.
The lad was sweating even more than the horse and was evidently relieved to see me arrive.
'I've never known him as strong as this,' he remarked as Ralph's travelling head lad checked the girths and helped me into the saddle. 'I bet you can't hold him today,' he added cheekily. I ignored the jibe and told him to take a right-hand turn to ensure we were the last to go through the iron gate which led out of the paddock and therefore the last to go down. The plan worked a treat and by the time we were out on the course and had turned right to parade in front of the stands, the early runners were already galloping down past us to the start. Fainthearted was dripping with sweat from head to tail and tried to take off after them. The lad just managed to turn him in a circle on the lead rein and then send him off in the right direction. I barely let him out of a trot as we made our way alongside the white iron railings and waited until the horse in front of me was far enough ahead before turning back down the course. With so much at stake I couldn't allow him to waste all his energy at this stage by chasing another runner. Again, the tactic worked and we reached the start without incident. While I was having the girths checked I called out to the starter, himself a former jockey, and explained why I would be lining up at the rear of the field and told him that he wasn't to bother if I was some way behind. He looked at the sweat on Fainthearted and smiled sympathetically.
'Okay, but don't be too far back or I'll end up with a rollicking from the stewards.'
In a couple of minutes he was on his rostrum and telling us to line up. I let everybody else position themselves in front of me and as the starter pulled the lever to release the tape, I turned Fainthearted's head to one side to prevent him sprinting off too quickly. There were a couple of front runners and with such a large field we went at a furious gallop.
I settled Fainthearted towards the rear as we jumped the first two flights before passing in front of the stands and round the long left-hand bend into the back straight. Even though he wasn't running away with me, he still wasn't properly settled and he only really relaxed once we had passed the racecourse stables half way down the far side. Three or four of the runners were already beginning to feel the strain of the fast gallop and were dropping back. By the time we had jumped the last on the far side, we were within striking distance of the leaders and I hadn't yet had to move a muscle. We were going to win, I could just sense it. There were still six furlongs to go, so I tucked him in on the rails and looked up at the field ahead to see who was travelling easiest, as that was the one I would track. Five lengths in front of me I spotted my man. Ben Stevenson was sitting motionless on Dock Brief, waiting for his time to pounce on the leader, and no doubt already counting his percentage of the prize money. As the runners made their way round the bend and into the straight the pace began to quicken and I went to move Fainthearted out from behind a tired horse to go with them. As I did so, Eamon Brennan suddenly appeared from nowhere on my outside, travelling equally well, but instead of going on he took a pull on the reins and proceeded to box me in. The Irishman appeared totally unconcerned about winning the race and as tired horses kept losing ground and taking me backwards with them he just slowed his horse down on my outside. From sitting pretty and planning when to make my move, I was penned in helplessly with the leaders going further away. I'd had enough.
'Let me out, you bastard!' I shouted over at him but he took no notice. Instead he ostentatiously waved his stick backwards and forwards as if trying to keep up, but I could see that his reins were held tight. I had plenty of horse under me but nowhere to go. Fainthearted simply wasn't big enough to barge his way out and I now had to sit and suffer until we straightened up for home and a gap finally appeared. Eventually it did and by then it was me and not the horse who was sweating. I was convinced it was too late. Fainthearted might have a blistering turn of pace but not even he could make up that much ground.
With only half a mile left, he flew the first two hurdles in the straight and he was going so fast that the horses ahead appeared to be galloping backwards. With one good jump, I thought, I might just do it. I threw everything into the last and now he responded, taking off twelve feet in front of the hurdle and landing, running, just as far the other side. He even passed a couple of other horses in mid air. Now there were only three runners ahead and we had four lengths to make up.
The nearest of them began to tire and we moved in to third place, gaining distance with every stride but fighting a losing battle with the finishing post. The three of us passed the line together but there was no need for a photograph. We were beat and Ben Stevenson would collect that percentage after all. As we began pulling up I looked back for Brennan and stopped alongside him.
'What the hell did you do that for?' I demanded angrily.
'Nothing personal,' he replied, turning to gallop back to where the also-rans were unsaddled on the course in front of the parade ring. I made my own way back.
'What were you playing at out there?' screamed the lad as he caught hold of the reins and began leading Fainthearted back to the unsaddling enclosure in front of the weighing room. 'Nijinsky couldn't have won from where you left it.' I tried to explain but he made no attempt to listen. He had done his money and wasn't in the mood for excuses.
Ralph and the owners were waiting and looking just as upset.
'That was a disaster,' said a crestfallen Ralph, angrily, as I dismounted. 'How could you have left it so late?'
I could feel myself going redder and redder. I explained what had happened but Ralph insisted that I should have pushed Brennan out of the way.
'That's what you're paid for,' interrupted one of the owners.
