'It's all very well for you to laugh,' said Dane, pulling the tops of the stockings over his knees. They don't seem to make nylons for size eleven shoes-'
'Get Walter to get you some stretching ones,' I suggested. 'Have you a busy day?'
'Three, including the Champion Hurdle,' said Dane.
'Pete has entered half the stable here.' He grinned at me. 'I might just find time to tell you about the Penn household, though, if that's what you're after. Shall I start with Uncle George, or Aunt Deb, or-' He broke off to pull on his silk breeches and his riding boots. His valet, Walter, gave him his under-jersey and some particularly vile pink and orange colours. Whoever had chosen them had paid no regard to their effect against a manly complexion.'- Or do you want to hear about Kate?' finished Dane, covering up the sickening jersey with a windproof jacket.
The changing room was filling up, packed with the extra Irish jockeys who had come over for the meeting and were in high spirits and robust voice. Dane and I went out into the crowded weighing room, where at least one could hear oneself speak.
'Uncle George,' he said, 'is a gem. And I'm not going to spoil him for you by telling you about him. Aunt Deb is the Honourable Mrs Penn to you and me, mate, and Aunt Deb to Kate alone. She has a chilly sort of charm that lets you know she would be downright rude if she were not so well bred. She disapproved of me, for a start. I think she disapproves on principle of everything to do with racing, including Heavens Above and Uncle George's idea of a birthday present.'
'Go on,' I urged, anxious for him to come to the most interesting part of the chronicle before someone else buttonholed him.
'Ah yes. Kate. Gorgeous, heavenly Kate. Strictly, you know, her name is Kate Ellery, not Penn at all. Uncle George added the hyphen and the Penn to her name when he took her in. He said it would be easier for her to have the same surname as him – save a lot of explanations. I suppose it does,' said Dane, musingly, knowing full well how he was tantalizing me. He relented, and grinned. 'She sent you her love.'
I felt a warm glow inside. The Cheltenham Festival meeting suddenly seemed not a bad place to be, after all.
'Thanks,' I said, trying not to smile fatuously and scarcely succeeding. Dane looked at me speculatively; but I changed the subject back to racing, and presently I asked him if he had ever heard Bill Davidson spoken of in connection with any sort of odd happenings.
'No, I never did,' he said positively. I told him about the wire. His reaction was typical.
'Poor Bill,' he said with anger. 'Poor old Bill. What a bloody shame.'
'So if you hear anything which might have even the faintest significance-'
'I'll pass it on to you,' he promised.
At that moment Joe Nantwich walked straight into Dane as if he hadn't seen him. He stopped without apology, took a step back, and then went on his way to the changing room. His eyes were wide, unfocused, staring.
'He's drunk,' said Dane, incredulously. 'His breath smells like a distillery.'
'He has his troubles,' I said.
'He'll have more still before the afternoon's much older. Just wait, till one of the Stewards catches that alcoholic blast.'
Joe reappeared at our side. It was true that one could smell his approach a good yard away. Without preamble he spoke directly to me.
'I've had another one.' He took a paper out of his pocket. It had been screwed up and straightened out again, so that it was wrinkled in a hundred fine lines, but its ball-pointed message was still abundantly clear.
BOLINGBROKE. THIS WEEK, it Said.
'When did you get it?' I asked.
'It was here when I arrived, waiting for me in the letter rack.'
'You've tanked up pretty quickly, then,' I said.
'I'm not drunk,' said Joe indignantly. 'I only had a couple of quick ones in the bar opposite the weighing room.'
Dane and I raised our eyebrows in unison. The bar opposite the weighing room had no front wall, and anyone drinking there was in full view of every trainer, owner, and Steward who walked out of the weighing room. There might be a surer way for a jockey to commit professional suicide than to have 'a couple of quick ones' at that bar before the first race, but I couldn't think of it off-hand. Joe hiccuped.
'Double quick ones, I imagine,' said Dane with a smile, taking the paper out of my hand and reading it. 'What does it mean, Bolingbroke this week? Why are you so steamed up about it?'
Joe snatched the paper away and stuffed it back into his pocket. He seemed for the first time to be aware that Dane was listening.
'It's none of your business,' he said rudely.
I felt a great impulse to assure him it was none of mine either. But he turned back to me and said, 'What shall I do?' in a voice full of whining self-pity.
'Are you riding today?' I asked.
'I'm in the fourth and the last. Those bloody amateurs have got two races all to themselves today. A bit thick, isn't it, leaving us only four races to earn our living in? Why don't the fat-arsed gentlemen riders stick to the point-to-points where they belong? That's all they're – well, fit for,' he added, alliteratively.
There was a small silence. Dane laughed. Joe was after all not too drunk to realize he was riding his hobby horse in front of the wrong man. He said weakly, in his smarmiest voice, 'Well, Alan, of course I didn't mean you personally-'
'If you still want my advice, in view of your opinion of amateur jockeys,' I said, keeping a straight face, 'you should drink three cups of strong black coffee and stay out of sight as long as you can.'
'I mean, what shall I do about this note?' Joe had a thicker skin than a coach-hide cabin trunk.
'Pay it no attention at all,' I said. 'I should think that whoever wrote it is playing with you. Perhaps he knows you like to drown your sorrows in whisky and is relying on you to destroy yourself without his having to do anything but send you frightening letters. A neat, bloodless, and effective revenge.'
The sullen pout on Joe's babyish face slowly changed into a mulish determination which was only slightly less repellent.
'No one's going to do that to me,' he said, with an aggressiveness which I guessed would diminish with the alcohol level in his blood. He weaved off out of the weighing room door, presumably in search of black coffee. Before Dane could ask me what was going on, he received a hearty slap on the back from Sandy Mason, who was staring after Joe with dislike.
'What's up with that stupid little clot?' he asked, but he didn't wait for an answer. He said, 'Look, Dane, be a pal and gen me up on this horse of Gregory's I'm riding in the first. I've never seen it before, as far as I know. It seems the owner likes my red hair or something.' Sandy 's infectious laugh made several people look round with answering smiles.
'Sure,' said Dane. They launched into a technical discussion and I turned away from them. But Dane touched my arm.
He said, 'Is it all right for me to tell people, say Sandy for instance, about the wire and Bill?'
'Yes, do. You might strike oil with someone I wouldn't have thought of asking about it. But be careful.' I thought of telling him about the warning in the horse-box, but it was a long story and it seemed enough to say, 'Remember that you're stirring up people who can kill, even if by mistake.'
He looked startled. 'Yes, you're right. I'll be careful.'
We turned back to Sandy together.
'What are you two so solemn about? Has someone swiped that luscious brunette you're both so keen on?' he said.
'It's about Bill Davidson,' said Dane, disregarding this.
'What about him?'
'The fall that killed him was caused by some wire being strung across the top of the fence, Alan saw it.'
Sandy looked aghast. 'Alan saw it,' he repeated, and then, as the full meaning of what Dane had said sank in, 'But that's murder.'
I pointed out the reasons for supposing that murder had not been intended. Sandy 's brown eyes stared at me unwinkingly until I had finished.