‘Who is easy. All you crooked sharks calling yourself bloodstock agents. Bloodsucking agents more like. As for why... need you ask? Because I won’t give you kick backs.’
She was referring to the practice which had grown up among some agents of going to a breeder before a sale and saying in effect ‘I’ll bid your horse up to a good price if you give me a share of what you get.’ Far more intimidating was the follow up: ‘And if you don’t agree to what I suggest I’ll make sure no one bids for your horse and if you sell it at all it will be at a loss.’ Dozens of small breeders were coughing up the kick backs just to keep themselves in business and Mrs Antonia Huntercombe’s difficulties were what happened if they didn’t.
I knew all about it. I knew that the big reputable firms never asked for kick backs at all, and that individual agents varied from nil to nearly extortionate.
‘I was offered eight thousand for the filly,’ Mrs Huntercombe said bitterly. ‘I was to give back half of anything she made over that price.’ She glared at me. ‘I refused to agree. Why should I? She cost eight thousand to produce. They wanted half of any profit I made. And for doing what? Nothing at all except bidding in a sale ring. No work, no worry, no thought and care. It’s downright wicked to come and demand half of my profit.’
‘Who was it?’
‘I’m not going to tell you. You’re one of them, and I don’t trust you.’
‘So you sent her to the sales to take her chance.’
‘She should have made at least ten thousand. At least.’ She glared at me. ‘Don’t you agree?’
‘Twelve or fourteen, I would have thought.’
‘Of course she should.’
‘Didn’t you put a reserve on her?’ I asked.
‘Reserves are a racket in themselves,’ she said furiously. ‘But no, I didn’t. There was no reason why she shouldn’t make her price. Her breeding, her looks... you couldn’t fault her.’
‘And you didn’t go with her to Newmarket?’
‘It’s so far. And there’s too much to do here. I sent a groom with her. I couldn’t believe... I simply couldn’t believe it when she went for eighteen hundred. I didn’t hear that story about a heart murmur until two days afterwards when the man who bought her rang up to ask for the vet’s report.’
I thought about the general lack of prosperity about the place.
‘You needed her to make a good profit?’ I suggested.
‘Of course I did. She was the best foal I’ve had for years.’
‘But not the first request for a kick back?’
‘The worst,’ she said. ‘I’ve told them all... I always tell them... they’ve no right to what they do nothing to earn... but this time... it was wicked.’
I agreed with her. I said, ‘And for some time your yearlings have not been fetching good prices?’
‘For two years,’ she said fiercely. ‘You’re all in it. You know I won’t give kick backs so you won’t bid for my horses.’
She was wrong about us all being in it. I had bought several bargains at various sales when half my rivals had turned their backs. Bargains for me and my clients, disasters for the people who’d bred them. And it was always the small breeder, the honest or naive breeder who lost, because the big firms could look after themselves and others were crooks too and had some scandalous tricks of their own.
The kick back system probably stemmed from the Irish ‘luck penny’: if you bought a horse from an Irishman he gave you back a penny of your money for luck. A penny! What a laugh.
There was no harm in a breeder giving an agent a thank you present for getting him a good price for his horse. The harm came when the agent demanded it first. The crime came when he demanded it with threats and carried them out when he was refused.
Rumours rocketed round sale rings with the speed of light. I had heard the Winterfriend filly had a heart murmur ten minutes before she was sold, and I had believed it like everyone else.
I had often been told that the kick back lark was on the increase. Some breeders made the best of it and some positively welcomed it, because it more or less guaranteed a good price for their horses. Only the Mrs Huntercombes who wouldn’t play ball were coming to grief.
‘Well?’ she said belligerently. ‘Sophie said to ask your advice. So what is it?’
I was too much of a realist for Aunt Antonia. I knew she wouldn’t like what I would say, but I said it all the same.
‘You’ve three choices. The first is to pay the kick backs. You’d be better off in the end.’
‘I won’t.’ She narrowed her eyes in anger. ‘That’s exactly what I would have expected from one of you.’
‘The second,’ I said, ‘Is to sell your stud, raise a mortgage on the house and live on an annuity.’
The anger grew. ‘And just how do I get a fair price for my stallions and mares? And as for a mortgage... I already have one.’ From the way she said it I guessed it was the largest she could get.
‘Third,’ I said, ‘You could go every time to the sales when you sell a horse. Put a sensible reserve on it and get a friend to help with starting the bidding. Take a vet with you bristling with certificates. Tell the agents from the big firms, and as many other people as you can reach, whatever they may hear to the contrary, your horse is in good health, and offer to repay instantly if it is found to be not.’
She stared at me. ‘I haven’t the strength. It would be exhausting.’
‘You sell only six or seven a year.’
‘I am too old. I have high blood pressure and my ankles swell up.’
It was the first really human thing she’d said. I smiled at her. She did not smile back.
‘It’s the best I can do,’ I said, standing up.
‘Don’t shut the front door when you go out,’ she said. ‘Or I’ll have to get up to open it for the dogs.’
It was barely five miles from Paley to where I had arranged to meet the horsebox bringing River God from Devon. I had expected to reach the rendezvous first, but from some distance away I could see a blue box already parked in the designated place.
I had chosen one of those useful half moons carved by road straightening programmes where the loop of old country road remained as a leafy lay-by. There was one other car there, an old green Zodiac station wagon, which hadn’t been cleaned for weeks. I passed it and the horsebox, and stopped in front, getting out to go back to talk to the driver.
Talking to the driver had to be postponed, as he was otherwise engaged. I found him standing with his back to that side of the box which faced away from the gaze of passing motorists on the main road. He was standing with his back to the box because he could retreat no further. Before him, adopting classic threatening poses, were two men.
I knew them well enough. I had met them at Ascot.
Frizzy Hair and his mate.
They hadn’t expected to see me either and it gave me at least an equal chance. I picked up the nearest weapon to hand, which was a nice solid piece of branch fallen from one of the road-lining trees, and positively raced to the attack. If I’d stopped to think I might not have done it, but fury is a great disregarder of caution.
My face must have been an accurate mirror of my feelings. Frizzy Hair for one indecisive moment looked mesmerised, horrified, paralysed by the spectacle of a normally moderate man rushing at him murderously, and because of it he moved far too slowly. I cracked the branch down on him with a ferocity that frightened me as much as him.
He screeched and clutched at the upper reaches of his left arm, and his mate made an equally comprehensive assessment of my general intentions and bolted towards the green wagon.
Frizzy Hair followed him, flinging nothing into the battle but one parting verbal shot.
‘It won’t help you.’