The Nightingale Sings Read online

  ‘I’d rather not get involved in that sort of controversy,’ Cassie cut in. ‘Particularly since we don’t know who’s behind the threats. I’d rather not go on record accusing a whole body of people most of whom might well be innocent.’

  ‘Listen.’ Mattie took her arm and walked her even further away from the waiting cameras. ‘You have to say something. It’s perfectly obvious who’s trying to stop you.’

  ‘No it isn’t. It isn’t right to jump to such conclusions. So do what you’re always telling me to do – get real. You’ve seen the odds. Nightie’s four to one on. No-one’s going to be carrying sacks full of money out of the ring this afternoon at those odds.’

  ‘He’s only three to one on in some places. Those are backable odds for the serious player, three grand on to win one. Thirty to win ten. Then there are long-standing doubles and trebles on the horse, and some people have ante-post tickets at odds against, some as long as two to one and seven to four, for Nightie to go through the season unbeaten in all his nominated races. You can still get evens against him winning the Arc a second time. Then there’s spread betting. And the ante-post rush from certain quarters on Mot Cambron. It isn’t anything to do with what they stand to lose as the result of just today’s business. If Nightie keeps passing the winning post first every time, the men on the rails are going to take a seriously heavy drubbing. So go on camera and talk about what happens backstage. You owe it to racing.’

  Cassie stood for a moment staring at the winning post as if trying to draw the courage from imagining what was to come that afternoon, whereas in fact she was having a silent dialogue with Tyrone.

  ‘All right, I will,’ she said when she had quite finished. ‘But only in the most general terms. I’m not going to ask for trouble.’

  Mattie put his free arm around Cassie’s shoulder and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Great, in fact. Go get ’em.’

  Cassie gave him a quizzical smile then returned to where her interviewer stood waiting and gave him permission to discuss the topic but not in the particular.

  ‘There are reports, Cassie, that you’ve been receiving threats, admonitions not to run your horse or else – so to speak.’

  ‘You always do, John. At least you do when you’ve got a good horse running on its merits. That’s racing, I’m afraid, or rather that is a side of racing, a side of racing none of us in the sport exactly like,’ Cassie replied as calmly as she could, nervously fingering the gold locket around her neck which Tyrone had given her and she thought she had lost the day he had been killed. ‘But then if every owner and trainer gave in to every threat they got, there’d hardly be any racing.’

  ‘So bravely you’ve chosen to ignore all these caveats.’

  ‘As long as I can keep The Nightingale safe then I shall continue to race him. Even if there are those who would rather I didn’t.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who might be behind these threats?’

  ‘None whatsoever. But whoever it is, I hope they’re getting the message that we won’t be frightened off. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and help get my horse ready.’

  Cassie didn’t stay to hear how her interviewer wound up the piece as she hated to be short of time whenever she was getting The Nightingale ready for a race. So as she hurried away to the stableblock she missed the debate between the various commentators concerning the existence of independent bookmakers versus the possible benefits of a Tote monopoly.

  Even more to the point was the news from the ring. Much to the astonishment of the television commentary team’s eccentric betting specialist, far from being deterred by the almost prohibitive odds on offer several professional punters had already waded in with astronomic bets.

  ‘One account punter has just walked up to my old pal George Barclay on the rails here behind me and put on fifty thousand pounds to win ten! Another punter walked into a betting shop in Bournemouth and wanted a hundred thousand to win twenty! Ladbroke’s the Magic Circle tell me they have taken several similar bets, and one layer has just invested two hundred thousand to win forty grand! The layers are so confident this is a one horse race they are treating the Eclipse Stakes as pay day! And it’s not only the professionals! My old pal over here – Terry the Monkey Taplow – Terry the Monkey Taplow tells me he is taking money from you housewives! That you’re betting the pin money on the wonder horse! Twenty pounds to win two! Fifty pounds to win a tenner! I tell you, when – not if, mind! – when the wonder horse trots past the post, as far as the amount of bets laid goes, this could be the biggest loser for the bookies since the Charge of the Light Brigade! Yes – come racing! It’s all happening here today!’

