The King of Shadows, page 43
“I’m not planning on riding.”
“What, then? You out there on foot with that beast?”
“Yes, exactly so.” Before his father could respond, Mac trudged onward. “As I told you when I visited his stall the last time, I think he recognized that scent. Now I’m not saying it calmed him, because he’s smart enough to know I’m certainly not Andrew Glennon, but there was a difference. He could’ve killed me if he’d wanted to. He did not.”
“Because he missed tearing your face off by a few inches?”
“Because it did stir a memory. I’m sure of that. I’d like to experiment further.”
“Experimenting with your life,” Reuben said, “is not something I have raised a wise son to do.”
“I hear my father’s voice,” Mac commended, “but this is important to me. We’ve come this far with the horse—”
“Hardly a half-length,” said Reuben, who promptly slugged down the rest of his claret.
“Granted. Still … I’d like to keep going a few more. All right?”
Reuben rubbed his chin, his gaze both moody and thoughtful. “Damn,” he said softly. “You out there on foot with a horse that could kill you with one hoof tied behind his back … and your only defense from a bottle of lime smell?”
“I suppose that sums it up.”
It was a while longer before the older man spoke again. “You recall our deer hunt last November? How accurate John Packard was with his musket?”
“I do.” Packard was their neighbor on the next estate, who had joined them on the excursion and been the most successful due to his excellent targeting skills.
“If you’re so adamant about this, I want a messenger sent to John. I’d like him to take a position at the fence. If Nemesis attacks you, I want John ready to respond. I hate like the blazes to cause any animal harm, but if it’s you or Nemesis … you do happen to win out. And it goes without saying that I want the horse muzzled. Agreed?”
Mac deliberated. The old pappy did make sense; it would be a tragic thing to see the horse fall, but if there was no further progress Nemesis would soon perish anyway. “No muzzle, no bridle nor bit,” he decided. “I want nothing restricting his actions. Other than that, I agree.”
“I fear for your lack of sanity … but I shall make sure John has two muskets at hand.”
Thus at seven o’clock on the gray and mist-streamed morning, after receiving Packard’s consent the night before, Nemesis was pulled thrashing and kicking out into the wide green pasture with its fence of interlocked wood. The tether rope was adroitly removed by the courageous Mickels, and there went Nemesis like a flash through the gate into the rolling field, the gate closed and latched as Mac, Reuben, John Packard and several of the estate’s staff stood at the railing watching the procedure.
“Ready?” Reuben asked Packard, who indeed had two loaded muskets at his disposal. And then to his son: “I never imagined I’d ever have to ask a question like this, but do you think you’re wearing enough of that smellum?”
“If I wore any more the birds would be falling out of the trees.”
“Lord call me a fool,” said Reuben, “but go on and get it done. John, stay ready.” He unlatched the gate, and closed it again when Mac had walked through.
Nemesis had already galloped to the far side of the pasture, which Mac thought was a distance that possibly even Packard’s keen aim might not reach. But he kept walking unhurriedly toward the horse, though his easy gait belied the fact that his heart was hammering and fear weighed in his belly like a shovel full of coal. Of course the horse could smell that fear—they all could, and that heightened the danger— but perhaps the lime fragrance might yet work some magic.
Or not. For as soon as Mac got within thirty yards of the horse, Nemesis bounded away again to the other fence, where he stood with his red tail twitching and his body tensed for action … either another retreat or attack, Mac didn’t know. But Mac kept going, and once more saw the same result.
After more than an hour of back and forth across the pasture, during which Nemesis galloped away with admirable speed whenever he determined his solitary pursuer was getting too close, at last the undernourished horse stood with lowered head as Mac approached to within thirty yards. Then Mac stopped and sat down in the grass.
“Son! What’re you doing?” Reuben called, but Mac waved off the foreseen objection and his father was quiet. Mac noted that Packard had taken aim at Nemesis, and he called back, “John! Easy on that trigger!”
