Agatha is placing a bet at one of these outlets when she sees a young man across the paddock wrestling a spooked colt. He is tall, with a slight but athletic build—the kind boys have in adolescence before they go on to be powerfully built men: soft muscles tucked inside a skin that hasn’t yet hardened and grown coarse.
Agatha watches the races from an upper level with a group of acquaintances who have heard something of her net worth. She courts their advances and drinks their expensive champagne. The waiter has put liqueur in the bottom of her flute. It isn’t cassis but something similarly fruity. What a bloody stupid thing to do with first-class brut. Another waiter arrives with a tray of canapés, and Agatha tries a few. They are all disgusting. The racecourse obviously employs a chef with a higher opinion of himself than is merited.
Agatha’s horse is running in the second-to-last race. His name is Albert’s Rule, but she doesn’t know why. She let Roster pick the name, and in explanation he mentioned something mysterious about a man he used to know. The horse was a birthday present to him, though he prefers betting on the dogs. Roster has gone to watch the races from the main stand, but before they parted ways in the car park, Agatha secretly tucked an expensive cigar into his jacket pocket. He’ll find it when he reaches for his wallet. He likes to smoke when he wins a bet, which is often.
Albert’s Rule refuses the starting stalls. The jockey tries all the usual tricks but he won’t budge and the referee disqualifies him. What a fucking embarrassment. Agatha has had a lot to drink by this point and she says this out loud. “What a fucking embarrassment.” She isn’t joking but her comment is taken as such by the assembled crowd. They laugh sycophantically.
Agatha has had enough. She leaves abruptly without saying goodbye to anyone. She pushes her way through the crowds on the lower levels and on the terraces outside the enclosure. People are making their way to bookies to place their bets on the last race of the day. She steps over discarded plastic pint glasses and dropped betting slips. Moments ago these pieces of paper contained a world of possible futures, clenched feverishly in expectant fists. Now they are as worthless as Weimar banknotes.
She has half a mind to shout at somebody about Albert’s Rule. His shoddy performance was surely the fault of the handler or the jockey or trainer. If she can find any of them she will let them know how she feels. She goes over to the stables. Instead she sees the young lad from earlier.
He is wearing a matching Adidas set of soft jersey joggers and sweater which subtly hug his figure. He has broad shoulders and a skinny waist and strong but slim arms and legs. His neck is lean and long and his Adam’s apple protrudes just above his collar. His lips are full and red in the cold, and his cheeks are flushed with exertion.
The horses in the stable are still pumped with adrenaline from their races. They neigh and stamp and dance about in their stalls. The lad is leaning over one of the open half-stalls to reach in and check something on the inside of the door.
Agatha approaches but does not speak. It takes him a while to register her presence. Then he turns around.
“You all right there, love?”
“Fine, thank you.”
He blinks rapidly and smiles. She can tell that he finds her attractive, and also that he is shy.
“Do you work with Thomas Waugh?” Thomas Waugh is the name of the racehorse trainer she employs.
“That I do.”
“He trains several of mine. Albert’s Rule was running today.”
The lad’s face relaxes at the mention of a horse he knows.
“He’s a lovely lad. I take him out on the gallops every morning. He handles like a dream. None of us expected what happened up at the start just now. It’s not like him.”
“Yes, well, it was very disappointing, to say the least. But, look, when do you finish up here? I’d like someone to come to the Hall and inspect the stables. I currently don’t have any animals at the house itself but I’d like to. Only, the facilities need to be safe. Perhaps you could cast an eye over it.”
“Oh. Er, I guess I could do that for you. Wouldn’t you rather it were Mr. Waugh?”
“You’ll do fine.” Agatha waits.
He says, “Oh, you mean now?”
“Yes, that would be best.”
“Ah, okay. Well, I’ll just ask Mr. Waugh.”
“I’ve already seen him. He said it was fine and that you’d be a good person for the task, that you just needed to finish up a couple of your jobs and then you’d be free to come with me.”
“Right then. Well then. I’ll just sort out these last two stalls.”
“I’ll wait in my car. It’s the Rolls Royce in the members’ car park. The blue one. Not the hideous gold one.”
“Okay.”
The flirtation is subtle but effective. He asks for fifteen minutes to finish his work, and Agatha goes and waits by the car. He seems flustered but the decision has been made.
Agatha sends Roster a message, and he arrives in the car park soon after she does. He makes no response to the news they will be waiting for an additional passenger but tucks his copy of the Racing Post inside his coat and climbs into the driver’s seat. Agatha gets in the back and arranges a cashmere blanket over her knees. The car has been sitting cold, so needs warming. Roster starts the engine, turns up the heating and opens all the vents. He also presses the electric lighter, which is set into the driver’s console, and pulls the cigar from his pocket. Agatha watches from the back seat as