  In fact racegoers could not remember a day like it ever, such was the atmosphere and the intensity of the excitement, all due to the presence of a single horse. When the stewards had seen the size of the crowd, even more elaborate security precautions were ordered to be taken to ensure nothing untoward should happen to The Nightingale. The officials had already allocated a mounted police guard to escort the horse from the parade ring out onto the track in order to keep the favourite out of the reach of any well- or, more important, ill-wishers and now they also granted permission for the favourite to be walked on the grass in the centre of the parade ring and not on the tarmac perimeter pathway for the selfsame reason.

  Meanwhile the object of all the stress and attention strode round the lawn in the middle of the parade ring with his ears pricked, occasionally jog trotting as if to show how fit he was.

  ‘I almost feel sorry for the other poor horses,’ Josephine said as the Claremore party which now included Mark Carter-James in its number assembled in the middle of the ring. ‘No-one’s taking a blind bit of notice of them.’

  ‘It’s not as if they’re a pack of dogs,’ Mattie murmured back to his sister. ‘These are the pick of the best horses in England and Europe.’

  ‘Aren’t they just?’ Mark agreed. ‘And I must say Mot Cambron looks the pick of the rest.’

  Much as Mattie would have loved to disagree he could not, because when he turned to have a look at their main rival he saw Leonora Lovett Andrew’s big strapping liver chestnut was not just on his toes but looking every inch an eminently possible winner.

  ‘I can’t see the owner,’ Josephine remarked. ‘She’s not going to miss this, surely?’

  ‘Of course she’s not,’ a voice drawled behind them. ‘I don’t spend all that money to sit at home channel skiing in front of the television.’

  Leonora was dressed from head to toe by St Laurent in a suit and hat of the palest spring yellow. She was lightly suntanned, the sort of tan the very rich allow themselves to show they have been abroad but did not spend their time lying on beaches. People only went the shade of designer brown Mrs Charles Lovett Andrew had gone from being at sea on private yachts.

  ‘You’ll excuse me but I have to talk to my jockey,’ Cassie said, moving slightly away as she saw Dexter striding across the paddock to meet her.

  ‘I only stopped by to wish you luck, Cassie McGann!’ Leonora called after her. ‘Because it certainly should be some race!’

  Cassie ignored her, continuing on her way to meet her pilot.

  ‘Your mother doesn’t change,’ Leonora remarked with a gleam in her eye to Josephine and Mattie. ‘She still gets herself so worked up. And goddammit, it’s only a sport after all.’

  ‘I don’t know how you dare, Leonora,’ Mattie said icily. ‘If I was my mother I’d kick you all around the paddock for the way you’ve behaved. Now if you’ll excuse us?’ And lifting his hat in exaggerated politeness he caught his sister’s arm and made to walk off.

  ‘My,’ Leonora laughed. ‘If this is what we’re like before the race, what are we going to be like if we lose?’

  ‘We won’t,’ Mattie told her, turning back briefly. ‘We’re going to leave that pleasure to you. Good luck none the less.’

  ‘You’re going to need it, honey, not me!’ Leonora called out after them wi
th a laugh. ‘Today’s the day the bubble bursts!’

  ‘You know who she always reminds me of, Mattie,’ Josephine remembered as they hurried across to where Dexter was being legged up on The Nightingale by Liam. ‘Cruella de Ville in A Hundred and One Dalmatians.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ Mattie retorted good-naturedly. ‘Compared to Leonora, Cruella de Ville is Mother Teresa.’

  Mark turned to follow Josephine and her brother across the paddock but before he left he smiled once at Leonora who returned it in full.

  As the horses took a last turn round the paddock before being led out onto the course for the parade, Mot Cambron started to get worked up and tried to lash out at Hedel, the German Derby winner who was behind him. Leonora’s pacemaker Tootsuite was also very much on her toes and swishing her tail, but Cassie and Dexter already had her number and had put a barrier of ten horses between The Nightingale and her. The favourite was further cushioned by the phalanx of two large police horses which guarded him as he left the mouth of the paddock past a wall of security guards. Neither was he at all upset by the parade, of which like most others in her profession Cassie thoroughly disapproved since during these promenades the more highly strung horses often boiled over and lost their races before they were even run, thanks to the unnecessarily drawn out proceedings. All The Nightingale did, however, was stare back up at the enormous crowds packing the grandstand before Liam let go the lead rope and Dexter turned the big horse, who was last in line, to canter down to the start.

