'Which are yours?' I said.
'The two chestnuts. That one with the white socks is Pinafore. The other's nothing much.'
The nothing much had short cannon bones and a rounded rump. Might make a 'chaser one day, I thought. I liked the look of him better than the whippet-shaped Pinafore. They set off together up the gallop at George's signal, and the sprinting blood showed all the way to the top. Pinafore romped it and the nothing much lived up to his owner's assessment. Trevor Deansgate lowered his binoculars with a sigh.
'That's that, then. Are you coming to George's for breakfast?'
'No. Not today.' He raised the glasses again and focussed them on the much nearer target of the circling string, and, from the angle, he was looking at the riders, not the horses. The search came to an end on Inky Poole: he lowered the glasses and followed Tri-Nitro with the naked eye.
'A week today,' I said.
'Looks a picture.' I supposed that he, like all bookmakers, would be happy to see the hot favourite lose the Guineas, but there was nothing in his voice except admiration for a great horse. Tri-Nitro lined up in his turn and at a signal from George set off with two companions at a deceptively fast pace. Inky Poole, I was interested to see, sat as quiet as patience and rode with a skill worth ten times what he would be paid. Good work jockeys were undervalued. Bad ones could ruin a horse's mouth and temperament and whole career. It figured that for the stableful he'd got, George Caspar would employ only the best.
It was not the flat-out searching gallop they would hold on the following Saturday morning over a long smooth surface like the Limekilns. Up the incline of Warren Hill a fast canter was testing enough. Tri-Nitro took the whole thing without a hint of effort, and breasted the top as if he could go up there six times more without noticing.
Impressive, I thought. The Press, clearly agreeing, were scribbling in their notebooks. Trevor Deansgate looked thoughtful, as well he might, and George Caspar, coming down the hill and reining in near us, looked almost smugly satisfied. The Guineas, one felt, were in the bag.
After they had done their work the horses walked down the hill to join the still circling string where the work riders changed onto fresh mounts and set off again up to the top. Tri-Nitro got back his lad with the olive-green husky and the red scarf, and eventually the whole lot of them set off home.
'That's that, then,' George said. 'All set, Trevor? Breakfast?'
They nodded farewells to me and set off, one in the car, one on the horse. I had eyes mostly, however, for Inky Poole, who had been four times up the hill and was walking off a shade morosely to a parked car.
'Inky,' I said, coming up behind him, 'the gallop on Tri-Nitro… that was great.'
He looked at me sourly. 'I've got nothing to say.'
'I'm not from the press.'
'I know who you are. Saw you racing. Who hasn't?' Unfriendly: almost a sneer. 'What do you want?'
'How does Tri-Nitro compare with Gleaner, this time last year?'
He fished the car keys out of a zipper pocket in his anorak, and fitted one into the lock. What I could see of his face looked obstinately unhelpful.
'Did Gleaner, a week before the Guineas, give you the same sort of feel?' I said.
'I'm not talking to you.'
'How about Zingaloo?' I said. 'Or Bethesda?' He opened his car door and slid down into the driving seat, taking out time to give me a hostile glare.
'Piss off,' he said. Slammed the door. Stabbed the ignition key into the dashboard and forcefully drove away.
Chico had arisen to breakfast but was sitting in the pub's dining room holding his head.
'Don't look so healthy,' he said when I joined him.
'Bacon and eggs,' I said. 'That's what I'll have. Or kippers, perhaps. And strawberry jam.'
He groaned.
'I'm going back to London,' I said. 'But would you mind staying here?' I brought the camera out of my pocket. 'Take the film out of that and get it developed. Overnight if possible. There's some pictures of Tri-Nitro and Inky Poole on there. We might find them helpful, you never know.'
'O. K., then,' he said. 'But you'll have to ring up the Comprehensive and tell them that my black belt's at the cleaners.'
I laughed. 'There were some girls riding in George Caspar's string this morning,' I said. 'See what you can do.'
'That's beyond the call of duty.' But his eye seemed suddenly brighter. 'What am I asking?'
'Things like who saddles Tri-Nitro for exercise gallops, and what's the routine from now until next Wednesday, and whether anything nasty is stirring in the jungle.'
'What about you, then?' 'I'll be back Friday night,' I said. 'In time for the gallops on Saturday. They're bound to gallop Tri-Nitro on Saturday. A strong work-out, to bring him to a peak.'
'Do you really think anything dodgy's going on?' Chico said.
'A toss-up. I just don't know. I'd better ring Rosemary.'
I went through the Mr Barnes routine again and Rosemary came on the line sounding as agitated as ever. 'I can't talk. We've people here for breakfast.' 'Just listen, then,' I said. 'Try to persuade George to vary his routine, when he gallops Tri-Nitro on Saturday. Put up a different jockey, for instance? Not Inky Poole.'
'You don't think…' her voice was high, and broke off.
'I don't know at all,' I said. 'But if George changed everything about, there'd be less chance of skulduggery. Routine is the robber's best friend.'
'What? Oh yes. All right. I'll try. What about you?'
'I'll be out watching the gallop. After that, I'll stick around, until after the Guineas is safely over. But I wish you'd let me talk to George.'
'No. He'd be livid. I'll have to go now.' The receiver went down with a rattle which spoke of still unsteady hands, and I feared that George might be right about his wife being neurotic.
Charles and I met as usual at the Cavendish the following day, and sat in the upstairs bar's armchairs.
'You look happier,' he said, 'than I've seen you since…'he gestured to my arm, with his glass. 'Released in spirit. Not your usual stoical self.'
'I've been in Newmarket,' I said. 'Watched the gallops, yesterday morning.'
'I would have thought…' he stopped. 'That I'd be eaten by jealousy?' I said. 'So would I. But I enjoyed it.'
'Good.' 'I'm going up again tomorrow night and staying until after the Guineas next Wednesday.'
'And lunch, next Thursday?'
I smiled and bought him a large pink gin. 'I'll be back for that.'
In due course we ate scallops one-handedly in a wine and cheese sauce, and he gave me the news of Jenny.
'Oliver Quayle sent the address you asked for, for the polish.' He took a paper from his breast pocket and handed it over. 'Oliver is worried. He says the police are actively pursuing their enquiries, and Jenny is almost certain to be charged.'
'When?'
'I don't know. Oliver doesn't know. Sometimes these things take weeks, but not always. And when they charge her, Oliver says, she will have to appear in a magistrates' court, and they are certain to refer the case to the Crown Court, as so much money is involved. They'll give her bail, of course.'
'Bail!'
'Oliver says she is unfortunately very likely to be convicted, but that if it is stressed that she acted as she did under the influence of Nicholas Ashe, she'll probably get some sympathy from the judge and a conditional discharge.'
'Even if he isn't found?' 'Yes. But of course if he is found, and charged, and found guilty, Jenny would with luck escape a conviction altogether.'
I took a deep breath that was half a sigh. 'Have to find him then, won't we?' I said.
'How?'
'Well… I spent a lot of Monday, and all of this morning, looking through a box of letters. They came from the people who sent money, and ordered wax. Eighteen hundred of them, or thereabouts.'