Gauntlet of Fear Read online

  GAUNTLET OF FEAR

  David Cargill

  Copyright © 2012 David Cargill

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study,

  or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents

  Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in

  any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the

  publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with

  the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries

  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

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  ISBN 978 1780885 889

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Converted to eBook by EasyEPUB

  ***

  For Alan and Jane

  ***

  Dedicated to my beloved wife Sheila

  1931–2010

  Her love and inspiration meant everything to me

  Contents

  Cover

  My thanks to...

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  NOTES FOR CURIOUS MINDS

  My thanks to...

  Chris Robinson – Doctor and friend for anaesthetics circa 1967.

  George W. Randall – Historian and passionate researcher of time capsule and E. Douglas King – one time Honorary Secretary KCFA

  Iain & Joy Morrison – Friends and critiques for advice and transportation around the Devon countryside to get my facts right.

  Bob Pearson – For introduction to airfield “that never existed”?

  My thanks also to Alex, Bill, Hilary, Joe, John and Norma for their support and lunchtime tongue-in-cheek offering of big words – never used. I hope the “magnificent six” have as much enjoyment reading this piece of fiction as I’ve had writing it.

  Chapter 1

  AND IT DIDN’T EXIST?

  It was still very cold, but at least the frost was out of the ground, as Freddie Oldsworth steered his red Triumph Spitfire into the already crowded car park, at Kempton Park racecourse, on the morning of twenty-seventh December, 1966. The Boxing Day racing card, that had been lost due to the bad weather, was now scheduled to take place a day later.

  Freddie eased the gear lever into neutral, engaged the handbrake and switched off the engine. He was thankful he was soon to be involved in his favourite pursuit, which would take his mind off the anxiety he had for his companion.

  He brushed both hands through his mop of curly light-brown hair before turning to gaze at the recumbent figure fast asleep in the co-driver’s seat.

  A faint smile broke out at the corners of his mouth as his steel-grey eyes took in the slim form, in the charcoal-grey suit, slumped, in total oblivion, beside him.

  The smile lengthened into a broad grin with the realisation that the sprawled heap, with the shock of dark hair prematurely greying at the temples, looked less like the professor he really was.

  Professor Giles Dawson, historian and lecturer in “Stage Magic and the Great Illusionists”, had shared common interests with Freddie Oldsworth since RAF days. They were both members of the Magic Circle and the Ghost Club, and their mutual love of horse racing had started with a visit to the 1947 Grand National at Aintree, whilst stationed near Liverpool. On that occasion dense fog had made it impossible to follow the Tom Dreaper trained favourite, ‘Prince Regent’, in his bold attempt to carry top weight; the horse finishing in fourth place behind a 100/1 outsider.

  Now, almost twenty years later, both men were arriving to watch another Tom Dreaper favourite continue his extraordinary steeple-chasing career in the King George VI Chase.

  Despite the smile, as he looked at his companion, Freddie couldn’t help a feeling of foreboding. The Prof, as he was known to his closest friends, had spent the Christmas vacation, with Freddie and his wife Penny and their two little girls, at their Cotswold home in Evesham. During that time, Giles had been moody and depressed.

  Freddie wondered if the events at Maskelyne Hall, near Lockerbie, had caused the problem. The Prof had told a tale, stressing three words that provoked a shudder. He would have to wait for a more detailed explanation and he knew that might take time. The three words were ‘Gauntlet of Fear.’

  Putting those to one side, Freddie knew the name on everyone’s lips, in the horse racing world, was ‘Arkle’. Owned by Anne, Duchess of Westminster, such was the esteem, in which an endearing public held the horse, that he was known only as ‘Himself.’

  A full two minutes passed before the heap, known as The Prof, stirred, opened flickering lids to reveal clear blue eyes and then struggled to sit upright.

  ‘Have I missed anything?’ he enquired sleepily.

  ‘No, not really, but you’ve been asleep for the best part of an hour. We’ve a helluva lot to do before racing starts.’

  ‘You’re spot on, as usual, Freddie. I’m afraid I haven’t been the best company lately and I was having a dream about that mysterious business at Maskelyne Hall. It’s less than a month since I arrived at a solution and I continually have nightmares about whether I could have prevented…you know! I still blame myself for what happened at the end.’