Nemesis had raised his head and was staring at Mac, but otherwise did not move.
Mac stretched out upon the ground and stared up at the sky, where the clouds had begun to break apart showing chinks of pale blue.
He was fearful, of course, yet this seemed the right thing to do. Horses were among the most curious creatures in existence, and surely it was only a matter of time before Nemesis approached the man rather than the other way around.
Mac closed his eyes and waited with the soft earth under his back.
In time—twenty minutes? Double that?—he felt the weight of Nemesis’ hooves upon that earth, coming nearer. He heard the crunching noise of the grass being walked over … and then silence.
He opened his eyes. Off to his right from the corner of one eye he could make out the dark figure standing perhaps fifteen feet away. He sat up as slowly as he could, but even so the movement made the horse jump and rumble a warning. Then Mac drew his knees up to his chest and angled his head toward the animal.
“Are we friends yet?” he asked.
Nemesis backed away, but once more Mac saw the nostrils flare. The horse stopped, gaining about ten more feet of distance between them.
“It’s not such a bad world,” Mac said. “Why do you wish so much to leave it? Oh, yes … because of Andrew. Well, there are other Andrews. Some are here. If I were you, I’d take the opportunity to thrive. You could enjoy a good life, if you chose to. What do you say?”
Silence, and no motion but for the occasional twitching of the ears.
Then, quite suddenly, Nemesis turned away and loped once more toward the far fence, where he stood for a time staring out into the strip of forest that separated the DeKay estate from John Packard’s.
Mac stood up. He put his hands on his hips and regarded the animal, wondering if indeed there was any hope in bringing the horse back from the edge of death.
As Mac watched, Nemesis bowed his head and seemed to be sniffing at the grass.
“Go on,” Mac said, his voice hushed. “Do it.”
Nemesis took a bite, lifted his head again, lowered it … lifted … lowered …
… and then began to graze.
Thirty-seven
DeKay Enterprises managed to hire from Earl Cloudwaite’s business the famed trainer and jockey Owen Kilkerry, who had a reputation of working with difficult horses. Kilkerry didn’t necessarily like the idea of wearing the lime fragrance when in the presence of Nemesis, but then again he saw the logic in it and thought it couldn’t hurt. Also, he admitted that his wife found it attractively pleasant.
The horse calmed but was still what the trainers called a “handful.” Under Kilkerry’s watch Nemesis ate as much and as freely as the other steeds, and dutifully—though sometimes temperamentally—went through his training paces.
The following season arrived, with all its pomp, flying flags of the various stables, tall powdered wigs and costumes in every color of the rainbow. In his first race at Lord Ringgold’s private track, Nemesis came in fifth of eight entries. In his second race at Balton Heights, he came in fourth, and again in that position on Lord Monty’s palatial estate. But in the fourth race of the season, at the famous Kennington track, Nemesis won the field by two lengths. A congratulatory message from Bertram Robey soon arrived. The following two races were undistinguished, but the seventh was a second-place finish and the final race of the season a true revelation, as Nemesis was beaten only by a nose by the great gray Powderkeg, known to one and all as a true stout-hearted champion.
And all this time, Nemesis refused to take an apple from the hand of Maccabeus DeKay, letting them be tossed into the hay with hardly a glance. But Mac kept at it.
In October on a rainy afternoon at the end of the season, came a visitor to the estate: a tall, slim young man with black hair tied back with a red ribbon, his features sharp and his eyes intelligent, his dark blue suit, white stockings and polished boots of the finest quality.
This gentleman introduced himself as Edward Foy, attorney at law, and he accepted a glass of port as he sat in the lamplit parlor with Reuben and Mac.
“I am a great admirer of the racing sport,” Foy said. “It exemplifies the best of the best, does it not? And certainly I and the individual I represent have noted with some interest the advancement of your animal Nemesis. His meeting with Powderkeg was quite the event.”
“You were there?” Reuben asked.
