‘Arrogant little pipsqueak,’ Constantine said.
‘I can’t honestly see him taking such trouble to stop Mrs Sanders giving Nicol a horse for his birthday.’
‘Can’t you?’ Constantine looked down his nose as if he could believe half a dozen more improbable things before breakfast. ‘He’d do anything he could think of to irritate me, however petty.’
‘But how could he have known I was buying the horse for Nicol?’
He took barely three seconds to come up with an answer. ‘He saw you at the sales with Kerry, and he has seen her at the races with me.’
‘He wasn’t at the sales,’ I said.
He shrugged impatiently. ‘All you mean is that you didn’t see him.’
I doubted if it were possible to be in so small a place as Ascot Sales’ paddock and not know whether Wilton Young was there or not. He had a voice as loud as Constantine’s and a good deal more piercing, and he was not a man who liked to be overlooked.
‘Anyway,’ Nicol said, ‘I’ll bet his bloodstock agent was there. That carrot-headed little Yorkshireman who buys his horses.’
I nodded. ‘So was your own chap, Vic Vincent.’
Constantine had nothing but praise for Vic Vincent.
‘He’s bought me some great yearlings this time. Two he bought at Newmarket last week... classic colts, both of them. Wilton Young will have nothing to touch them.’
He went on at some length about the dozen or so youngsters which according to him were about to sweep the two-year-old board, patting himself on the back for having bought them. Vic Vincent was a great judge of a yearling. Vic Vincent was a great fellow altogether.
Vic Vincent was a great fellow to his clients, and that was about where it ended. I listened to Constantine singing his praises and drank my champagne and wondered if Vic Vincent thought me enough of a threat to his Brevett monopoly to whip away any horse I bought for the family. On balance I doubted it. Vic Vincent looked on me as Wilton Young looked on non Yorkshiremen: not worth bothering about.
I finished the champagne and found Kerry Sanders watching me. For signs of alcoholism, I supposed. I smiled at her and she smiled a little primly back.
‘Kerry my dear, you couldn’t do better, another time, than to consult Vic Vincent...’
‘Yes, Constantine,’ she said.
From Gloucester to Esher I thought about Frizzy Hair a little and Sophie Randolph a lot. She opened her door with the composure all in place and greeted me with a duplicate of the Gatwick kiss, cheek to cheek, a deal too chaste.
‘You found me, then,’ she said.
‘How long have you lived here?’
‘Just over a year.’
‘So you weren’t here when I used to race next door.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Come in.’
She looked different. She was wearing another long dress, not white and black and silver this time, but a glowing mixture of greens and blues. The cut on her forehead had crusted over and her system had recovered from the state of shock. Her hair looked a warmer gold, her eyes a deeper brown, and only the inner self reliance hadn’t changed a jot.
‘How’s your arm?’ I asked.
‘Much better. It itches.’
‘Already? You heal fast.’
She shut the door behind me. The small lobby was an offshoot of the sitting-room which opened straight ahead, warm, colourful and full of charming things.
‘It’s pretty,’ I said, and meant it.
‘Don’t sound so surprised.’
‘It’s just... I thought perhaps your room might be more bare. A lot of smooth empty surfaces, and space.’
‘I may be smooth but I’m not empty.’
‘I grovel,’ I said.
‘Quite right.’
There were no aeroplanes on her walls, but she wore a little gold one on a chain round her neck. Her fingers strayed to it over and over again during the evening, an unconscious gesture from which she seemed to gain confidence and strength.
A bottle of white wine and two glasses stood ready on a small silver tray.
She gestured towards them noncommittally and said, ‘Would you like some? Or don’t you ever?’
‘When Crispin is drunk,’ I said, ‘I drink.’
‘Well, hallelujah.’ She seemed relieved. ‘In that case, take your jacket off, sit on the sofa, and tell me how you got on with my aunt.’
She made no mention at all of my invitation to marry. Maybe she had decided to treat it as a joke, and yesterday’s joke at that. Maybe she was right.
‘Your aunt,’ I said, ‘wouldn’t take my advice if I showed her the way to Heaven.’
‘Why not?’ She handed me a glass and sat down comfortably opposite in an armchair.
I explained why not, and she was instantly angry on her aunt’s behalf.
‘She was swindled.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Something must be done.’
I sipped the wine. Light, dry, unexpectedly flowery, and definitely not supermarket plonk.
‘The trouble is,’ I said, ‘That the kick back system is not illegal. Far from it. To many it is a perfectly sensible business method and anyone who doesn’t take advantage of it is a fool.’
‘But to demand half her profit...’
‘The argument goes that an agent promised a large kick back will raise the auction price much higher than it might have gone, so the breeder positively benefits. Some breeders don’t just put up with having to pay the kick backs, they offer to do so. In those cases everyone is happy.’
‘Except the person who buys the horse,’ she said severely. ‘He comes off badly. Why do the buyers stand for it?’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘What clients don’t know would sink a battleship.’
She looked disapproving. ‘I don’t like the sound of your profession.’ She added, in the understatement of the year, ‘It isn’t straightforward.’
‘What sort of agent you are depends on how you see things,’ I said. ‘Honesty is your own view from the hill.’
‘That’s immoral.’
I shook my head. ‘Universal.’
‘You’re saying that honesty in the bloodstock business is only a matter of opinion.’
‘And in every business, every country, every era, since the world began.’
‘Jonah, you talk nonsense.’
‘How about marriage?’
‘What are the kickbacks?’
‘Oh God,’ I said. ‘You learn fast.’
She laughed and stood up. ‘I’m a lousy cook but if you stay I’ll give you a delicious dinner.’
I stayed. The dinner came out of frozen packs and would have pleased Lucullus; lobster in sauce on shells and duck with almonds and honey. The freezer was the largest item in the small white kitchen. She stocked it up every six months, she said, and did practically no shopping in between.
Afterwards, over coffee, I told her about Frizzy Hair turning up to take River God. It did nothing much to improve her view of my job. I told her about the flourishing feud between Constantine Brevett and Wilton Young, and also about Vic Vincent, the blue eyed boy who could do no wrong.
‘Constantine thinks the yearlings he’s bought must be good because they were expensive.’
‘It sounds reasonable.’
‘It isn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Year after year top prices get paid for the prize flops.’
‘But why?’
‘Because,’ I said, ‘yearlings haven’t been raced yet, and no one knows whether they will actually be any good. They make their price on their breeding.’ And that too could be rigged, though I didn’t think I had better tell her.
‘This Vic Vincent... he’s been paying high prices for good breeding?’
‘High prices for moderate breeding. Vic Vincent is costing Constantine a packet. He’s the biggest kickback merchant of the lot, and getting greedier every minute.’