‘That’s better,’ I said, smiling back. ‘And what have you been up to?’
‘I’ve spent most of the day monitoring the two-year-old from last night. And discussing his future with the owner.’ She raised her eyes to the heavens. ‘He would have much rather I put the animal down than save its life.’
‘How come?’ I said.
‘Seems it’s insured against being dead, but not against being a hopeless racehorse.’
‘And is it a hopeless racehorse?’ I asked.
‘It might be after yesterday,’ she said. ‘Might not be able to race at all. Much more profitable to him dead.’
‘Is bleeding in the lungs common in horses?’ I asked.
‘Fairly,’ she said. ‘But mostly EIPH. This one was a static bleed.’
‘EIPH?’ I said.
‘Sorry,’ she replied, smiling. ‘Exercise-induced pulmonary haemorrhage.’
I began to wish I’d never asked.
‘Lots of horses bleed slightly into their lungs during stressful exercise but that usually clears up quickly and spontaneously without too much damage and without any blood showing externally. Horses’ lungs are big and efficient but they need to be. Aracehorse needs masses of oxygen delivered to its muscles to run fast. You just have to see how hard they blow after the finish.’ She paused, but only for breath herself. ‘During the race their action helps their breathing. As they stretch out their hind quarters, they draw air in, and then that’s blown out again by their legs coming forward in the stride. It makes Thoroughbreds very efficient gallopers when both their hind legs move together, pumping air in and out of their lungs like pistons. But it also means that the air fairly rushes in and out at hurricane speeds and that sometimes damages the lining, which, by definition, has to be flimsy and fragile to let the oxygen pass into the bloodstream in the first place.’
I sat there listening to her, understanding every word and loving it. Not since Angela had died had I enjoyed the experience of a bright, educated and enthusiastic female companion describing to me something complicated because it interested her, and not just because I had asked her to do so as part of my job.
‘So, is a static bleed worse?’ I asked her.
‘Not necessarily,’ she said. ‘But it might make EIPH more likely. And horses that regularly show blood on their nostrils after racing are discouraged from running again and, in some countries, they’re not allowed to. The horses are usually referred to as having burst a blood vessel, or having had a nosebleed.’
I had heard both the terms used often on the racecourse.
‘It’s not really a blood vessel as such,’ she said. ‘And the blood comes not from the nose but from the alveoli in the lungs. In America they all use a drug called Lasix to help prevent it, but that’s against the Rules of Racing here.’
I didn’t really want to stop her but the publican came over and asked us if we were ready to eat, so we moved to a table in the corner of the bar.
‘Tell me about the man in the picture,’ Eleanor said as we sat down.
‘Not really much to tell,’ I said. ‘His name is Jack Rensburg, and he’s a South African who used to work for the Radcliffes but has now gone away.’
‘Where to?’ she said.
‘I haven’t found that out yet,’ I said.
‘Is he coming back?’ she said.
‘I don’t know that either, but I doubt it. He’s been gone for two years or more.’
‘Bit of a dead end, then?’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘But I’ll set Arthur onto it on Monday. He loves a challenge.’
‘Arthur?’ she asked.
‘Chief Clerk at my chambers,’ I said. ‘Knows everything, walks on water, that sort of thing.’
‘Useful,’ she said, smiling broadly, but the smile faded.
‘Horse walks into a bar -’ I said.
‘What?’ said Eleanor, interrupting.
‘Horse walks into a bar,’ I repeated. ‘Barman says, “Why the long face?”’
She laughed. ‘The old ones are always the best.’
‘So, why the long face?’ I said to her again.
She stopped laughing. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘I’m just being silly.’
‘If it’s nothing,’ I said. ‘Tell me.’
‘No,’ she said in mock seriousness. ‘It’s private.’
‘Have I done something wrong?’ I said.
‘No, of course not,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing. Forget it.’
‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘For the first time in more than seven years I don’t feel guilty at being out with another woman and, suddenly, there’s something wrong. And I’m worried it’s because of what I’ve said or done.’
‘Geoffrey,’ she said laying a hand on my arm. ‘It’s nothing like that.’ She laughed, throwing her head back.
‘Well what is it, then?’ I asked determinedly.
She leaned forward close to me. ‘Wrong time of the month,’ she said. ‘I was so afraid you would ask me to sleep with you, and I don’t want to, not like this.’
‘Oh,’ I said, embarrassed. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s not a disease you know,’ she said with a laugh, the sparkle back in her eyes. ‘It’ll be gone by Monday, or Tuesday.’
‘Oh,’ I said again. ‘Monday or Tuesday,’ I repeated rather vaguely.
‘And I’m not on call on either night,’ she giggled.
I didn’t know whether to feel embarrassed, excited or just plain foolish.
The publican came over to our table to save me from further blushes. There was another man behind him. ‘There’s a chap here who used to play cricket with Jack,’ he said. ‘He may be able to help you.’
‘Thank you very much,’ I said.
The man pulled up a chair and sat down at the table.
‘Pete Ritch,’ the man said by way of introduction. ‘Hear you’re looking for Jack Rensburg.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m Geoffrey Mason and this is Eleanor.’ He nodded at her.
‘What do you want him for?’ he asked.
‘I’m a lawyer and I’d like to talk to him,’ I said.
‘Is he in trouble?’ he said.
He was the second person who thought he might have been in trouble.
‘No. No trouble,’ I said. ‘I just need to talk to him.’
‘Is it some inheritance thing?’ he asked. ‘Has some aunt left him a pile?’
‘Something like that,’ I said.
‘Well, I’m sorry, then, ’cause I don’t rightly know where he is no more.’
‘When did you last see him?’ I asked.
‘Years ago now,’ he said. ‘He went on holiday and just never came back.’
‘Do you know where he went?’
‘Somewhere exotic it was,’ said Pete. I thought that anywhere out of Oxfordshire might seem exotic to him. ‘Far East or something.’
‘Can you think exactly when that was?’
‘It was during the last England tour to South Africa,’ he said with some certainty. ‘Him and me had a wager on the result and he never came back to pay me when England won. I remember that.’
‘Cricket tour?’ I asked.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Dead keen on his cricket was Jack. His name was actually spelt with a “ques” at the end, like that famous South African cricketer Jacques Kallis. He was proud of that. But we all just called him Jack.’
‘Do you know anything else about him?’ I asked. ‘Does he have any family here, or did he own a house or a car?’
‘No idea,’ he said. ‘I only knew him from in here, and at the cricket club. He could bowl a bit. Spinners, mostly.’
‘Thank you so much, Pete,’ I said to him. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’
He made no move to stand up or to leave our table.
‘Sorry,’ I said, understanding. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’
‘That would be handsome,’ he said.
I waved at the publican, who came over.
‘Would you please give Pete here a drink on me,’ I said. ‘And one for yourself as well.’
They went off together to the bar and, subsequently, Pete waved a full pint in my direction. I nodded at him and smiled. Eleanor was trying very hard not to completely collapse in a fit of giggles.