At least Demon had got the truth out of Dillon. Even though she'd felt foolish for not having seen the inconsistencies in Dillon's story, she could only be glad of Demon's intervention. Since he'd agreed to help, despite his ridiculous insistence on watching her, she'd sensed a lightening of the weight that until his arrival had rested solely on her shoulders. He was there, sharing the load, doing, like her, whatever he could to spare the General. Regardless of anything else, it was a distinct relief.
Reaching the road, she set the cob trotting. At the stable, a lad had The Flynn saddled and waiting; she checked the girths, then with the lad's help, jumped up to perch high on the bay's back. He was used to her now, to the croon of her voice; with the merest urging, he trotted to the door.
Carruthers was waiting.'Take a long walk, then a gentle trot, at least six, then walk him again and bring him in.'
Flick nodded and clicked the reins. Afternoon work was always easy; not every trainer even bothered.
She paraded with the rest of the string, listening to the natter of the lads and riders about her, simultaneously scanning the nearby verges of the Heath where the watchers-the hangers-on and the touts, spying out the form for bookmakers or private clients-congregated.
As usual, she was the last to walk her mount in, so she could watch to see if any outsider tried to speak to a rider. None did; no one approached any rider in Demon's string, nor the strings from nearby stables.
Disappointed, starting to question whether she would ever see or hear anything useful, she slid from the saddle and let the stable lad lead The Flynn away. After a moment, she followed.
She helped the lad unsaddle, then left him cleaning the manger while she fetched the feed, then the water. The lad moved on to the next horse he looked after. Flick sighed, and The Flynn turned his huge head and nudged her.
Smiling crookedly, she patted his nose. On impulse, she climbed the box wall and perched atop it, leaning her shoulder against the stable's outer wall. She scanned the boxes, listening to the murmurs and conversations- mostly between lads and their equine charges.
The Flynn nudged her legs; she crooned at him, grinning when he hurrumphed and nodded.
'Oh, fer Gawd's sake-take a hike! I doan wanna hear what you've got ter say, so just piss off, why doan yer?'
Flick straightened so abruptly that she nearly fell off the wall. The words sounded so clear-then she realized she was hearing them through the stable wall. The speaker-she recognized the dulcet tones of one of the top race jockeys-was outside.
'Now, now. If'n you'll just hear me out-'
'I tol' you-I doan wanna hear nuthin' from you! Now push off, afore I set ol' Carruthers on yer!'
'Your loss.'
The second speaker had a scratchy voice; it faded away.
Flick scrambled off the wall and tore through the stable, dodging lads with buckets and feed all the way up the alley. They swore at her. She didn't stop. She reached the doors; hugging their edge, she peeped out.
A heavy figure in an old frieze coat was lumbering away along the edge of the Heath, a cloth cap pulled low over his face, his hands sunk in his pockets. She could see little more than Dillon had.
The man was heading for the town.
For one moment, Flick stood in the yard, juggling possibilities. Then she swung around and hurried back into the stable.
Demon ambled into his stable at the end of the working day. Soft snorts and gentle whinnies punctuated breathy sighs as stable lads closed their charges in their boxes. The reek of horse was absolute; Demon barely noticed. He did notice the old cob quietly dozing in one corner, a few handfuls of hay and a bucket close by. Glancing left and right, Demon strolled down the alley.
He stopped by The Flynn's box; the big bay was settled and contentedly munching. Strolling on, he came upon Carruthers, inspecting a filly's hoof.
'Where's Flick?'
Carruthers glanced at him, then snorted. 'Gone orf, already. In a pelter, he was. Left his cob-said he'd fetch it later.' He looked down at the hoof he was tending.
Demon held back a frown. 'Did he say anything else?'
'Nah!' With a deft flick, Carruthers pried a stone free. 'Just like the other lads-couldn't wait to get to the Swan and lift a pint.'
'The Swan?'
'Or the Bells.' Carruthers let the horse's leg down and straightened. 'Who knows with lads these days?'
Demon paused; Carruthers watched the filly test the hoof. 'So Flick headed into town?'
'Aye-that's what I'm saying. He usually heads off home to Lidgate, quiet as you please, but today he beetled off into town.'
'How long ago?'
Carruthers shrugged. 'Twenty minutes.'
Demon bit back an oath, swung on his heel and strode out of his stable.
He didn't find Flick in the Swan or the Bells, both respectable inns. He found her in the smoke-filled snug of the Fox and Hen, a seedy tavern down a narrow side street. Nursing a full pint pot, she sat sunk in a corner, surrounded by ale-swilling brutes three times her size.
She was trying to look inconspicuous. Thankfully, a dart game was in full swing, and many patrons were still rolling in; the rabble were presently distracted and hadn't started looking around for likely victims.
Jaw set, Demon grabbed a pint from the harassed barman and crossed the room, his size, accentuated by his heavy greatcoat, allowing him to cleave a passage through the crowd. There were others of his ilk present, gentlemen hobnobbing with cits, rubbing shoulders with half-pay officers and racecourse riffraff; his appearance attracted no undue attention.
Reaching the corner table, he ignored Flick's huge eyes. Setting his pot down with a definite click, he sat opposite her. Then he met her gaze. 'What the hell are you doing here?'
She glared at him, then flicked her gaze to the next table, then back.
Nonchalantly picking up his pint, Demon sipped, scanning the tables beside them. The nearest held two men, hunched over the table, each with a pint before him. They'd both looked up at the dart game; as Demon turned away, they looked down and resumed their conference.
Meeting Flick's eyes, Demon saw them widen meaningfully. Leaning forward, she hissed, 'Listen.'
It took a moment to focus his hearing through the din, but once he had, he could hear well enough.
'So which horse and race are we talking about then?' The speaker was a jockey, one Demon had never hired and only knew by distant sight. He doubted the jockey knew him other than by name, but he kept his face averted.
'Hear tell you're down to ride Rowena in the Nell Gwyn Stakes in a couple o'weeks.'
The second man's voice, deep and grating, was easy to distinguish beneath the raucous din. Demon lifted his eyes and met Flick's; she nodded, then shifted her attention back to their neighbors.
The jockey took a long pull, then lowered his pot. 'Aye-that's right. Where'd you hear? It's not about the course yet.'
'Never you mind where I heard-what you should be concentrating on is that because I did hear, you've an opportunity before you.'
'Opportunity, is it?' The jockey took another long, slow drink. 'How much?'
'Four ponies on delivery.'
An eruption of cheers from the dart game had both men looking around. Demon glanced at Flick; eyes wide, she was watching their man-the contact. Under the table, he nudged her boot. She looked at him; he leaned forward. 'If you don't stop staring, he'll notice and stare back.'
She narrowed her eyes at him, then lowered her gaze to her ale-still untouched. There was another roar from the dart game; everyone looked-even Flick. Swiftly, Demon switched their glasses, leaving his half-full pot for her to nurse. Lifting hers, he drained half; the brew at the Fox and Hen left a lot to be desired, but sitting in a snug amid this sort of crowd nursing a full pot for more than five minutes was enough to invite unwanted attention.
The dart game had concluded. The cheers died and everyone returned to their drinks and
