A Woman Unknown Page 0,8
usually detective constables who are given the task of keeping an eye on suspected wrong ’uns?’
He thought for a moment, calculating what he would and would not say, before deciding to throw me a crumb.
‘Our American cousins have an interest. We need to appear helpful. Now no more fishing.’
Eventually, we joined the racecourse traffic – a long line of cars, charabancs and coaches, a solitary old-fashioned carriage, ponies and traps, and a few riders on horseback, all heading for the Knavesmire.
As we drew closer to the racecourse, a small group of anti-gambling protestors held up posters: Prepare to Meet Thy Doom; The Wages of Sin is Death; All Race Tracks Lead to Hell.
‘Whether it leads to hell depends who’s on the track and what they’re doing,’ Marcus muttered.
At the entry to the motoring enclosure, he handed over a half crown to the steward who waved us through. A second steward directed us into a spot next to a Morris.
For a couple of moments, we stayed put. Marcus picked up his binocular case and studied the clasp, as if it would give him inspiration.
The racecourse would be teeming with plain-clothes men looking out for pickpockets, three-card tricksters and bookmakers with fast little cars that would enable them to speed away after a race and welsh on paying out. Some of the plain-clothes men may have been alerted to be the extra eyes and ears for the investigation branch.
I took out a mirror and checked my hat.
Marcus hung the binoculars around his neck.
As I stepped out of the car, my heels sank a little into the grassy ground. Marcus put on his hat. ‘The owners’ and trainers’ enclosure will be a good starting point. Did you really pick your horse with your eyes closed and a pin in your hand?’
‘Of course. His name is Flint Jack.’ Marcus need not know that the tip was given to me by my neighbour, the professor, who studies racing form.
He laughed. ‘I’ll wager you were poring over the Sporting Pink last night. Admit it! You were checking form, weight carried, jockey …’
‘Marcus, I didn’t know you were such an expert racegoer. Your work doesn’t keep you as busy as you pretend.’
The day already had a festive atmosphere. We followed the top hats and posh frocks to the owners’ and trainers’ enclosure where the steward checked our badges. The first race was about to begin.
‘Let’s watch this one from the rail,’ I said.
It is not such a great view, but I like the atmosphere. We leaned into the rail, watching the horses thundering towards us, and practically feeling the breeze as they charged by, hooves pounding
When the first race ended, lads led sleek horses into the ring, to stretch their legs in the half-hour lull between races.
Marcus fell into conversation with a race card seller. (Probably a plain-clothes policeman).
That was when I saw the two men from the hotel, the ones who had attracted Marcus’s interest. They were admiring a rich chestnut horse that bore Flint Jack’s number.
‘There’s my horse. Back in a sec, Marcus.’
If he would not give me any clues about whom he was following and why, it would amuse me to work it out for myself.
A weather-beaten old ex-jockey led Flint Jack into the pre-parade ring. When the Scot from Marcus’s hotel spoke to him, he replied that Flint Jack was ‘ready for his big day’.
The Scot, definitely a Highlander, was now commenting on the course. He had never been to York before. His companion in the grey silk top hat spoke softly. His favourite race course was in Virginia, he said. The man spoke with a touch of a New York accent, but he was English, and local. He intrigued me. His clothing, shoes and manner were top drawer. His voice was not.
By the time I worked my way back round the ring to join Marcus, my eavesdropping on this talkative pair prompted a slightly Sherlockian jump. It was not enough information to come to a conclusion, but at a guess I would say that the Highlander was selling something. His bluff, confident manner gave that impression. What did I associate with the Highlands? Haggis, bagpipes, Highland Games, Bonnie Prince Charlie, and whisky.
Marcus had said, ‘Our American cousins have an interest.’
America had laws against the importation and sale of liquor. Those prohibition laws were being flouted on the grandest possible scale. The man in the grey top hat favoured a Virginian race course; so he was from America. By the cut of his