He looked at me a bit sheepishly. “No, I’m not. The little fellow’s got me convinced that the two of them can really do it. I’ve got ten pounds, the last of my mustering out pay, on Pegasus to win. But what about you?”
’Twas then my time to look embarrassed. “No, he’s convinced me, too-and those odds!”
“I know,” said he. “They’re just irresistible.”
Again, just as at Shepherd’s Bush, there were so many horses entered that it was necessary to run the race in heats. Pegasus was in the first heat of the day, which meant that he was running against a field of horses that, the odds said, had no chance in the final race of the day. Still, Mr. Deuteronomy held him so in check that Pegasus did not win outright but rather placed second. (Three from each heat would compete for the King’s Plate in the last race.) Yet Pegasus had qualified, and that was all that had been asked of him, and the horse had more than two hours in which to recover himself.
The course was oval and about a mile in length. It was proper to walk a horse once round it after he had run. Deuteronomy walked Pegasus thus much at least, then trotted him round a time or two. It seemed that in the next couple of hours the horse was never completely still except when Mr. Bennett was massaging his legs.
“You see what they’re doing, don’t you?” said Mr. Patley, as always my guide in this new world.
“I think so,” said I. “Deuteronomy seems to be running exactly the same sort of race that they ran last week at Shepherd’s Bush.”
“That’s right. And he’s keeping Pegasus warm and loose without tiring him.”
No one else had seemed to notice the technique they employed, yet once it was explained to me, it appeared to be both sensible and necessary.
As Mr. Patley amplified his earlier comments, he pointed out that the favored horses raced in the last heat before the final run, so they were warmed up and ready to go when the last race of the day came. If Pegasus were to have a chance at the King’s Plate, he would have to be as properly warmed up as any that had run in the previous heat; and it appeared that he was. Yet he would also have to achieve this racing peak without having tired himself out. Mr. Deuteronomy, in his green and white racing colors, was proving-to us, at least-that there was more to jockeying than sitting on a horse.
Charade, the Duke of Queensberry’s entry, was the favorite in every way-not only the favorite of the bettors, but also with the rail-birds who crowded around us at the first pole. The reason for this was quite evident: there was probably never before or after a more beautiful horse than Charade. Big, strong-looking, and generally handsome-if races were beauty competitions, he would have won every time.
Pegasus, on the other hand, was simply smarter than the rest. He and his rider, Mr. Deuteronomy, demonstrated that very early on. Of the nine horses at the line, three reared, and two otherwise shied at the starting gun, and so Pegasus, taking off as smoothly as a ship launched into the sea, had an immediate advantage over half the field. He kept it up to the brook, which flowed across the course at that point. All four of the leaders cleared it without difficulty, yet Deuteronomy was finding it hard to find a path through the leaders. He shouted something and somehow seemed to relax his grip on the reins, giving Pegasus his head. The horse broke to the outside, and, in this way, worked past the others, one by one, up to second place-behind Charade. Both those fine animals were galloping apparently for all they were worth. The crowd, many more than five thousand in number, cheered loudly at the sight of them beating their way down the stretch. And again, Deuteronomy shouted at Pegasus, and then, little by little, Pegasus began to move up and away from Charade.
Pegasus won by a full length. There could be no disputing it. As that single, stunning fact was communicated to the vast assemblage of people all round us, they fell silent. To my ears, it seemed that Mr. Patley and I were the only two who rejoiced. And why should we not? We had suddenly become rich men.
NINE
We narrowly made the post coach to London. What with collecting our winnings and storing banknotes in our luggage that we might travel with them without calling undue attention to ourselves, it was just on five in the afternoon when we came running up to the coach.
“Here,” said the footman, reaching for my portmanteau, “you’ll want your bags up top, I’m sure.”
Mr. Patley and I exchanged glances and thus found ourselves in agreement. I jerked it back from his grasp and politely declined.
“I’ll hold it upon my lap, thank you.”
He gave me a queer look, then turned to Mr. Patley. “And you?”
“I’ll keep mine, too.”
“All right, then. Into the coach with you both. We’ve got a schedule to keep.”
Jumping inside, we arranged ourselves as best we could among the four other passengers (all of them quite respectable-looking) and made ready to go. After the footman had climbed up to his place beside the driver, there was no delay. A rowdy call, a crack of the whip, and we were off through the streets of Newmarket. It took only a few minutes for us to be out in the country on the road to Cambridge.
Unlike the trip up to Newmarket, the return journey to London was spent by us in a state of intense wakefulness. I, for one, learned in the course of that one night alone what a remarkable burden a large amount of money can be. Yet no matter how heavy, we preferred to keep our baggage right there in our hands. I’ll not pretend that supporting the weight of our good fortune, as we were, ours was-or could have been-a comfortable trip. Nevertheless, that is how we made the trip, and no complaint was heard from either of us.
We arrived at the Post Coach House in London well before sunrise, our legs so stiff and our backsides so battered that we could scarce walk. Yet as our muscles loosened a bit, we were able to pick up the pace, and it was not long till we found ourselves crossing Covent Garden. It occurred to me then that we might be on the very path taken by Elizabeth Hooker in the riskful company of her two young gallants. I wondered then-alas, for the first time! — what Sir John had turned up in his investigation of that odd situation. What had the girl at heart? Would we ever know? I realized then how glad I was to be back in London, working once again with Sir John. A life in the law was a life I had never dreamed of till I came here, to the city-and now I could imagine none other for me. Such thoughts never failed to put a smile upon my face. Yet then I thought of the report that I brought back with me-how we had found Alice Plummer and then lost her. In all truth, I was properly ashamed of how little we could claim for all the time we had spent there.
Even in the dim dawn light, Bow Street appeared the same, and as we entered through the door of Number 4, I noted that the place even smelled the same-rock oil and strong soap. Catching first glimpse of us, Mr. Baker called out a greeting.
“Which horse won at Newmarket?” he asked.
“Ah well,” answered Mr. Patley, “we’ve a story ’twill shock you and delight you.”
But I begged off: “Mr. Patley knows the story well as I. He’ll tell it better. I’m for a bit of a nap.”
With that, I staggered up the stairs, hauling my portmanteau behind. I did not knock upon the door, which would have admitted me to our kitchen; rather, did I throw it open and, unintended, send Clarissa jumping from her chair in surprise.
“Jeremy,” said she, “it’s you!”
“Who else but me? And I sat up the entire night long on the bumpiest mail coach that I might see you a few hours earlier.”
“Really?” She ran to me, threw her arms about my neck, and quite covered my face with kisses. I confess that I rather liked it.
“Sit down, sit down,” said she. “You must be quite perishing with hunger. The breakfast tea is still hot, and I’ve just cut into a pan of Molly’s soda bread. Do sit down, Jeremy, and I’ll serve you.”