About four miles up the road I pressed the bell which in most horse boxes connects the back compartment to the cab. The driver stopped obediently, and looked inquiringly at me when I walked along and climbed up into the cab beside him.
"The horse is quiet," I said, 'and it's warmer here. "
He grinned and started off again, shouting over the noise of the engine.
"I didn't have you figured for the conscientious type, and I was damn right. That horse is going to be sold and has got to arrive in good condition… the boss would have a fit if he knew you were up in front."
I had a pretty good idea the boss, meaning Inskip, wouldn't be at all surprised; bosses, judging by myself, weren't as naive as all that.
"The boss can stuff himself," I said unpleasantly.
I got a sidelong glance for that, and reflected that it was dead easy to give oneself a bad character if one put one's mind to it. Horse-box drivers went to race meetings in droves, and had no duties when they got there. They had time to gossip in the canteen, time all afternoon to wander about and wag their tongues. There was no telling what ears might hear that there was a possible chink in the honesty of the Inskip lads.
We stopped once on the way to eat in a transport cafe, and again a little farther on for me to buy myself a couple of woollen shirts, a black sweater, some thick socks, woollen gloves, and a knitted yachting cap like those the other lads had worn that bitter morning.
The box driver, coming into the shop with me to buy some socks for himself, eyed my purchases and remarked that I seemed to have plenty of money. I grinned knowingly, and said it was easy to come by if you knew how; and I could see his doubts of me growing.
In mid-afternoon we rolled in to a racing stable in Leicestershire, and it was here that the scope of Beckett staff work became apparent. The horse I was to take back and subsequently care for was a useful hurdler just about to start his career as a novice 'chaser, and he had been sold to Colonel Beckett complete with all engagements. This meant, I learned from his former lad, who handed him over to me with considerable bitterness, that he could run in all the races for which his ex-owner had already entered him.
"Where is he entered?" I asked.
"Oh, dozens of places, I think Newbury, Cheltenham, Sandown, and so on, and he was going to start next week at Bristol." The lad's face twisted with regret as he passed the halter rope into my hand.
"I can't think what on earth persuaded the Old Man to part with him. He's a real daisy, and if I ever see him at the races not looking as good and well cared for as he does now, I'll find you and beat the living daylights out of you, I will straight. "
I had already discovered how deeply attached racing lads became to the horses they looked after, and I understood that he meant what he said.
"What's his name?" I asked.
"Sparking Plug… God awful name, he's no plug… Hey, Sparks, old boy… hey, boy… hey, old fellow…" He fondled the horse's muzzle affectionately.
We loaded him into the horse box and this time I did stay where I ought to be, in the back, looking after him. If Beckett were prepared to give a fortune for the cause, as I guessed he must have done to get hold of such an ideal horse in so few days, I was going to take good care of it.
Before we started back I took a look at the road map in the cab, and found to my satisfaction that all the race courses in the country had been marked in on it in Indian ink. I borrowed it at once, and spent the journey studying it. The courses where Sparking Plug's lad had said he was entered were nearly all in the south. Overnight stops, as requested. I grinned.
The five racecourses where the eleven horses had won were not, I found, all as far north as I had imagined. Ludlow and Stafford, in fact, could almost be considered southern, especially as I found I instinctively based my view of the whole country from Harro- gate. The five courses seemed to bear no relation to each other on the map: far from presenting a tidy circle from which a centre might be deduced, they were all more or less in a curve from northeast to southwest, and I could find no significance in then- location.
I spent the rest of the journey back as I spent most of my working hrnirs'-le^ting my mind drift over what I knew of the el^yn horses, waiting for an idea to swim to the surfScs^ikeSa fish in a pool, waiting for the disconnectefi. ^^^tosort themselves into a pattern.
But I didn't really expect this to happen yet, as I knew I had barely started, and even electronic computers won't produce answers if they are not fed enough information.
On Friday night I went down to the pub in Slaw and beat Soupy at darts. He grunted, gestured to the bar billiards, and took an easy revenge. We then drank a half pint together, eyeing each other.
Conversation between us was almost non-existent, nor was it necessary:
and shortly I wandered back to watch the darts players. They were no better than the week before.
"You beat Soupy, didn't you Clan?" one of them said.
I nodded, and immediately found a bunch of darts thrust into my hand.
"If you can beat Soupy you must be in the team."
"What team?" I asked.
"The stable darts team. We play other stables, and have a sort of Yorkshire League. Sometimes we go to Middleham or Wetherby or Richmond or sometimes they come here. Soupy's the best player in Granger's team. Could you beat him again, do you think, or was it a fluke?"
I threw three darts at the board. They all landed in the twenty. For some unknown reason I had always been able to throw straight.
"Cor," said the lads.
"Go on."
I threw three more: the twenty section got rather crowded.
"You're in the team, mate, and no nonsense," they said.
"When's the next match?" I asked.
"We had one here a fortnight ago. Next one's next
Sunday at Bumdale, after the football. You can't play football as well as darts, I suppose? " I shook my head.
"Only darts." I looked at the one dart still left in my hand. I could hit a scuttling rat with a stone; I had done it often when the men had found one round the corn bins and chased it out. I saw no reason why I couldn't hit a galloping horse with a dart: it was a much bigger target.
"Put that one in the bull," urged the lad beside me. I put it in the bull. The lads yelled with glee.
"We'll win the league this season," they grinned. Grits grinned too. But Paddy didn't.
CHAPTER FOUR
October's son and daughters came home for the weekend, the elder girl in a scarlet TR4 which I grew to know well by sight as she drove in and out past the stables, and the twins more sedately, with their father. As all three were in the habit of riding out when they were at home, Wally told me to saddle up two of my horses to go out with the first string on Saturday, Sparking Plug for me and the other for Lady Patricia Tarren.
Lady Patricia Tarren, as I discovered when I led out the horse in the half light of early dawn and held it for her to mount, was a raving beauty with a pale pink mouth and thick curly eyelashes which she knew very well how to use. She had tied a green head-scarf over her chestnut hair, and she wore a black and white harle- quined skiing jacket to keep out the cold. She was carrying some bright green woollen gloves.
"You're new," she observed, looking up at me through the eyelashes.
"What's your name?"
"Clan… miss," I said. I realized I hadn't the faintest idea what form of address an earl's daughter was accustomed to. Wally's instructions hadn't stretched that far.
"Well… give me a leg up, then."
I stood beside her obediently, but as I leaned forward to help her she ran her bare hand over my head and around my neck, and took the lobe of my right ear between her fingers. She had sharp nails, and she dug them in. Her eyes were wide with challenge. I looked straight back.