Dick Francis's Gamble - Felix Francis [116]
Both Jan’s and Martin’s horses were still in the leading group, although even those appeared tired and leaden-footed as they reached the highest point of the course and then swung left-handed down the hill towards the finishing straight. Three and a half miles was a very, very long way in such heavy going.
Just as Jan had feared, the young jockey on her horse took the lead too soon. Even on the screen, it was clear to see that the horse didn’t enjoy being on her own in front, and the mare started to falter and weave about, almost coming to a complete stop just before the last fence. She would have probably refused to jump altogether if another horse hadn’t galloped past and given her a lead to hop over the obstacle with almost zero forward motion, not that the other horse seemed that keen to win the race either.
That horse too swung from side to side, as the jockey kept looking around as if he was wondering where all the other horses had gone. The answer was that most of them had pulled up on their way down the hill, figuring, quite rightly, that they didn’t have any chance of winning.
Only three of the original fifteen starters actually crossed the finishing line, with Martin Gifford’s horse home first. Jan’s mare was second, finishing at a walk and some twenty lengths behind the winner, and then one of the others finally staggered up the hill to be third and a very long way last.
The rain eased a little, and Claudia and I made our way over to the white plastic rails that ran across between the parade ring and the unsaddling enclosure to watch the exhausted horses come in.
Jan wasn’t very pleased. “She could have won that,” she said, referring to her mare. “I told the stupid little arse not to hit the front too soon. Certainly not until after the last, I told him, and then what does he do? God help me.” Martin Gifford, meanwhile, was beaming from ear to ear, which was more than could be said for his horse’s owner.
Viscount Shenington looked fit to explode with fury, and he gave the victorious rider such a look that I wondered if this young man, like Billy Searle before him, had also won a race which he’d previously agreed to lose, not that he’d had much choice in the matter. Short of pulling up during the run-in, or purposely falling off, he’d had no alternative but to win.
And Lord Shenington was certainly a nob.
Perhaps I would look at the records to see if Billy had ever ridden any of Shenington’s horses.
“I’m freezing,” said Jan, coming over to us again after the horses had been led away. “Either of you two fancy a Whisky Mac to warm up? I’m buying.”
As the rain began to fall heavily once again, the three of us scampered over to the Arkle Bar on the lower level of the grandstand.
“How well do you know Viscount Shenington?” I asked Jan as we sipped our mixture of Scotch whisky and ginger wine.
“I know of him, of course,” she said. “But not well enough to speak to.”
“We’re guests in his box,” Claudia said.
“Are you indeed?” Jan said. “He does seems to have quite a lot of clout in racing, and his father is a long-standing member of the Jockey Club.”
“He’s a client of the firm’s,” I said. “But not one of mine.” She smiled at me. She was my client, she was saying but without using the words, and don’t forget it.
“Do you know if he’s got any financial troubles?” I asked her.
“How would I know anything about his finances?” she said. “You’re the specialist in that department.”
True, I thought, but he wasn’t my client, and I could hardly ask Gregory.
We watched the fourth race on a television in the bar, the winner again coming in exhausted and smothered in thick mud.
“They ought to do something when the going’s as heavy as this,” Jan said.
“Do what?” Claudia asked.
“Make the races shorter or reduce the weights.”
“You can’t realistically reduce the weights,” I said. “Half of them are carrying overweight already.” Most amateur jockeys were taller and heavier than the professionals.
“The races should be made shorter,