“I was not, but another representative of my client was and of course I read of the race in the Globe. I fear with this publicity, however, that the house of royals is soon to begin raising levies on the entire proceedings, which will cut the profits of all involved.” Foy gave a shrug. “It is the nature of the world, is it not?”
“Unfortunately so,” Reuben agreed. “But tell me, sir, what exactly might we do for you today?”
“Ah. Yes. Well, I am empowered by my client to offer a healthy sum for that samesaid Nemesis, as my client sees a bit of value in the animal and wishes to enter the racing sport with—shall we say—a leg up.”
“A healthy sum?” Mac asked. “How much?”
“Three hundred pounds, young sir. Delivered to you as soon as next week with the signing of the appropriate papers.”
“Quite a healthy sum,” was Reuben’s response. “Let me ask: who is your client?”
“That I am not at liberty to say.”
“Surely it can be said. Why the secrecy?”
“Might I have another glass of this very excellent port?” Foy asked. He held his glass aloft until Mac had gotten up off his chair and poured from the decanter. “My client,” said the lawyer, “is a man of great means who unfortunately has a great many jealous rivals. Such also is the nature of the world, as we all know. I trust that if I revealed the name to you, it would remain as secure as treasure in the vault, yet both he and myself dare not take that … let us call it … risk. He wishes nothing to interfere with his future progress, and these rivals do have impediments in mind. Therefore in his name and by his order I must insist on secrecy.”
“I follow your reasoning but it’s highly unusual,” said Reuben, with a quick glance at his son to judge how Mac was taking all this. “Three hundred pounds. What are you thinking, Mac?”
“Oh … that we should appreciate the offer, but that Nemesis is not currently for sale.” Mac leaned forward in his chair and matched stares with the lawyer. “As you and your client say, the horse shows value and I think more than a bit. We’ve just been working with him now for one training year and one season. I believe his future would be worth many times more than three hundred pounds.”
“What would your price be, then? Might I take a counteroffer back to my client?”
“I repeat,” Mac said, “that Nemesis is not for sale. We have a long way to go with the horse, and we’re not giving him up so early in his career. Right, father?”
“Right,” was the quick and firm answer.
“I see.” But something about Foy’s sharp-chinned face proclaimed otherwise. “Would it make any difference if I revealed that my client has recently made three purchases? I will name them: Proud Timothy, Kindred Spirit … and oh yes, Powderkeg.”
Reuben frowned, the lines deepening across his forehead. “What? All those are prime animals! And Raymond Pell has sold Powderkeg? I’m sorry, young man, but I just don’t believe it!”
“It is to be believed by the sum of three thousand pounds,” Foy said, with a fleeting smile. “Now I should tell you that the horses I’ve mentioned were all purchased by intermediaries, so the name of my client appears on no official record, but I can say again that he is a wealthy and well-connected individual who fancies the hobby of a racing empresario. In time he will reveal himself to the social order, when his stables are completed and all his—shall we say—horses are in a row.”
Neither Mac nor Reuben knew how to respond to this news, but the phrase “hobby of a racing empresario” was a bit thorny to swallow, for all who loved the sport considered it a high and faithful calling rather than a “hobby.” There was definitely something here of the affluent rapscallion seeing his acquisitions as a staircase to lavish parties and perhaps the wallets of their hosts.
“My son has stated our position.” Reuben stood up, as did Mac, but the lawyer was a little more hesitant before he rose. Reuben motioned toward the rain pattering against the windows. “Nasty weather out. If you wish to stay the night, we would—”
“Thank you, no,” Foy interrupted, with a touch of frost. “I have early business in London, and my coachman is an excellent and careful driver. I will relay your decision to my client.” When the man had departed, father and son sat in opposite chairs facing the ruddy flames that crackled in the fireplace of gray-and-white stones. Reuben smoked his churchwarden pipe in silent thought and at length said, “I’ll have a messenger sent out to Pell’s estate in the morning. I want to know more about this sale of Powderkeg.”