  The crowd applauded him all the way past the packed enclosures on his way to post. From their pitches the bookmakers shouted and signalled the odds, taking most of the money now on betting without the favourite, the books showing Mot Cambron as the 6/4 favourite, Esplanade at 2/1, Whizz at 4/1, Hokey Cokey and Hedel jointly at 6/1, Filmgoer, the most fancied of the longer-priced English runners, at 7/1 and 10/1 bar. With the favourite they bet 2/9 The Nightingale, 8/1 Mot Cambron, 10/1 Esplanade, 16/1 Whizz and 20/1 the rest of the field. The only thing not in The Nightingale’s favour was the fact he was drawn number one against the rails, but in a race over a mile and two furlongs it was considered only the smallest inconvenience to a horse who preferred to hang out the back and come to win his races with a late run.

  ‘I’d rather be down there on the lawns,’ Cassie said as her party settled into their private box at the top of the stands. ‘But if he wins I don’t think we’d ever get back to the paddock in that scrum.’

  ‘When he wins, Mrs Rosse,’ Mark corrected her. ‘The bet is by what distance.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Josephine agreed. ‘I have a hundred pounds at five to one to say he’s going to do so by twelve lengths.’

  ‘I hope you’ve told Dexter,’ Mattie said. ‘He says he’ll win by a distance.’

  ‘They’re under starter’s orders!’ a voice over the tannoy announced after the last horse had been loaded in the stalls. ‘And they’re off!’

  As soon as the stalls opened Esplanade, who had been drawn in the number two berth next to The Nightingale, came across the favourite in a perfectly allowable attempt to box him in. But in doing so he accidentally gave the favourite a mighty bump and for one heart-stopping moment it seemed the big black horse would be brought to his knees.

  ‘Jesus Mary he’s down!’ Josephine cried as the entire party trained their glasses on the Claremore horse.

  ‘No he’s not,’ Cassie said calmly, even though she was quite unable to hold her race glasses steady. ‘Dex has got him. He’s just picked him up and now he’s pulling Nightie to the outside.’

  ‘Do you think that’s wise?’ Mattie wondered as the field passed the nine furlong marker.

  ‘Sure. He could take him into the next county, Mattie, and Nightie’d still win,’ Cassie muttered, hoping that no-one could hear the pounding of her heart.

  ‘I think he might have heard you,’ Josephine said. ‘He’s taking him miles out of his way. Lookit!’

  They all looked and what they could quite clearly see, as indeed could everyone, was Dexter Bryant pushing the favourite on and past the rest of the field.

  ‘Did you discuss this option?’ Mattie wondered.

  ‘Yes,’ Cassie returned. ‘But if we hadn’t I’d say it’s a bit late now.’

  It was Cassie’s rule as it was with most thinking trainers not to lay down a hard and fast plan how a race was to be run. Each race was different and, while it was important to know which was the best way to run the horse, needs often had to be adapted when it appeared that the race in question was going nowhere near to plan.

  And this was precisely what was happening out in the racing amphitheatre that is Sandown Park. The jockeys had decided the only way to have even the remotest chance of beating the favourite was to deny The Nightingale the chance to run his regular race. It was no good simply trying to slow the pace down as had happened the previous October in the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe. The Nightingale had such speed that he seemed able to come from anywhere and pick the leaders off whatever the pace, nor could they run him ragged by the use of a pacemaker because when most horses were flat to the boards The Nightingale was still only cruising in third gear. So the plan was to keep The Nightingale trapped in behind a wall of horses, knowing that this was where he liked to be, and then as the field hit the home turn to fan out away from the rails and force the favourite, who they imagined would be waiting for a break to appear on the rails, to make his run on the wide outside. Many a good horse had been beaten this way up the stiff Sandown hill, and so although there was only a tiny chance of this tactic’s succeeding it was after all the only chance available.

