I had spent the rest of the morning, after my trip to Didcot, ensuring that all was as it should be in the house. I had stripped the guest-room bed and put the linen in the washing machine, and placed all our dinner and breakfast things in the dishwasher.
Georgina was a stickler for having everything in the kitchen just as she wanted it, and she was not happy if anyone put something back in the wrong place. So, I’d been through all the drawers checking that Toni hadn’t inadvertently put a wooden spoon back in with the metal ones, because Georgina would have noticed.
I’d had a good look at the sheepskin rug in front of the fire to search for any stray blonde hairs, and I checked for the same in the plugholes of the family bathroom where Toni had showered.
Satisfied that everything was in order, and there were no traces of Toni’s perfume lingering in the air, I changed into my morning dress and set off for the races.
The highlights for Friday were two Group 1 races: a six-furlong dash for three-year-olds of either sex, and a mile trip for three-year-old fillies only, the girls’ equivalent of the St James’s Palace Stakes for the boys, which Potassium had won on Tuesday.
There are currently eight Group 1 races over the five days of Royal Ascot, but age and sex restrictions, and differing distances, mean that for any given top horse there is really only one Group 1 race on offer, even though a few horses have raced in the five-furlong sprint on Tuesday and then again just four days later in the six-furlong Jubilee Stakes on Saturday. Some have even won both, a five-year-old bay stallion called Blue Point being the most recent, in 2019.
All the races are part of the British Champion Series of thirty-five Group 1 races, which culminates in the championship finals on British Champions Day, back here at Ascot in October.
I wandered into the enclosures as the first race of the day was being run.
I had two appointments with potential future syndicate members in addition to the one with Malcolm Galbraith to watch Casillero’s race from Market Rasen.
Even though I had not been invited to lunch, a long-standing multi-syndicate member of mine, Jim Green, had rented a private box for the day, and he wanted me to pop along for a drink, to have a quiet word with a friend of his. The friend was considering dipping his toes into horse ownership, and Jim thought that his joining one of my syndicates was a sensible first step.
‘Come up after the first race,’ Jim had said when he’d called me earlier. ‘Box 359. We’ll have finished lunch by then.’
So I now made my way up to the third level, to Box 359 at the far eastern end of the grandstand, knocked on the door, and went in.
Eight people were sitting around a table down the centre of the box and, of course, they hadn’t finished their lunch, but at least they were on dessert. There were four men and four women, with Jim Green at the end closest to the door.
‘Come in, Chester. Come in,’ Jim said effusively, standing up. ‘May I introduce Patrick and Lucinda Hogg, Geoff and Virginia Sterling, Martin and Elizabeth Atherton — and you know Gemma. This is Chester Newton, who runs the syndicates I was telling you about.’
I waved at them. ‘Good to meet you.’
‘What would you like to drink?’ Jim said.
‘A small red wine would be great,’ I replied.
One of the two catering staff in the box handed me a glass of red, which no one could ever claim was small. It must have contained about a third of a bottle.
‘Sit here,’ Jim said, pointing at his chair. ‘I’ve finished anyway.’
He stood to the side.
‘Now,’ he said loudly, ‘Chester is going to talk you all into becoming racehorse owners by joining one of his syndicates. Isn’t that right, Chester?’
‘If you say so, Jim,’ I responded with a laugh.
It was hardly the ‘quiet word’ I’d been promised.
I gave them my usual spiel about how, by signing up with Victrix Racing, they could have all the excitement of horse ownership but without the huge outlay or the worry of ever-expanding bills to pay.
For between eight and thirty thousand pounds initially, and about half of that in the second year, depending on the cost of the horse, they could enjoy all the benefits and fun of being an ‘owner.’ And they would get to share not only in the prize money but also in any resale proceeds.
I explained how each of the twelve shareholders of Potassium had received fifty thousand pounds in prize money as a result of him winning the Derby, with another twenty-one thousand for his victory here on Tuesday, all of it completely free of tax, and all for an initial outlay of only nineteen thousand, to say nothing of the millions that the horse was now worth.
‘So what’s the catch?’ the man at the far end of the table asked bluntly.
‘The catch is that you might very well lose the lot,’ I said, looking straight back at him. ‘Horses as good as Potassium are extremely rare. Don’t go into horse ownership if you are looking for a sound investment, one that gives you a safe return on your capital. It may, but that will be only if you are very, very lucky. Far more owners lose money than make any. Look upon it as buying into a way of life — an indulgence — and then you might enjoy losing your cash.’
I could see some of the women shaking their heads, as if they had other plans for between eight and thirty thousand pounds of surplus family funds.
I wondered if Gemma had the slightest idea how much Jim had invested in horseflesh through me over the years. Perhaps I wouldn’t ask her.
‘I like you, Chester Newton,’ said the man at the far end. ‘You talk straight, which is more than I can say for most of the bloodstock agents I’ve met.’
I didn’t think of myself as a bloodstock agent, but I wasn’t going to argue.
The second race, the Group 1 six-furlong dash, The Commonwealth Cup, was about to start, so we all went out onto the balcony to watch it.
Such is the length of the huge grandstand at Ascot that Jim Green’s box was almost nearer to the start than it was to the winning post.
I found myself standing next to the man who had asked me about the catch.
‘Patrick Hogg,’ he said, holding out a hand.
‘Good to meet you,’ I said, shaking it.
‘I think Jim asked you here because of me,’ Patrick said. ‘I’ve been interested in becoming an owner for some time.’
‘They’re off,’ shouted the commentator over the PA system.
The thirteen runners jumped out of the starting stalls in a jagged line.
Patrick and I watched the race unfolding in front of us.
‘Have you had a bet?’ I asked him.
‘Just a small one,’ he replied. ‘To make it interesting.’
‘It would be more interesting if you owned one of them,’ I said, turning to him.
He laughed. ‘Okay, okay. Enough. You have me already. Where do I sign?’
Now it was me who was laughing. ‘Nowhere yet. But I’ll send you an invitation to our yearling parade in October, when I’ll be showing off the horses that Victrix will buy at this autumn’s sales. We also have a good lunch. You can sign up then if you still want to.’
We watched the end of the race together.
‘Hopeless,’ he said, screwing up his betting slip.
‘What do you do for a living?’ I asked.
‘I’m a lawyer,’ he said. ‘A barrister.’
‘Like in court?’
He nodded. ‘Wigs, gowns, and wing collars. But, thankfully, no longer white lace cuffs, black britches, and silver buckled shoes — except on very special occasions.’ He smiled.
‘Do you do criminal work?’ I asked.
‘Most of the time these days,’ he said. ‘I did do civil stuff in the past — mostly highly contested divorces — but I got fed up with dealing with people who were consumed with hate for someone they once loved enough to marry. So I switched to criminal work. Not that the hate disappeared completely. But in recent years, I seem to have found my niche in fraud, where the hate is minimal.’