The Case of the Racehorse Ringer (5 page)

“Looks like paint,” he said, fingering it. “It’s quite dry.”

“Fancy that. I didn’t think poor Tommie ever painted anything.”

“What happened to him?” Sparrow asked, trying to sound innocent.

“Tommie? He got done in.”

“How d’you mean, ‘done in’?”

“Bashed over the head. Murdered.”

Sparrow tried to look shocked, as if this was the first he’d heard of it.

“What – in here?” he asked, looking around the room anxiously.

“No, course not. Up in the woods. Tommie liked to go walking up there when he had a bit of time off. ’

“That’s awful. Did they catch the killer?”

“It was some Irish tinker,” said Maisie. “He was camping out up there.”

“Why would he want to kill Tommie?” said Sparrow.

“We reckon the lad caught him spying on the gallops, timing the horses. Most likely for some crooked bookie.”

“Bookie?”

“Bookmaker. Somebody that takes bets on races. The ‘book’ is the list of runners – horses, that is – and the odds on each one winning. So if a horse is given odds of ten to one, say, that means if you bet a pound on it and it wins, the bookie has to give you ten pounds, as well as your own money back.”

“But if it loses, he keeps your pound, right?”

“Right – as well as all the money that’s been bet on the other horses that didn’t win. So you see, it’s worth a lot of money to a bookie to know which horses have the best chance of winning.”

“And if he can time ’em on the gallops, he’ll know which one’s runnin’ fastest?”

“You’ve got it. That’s why we keep it secret. The bookies have to work out what odds to offer on each horse in a race. The one most people think will win is called the favourite, and it’ll have the shortest odds – two to one, say. So if you bet a pound you’ll win two. A horse that nobody fancies is called an outsider and it’ll have the longest odds – maybe even a hundred to one.”

Sparrow’s mouth fell open at the thought. “So you get a hundred quid for every pound you bet! Wow! You could make a fortune.”

Maisie laughed. “Or lose one. Outsiders hardly ever win – that’s why they’re outsiders. Come on now, that’s enough jawing. Let’s get you started.”

As Sparrow and Maisie came out of the barn, the other stable lads were trooping back into the yard. They had finished giving the horses their morning exercise and had put them out to pasture in the paddock. Now they were hungry and eager for breakfast before starting the rest of the day’s work. The smell of frying bacon and eggs wafted across the yard, and Sparrow’s mouth started to water.

Hogg was standing in the yard, waiting for the lads, and he addressed them like the army sergeant he had once been.

“Now then, you ’orrible creatures. Line up and pin back your lugholes!”

The five lads stopped and stood facing him, trying not to stare at Sparrow.

“This puny specimen goes by the name of Sparrow – that’s right, ‘Sparrow’. Like the dickie bird.”

Some of the lads sniggered. One, the biggest, called out “Tweet tweet!” and the others burst out laughing and made other bird noises. Sparrow just grinned back at them to show he was not upset or afraid. Maisie, standing off to the side, smiled indulgently and shook her head.

“All right, all right,” Hogg shouted. “That’s enough of that. Sparrow’s joining us in place of Tommie, God rest his soul. He’s never worked in a stables before, so it’s down to you lot to show him what’s what.”

He pointed at the tallest of them. “Fred,” he said, “you’re head lad, so you’re in charge of teaching him. I don’t suppose he can ride. Can you ride, Birdie?”

“No, sir,” Sparrow answered. “Never been on a horse.”

“Right, Fred. Soon as you’ve had your brekker and finished mucking out, you can give him his first lesson. Put him on that little skewbald pony. That way he won’t have so far to fall when he comes off.”

Sparrow swallowed hard. The skewbald pony must be Gertie’s Patch, so at least he would have some connection with his friends and not feel quite so alone. But the idea of falling off a horse, even if it was only a small one, was pretty scary. And when he thought of trying to ride the big, powerful animals that he had seen on the gallops that morning, his legs felt like they were turning to jelly.

Sparrow’s fears were forgotten for the moment, however, when the smell of frying bacon grew even stronger as the kitchen door to the trainer’s house was opened. A plump middle-aged woman wearing a long apron and holding a brass handbell stood in the doorway.

