things spelled out for him. He had congratulated Kate in two clipped sentences, but to me he had still spoken not a word.
I went past his unyielding back and out to the paddock. He followed. Pete trained both the horses we were riding, and we both had to join him.
Pete jumped in with both feet.
'Alan, Kate's told me your news. Well done.'
He received a fierce glower from Dane, and hastily began to assess the race. He was talking about Dane's mount, and my attention wandered.
There, ten yards away, stood the craggy Clifford Tudor, opulently rolling a cigar round his mouth and laying down the law to his trainer and jockey. Odd, I thought, how often I had come across that man. I watched him make heavy chopping motions with his dark hands to emphasize his points, and caught the young jockey, Joe's substitute, wrinkling his forehead in acute anxiety.
My gaze slid beyond him to where Sir Creswell Stampe was superintending the raising of his unamiable son David into the saddle, before going to take his judicial position in the Stewards' box. Beyond him again were other groups of owners and trainers planning their plans, hoping their hopes, giving their jockeys instructions (and counter-instructions) and calculating their last-minute bets.
So many people I knew. So many people I liked.
Which of them- which of them was not what he seemed?
Pete gave me a leg up on to Forlorn Hope's narrow back, and I waved to Kate, who was standing by the parade ring rails, and cantered down towards the start.
On the way Dane came past briskly, turning his head in my direction as he drew level. With cold eyes he said, 'Blast you,' giving both words equal punch, and shook up his horse to get away from me and give me no chance to reply. I let him go. Either he would get over it or he wouldn't; and in either case there wasn't much I could do about it.
There were eleven runners in the race. We circled round while the starter's assistant tightened girths and the starter himself called the roll. Sandy asked his permission to dismount in order to straighten his saddle, which had slipped forwards on the way down to the gate. The starter nodded, looking at his wristwatch and telling Sandy not to be too long. This particular starter hated to start his races late and grew fidgety over every minor delay.
Sandy unbuckled the girths, pulling his saddle straight, and tightened it up again. I was watching him instead of concentrating wholly on Forlorn Hope, so that what happened was entirely my own fault.
An attendant flapped open under my horse's nose the white flag which it was his job to wave aloft, to signal to the stands that the horses were about to start.
My green young hurdler took fright, reared up like a circus horse, twisted sideways, and threw me off. I hit the ground almost flat on my back, winding myself, and I saw Forlorn Hope kick up his heels and depart at a smart pace up the course.
For a few seconds I lay there trying to get my breath back, and Sandy walked over with his hand outstretched to help me up, laughing and making some rude remarks about my sudden descent.
The most extraordinary dizziness suddenly swept over me, and my senses began to play fantastic tricks. Lying in the spring sun, I felt rain on my face. Winded but unhurt, my body was momentarily invaded by shocking pain. In my whirling brain it seemed as if past and present had become confused, and that two completely different events were somehow happening at the same time.
I stared up into Sandy 's face. There was the familiar wide gap-toothed grin, the false incisors removed for safety; there were the devil-may-care expression. The sunshine bathed his face in light. And what I saw as well was the same face looming towards me in pouring rain, with cruel eyes and a grim mouth. I heard a voice say, 'You nosey bastard, perhaps that'll teach you to mind your own business;' and I threw up my hand to shield my cheek against the kick which was coming-
My sight cleared and steadied, and Sandy and I were looking straight into each other's eyes as if a battle were being fought there. He dropped the hand outstretched to help me, and the friendliness went out of his face with the completeness of an actor shedding a role when the play is over.
I found my palm was still pressed against my cheek. I let it drop away, but the gesture had told its tale. I had remembered what had happened by the fence at Bristol, and Sandy knew it.
Strength returned to my limbs, and I stood up. The starter, consulting his watch in barely concealed annoyance, asked if I was all right. I replied that I was, and apologized for holding up the race. Some way down the course someone had caught Forlorn Hope, and as I watched he was turned round to be led back to the starting gate.
Sandy, showing no haste to remount, stood his ground in front of me.
'You can't prove a thing,' he said, characteristically taking the bull by the horns. 'No one can connect me with Penn. '
'Fletcher,' I said at once.
'He'll keep his mouth shut,' said Sandy, with conviction. 'He is my cousin.'
Uncle George's racing venture, I now saw, had not been inspired solely by the availability of a shaky book- making business. The existence of an easily recruited ally on the racecourse might have been the very factor which decided him, in the first place, to buy L. C. Perth.
I mentally reviewed the rest of the gang.
'How abut Fielder?' I suggested after a short pause.
'I'm a voice on the phone to him. A voice called Smith. He doesn't know me from Adam,' said Sandy.
Temporarily, I gave up. I said, 'What did you do it for?'
'Money. What else?' he said scornfully, clearly thinking the question foolish.
'Why didn't you stop the horses yourself? Why let Joe collect the big fat fees for losing?'
Sandy seemed perfectly willing to explain. 'I did stop a couple myself. The Stewards had me in over the second one, and I got off by the skin of my bloody teeth. I saw the red light, mate. I tipped the boss to try that little bastard Joe instead. Let him lose his licence, not me, I told him. But mind you, I was on to a bloody good percentage every time he strangled one.'
'Which made you all the more angry when he won against orders on Bolingbroke,' I said.
'That's right.'
'Then Joe didn't tell you in the washroom he was going to pull Bolingbroke. You knew already.'
'Proper little Sherlock,' mocked Sandy.
'And you put him over the rails at Plumpton, I suppose?'
'He bloody well deserved it. He lost me fifty quid on Leica as well as my bonus from the boss.'
'Did he deserve to die, as well?' I asked bitterly.
The man leading Forlorn Hope back was now only a hundred yards away.
'The stupid little sod couldn't keep his mouth shut,' said Sandy violently. 'Waving that brown paper at Liverpool and yelling for you. I saw what was written on it, and told Fielder, that's all. I didn't know what it meant, but it was a ton to a tanner the boss wouldn't like it. Joe was asking for it.'
'And after he'd got it, you rang Fielder and told him the job had been bungled, and Joe had lived long enough to talk to me?'
'Yes,' said Sandy morosely. 'I heard you telling every bloody body in the weighing-room.'
I couldn't resist it. I said, 'I was lying. Joe died without saying a word.'
As the full significance of this slowly dawned on him, his jaw dropped, and I saw him waver in some secret inner place as if an axe had hacked into the roots of his colossal self-confidence. He turned on his heel, strode across to where the starter's assistant held his horse, and swung abruptly into the saddle.
I went to meet Forlorn Hope, thanked the man who had brought him back, and remounted. The starter's patience had run out.
'Get into line, please,' he said, and the circling horses began to straighten out across the course. I came up from behind and took a place alongside Sandy. I had one more question to ask.
'Tell me,' I said, 'why on earth did you get Penn to try to bribe Major Davidson? You must have known he wouldn't have stopped Admiral winning for all the money in the world.'
'It was the boss's idea, not mine,' said Sandy roughly. 'I warned Fielder to tell him it wouldn't work, but the boss knew bee-all about horses and was pig-headed besides. Fielder said he wouldn't listen, because he thought if he fixed a cert it would be worth a fortune. He made a packet out of it, all right. He thought up the wire himself.
