wonder if that were the basic reason for selling him.
Kerry Sanders’ anxiety grew a little.
‘Do you think he’ll be able to manage him?’
‘Who?’
‘His new owner, of course. He looks damn wild.’
The auctioneer began his spiel, reeling off the gelding’s origins and history. ‘Who’ll start me at a thousand? A thousand anywhere? Come along now, he’d look cheap at that wouldn’t he? A thousand? Well, five hundred then. Someone start me at five hundred…’
I said to Kerry Sanders, ‘Do you mean the young man is going to ride him himself? In races?’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t tell me that.’
‘Didn’t I?’ She knew she hadn’t.
‘Why didn’t you, for heaven’s sake?’
‘Five hundred,’ said the auctioneer. ‘Thank you sir. Five hundred I have. That’s nowhere near his value. Come along now. Five hundred. Six. Thank you sir. Six… Seven… Eight… against you sir…’
‘I just…’ She hesitated, then said, ‘What difference does it make?’
‘Is he an amateur?’
She nodded. ‘But he’s got what it takes.’
Hearse Puller was no armchair ride and I would be doing my job badly if I bought him for the sort of amateur who bumped around half fit. The customer’s insistence on the horse never having fallen suddenly made a lot of sense.
‘Twelve hundred. Fourteen. Against you at the back, sir. Fourteen. Come along now, you’re losing him…’
‘You’ll have to tell me who it’s for,’ I said.
She shook her head.
‘If you don’t, I won’t buy it for you,’ I said, trying with a smile to take the discourtesy out of the words.
She stared at me. ‘I can buy it myself.’
‘Of course.’
The auctioneer was warming up. ‘Eighteen… can I make it two thousand? Two thousand, thank you sir. Selling all the time now. Two thousand… against you in front… Shall I say two thousand two? Two thousand one… thank you sir. Two thousand one… Two… Three…’
‘It will be too late in a minute,’ I said.
She came to a decision. ‘Nicol Brevett, then.’
‘Jeez,’ I said.
‘Buy it then. Don’t just stand there.’
‘All done?’ said the auctioneer. ‘Selling at two thousand eight hundred. Selling once… all done then?’
I took a breath and waved my catalogue.
‘Three thousand… New bidder. Thank you sir… Against you in front. Can I make it three thousand two?’
As often happens when a fresh bidder comes in at the last moment the two contestants soon gave up, and the gavel came down at three thousand four.
‘Sold to Jonah Dereham.’
Jiminy Bell was staring at me slit-eyed from the other side of the ring.
‘What’s that in dollars?’ said my client.
‘About seven thousand five hundred.’
We left the wooden shelter and she raised the umbrella again although the drizzle had all but ceased.
‘More than I authorised you to spend,’ she said, without great complaint. ‘And your commission on top, I guess?’
‘Five per cent,’ I nodded.
‘Ah well… In the States you wouldn’t buy a three-legged polo pony for that money.’ She gave me a small smile as nicely judged as a tip and decided to walk on to wait in my car while I completed the paper work and arranged for the onward transport of Hearse Puller. He was to be stabled for the night in my own back yard and delivered to his new owner on the birthday morning.
Nicol Brevett… A surprise like a wasp at the honey, harmless unless you touched it on the stinging side.
He was a hard forceful young man who put his riding cards on the table and dared the professionals to trump them. His obsessive will to win led him into ruthlessness, rudeness and rows. His temper flared like a flame thrower. No one could deny his talent, but where most of his colleagues won friends and races, Nicol Brevett just won races.
Hearse Puller was within his scope as a rider and if I were lucky they would have a good season together in novice chases: and I thought I would need to be lucky because of Brevett senior, whose weight could be felt all over the Turf.
My respect for Kerry Sanders rose several notches. Any woman who could interest Constantine Brevett to the point of matrimony had to be of a sophistication to put Fabergé eggs to shame, and I could well understand her coyness about naming him. If any announcements concerning him were to be made he would want to make them himself.
Constantine covered with velvet the granite core which showed in rocky outcrops in his son, and from brief racecourse meetings over the past few years I knew his social manners to be concentrated essence of old-boy network. The actions which spoke