“Breakfast!” she shouted, ringing the bell furiously. “Come and get it!”

The five lads stampeded towards the door, leaving Sparrow standing alone. “Not hungry, Birdie?” Hogg asked.

Sparrow nodded cautiously. He was ravenous, but not sure what to do.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Get in there, lad.”

The breakfast was the best Sparrow had ever eaten. It tasted even better than it smelt. The other lads were too busy eating to talk, stuffing food into their mouths and mopping up the greasy juices and egg yolk with hunks of bread. Sparrow did the same, not looking up until he had finished and was washing it down with a mug of sweet tea. When he did, he found the woman looking down at him approvingly.

“That’s what I like to see,” she said with a smile. “A boy with a good appetite. And who are you?”

“This is Birdie,” said Fred. “New lad, just started. In place of Tommie.”

“Ah, poor Tommie. I shall miss him.”

“Yeah. We all will.”

“My name’s Sparrow.”

“Is it, now? And mine’s Cook, ’cos that’s what I do.”

“But everybody calls her Cookie,” explained Fred. He pointed out the other lads, one by one. “That’s Alfie, that’s Ginger – don’t ask me why – and Charlie and Jim.” They each looked up and nodded at Sparrow, greeting him with a “Wotcha” or a grin and a wink.

When he had introduced them all, Fred stood up and clapped his hands. “Right, lads. Back to work!”

Over the next few hours Sparrow worked harder than he had ever done in his entire life. To start with, Fred took him into one of the loose boxes and pointed to the deep layer of straw covering the floor. It was full of manure.

“Cor!” Sparrow exclaimed, wrinkling up his nose. “Pongs a bit, don’t it?”

“You’ll get used to it,” Fred said. He thrust a fork at Sparrow. “That’s your first job. Muckin’ out. Clear this lot, load it into a barrow and take it to the muckheap over there. Then come back for another load.”

The big wooden wheelbarrow was heavy even when it was empty. By the time it was filled with wet straw and manure, Sparrow could hardly lift the handles.

“Come on! Chop chop! Get a move on!” Fred shouted. “Think you’re on your holidays, do you?”

The rest of the lads paused in their work to watch.

“Whoa there, hang on a minute,” Fred called with a wicked grin. “I reckon there’s room for a bit more.”

With that, he tossed another forkful onto the loaded barrow, which was now piled so high it was hard to balance, or to see over. Sparrow just managed to lift the handles and stagger forwards, but he had only taken a few steps before the whole thing fell over. All the dirty straw tipped out, scattering across the cobbles. Fred roared with laughter and the other lads joined in.

“You’d better get that lot cleared up afore the guv’nor sees it,” Fred told Sparrow. “He can’t abide a messy yard.”

When the mucking out was finished and the loose boxes had been washed down, the lads had to fetch bales of hay and fill the racks on the back walls. It was hard work, but not as heavy as the wet straw. And, unlike the straw, it smelt sweet and fresh. The only problem for Sparrow was that it made him sneeze.

“You got a cold, Birdie?” Fred asked.

“No. Somethin’s ticklin’ my nose.”

“I’ll tickle your nose with my fist if you give my horse a cold,” Fred said fiercely.

“Which is your horse?” Sparrow asked.

“The champion, of course. Silver Star. Best horse in the country. I’m lookin’ after him now that Tommie’s gone.”

“Was he Tommie’s horse, then?”

“Tommie should never’ve had him. Never!” Fred’s face contorted into an expression of hate. “I’m the head lad. I should have the best horse. ’stead of which I got that useless Blackie and they gave Silver Star to their precious Tommie.”

“Didn’t you like Tommie, then?” ventured Sparrow.

“He was a crawler,” replied Fred. “Suckin’ up to everybody. A right goody-goody.”

“Oh. Right.” Sparrow made a mental note. This was something else to report to Wiggins.

“Well, can’t stand here gassin’ all day. Got to get you a saddle for your first lesson.”

Fred led Sparrow across the yard and into another barn. “This is the tack room,” he told him. It smelt strongly of leather and polish and other things that Sparrow did not recognize. Hanging on hooks and pegs around the walls were reins and harnesses and saddles. Fred selected one of the saddles, lifted it down from its peg and thrust it at his charge.

