Luke-John’s telephone rang and he reached out a hand. As he listened his eyes narrowed and he turned his head to look straight at me.
‘What do you mean, he was pulped? He certainly was not. He’s here in the office at this moment and he went to Plumpton races yesterday. What your paper needs is a little less imagination... If you don’t believe me, talk to him yourself.’ He handed me the receiver, saying with a grimace ‘Connersley. Bloody man.’
‘I heard,’ said the precise malicious voice on the phone, ‘that some Birmingham heavies took you to pieces on the Leicester race train.’
‘A rumour,’ I said with boredom. ‘I heard it myself yesterday at Plumpton.’
‘According to my informant you couldn’t have gone to Plumpton.’
‘Your informant is unreliable. Scrap him.’
A small pause. Then he said ‘I can check if you were there.’
‘Check away.’ I put the receiver down with a brusque crash and thanked my stars I had reached Luke-John with my version first.
‘Are you planning a follow-up on Sunday?’ he was asking. Connersley had planted no suspicions: was already forgotten. ‘Hammer the point home. Urge the racing authorities to act. Agitate. You know the drill.’
I nodded. I knew the drill. My bruises gave me a protesting nudge. No more, they said urgently. Write a nice mild piece on an entirely different, totally innocuous subject.
‘Get some quotes,’ Luke-John said.
‘O.K.’
‘Give with some ideas,’ he said impatiently. ‘I’m doing all your ruddy work.’
I sighed. Shallowly and carefully. ‘How about us making sure Tiddely Pom starts in the Lamplighter? Maybe I’ll go fix it with the Ronceys...’
Luke-John interrupted, his eyes sharp. ‘The Blaze will see to it that Tiddely Pom runs. Ty, that’s genius. Start your piece with that. The Blaze will see to it... Splendid. Splendid.’
Oh God, I thought. I’m the world’s greatest bloody fool. Stay out of race trains, Tonio Perelli had said. Nothing about lying down on the tracks.
8
Nothing had changed at the Ronceys’. Dead leaves, cobwebs, still in place. No dripping meat on the kitchen table: two un-plucked pheasants sagged with limp necks there instead. The sink overflowed with unwashed dishes and the wellington smell had intensified.
I arrived unannounced at two-thirty and found Roncey himself out in the yard watching Pat and the old man saw up a large hunk of dead tree. He received me with an unenthusiastic glare but eventually took me through into the sitting room with a parting backwards instruction to his son to clean out the tackroom when he’d finished the logs.
Madge was lying on the sofa, asleep. Still no stockings, still the blue slippers, still the yellow dress, very dirty now down the front. Roncey gave her a glance of complete indifference and gestured me to one of the arm-chairs.
‘I don’t need help from the Blaze,’ he said, as he’d said outside in the yard. ‘Why should I?’
‘It depends on how much you want Tiddely Pom to run in the Lamplighter.’
‘Of course he’s going to run.’ Roncey looked aggressive and determined. ‘I told you. Anyone who tries to tell me otherwise has another think coming.’
‘In that case,’ I said mildly, ‘one of two things will happen. Either the men operating the racket will abandon the idea of preventing Tiddely Pom from running, as a result of all the publicity they’ve been getting. Or they will go ahead and stop him. If they’ve any sense they’ll abandon the idea. But I don’t see how one can count on them having any sense.’
‘They won’t stop him.’ Pugnacious jaw, stubborn eyes.
‘You can be sure they will, one way or another, if they want to.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘But would you object to taking precautions, just in case? The Blaze will foot the bills.’
He stared at me long and hard. ‘This is not just a publicity stunt to cover your sensation-hunting paper with glory?’
‘Dual purpose,’ I said. ‘Half for you and betting public. Half for us. But only one object: to get Tiddely Pom safely off in the Lamplighter.’
He thought it over.
‘What sort of precautions?’ he said at last.
I sighed inwardly with mixed feelings, a broken ribbed skier at the top of a steep and bumpy slope, with only myself to thank.
‘There are three main ones,’ I said. ‘The simplest is a letter to Weatherbys, stating your positive intention to run in the Lamplighter, and asking them to check carefully with you if they should receive any instructions to strike out the horse either before or after the four day declaration stage next Tuesday. You do realise, don’t you, that I or anyone else could send a telegram or telex striking out the horse, and you would have a bit of a job getting him put back again?’
His mouth dropped open. ‘Anyone?’
‘Anyone signing your name. Of course. Weatherbys receive hundreds of cancellations a week. They don’t check to make sure the trainer really means it. Why should they?’
‘Good God,’ he said, stunned. ‘I’ll write at once. In fact I’ll ring them up.’ He began to stand up.
‘There won’t be that much urgency,’ I said. ‘Much more likely a cancellation would be sent in at the last moment, in order to allow as much time as possible for ante-post bets to be made.’
‘Oh... quite.’ A thought struck him as he sat down again. ‘If the Blaze declares it is going to make Tiddely Pom safe and then he doesn’t run for some reason, you are going to look very silly.’
I nodded. ‘A risk. Still... We’ll do our best. But we do need your whole-hearted co-operation, not just your qualified permission.’
He made up his mind. ‘You have it. What next?’
‘Tiddely Pom will have to go to another stable.’
That rocked him. ‘Oh no.’
‘He’s much too vulnerable here.’
He swallowed. ‘Where, then.’
‘To one of the top trainers. He will still be expertly prepared for the race. He can have the diet he’s used to. We’ll give you a report on him every day.’
He opened and shut his mouth several times, speechless.
‘Thirdly,’ I said, ‘Your wife and at least your three youngest sons must go away for a holiday.’
‘They can’t,’ he protested automatically.
‘They must. If one of the children were kidnapped, would you set his life against running Tiddely Pom?’
‘It isn’t possible,’ he said weakly.
‘Just the threat might be enough.’
Madge got up and opened her eyes. They were far from dreamy. ‘Where and when do we go?’ she said.
‘Tomorrow. You will know where after you get there.’
She smiled with vivid delight. Fantasy had come to life. Roncey himself was not enchanted.
‘I don’t like it,’ he said frowning.
‘Ideally, you should all go. The whole lot of you,’ I said.
Roncey shook his head. ‘There are the other horses, and the farm. I can’t leave them. And I need Pat here, and Peter.’
I agreed to that, having gained the essentials. ‘Don’t tell the children they are going.’ I said to Madge. ‘Just keep them home from school in the morning, and someone will call for you at about nine. You’ll need only country clothes. And you’ll be away until after the race on Saturday week. Also, please do not on any account write any letters straight to here, or let the children send any. If you want to write, send the letters to us at the Blaze, and we will see that Mr Roncey gets them.’
‘But Vic can write to us?’ Madge said.