A few of the punters had come over from the stands and were now shouting their opinion of my riding ability. Nothing speaks with more eloquence than a burnt pocket. Forlorn, I undid the surcingle and girth, pulled the saddle off and gave Fainthearted a sympathetic pat on the head. I only wished he could give evidence for me. Having apologised to the owners I muttered my regrets to Ralph and disappeared up the concrete steps into the weighing room. I just wanted to get to the changing room and beat the wall in anger but even that relief was to be denied me. As I sat on the scales to weigh in, the ominous figure of the stipendiary steward appeared out of the ground like a mushroom. Leaning over the wooden rails that divided the scales from the rest of the room, he informed me in a quiet yet authoritative voice that the stewards wanted to see me straight away. My heart sank. A premature confrontation with Sir Arthur Drewe was all I needed.
'Third, sir,' I called to the Clerk of the Scales, who looked up to check that I was within two pounds of the weight I had gone out at. He dismissed me with a sideways movement of his head and I dumped my saddle, together with my helmet and whip, in the corner by the number cloth deck and walked despondently to the stewards' room. The stipe who had spoken to me only a minute before came out just as I was about to knock on the door.
'Just wait here,' he commanded.
He left the weighing room only to return a couple of minutes later bringing Ralph in his wake. The trainer raised his eyes to the heavens, as if to say what a right mess I had landed us both in, and all I could do was to say again how sorry I was.
'Follow me, please,' said the stipe, opening the door and ushering us inside. The three stewards were seated behind an old wooden desk. In the middle, looking as complacent as ever and a veritable model of self-righteousness, was Sir Arthur, flanked on either side by two much younger men wearing almost identical tweed suits. Having introduced us by name the stipe began the proceedings:
'Mr Elgar, will you please tell the stewards what your riding instructions were?'
Ralph was standing bolt upright, as if on regimental parade, holding his worn trilby behind his back with both hands. He repeated what he had told me in the car and paddock and added that he had never had any ca
use to complain about my riding before.
'I think she just lost her head and overdid the waiting tactics. Everyone makes a cock-up once in a while.'
I wanted to hug him. You couldn't put a price on loyalty and he had every reason not to stand by me. I had heard plenty of stories of trainers who were not so steadfast in their support of their jockeys in front of the stewards.
Drewe wasn't impressed by such loyalty or plain speaking. He launched into the attack. 'Are you seriously saying that you are pleased with Pryde's riding performance?'
Ralph did not suffer fools gladly and was livid at being asked such a ridiculous question.
'Of course I am not pleased!' he retorted. 'A blind man could see that the horse should have won, but that's racing.'
Drewe wasn't finished yet. 'There's no need to be offensive, Mr Elgar. Can you explain why Fainthearted opened as 6-4 favourite but by the time the race began had drifted out to 7-2?'
Ralph went through the roof. 'If you're suggesting that I'd stop a horse you're mad!'
The stipe intervened.
'Mr Elgar, we're not accusing you of anything. We're just holding an enquiry to establish the facts.' He then turned to me.
'You looked to leave far too much ground for your horse to make up. Could you please tell the stewards why?'
I fixed Sir Arthur straight between the eyes and told him that once I had managed to settle Fainthearted I was perfectly happy with my position until we had approached the final bend. It was then that I had got boxed in. Sir Arthur had no intention of letting me finish.
'So you're telling us you got penned in. That's almost unheard of in a hurdles race.'
'I know, sir, but Brennan was doing it deliberately.' I felt no guilt about blaming the Irishman. He owed me and I had absolutely no intention of earning a suspension on his account.
'You should be very careful before you make allegations like that, my girl,' snapped Sir Arthur. He turned to the stipe.
'Mr Pugh, could we please see the video.'
Mr Pugh signalled to the video operator to begin and told him to start at the last hurdle on the far side. The stewards' secretary, who had been seated all the while in the corner taking notes, rose to switch off the lights and draw the curtains. As the film began Mr Pugh pinpointed with a cane both Fainthearted and Brennan's mount. Unfortunately for me, the incident was at the furthest end of the course and not particularly clear. What could be made out, however, was Brennan using his stick and me sitting as still as a nun at prayer.
As the film played on and showed the runners turning for home, the head-on camera came into use. All it showed was the gap appearing and Fainthearted bursting through. They waited for the film to end, both head and side on, before turning the lights back on and pulling the curtains.
'Have either of you anything to say?' asked Sir Arthur.
'No sir,' we replied in unison.
'All right then. Kindly wait outside.'
The stipe opened the door and we left the room accompanied by the secretary, who was not allowed to be privy to the stewards' deliberations.
'That didn't look too good,' said Ralph gloomily.
'No it didn't, did it?' I replied dejectedly. 'Brennan really did fix me, you know. What do you think's going to happen?'
'You'll be fined for riding an injudicious race and I'll have to eat a large slice of humble pie in front of the owners. What really concerns me is why he drifted in the betting. It's as if someone knew what was going to happen. You don't think Brennan is in with the bookies do you?'
Before I could reply the door opened and we were called back in. Drewe could hardly conceal his pleasure.
'We've discussed what we've seen and what you've told us and quite frankly we're not satisfied. We're reporting this matter to the disciplinary committee of the Jockey Club at Portman Square and you'll be informed when you have to appear. That's all. Thank you.'
