She said ruefully, “I hope I would have come to my senses and done a bunk before they got there.” She sighed. “Greville said if I ever had to use the kiyoga in earnest to escape at once and not worry what I’d done to my attacker, but he never thought of a burglar in his own house.”
“I’m surprised he gave you a weapon like that,” I said mildly. “Aren’t they illegal? And him a magistrate.”
“I’m a magistrate too,” she said unexpectedly. “That’s how we originally met, at a magistrate’s conference. I’ve not inquired into the legality of kiyogas. If I were prosecuted for carrying and using an offensive weapon, well, that would be much preferable to being a victim of the appalling assaults that come before us every week.”
“Where did he get it?” I asked curiously.
“America.”
“Do you have it with you here?”
She nodded and touched her handbag. “It’s second nature, now.”
She must have been thirty years younger than her husband, I thought inconsequently, and I knew what she felt about him. I didn’t know whether or not I liked her, but I did recognize there was a weird sort of intimacy between us and that I didn’t resent it.
The jockeys came out and stood around with the owners in little groups. Nicholas Loder was there with the man he’d come in with, a thickset powerful-looking man in a dark suit, the pink cardboard Club badge fluttering from his lapel.
“Dozen Roses,” I said, watching Loder talking to the owner and his jockey, “was he named for you?”
“Oh, God,” she said, disconcerted. “How ever...?”
I said, “I put your roses on the coffin for the service.”
“Oh...” she murmured with difficulty, her throat closing, her mouth twisting, “I... I can’t...”
“Tell me how York University came to be putting its name to a race.” I made it sound conversational, to give her composure time.
She swallowed, fighting for control, steadying her breathing. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I can’t even mourn for him except inside; can’t let it show to anyone except you, and it sweeps over me, I can’t help it.” She paused and answered my unimportant question. “The Clerk of the Course wanted to involve the city. Some of the bigwigs of the University were against joining in, but Henry persuaded them. He and I have always come here to meetings now and then. We both like it, for a day out with friends.”
“Your husband doesn’t actually lecture at the University, does he?”
“Oh no, he’s just a figurehead. He’s chairman of a fair number of things in York. A public figure here.”
Vulnerable to scandal, I thought: as she was herself, and Greville also. She and he must have been unwaveringly discreet.
“How long since you first met Greville?” I asked noncommittally.
“Four years.” She paused. “Four marvelous years. Not enough.”
The jockeys swung up onto the horses and moved away to go out onto the course. Nicholas Loder and his owner, busily talking, went off to the stands.
“May I watch the race with you?” Clarissa said. “Do you mind?”
“I was going to watch from the grass.” I glanced down apologetically at the crutches. “It’s easier.”
“I don’t mind the grass.”
So we stood side by side on the grass in front of the grandstand and she said, “Whenever we could be together, he bought twelve red roses. It just... well...” She stopped, swallowing again hard.
“Mm,” I said. I thought of the ashes and the red rose tree and decided to tell her about that another time. It had been for him, anyway, not for her.
Nicholas Loder’s two-year-old won the sprint at a convincing clip and I caught a glimpse of the owner afterward looking heavily satisfied but unsmiling. Hardly a jolly character, I thought.
Clarissa went off to join her husband for the University race and after that, during their speeches and presentations, I went in search of Dozen Roses who was being led round in the pre-parade ring before being taken into a box or a stall to have his saddle put on.
Dozen Roses looked docile to dozy, I thought. An unremarkable bay, he had none of the looks or presence of Datepalm, nor the ‘chaser’s alert interest in his surroundings. He was a good performer, of that there was no question, but he didn’t at that moment give an impression of going to be a “trot-up” within half an hour, and he was vaguely not what I’d expected. Was this the colt that on the video tapes had won his last three races full of verve? Was this the young buck who had tried to mount a filly at the starting gate at Newmarket Park?
No, I saw with a sense of shock, he was not. I peered under his belly more closely, as it was sometimes difficult to tell, but there seemed to be no doubt that he had lost the essential tackle; that he had in fact been gelded.
I was stunned, and I didn’t know whether to laugh or be furious. It explained so much: the loss of form when he had his mind on procreation rather than racing, and the return to speed once the temptation was removed. It explained why the Stewards hadn’t called Loder in to justify the difference in running: horses very often did better after the operation.
I unfolded my race-card at Dozen Roses’ race, and there, sure enough, against his name stood not c for colt or h for horse, but g for gelding.
Nicholas Loder’s voice, vibrating with fury, spoke from not far behind me, “That horse is not your horse. Keep away from him.”
I turned. Loder was advancing fast with Dozen Roses’ saddle over his arm and full-blown rage in his face. The heavily unjoyful owner, still for some reason in tow, was watching the proceedings with puzzlement.
“Mine or not, I’m entitled to look at him,” I said. “And look at him I darned well have, and either he is not Dozen Roses or you have gelded him against my brother’s express wishes.”
His mouth opened and snapped shut.
“What’s the matter, Nick?” the owner said. “Who is this?”
Loder failed to introduce us. Instead he said to me vehemently, “You can’t do anything about it. I have an Authority to Act. I am the registered agent for this horse and what I decide is none of your business.”
“My brother refused to have any of his horses gelded. You knew it well. You disobeyed him because you were sure he wouldn’t find out, as he never went to the races.”
He glared at me. He was aware that if I lodged a formal complaint he would be in a good deal of trouble, and I thought he was certainly afraid that as my brother’s executor I could and quite likely would do just that. Even if I only talked about it to others, it could do him damage: it was the sort of tidbit the hungry racing press would pounce on for a giggle, and the owners of all the princely colts in his prestigious stable would get cold feet that the same might happen to their own property without their knowledge or consent.
He had understood all that, I thought, in the moment I’d told him on the telephone that it was I who would be inheriting Dozen Roses. He’d known that if I ever saw the horse I would realize at once what had been done. No wonder he’d lost his lower resonances.
“Greville was a fool,” he said angrily. “The horse has done much better since he was cut.”
“That’s true,” I agreed, “but it’s not the point.”
“How much do you want, then?” he demanded roughly.
My own turn, I thought, to gape like a fish. I said feebly, “It’s not a matter of money.”
“Everything is,” he declared. “Name your price and get out of my way.”
I glanced at the attendant owner who looked more phlegmatic than riveted, but might remember and repeat this conversation, and I said merely, “We’ll discuss it later, OK?” and hitched myself away from them without aggression.