I watched absentmindedly as the twelve horses in the race were walked around and around. I had never been a gambler myself and had never really understood the passion and concentration with which some punters would study the runners in the parade ring before making their bets. I had been told over and over again by my mother that how well a horse looks in the paddock can be such a good indicator of how fast it will run on the course, but I personally couldn't see it.
A racetrack official rang a handbell, and I watched with interest as Declan turned Scientific inwards, waiting for my mother and stepfather to walk over with the horse's owner and jockey. My mother made great play in removing the rug and checking the girths but without going near the bridle or the reins. Declan stood impassively, holding the horse's head as my mother tossed the lightweight rider up onto his equally slight saddle.
The jockey placed his feet in the stirrup irons and then gathered the reins, making a knot with the ends to ensure that they didn't separate. After another brief circuit of the ring, the horses moved down the horse walk towards the racetrack, and the crowd moved as if one, towards the grandstand, in search of a good viewing position. I was amongst them.
"Hello, Tom," said a voice from behind my shoulder.
I turned around. "Oh, hello." I kissed Isabella on the cheek. Jackson was with her, and they had the Garraways in tow.
"Fancy a drink?" Jackson said, clapping me on the shoulder.
A drink sounded just the thing to calm my nerves.
"Later," I said. "I want to watch this race."
"So do we," said Jackson with his booming laugh. "Come on up to our box and we can do both."
I had been trying to spot my mother in the throng of people so I could watch the race with her. I had one last look around, but I couldn't see her or my stepfather anywhere. It was probably just as well, I thought, as together we would have been a pair of nervous wrecks.
"Thank you, I'd love to," I said to Jackson, smiling at Isabella.
"Good," she said, smiling back.
"And thank you both for such a lovely evening on Thursday," I said. "I meant to bring you round a note."
"That's all right, don't bother," said Jackson. "It was a pleasure to have you. We all really enjoyed it." Unsurprisingly, he made no mention of his early departure from supper, nor his untimely row with Alex Reece.
"How's Alex?" I asked, perhaps unwisely.
"Alex?" he said, looking at me.
"Alex Reece," I said. "Your accountant."
"Oh, him," Jackson said, with a forced smile. "Bloody little weasel needs a good kick up the arse." He guffawed loudly.
"Really?" I said with mock sincerity. "I'll be needing an accountant soon myself. I thought I might go and see him. Are you saying I shouldn't?"
I was playing with him, and he suddenly didn't like it. The amusement evaporated from his eyes.
"Ask whoever you bloody like," he said dismissively.
As we climbed the few steps to the entrance to the Berkshire Stand we were joined by the Yorkes.
"Ah, the spy again," said Ewen, smiling.
I smiled back at him.
I found myself crammed into the lift with my back against the wall and with Julie Yorke standing far too close in front. Ewen would almost certainly have had a fit if he had realized that without any discernible sign to the others, she managed to slide her silk-sheathed firm and rounded buttocks back and forth across my groin in a manner guaranteed to excite.
By the time we arrived at the fourth floor I was glad to be able to pull my overcoat tight around me to save myself from major embarrassment. Julie smiled as I held the door of the box open for her, a seductive inviting smile with an open mouth and her tongue visible between her teeth.
"Come and see me sometime," she whispered in my ear as she went past.
I reckoned she must be crazy if she thought it was an invitation I was going to accept. Avoidance and evasion were definitely the names of the game here too. Jackson offered me a glass of champagne, and I took it out onto the balcony to watch the horses, and to escape from Julie Yorke.
"Do you think he'll win?" It was a moment before I realized that Rebecca Garraway was talking to me.
"Sorry?" I said.
"Do you think he'll win?" she repeated.
"Who?" I asked.
"Newark Hall, of course," she said. "Our horse."
I hadn't realized that the Garraways were Newark Hall's owners. I looked down at my race card, but it stated that the horse was owned by a company called Budsam Ltd.
"He has a good chance," I said back to her.
In truth, he had a better chance than she appreciated.
Ewen Yorke was standing to my left, looking through his large racing binoculars towards the two-and-a-half-mile start.
"Oh, hello," he said without lowering his binoculars. "Seems we have a problem."
"What problem?" Rebecca Garraway demanded with concern in her voice.
"It's OK," Ewen said, while still looking. "It's not Newark Hall, it's Scientific. Seems his reins have snapped. He's running away."
I looked down the course in horror, but without the benefit of Ewen's multi-magnification, I was unable to see exactly what was going on. I took a large gulp of my champagne. I should have asked Jackson for a whisky.
"Good. They've caught him," Ewen said, putting down his glasses. "No real harm done."
"So what will happen now?" I asked, trying hard to keep my voice as normal as possible. "Will Scientific be withdrawn?"
"Oh no, he'll run, all right, no problem. They'll just fit a new bridle on him down at the start," Ewen said. "The starter always has a spare, just in case something breaks. Indeed, just for situations like this. Most unlike your mother to have a tack malfunction." He almost laughed.
I felt sick. All that hard work with the scalpel, to say nothing about the expenditure of so much nervous energy since, and for what? Nothing. The horse would now run with perfect, uncut, unbreakable reins.
"That's good," I said, not actually thinking it was good for a second.
What, I wondered, would the blackmailer do if Scientific won?
I was doubly glad that I wasn't standing next to my mother on the owners' and trainers' stand. By now she would have become more of a head case than was usual. I just hoped she wasn't planning an Emily Davison suffragette-style dash out in front of her horse during the race to prevent it from winning. But in her present state of mind, I'd not put anything past her.
"They're off!" announced the public-address system, and all twelve runners moved away slowly, not one of the jockeys eager to set the early pace. They jumped the first fence without even breaking into a proper gallop, and only then did the horses gather pace and the race was on.
Even though I wanted to, I couldn't take my eyes off Scientific.
I suppose I was hoping he might have crossfired and cut into himself, but the horse appeared to gallop along easily, without any problems. Perhaps he would make an error, I thought, peck badly on landing, and unseat his rider.
But he didn't.
My mother had said that Scientific was a good novice but that the Game Spirit Steeplechase was a considerable step up in class. It didn't show. The horse jumped all the way around without putting a hoof wrong, and he was well placed in the leading trio as they turned into the finishing straight for the second and final time. The other two contenders were, as my mother had predicted they would be, Newark Hall and Sovereign Owner.
The three horses jumped the last fence abreast and battled together all the way to the finish line with the crowd cheering them on. Even the quiet, reserved Rebecca Garraway was jumping up and down, screaming encouragement, urging Newark Hall to summon up one last ounce of energy.
"Photograph, photograph!" announced the judge as the horses flashed past the winning post, each of them striving to get his nose in front.
No one in the box was sure which of the three had won.