I couldn't believe my ears and nor could Ralph, judging from his stunned expression. We were barely outside the room before he let fly a string of expletives, casting doubt on the parentage of each of the stewards. 'I've got to go and have a very large drink,' he raged. 'This is absolutely disgraceful. This is nothing personal, Victoria, but do you mind if I put Stevenson up in the last instead of you?'
Of course I minded. No one likes being jocked off, even if it was in favour of the champion jockey, and it would inevitably lead to talk of a rift between us. I swallowed my pride. 'No, if you think that's right, Ralph, it's fine by me.' I tried not to let him see how close I was to tears.
'Good. You know how it is with these particular owners. Don't you worry, I'm sure everything will turn out all right at the Jockey Club. I'll meet you in the car park after the last.'
I wished I could share his confidence and I trudged back to the changing room before giving way to my sobs.
I was waiting for Ralph in the car park when I saw Brennan walk towards his brand new BMW. The opportunity to have a word with him was too good to miss and I wanted more than anything to wipe that complacent grin off his face.
'Eamon,' I called out from the passenger seat of Ralph's car as he passed by. 'Can you spare me a moment?'
He was far from pleased to see me and made on towards his own vehicle.
'Hold on!' I shouted, leaping out of the car and running after him. 'You owe me an explanation.'
'Piss off!' he retorted. 'I've nothing to say to you.'
'Thanks very much. It's no good playing the innocent with me, Brennan. My husband told me all about you.'
'He did, did he? Well what a tragedy it is that your husband's now dead and, as you no doubt know, dead men don't tell tales.'
'But living women do. And I've told the police about why and how Edward was blackmailing you.' He stopped trying to open the door of his car and squared up to me menacingly.
'You have, have you? And what have you got by way of proof to support these allegations?'
I ignored the question in the absence of a satisfactory retort. 'I just want to find out who killed my husband and reckon you might be able to help me. Who was the bookmaker who laid Cartwheel to lose at Cheltenham? The same who paid you to fix me today?'
'You're imagining things. I was trying today, just like I always try.' His tongue was so far in his cheek I was surprised he could get the words out. 'Your problem is you'd be better off riding rocking horses and even then I wouldn't back against you falling off.' He turned away and climbed into the driver's seat. I wedged my foot between him and the door.
'Let me make one thing clear,' I said, doing my best to sound calm and rational. 'I didn't know or approve of what my husband was doing to you. What I do know is that Tom Radcliffe is not a murderer and I intend to prove it, and if that means exposing or even implicating you in the process, then so be it. I just wanted you to know.'
Brennan was unimpressed. 'You're not dealing with the stewards, darling. If you go on talking like that you'll be joining your husband, and that kid of yours will be an orphan. And one final thing. How can you be so sure your lover boy didn't do it? How do you know that he wasn't also being blackmailed?' With that he pushed me away from the car so violently that I stumbled and fell. He turned on the engine and, having made one last offensive gesture out of the window, roared out of the car park.
I picked myself up off the ground and walked back to Ralph's car. 'Nothing personal', I said to myself, had now become 'everything personal'. And just to add to my misery, Ralph's other runner won.
Chapter 7
That evening after dinner I sat in my room and worked out a plan of action. Brennan was right when he said that I had no proof that he was being blackmailed, or indeed of the reason why. The first thing I had to do was find out a lot more about the backgrounds of the names in the diary, and also the identity of both Edward's bookmaker and the bookmaker who had dropped a fortune laying Cartwheel at Cheltenham. It was better than evens that they were one and the same person.
Trapped in the Cotswolds
I had no means of finding out the latest gossip in the legal and racing worlds and therefore the obvious answer was to enlist the help of those who did. My first call was to James Thackeray. There was an outside chance that he would still be at the Sportsman's offices, putting his copy to bed and creating those dreadful headlines. I sneaked down to Ralph's office and used the phone.
My luck was in and I was put through to the man himself: 'James? It's Victoria Pryde. Still slaving away then?'
'Certainly! We creative geniuses never pause, even for alcohol. I'm glad you called, Victoria, as I've made a few enquiries about those things you asked me last week. There's good news, and bad news, I'm afraid.'
'Tell me the worst.'
'The bad news is that nobody knows how that announcement of your old man's death got in. One of the subs thought he remembered it being phoned through by Weatherbys, but I've phoned them up and they vehemently deny knowing anything about it, got quite shirty with me too. The good news is that we know the name of the bookmaker who did his bo… sorry, nearly said it, lost a packet on the Gold Cup. My man on the rails tells me it was a fellow called George Musgrave; ever heard of him?'
'Never. What do you know about him?'
'Only that he's mean and very successful. Owns a chain of betting shops in West London and has only recently started betting on course. Wears cashmere coats and oozes charm to the punters, although I doubt if he's so genial when he does his money. Never known a bookie who was. Not in their nature, is it?'
'Hardly. Thanks a lot for the help. It was really kind of you. Can I beg another favour?'
'All right, I'm feeling generous today. I've napped three consecutive winners including the winner of your race at Worcester. Sorry, that's probably a bit of a sore subject. What did those brutes have to say to you?'
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