  ‘Take my word. You have a clear conscience.’

  Giles nodded, but without conviction. His eyes closed as he sat for several moments in contemplative thought about the complex mystery surrounding the death of the owner of the big house near Lockerbie. The truth behind ‘how a bottle opener can open more than bottles’, and the significance of ‘The Statue of Three Lies’ that had finally helped him arrive at a solution.

  Now it was the equine hero of the age they were about to admire. Both men would readily admit, history had a nasty habit of repeating itself and, hand-in-hand with destiny, was capable of wrecking dreams just as often as making them come true.

  ‘Is there anything you want me to do?’ Giles asked once they were inside the racecourse proper.

  ‘Yes! Nip over to that kiosk where that crowd is gathered and pick up a race card. I’ll meet you over at the rails, in a few minutes, and then we can grab some light refreshment at the bar. My stomach thinks my throat’s been cut. Oh, before I forget young Katie usually attends to the race cards so you might deal yourself a good hand if you just…smile a little. I was going to say ‘be yourself’ but I’m not sure that would help. Cheer up, for God’s sake!’

  Both men were soon enjoying a sandwich and a beer in the nearby bar when Giles handed over the race card.

  ‘So you found our little Katie then?’ Freddie said as he opened the c
ard and appraised the runners for the big chase.

  ‘No! As a matter of fact I was out of luck – the kiosk was empty.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you missed out getting the girl again,’ Freddie sighed with a wry smile on his face. ‘You keep doing your Bob Hope impression like in those great Road films.’

  Freddie was always ragging Giles about his seeming failure to have any success in the marriage stakes; ever since The Prof’s fiancée had…! But that was another story.

  ‘Anyway, how did you manage to get this then?’ Freddie asked, brandishing the card.

  ‘As I was saying, before I was rudely interrupted, the kiosk was empty when I got there; people were turning away saying the girl had gone for more cards – something to do with the exceptional crowd for today’s meeting because of Arkle,’ Giles hesitated. ‘I was about to do the same when a voice asked if he could help me.’

  ‘He?’

  ‘Yes, it was a man’s voice. I looked into the booth but couldn’t see anything. It was fairly dark inside…and then my eyes got accustomed to the surroundings. I spotted a face with distinct features.’

  ‘Here we go again with another bout of your imagination! I suppose it had the horns of a goat and bloodshot beady eyes and…!’

  ‘No!’ Giles cut his friend short. ‘But it did have a military bearing, a waxed moustache and large bushy eyebrows. Hardly the features you’d expect in a girl or, for that matter, a goat. It was also wearing a smart flat cap at a jaunty angle and not many goats wear those, clever clogs.’

  ‘That must’ve been Katie’s father,’ Freddie spouted forth knowingly. ‘Ex sergeant major, and, ever since leaving the army, he’s been a regular at Kempton Park carrying out all sorts of necessary odd jobs like repairing fences or replacing turf at the jumps. He’d be helping his daughter.’

  ‘So that solves another problem.’

  ‘Yes! A great guy and one who could make even you jump when he barked out a command. Did he say anything?’

  ‘Not much. He passed over the race card with a low whispered “You can ‘ave my copy guv…I don’t think I’ll be needing one today.” I lost sight of him in the darkened booth so I thanked him and left.’

  Freddie looked slightly perplexed as he digested what he was told. ‘Strange! That’s not like the sergeant major I know. Never mind, let’s look at today’s runners and make decisions.’

  The early races were enjoyed by the vast crowd as they awaited the one they had all come to see. Freddie had a couple of wagers – but the big race was the main attraction.

  The crowd that encircled the paddock, where the small field for the King George VI Chase were being led round, was a tribute to Arkle as racegoers continued to pay homage to this equine hero.

  Freddie cast his expert eye over ‘Himself’ and his challengers, while Giles disappeared to make a phone call to book a table at Simpson’s-in-the-Strand for their evening meal. On his return he found his friend in a state of agitated excitement.

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked as the jockeys began to mount. ‘Have you noticed something of a problem?’.

