The horse in question had won an amateurs’ race back in May. Belonging to Fiona, it had been ridden by Nolan, who said he had no idea how the drugs had been administered. He had himself been in charge of the horse that day since Tremayne hadn’t attended the meeting. Tremayne had sent the animal in the care of his head travelling lad and a groom, and neither the head lad nor Tremayne knew how the drugs had been administered. Mrs Fiona Goodhaven could offer no explanation either, though she and her husband had attended and watched the race.
The Jockey Club’s verdict at the end of the day had been that there was no way of determining who had given the drugs or how, since they couldn’t any longer question the groom who had been in charge of the horse as she, Angela Brickell, could not be found.
Tremayne had nevertheless been adjudged guilty as charged and had been fined fifteen hundred pounds. A slapped wrist, it seemed.
Upon leaving the enquiry Tremayne had shrugged and said, ‘These things happen.’
The drug theobromine, along with caffeine, commented the reporter, could commonly be found in chocolate. Well, well, I thought. Never a dull moment in the racing industry.
The rest of the year seemed an anti-climax after that, though there had been a whole procession of notable wins. ‘The Stable in Form’ and ‘More Vim to Vickers’ and ‘Loadsa Vicktories’, according to which paper or magazine one read.
I finished the year and was simply sitting and thinking when Tremayne breezed in with downland air still cool on his coat.
‘How are you doing?’ he said.
I pointed to the pile of clippings out of their box. ‘I was reading about last year. All those winners.’
He beamed. ‘Couldn’t put a foot wrong. Amazing. Sometimes things just go right. Other years, you get the virus, horses break down, owners die, you have a ghastly time. All the luck of the game.’
‘Did Angela Brickell ever turn up?’ I asked.
‘Who? Oh, her. No, silly little bitch, God knows where she made off to. Every last person in the racing world knows you mustn’t give chocolate to horses in training. Pity really, most of them love it. Everybody also knows a Mars bar here or there isn’t going to make a horse win a race, but there you are, by the rules chocolate’s a stimulant, so bad luck.’
‘Would the girl have got into trouble if she’d stayed?’
He laughed. ‘From me, yes. I’d have sacked her, but she’d gone before I heard the horse had tested positive. It was a routine test; they test most winners.’ He paused and sat down on a chair across the table from me, staring thoughtfully at a heap of clippings. ‘It could have been anyone, you know. Anyone here in the yard. Or Nolan himself, though God knows why he should. Anyway,’ he shrugged, ‘it often happens because the testing techniques are now so highly developed. They don’t automatically warn off trainers any more, thank God, when odd things turn up in the analysis. It has to be gross, has to be beyond interpretation as an accident. But it’s still a risk every trainer runs. Risk of crooks. Risk of plain malice. You take what precautions you can and pray.’
‘I’ll put that in the book, if you like.’
He looked at me assessingly. ‘I got me a good writer after all, didn’t I?’
I shook my head. ‘You got one who’ll do his best.’
He smiled with what looked like satisfaction and after lunch (beef sandwiches) we got down to work again on taping his early life with his eccentric father. Tremayne seemed to have soared unharmed over such psychological trifles as being rented out in Leicestershire as a harness and tack cleaner to a fox-hunting family and a year later as stable boy to a polo player in Argentina.
‘But that was child abuse,’ I protested.
Tremayne chuckled unconcernedly. ‘I didn’t get buggered, if that’s what you mean. My father hired me out, picked up all I earned and gave me a crack or two with his cane when I said it wasn’t fair. Well, it wasn’t fair. He told me that that was a valuable lesson, to learn that things weren’t fair. Never expect fairness. I’m telling you what he told me, but you’re lucky, I won’t beat it into you.’
‘Will you pay me?’
He laughed deeply. ‘You’ve got Ronnie Curzon looking after that.’ His amusement continued. ‘Did your father ever beat you?’
‘No, he didn’t believe in it.’
‘Nor do I, by God. I’ve never beaten Perkin, nor Gareth. Couldn’t. I remember what it felt like. But then, see, he did take me with him to Argentina and all round the world. I saw a lot of things most English boys don’t. I missed a lot of school. He was mad, no doubt, but he gave me a priceless education and I wouldn’t change anything.’
‘You had a pretty tough mind,’ I said.
‘Sure.’ He nodded. ‘You need it in this life.’
You might need it, I reflected, but tough minds weren’t regulation issue. Many children would have disintegrated where Tremayne had learned and thrived. I tended to feel at home with stoicism and, increasingly, with Tremayne.