“You doubt it’s true?”
“Easy enough to learn, but I don’t know why the man would lie to us.” Reuben pulled on the pipe and blew a smoke ring toward the fire. “Still … Pell parting with Powderkeg … when the horse is at his youth’s best strength … oh of course three thousand pounds is a tremendous amount of money, but Raymond doesn’t need it! No, we shall set forth a messenger to find out more.” Reuben lapsed into silence once again, but watching him chew on the pipe’s stem Mac knew there was something else that ought to come out.
“What do you know that I don’t?” he asked. “Just whisperings, this past year.”
“If you please, turn whisperings into full voicings.”
“Well … as I say, only things I’ve heard here and there. Nothing of brick, more of sand. I’ve felt no need to pass these along.”
“I insist,” said Mac, “that you pass them along now, and I’m thinking these things involve Nemesis in some way?”
“Not directly. Not that I know of, I mean. But I hear that the criminal element is becoming quite interested in our little ‘hobby’.” Reuben scowled. “Could you bear that? An insult, if you ask me.”
“Go on,” Mac urged. “The criminal element. And aren’t they already involved? Some might say the feed concerns are largely controlled by them.”
“Possibly, but not proven. And anyway, they might cause the price of feed to fluctuate from time to time, but they leave us be. What I hear is that there are individuals who wish to enter what they consider the higher echelon of society to move their schemes along, and are looking at ownership of racing horses and stable estates to do so.” Reuben drew and puffed again. “What we heard Foy present to us sounds like just such a situation. And that about the ‘secrecy’ of his client’s identity. I have the feeling that if he spoke the name I might have some knowledge of its owner. Well, we shall see what we shall see.”
In a few days a response arrived from Raymond Pell, which Reuben read to his son as they stood in the stable gallery: “Dear Reuben, it is true I’ve transferred ownership of Powderkeg as well as three other horses that I think have great potential for the future. This was a difficult decision, not taken lightly. The truth is that at seventy years of age I have found myself recoiling from the complexities of the sport we have both loved so much. Neither Kevin nor Beatrice wish to carry the emblem further, as they are involved in their own lives and their own children, and I do not care to push upon them a responsibility to which they are not fully committed. Thus I have decided that Ann and I should bask in the golden light of our years, enjoy the fruits of our labors and perhaps travel while we are still of a mind to, and leave the sport in the capable hands of a younger generation, of which you are certainly a prime example. You and Mac please come for a visit, and we shall go boating on the river as we did on your last trip. I look forward to seeing both of you. Your friend always, Raymond.”
“That’s that, I suppose,” said Mac.
“Hm,” Reuben answered. He folded the missive and deposited it in a pocket. They stood watching some of the horses being brought in from the practice track, and then Reuben said, “This is terribly sudden, isn’t it?”
“I can’t say I don’t understand Pell’s position. After all, he must’ve gained quite a sum for all the animals combined.”
“Yes … but to whom did he sell them? I’m sure he doesn’t know. I would think that lawyer very smoothly talked him into this deal, likely taking advantage of his age.” Reuben scuffed at the dirt with the toe of his boot before he spoke again. “I recently saw an interesting advertisement in the Globe. A young man named Richard Herrald is opening in London what he calls a ‘problem-solving’ agency. The advertisement offered work on a client’s behalf in exchange for a fee to be negotiated.” Reuben looked into his son’s face. “I’ve a mind to contact him and inquire if he might find out who’s behind these intermediaries Foy spoke of. What do you think?”
Mac shrugged. “It’s your money.”
“I hope this situation does not become our worry. Come along, help me word the letter.”
The investigation, as Richard Herrald termed it in the return letter, took nearly two months. On the fifteenth of December as light snow dusted the pasture outside, Reuben stood before the fire in the parlor and broke the wax seal on the second letter to arrive from the Herrald Agency.