“It don’t look very big,” Sparrow said, remembering the comfortable saddles he had seen on horses in the London streets. This one seemed quite tiny.

“It’s a racin’ saddle,” said Fred. “That’s what we use here, so you might as well get used to it from the start. Come on.”

Fred marched off out of the yard and Sparrow trailed after him, carrying the saddle. When they reached the paddock, he saw six racehorses quietly cropping the grass. They looked elegant and powerful, with their long legs and strong muscles.

“Which one’s Silver Star?” asked Sparrow.

“There.” Fred pointed to two horses that were grazing a bit away from the others.

“Which? They both look the same to me.”

“Do they?” Fred smiled. “Look harder. Look at the hooves.”

“Oh, I see. That one looks like he’s got little white socks on his front legs.”

“That all?”

As Sparrow watched, the horse with the white socks raised its head and he could see its face for the first time. There was a diamond-shaped white mark between its eyes.

“There,” said Fred. “See the star on his forehead?”

“Oh yeah. I get it. Silver Star. So that one must be Blackie,” he said, pointing to the other horse. It had no white markings and its coat was black all over.

“Well done. His proper name’s Black Velvet, but that’s a bit of a mouthful, so we call him Blackie.”

“Is that the one you used to look after?” asked Sparrow.

“Still do. I look after both of ’em now. So you’re gonna help me. And I don’t want anybody else touchin’ either of ’em. OK?”

“OK.”

“Don’t forget that. Just you and me. Anybody else goes near ’em, you tell me.”

Fred moved into the next paddock, where Gertie’s Patch was grazing alongside two ordinary ponies that were obviously not racehorses. As they entered the paddock, Patch ambled over to greet them.

“Wotcha, Patch,” Sparrow said, patting her neck.

“How d’you know her name?” asked Fred.

Sparrow gulped. Had he given himself away? He thought hard for a moment, then answered, trying to sound cheerful. “Er, I don’t. I just thought … all them different colours … like patchwork.”

Fred looked at him suspiciously, but then shrugged and managed a tight smile.

“Yeah. I see what you mean. ‘Patch’ suits her. Well, come on. Get the saddle on her.”

Sparrow heaved the saddle onto Patch’s back and stared at the straps and stirrups with no idea what to do with any of them. Fred watched and waited as Sparrow tried to fit the saddle, getting into an ever-deeper muddle as he went on. Finally the older boy spoke.

“What a mess. You’ve got it on back to front for a start.”

Sparrow lifted the saddle and turned it round, but everything was still in a hopeless tangle and he became more and more flustered and red-faced.

“Why don’t you show him how it’s done?” Maisie’s voice came from behind them. She had arrived without them noticing.

Fred glowered at her, his eyes like burning coals.

“He’ll learn better if he does it himself,” he said.

“Not first time, he won’t,” Maisie retorted. “And why have you given him a racing saddle?”

“It’s what he’ll be usin’.”

“Not while he’s learning. It’ll make it ten times harder. Or do you
want
him to keep falling off?” she asked.

Now Fred’s face had turned bright scarlet. He did not look at Maisie, but glared angrily at Sparrow.

“He’s gotta learn,” he muttered.

“The hard way?”

“The hard way’s the best,” the head lad said gruffly. “Helps you remember things.”

“Does it? I think it would be better if
I
taught young Sparrow to ride.”

Fred fumed. “Mr Hogg told me to do it. What’s he gonna say?”

“Leave Mr Hogg to me. I’ve got more time than you, anyway. Go on – off you go.”

As Fred stomped off back to the stables, Maisie turned to Sparrow.

“Let’s get you a proper saddle, shall we? Bring the pony round to the tack room. It’s easier to take the horse to the saddle than carry the saddle to the horse.”

Sparrow spent the rest of the afternoon learning to ride Patch. He fell off several times but always climbed back on, determined to master it. Maisie was a good teacher: patient and kind, but firm. By teatime she had Sparrow trotting round the paddock. He was bruised all over and had a very sore bottom and aching thighs, but he could stay on and was actually starting to enjoy it. He was even learning to rise and fall in the saddle, like a real rider, instead of bouncing up and down like a sack of potatoes. But it was still hard work and he was glad when Maisie decided it was time to stop.