'My girl assistant says she saw you riding work on the Heath,' he said. 'I didn't really believe her, but she was sure. Your head, without a helmet, unmistakable. With Martin England's horses, she said, so I rang on the off-chance.'
'What can I do for you?' I said.
'Actually it's the other way round,' he said. 'Or at least, I think so. I had a letter from the Jockey Club earlier this week, all very official and everything, asking me to let them know at once if Gleaner or Zingaloo died, and not to get rid of the carcass. Well, when I got that letter I rang Lucas Wainwright, who signed it, to ask what the hell it was all about, and he said it was really you who wanted to know if either of those horses died. He was telling me that in confidence, he said.'
My mouth went as dry as vinegar.
'Are you still there?'
'Yes,' I said.
'Then I'd better tell you that Gleaner has, in fact, just died.' 'When?' I said, feeling stupid. 'Er… how?' My heart rate had gone up to at least double. Talk about over-reacting, I thought, and felt the fear stab through like toothache.
'A mare he was due to cover came into use, so we put him to her,' he said, 'this morning. An hour ago, maybe. He was sweating a lot, in this heat. It's hot in the breeding shed, with 174
the sun on it. Anyway, he served her and got down all right, and then he just staggered and fell and died almost at once.'
I unstuck my tongue. 'Where is he now?'
'Still in the breeding shed. We're not using it again this morning so I've left him there. I've tried to ring the Jockey Club, but it's Saturday and Lucas Wainwright isn't there, and anyway, as my girl said that you yourself were actually here in Newmarket…'
'Yes,' I said. I took a shaky breath.
'A post mortem. You would agree, wouldn't you?'
'Essential, I'd say. Insurance, and all that.'
'I'll try and get Ken Armadale,' I said. 'From the Equine Research Establishment. I know him… Would he do you?'
'Couldn't be better.'
'I'll ring you back.'
'Right,' he said, and disconnected. I stood with Martin's telephone in my hand and looked into far dark spaces. It's too soon, I thought. Much too soon.
'What's the matter?' Martin said. 'A horse I've been enquiring about has died.'… Oh God Almighty… 'Can I use your 'phone?' I said.
'Help yourself.'
Ken Armadale said he was gardening and would much rather cut up a dead horse. I'll pick you up, I said, and he said he'd be waiting. My hand, I saw remotely, was actually shaking.
I rang back to Henry Thrace, to confirm. Thanked Martin for his tremendous hospitality. Put my suitcase and myself in the car, and picked up Ken Armadale from his large modern house on the southern edge of Newmarket.
'What am I looking for?' he said.
'Heart, I think.'
He nodded. He was a strong dark-haired research vet in his middle thirties, a man I'd dealt with on similar jaunts before, to the extent that I felt easy with him and trusted him, and as far as I could tell he felt the same about me. A professional friendship, extending to a drink in a pub but not to Christmas cards, the sort of relationship that remained unchanged and could be taken up and put down as need arose.
'Anything special?' he said.
'Yes… but I don't know what.'
That's cryptic.'
'Let's see what you find.'
Gleaner, I thought. If there were three horses I should definitely be doing nothing about, they were Gleaner and Zingaloo and Tri-Nitro. I wished I hadn't asked Lucas Wainwright to write those letters, one to Henry Thrace, the other to George Caspar. If those horses died, let me know… but not so soon, so appallingly soon.
I drove into Henry Thrace's stud farm and pulled up with a jerk. He came out of his house to meet us, and we walked across to the breeding shed. As with most such structures, its walls swept up to a height of ten feet, unbroken except for double entrance doors. Above that there was a row of windows, and above those, a roof. Very like Peter Rammileese's covered riding school, I thought, only smaller.
The day, which was hot outside, was very much hotter inside. The dead horse lay where he had fallen on the tan-covered floor, a sad brown hump with milky grey eyes.
'I rang the knackers,' Ken said. 'They'll be here pretty soon.'
Henry Thrace nodded. It was impossible to do the post mortem where the horse lay, as the smell of blood would linger for days and upset any other horse that came in there. We waited for not very long until the lorry arrived with its winch, and when the horse was loaded, we followed it down to the knackers' yard where Newmarket's casualties were cut up for dog food. A small hygienic place; very clean.
Ken Armadale opened the bag he had brought and handed me a washable nylon boiler suit, like his own, to cover trousers and shirt. The horse lay in a square room with whitewashed walls and a concrete floor. In the floor, runnels and a drain. Ken turned on a tap so that water ran out of the hose beside the horse, and pulled on a pair of long rubber gloves.
'All set?' he said. I nodded, and he made the first long incision. The smell, as on past occasions, was what I liked least about the next ten minutes, but Ken seemed not to notice it as he checked methodically through the contents. When the chest cavity had been opened he removed its whole heart-lung mass and carried it over to the table which stood under the single window.
'This is odd,' he said, after a pause. 'What is?'
'Take a look.'
I went over beside him and looked where he was pointing, but I hadn't his knowledge behind my eyes, and all I saw was a blood-covered lump of tissue with tough looking ridges of gristle in it.
'His heart?' I said.
'That's right. Look at these valves…' He turned his head to me, frowning. 'He died of something horses don't get.' He thought it over. 'It's a great pity we couldn't have had a blood sample before he died.'
'There's another horse at Henry Thrace's with the same thing,' I said. 'You can get your blood sample from him.'
He straightened up from bending over the heart, and stared at me.
'Sid,' he said. 'You'd better tell me what's up. And outside, don't you think, in some fresh air.'
We went out, and it was a great deal better. He stood listening, with blood all over his gloves and down the front of his overalls, while I wrestled with the horrors in the back of my mind and spoke with flat lack of emotion from the front.
'There are… or were… four of them,' I said. 'Four that I know of. They were all top star horses, favourites all winter for the Guineas and the Derby. That class. The very top. They all came from the same stable. They all went out to race in Guineas week looking marvellous. They all started hot favourites, and they all totally flopped. They all suffered from a mild virus infection at about that time, but it didn't develop. They all were subsequently found to have heart murmurs.'
Ken frowned heavily. 'Go on.'
'There was Bethesda, who ran in the One Thousand Guineas two years ago. She went to stud, and she died of heart failure this spring, while she was foaling.'
Ken took a deep breath.
'There's this one,' I said, pointing. 'Gleaner. He was favourite for the Guineas last year. He then got a really bad heart, and also arthritis. The other horse at Henry Thrace's, Zingaloo, he went out fit to a race and afterwards could hardly stand from exhaustion.'
Ren nodded. 'And which is the fourth one?' I Iooked up at the sky. Blue and clear. I'm killing myself, I thought. I looked back at him and said, 'Tri-Nitro.'
'Sid!' He was shocked. 'Only ten days ago.'
'So what is it?' I said. 'What's the matter with them?'
'I'd have to do some tests, to be certain,' he said. 'But the symptoms you've described are typical, and those heart valves are unmistakable. That horse died from swine erysipelas, which is a disease you get only in pigs.' Ken said, 'We need to keep that heart for evidence.'
'Yes,' I said.
Dear God…
'Get one of those bags, will you?' he said. 'Hold it open.' He put the heart inside. 'We'd better go along to the Research Centre, later. I've been thinking… I know I've got some reference papers there about erysipelas in horses. We could look them up, if you like.'