I thought it quite easy to be sure when they were, but I was not going to argue, and besides, I’d known many old horses live healthily and happily into their middle twenties. My father, the trainer, had looked after his favourite horses until they died in the fields, feeding them oats all winter to keep them well-fleshed and warm. They had all looked better than the thin crowd of today.
I said, ‘It’s nice to see old Peterman again and I’m sure the owners will appreciate your personal attention.’
‘And John’s!’
‘And John’s,’ I said.
We all three watched Tigwood lead the pony towards the paddock, the sore hooves flinching at every slow step, the head bobbing low with pain. The fifteen-year-old owner, I thought, was full of love but had no mercy, a cruel combination.
Lorna tossed her fair hair, admitting no criticism. The vet shook his head, Lizzie went on looking disgusted, Aziz shrugged. He’d brought them back alive: his involvement ended there.
Tigwood let the pony loose in the paddock and returned to open his office door. We all trooped in behind him, filling a functional space about fifteen feet square, lit by fluorescent strips and lined with filing cabinets. The brown composition flooring was softened by two large patterned rugs, and framed photographs of old horses in sunlit fields crowded the walls. Tigwood crossed to a pair of metal desks standing side by side, one holding a computer and printer, and the other the normal impedimenta of the pre-computer age. A row of collecting tins stood on one of the filing cabinets and a tea-making machine on another. Bookshelves conspicuously displayed publications on the medical problems and care of aged thoroughbreds. There were three comfortable looking wool-covered armchairs and some decent blue curtains at the two windows. If any of the horses’ owners ever turned up on the doorstep, the setup would give the message that here every penny was devoted to the cause, while at the same time due regard was paid to the luxury level normal to racehorse owners.
Give him his due, I thought, Tigwood had got it right; inside, at any rate.
He demanded, and the vet wrote, a brief statement to the effect that six horses (names attached) had travelled without incident from Yorkshire and had arrived in good condition. One horse (name attached) showed signs of exhaustion and required special care. One pony with laminitis needed veterinary attention. All had been transported by Croft Raceways and entrusted to Centaur Care.
Satisfied, Tigwood made a photocopy and handed it to me with a smirk, saying, ‘You’ve made a lot of fuss about nothing, Freddie. You can pay the vet’s bill, I’m not going to.’
I shrugged. I’d called for the help and received it, and I didn’t mind paying. The statement, in fact, had insulated me from any accusation of negligence Tigwood might think of making once he received my account. I said I was very glad the horses had been all right, but that it was nice to be sure, wasn’t it?
With varying emotions we all left the office again, the vet driving off with a wave and Tigwood and Lorna climbing back into the horsebox for the run to the farmyard, where they’d both left their cars that morning. Lizzie and I followed the box, Lizzie asking whether it hadn’t all been a storm in a teacup.
‘Didn’t your driver over-react?’ she said.
‘Maybe. But he’s new today. And there can’t be much wrong with his driving if he got them all here on their feet.’
Lorna and Tigwood left the farmyard separately in individual shades of huff.
Aziz said awkwardly, ‘Sorry for all that.’ No white teeth. Shiny eyes downcast.
‘Don’t be sorry,’ I reassured him. ‘You did right.’
Lizzie and I left him refilling his fuel tanks and went home, deciding to pause there briefly and go out to eat.
There were three call-back messages on the answering machine, two business, and one Sandy Smith.
I called him back first and listened to him tell me that this was out of hours, like, and unofficial.
‘Thanks, Sandy.’
‘Well, they did the post-mortem on Jogger yesterday in the morgue of Winchester Hospital. Cause of death, broken neck. He hit the back of his head at the bottom of his skull, the top two vertebrae were dislocated, same as in hanging, but he wasn’t hanged, no rope marks. Anyway, the inquest opens tomorrow in Winchester. They’ll only want identification, which I’m doing myself as there’s no next of kin, and Dr Farway’s statement, and the police photos. Then the coroner will adjourn the inquest for three weeks or so for enquiries. Routine for all accidents. You won’t be needed.’
‘Thanks very much indeed, Sandy.’
‘The Ogden inquest’s first thing on Thursday, same place, that’s to say the coroner’s court, which is a room in the police station in Winchester. The verdict will be natural causes. They won’t adjourn that one. Dr Farway will give his report. Mrs Ogden’s identified her husband. Seems Ogden had heart trouble on and off but was bad at taking pills. Dave had better attend, though they might not call him. I’ll be there too, of course.’
‘Great, Sandy. Thanks again.’
‘I drank to Jogger last night in the pub,’ he said. ‘There was quite a turn out. Loads of people signing his memorial. You’ll get an astronomical bill.’
‘All in a good cause.’
‘Poor old Jogger.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
Lizzie and I settled for dinner on an old country inn ten miles from Pixhill where the speciality was duck roasted in a honey glaze to a crisp blackened skin with succulence inside. La Potinière it was not, but an old favourite place of Lizzie’s, who liked the heavy oak beams, the authentically crooked walls and the low-to-dim lighting.
As Pixhill people often ate there, I was not much surprised to see Benjy and Dot Usher side by side at a booth table across the room from us. Impervious to their surroundings they were in mid-quarrel as usual, the two faces tight with fury six inches apart.
‘Who are they?’ Lizzie asked, following my gaze.
‘A Pixhill millionaire who plays at training and his inseparable wife.’
‘Ask a silly question...’
‘And you get a dead accurate answer.’
‘Really?’
‘I reckon if they ever stop fighting that marriage will collapse from boredom.’
I told her about my day with them at Sandown races and about Benjy’s odd habit of not touching horses.
‘And he’s a trainer?’
‘Of sorts. But he’s also a customer, which makes him OK by me.’
She studied my face with elder-sister indulgence. ‘I remember you once saying,’ she said, ‘that if you rode races only for people you liked you’d have missed winning the Gold Cup.’
‘Mm. Same theory. I’ll hire out my skills to anyone for the prospect of reward.’
‘It sounds like prostitution.’
‘What isn’t?’
‘Pure research, for one thing. You’re an absolute philistine.’
‘Goliath was a Philistine... a giant of a man.’
‘Brought down by a slingshot.’
‘Sneaky.’
Lizzie smiled with pleasure. ‘I miss you,’ she said.
‘Me too. Tell me about Professor Quipp.’
‘I knew I shouldn’t have said that about everyone finding me. You never miss a trick.’
‘Well, go on.’
‘He’s nice.’ She sounded fond, not defensive. A good sign, given the characters of some of the past beards. ‘He’s five years younger than I am and he adores skiing. We went to Val d’Isère for a week.’ Lizzie positively purred. ‘We raced each other down mountains.’
‘Um... What colour beard?’
‘No beard. You’re a beast. No moustache either.’
It sounded serious. ‘What subject?’ I asked.
‘Actually, organic chemistry.’