  Happily Cassie and Dexter had imagined this to be the likely scenario and had made provision for it, as they had for all the ways the race could possibly be run. Dexter’s orders were that if he thought he was being boxed, instead of beginning to make his run for home at the two furlong post he was to produce the horse long before the field turned into the straight and let everyone try to catch him. It was risky because there was always the chance that with nothing to race against up the hill the big horse might begin to idle and something could come at him out of the pack with a wet sail and catch him before he could hit top gear again. Staying clear of any trouble, however, seemed to be the better of the two options, particularly since Cassie and Dexter knew that Leonora and her trainer would be prepared to try almost anything to prevent The Nightingale from getting a clear run.

  So when Dexter saw Tootsuite going off hell for leather in front and the other horses being deliberately checked in front of him, he knew that the only way to show the world how truly great the horse under him was would be to prove that The Nightingale could fly home any which way he liked. As they reached the eight furlong pole he had already pulled the favourite wide to the outside of the other eleven horses, so wide in fact that altogether he must have added a good ten lengths to his total journey. But the big black horse was still cantering, with his ears pricked and his head tucked into his chest.

  ‘You going somewhere, Dex?’ one of his rivals shouted to him from the back of Whizz. ‘If you are, don’t forget to send us a card!’

  ‘I thought I’d go do a bit of train spotting!’ Dexter called back, as a train headed for Esher station down the track at the back of the course.

  ‘Might do you some good! ’Cos that’s just how I’m going! Like the proverbial bloody train!’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Dexter shouted, giving The Nightingale one good squeeze. ‘Myself I always prefer to fly!’

  By the seven furlong pole the favourite had accelerated so hard he was on the heels of the pacemaker who was still racing flat out. When he got to about a length off the leader, Dexter eased The Nightingale back a couple of notches and, brilliant horse that he was, the favourite at once came out of top gear and back into cruise.

  From the stands it looked as if Dexter had asked the horse too early and burned him out in the process, because although by the time the field turned for home the pacemaker was
spent, five of the favoured horses were going ominously well behind the new leader. Esplanade appeared to be cruising, poised to make his run on the rails tucked in behind Hokey Cokey who was also still on the bridle. Hedel came next, half a length down, but then his jockey went for his whip and as soon as he went to work the German Derby winner fell apart. Not so Filmgoer who was being brought with a nicely timed run on the outside by Walter Swinburn, nor indeed Whizz whom the masterful Willie Carson had always had handy, but the horse apparently going best of all was the big liver chestnut, Mot Cambron, who was shortening the distance between him and The Nightingale with every stride.

  ‘His rider’s got a double handful,’ Mattie murmured as the drama was about to reach its climax. ‘Do you still reckon Dex did the right thing?’

  ‘Wait and see,’ Cassie said. ‘If you think Mot Cambron’s jock’s got a double handful, just look at Dexter.’

  All eyes turned now to the favourite as the leading runners came off the bend and began to straighten up for the run up the hill. The Nightingale was less than two lengths clear now and the others were definitely closing. Yet Dexter was still sitting as still as night. He didn’t even move when Mot Cambron got to his girths on his near side and Whizz appeared along his off side. While the huge crowd roared for him to go all Dexter did was cock his head and take what seemed to be a good, long look at what else might be a threat before sitting down and shaking his reins once in what was now the trademark of the way he rode the famous big black horse.

  With that one shake of the reins the race was over.

  Suddenly in a couple of strides the other five horses who had come to challenge the favourite all began to tread water, so that what had seemed to be turning into a close and epic encounter all at once became a procession as The Nightingale simply strode away up the hill from his rivals, increasing his winning margin with every stride. By the two furlong pole he had accelerated to be six lengths clear of the pack, by the furlong marker he was ten and going so incredibly easily that the crowd became delirious with joy as they hollered their hero home. Fifty yards from the post Dexter stood up in his irons, bent his head down to look back through his legs to see where everyone had gone, and, when he saw how far behind the rest of the horses in fact were, eased The Nightingale down to a canter to pass the post.