“This was the conversation you mentioned in your letter to Pris?”
“Yes. I didn’t hear enough to know what was going on, but as they’d mentioned ‘the register’ and we were coming to Newmarket, I thought I’d be able to work it out once here.”
A tap on the door heralded Jacobs with a tray. Dillon pulled a side table into the space between the chairs. Jacobs set down the tray; Pris reached for the teapot. Dillon nodded his thanks, and Jacobs retreated.
Dillon waited until Rus had fortified himself with bread and roast beef, and taken a healthy swallow of ale before prompting, “And then…?
Rus dabbed at his lips with a napkin, and sat back. “The first thing that happened was that those two extra horses were brought over to England with the string, then sent off with Crom once we docked at Liverpool. I never heard where they went. As Cromarty didn’t travel with the string, I wondered if he knew what was happening. He’s an owner, and knows horses, but he doesn’t spend much time with them, let alone do any training himself. I assumed he was unaware of what ever was going on.”
Rus sipped, then went on, “The next thing…we had a big bay gelding, Flyin’ Fury, a very good runner. Cromarty had raced him over the past two seasons, and he’d done well. We ran him in the opening meet here, and he showed the field a clean pair of heels. Naturally, he was entered for another race in the next meet, the one three weeks ago. About a week before that, I noticed Flyin’ Fury…was odd.”
Rus looked at Dillon. “Not looked odd-he looked exactly like…well, himself-but I’d take an oath the horse wasn’t Flyin’ Fury.” He grimaced. “I know it sounds nonsense, but it just wasn’t the same horse. The stable lads were uncertain-the horse didn’t react to them as usual, either-but it was Crom who handled Flyin’ Fury, so other than me and Harkness, none of the others spent much time with him, and, of course, Crom and Harkness weren’t saying anything.”
“Did you mention your suspicions?” Dillon asked.
Rus shook his head. “I said nothing, and they behaved as if Flyin’ Fury was the same as ever. The real shock was that the next day, he was-meaning the real Flyin’ Fury was back.”
Rus took a long swallow of ale. “That was…hard to understand. But then two days later, the imposter was back. And then came the race, and it was the other horse that ran as Flyin’ Fury, and got beaten. He came fifth.”
He sighed. “I knew then, or at least guessed what had to be going on. I thought about going to the race stewards. The next morning, I went to check on the imposter, and lo and behold, it was the real Flyin’ Fury again! And then Harkness decided Fury needed to be spelled, and they sent him back to Ireland.
“I was sure, then, that my suspicions were correct, but I didn’t have an ounce of proof. Both the real Flyin’ Fury and the imposter were gone, and if I said anything, it would be Harkness’s and more importantly Cromarty’s word against mine, and the truth is that favorites often do lose. Good runners have bad spells. There was nothing I could point to as proof of anything.”
Pris frowned. “But why were they switching the horses back and forth?’
“To have the imposter in sufficiently good condition to pass the stewards’ prerace check.” Dillon glanced at her. “If a horse hasn’t been prepared to a certain degree, the stewards can stop it from running, which is almost the same as losing the race, but won’t have the same effect-the desired effect-wager-wise, and will also start an inquiry into the trainer’s preparation, and that’s the last thing a substitution racket needs. So they’ll make sure the substitute horse is reasonably prepared, and as they can’t risk both horses being seen simultaneously, they switch the substitute in and out of the string in the weeks before the race.”
Pris stared at him, then looked at Rus. “So you decided to look at the Breeding Register?”
Rus shook his head. “Not then. Almost immediately, something else happened. Cromarty has a young filly, just over two years old, and she’s lightning on legs. She’s unbeatable in a sprint. I’d been working with her since I started with Cromarty-she’s young, so needs more preparation. Blistering Belle-she went out in the first meet and left the other runners standing. In the second meet, she did even better. Then, in the week after Flyin’ Fury went home, I went into the stable one morning, and it wasn’t Blistering Belle.”
Rus caught Dillon’s eye. “I don’t know how they’re doing it, but I couldn’t fault a single point on that horse. Physically, she was a perfect match for Belle, only I knew she wasn’t Belle.”
Dillon frowned. “Who rides Belle in training, at gallops?”
“Crom-Harkness’s man.”
“So there’s no one who’s in any position to corroborate your view?”
Rus shook his head. “But with Belle, I don’t need anyone else’s opinion. I have proof.” He glanced at Pris, drawing her in. “Belle hates red apples-won’t touch them-but most horses love them, of course. I tried the imposter in Belle’s stall, and she lipped a ripe pippin from my palm quick smart. And that was my downfall-Harkness saw me do it. He didn’t know about Belle and red apples, but he took note-nothing was more certain but that he’d mentioned it to Crom. They’re thick as thieves, those two, and Crom did know-he’d see what it meant.”
“And Harkness would then know that you knew,” Pris said. “So what did you do?”
Rus drew a deep breath. “I made a much bigger mistake. I went to Cromarty-a gentleman and a peer. I was sure he wasn’t involved, that it was Harkness and Crom behind what ever was going on. I knew I only had the time it would take Harkness to find Crom and ask about the apple. Cromarty was in his study in the manor-I went in and told him all I’d learned, all I suspected.
“He was shocked. Appalled and shaken.” Rus’s lips twisted. “I realize now that it was because I’d found out, but at the time his reaction fitted. He told me to leave it all to him, that he would deal with the problem immediately. I agreed, and left. I heard him give orders to have Harkness summoned.”
Rus paused, then went on, “By the time I reached the stable yard, my thumbs were pricking. Things didn’t feel right-shouldn’t Cromarty have tried to dismiss what I’d said? He’d just sat there and goggled at every assertion I’d made. He never protested. And he hadn’t questioned me on any of the details.” His lips thinned. “I didn’t go back to my room. I hid in the yard until I saw Harkness go in, then scooted around the house, and listened under Cromarty’s study window.”
Rus blew out a breath. “I heard Cromarty tell Harkness that I knew of their scheme, and then they discussed how to get rid of me-to silence me. I didn’t wait to hear their decision. I raced back, packed my things, and hied out into the night.”
“Where did you go?” Pris asked.
Rus grinned. “I spent the first night in the church at Swaffam Prior. I reasoned it was the last place Harkness and Crom would look. After that I moved either at night or during training times. But I knew I had to get proof, unequivocal proof of whatever’s going on.” His gaze switched to Dillon’s face. “Until I have that-enough so the authorities can arrest Cromarty, Harkness, and Crom-it’s too dangerous to come out of hiding.”
Dillon held Rus’s gaze and gave thanks that he, unlike his sister, had a healthy respect for the situation they were facing. A good grasp of it, too, if the fear shadowing his green eyes was any guide. Rus had cheated death by minutes, and he knew it. Thoroughbred racing was known as the sport of kings, and just like the kings who’d established it, the sport had a darker side.