  ‘Indeed I have!’ Freddie replied, smacking his lips. ‘But not inside the paddock. Outside and it made me wonder. I bumped into that filly you missed. You know…Katie…and I told her your story…about how you got the race card.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She looked slightly bemused; then she smiled in a kind of quizzical fashion which turned to one of loving understanding – like my wife Penny occasionally does at home. She said she hoped to meet up with you before we left the course. Then she dashed off, carrying a large bag, saying she was going down to one of the fences to watch the race.’

  ‘How interesting! I’d love to meet her, though how we’ll see her in this crowd beats me.’

  They watched the race from the stands and, as Giles focussed his binoculars on the leaders, he began to feel that an upset might be on the cards.

  As the field approached the second circuit, he could sense that Arkle wasn’t jumping with his usual freedom, and a bad blunder at the fourteenth fence caused Giles to lower his glasses briefly and look across at Freddie whose face registered his concern.

  When the leaders entered the straight for the final time Woodland Venture was still there and appeared to be going slightly the better until he hit the second fence from home and came down.

  Arkle, the 9-2 on favourite, was left in the clear – but something was wrong. Arkle was stopping fast and Dormant belying his name came from the last to lead close home and win by a length. ‘Himself’ finished lame and a vast crowd of admirers were left in little doubt that the great horse had completed his final race on three legs.

  Both men left the stands in silence and made for the unsaddling enclosure when a voice from behind stopped them in their tracks.

  ‘Well now, Freddie, aren’t you going to introduce me to your professor friend?’

  Giles turned to see a young woman with rosy cheeks. She was well wrapped up against the cold, but slightly out of breath from running.

  ‘Katie, this is Giles Dawson, the prof I was telling you about. Giles, please let me introduce Katie…I’m sorry but I don’t know your surname.’

  Pleased to me you,’ she said, holding out a delicate hand as she removed her glove. ‘Starters, Katie Starters. Born and bred in Ireland…like Arkle! Freddie told me your story.’ Her slight London-Irish accent created an atmosphere of intrigue. ‘I’d love to hear it again, but first I think I should explain. The kiosk was closed because I needed more race cards and…’ she hesitated before continuing, ’there was another important task I’d promised to do for him!’

  ‘For your father?’ The Prof asked gently.

  Yes,’ she replied.

  ‘There you are then! That solves our little mystery! Putting two and two together I’d say it would be himself that gave me his very own race card…military bearing, waxed moustache, bushy eyebrows and smart flat cap set at a jaunty angle. He said he wouldn’t need one today! Am I right?’

  ‘That’s m’dad all right. Sergeant major Bert Starters – firm but fair, even when barking out the orders on the parade ground. Now retired...!’ Her eyes misted up.

  ‘So mystery solved then?’ Giles glanced at Freddie who was now shaking his head.

  ‘No…not quite!’ Katie had a tear at her eye as she spoke. ‘You see, dad died ten days before Christmas.’

  ‘The same day you were running the Gauntlet of Fear thing!’ Freddie chipped in.

  Katie wiped the tear from her eye. ‘He was cremated at Golders Green crematorium. It just had to be Golders Green, you see, because of the two G’s in the title…you know, gee gees…m’dad was always keen on the horses… and my orders were to have his ashes scattered here at Kempton Park. I was down, near his favourite fence, doing just that while the kiosk was empty and today was the first day he wouldn’t be needing his card!’

  ‘I’m sorry!’ Both men spoke as one.

  ‘That’s quite all right,’ she said, with affection. ‘His ghost will be welcome here. He’ll always be the greatest; I doubt we’ll ever see the likes of himself again, but now I know where he is and where he’ll be forever!’

  ‘We’d both like to echo that sentiment,’ the Prof said. ‘And after today the same thought might have to be applied to that other Himself…Arkle.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be rather strange if the two of them were to end it all at the same course and on the same day?’ Katie reflected and started to move off. ‘Anyway I did what he wanted me to do,’ she called back, over her shoulder, as she melted into a subdued crowd. ‘And all because of himself, Bert Starters. God bless him!’ Her laughing voice trailed away in the freshening breeze. ‘And all because I was under Starters Orders!’

  Giles and Freddie waved farewell to the disappearing Irish colleen who had captured their hearts, before they turned to do likewise to the nation’s steeplechaser…Arkle, who, due to his exceptional talent, had instigated a complete transformation of the ha
ndicapping system in National Hunt racing.

  Simpson’s-in-the-Strand was heaving with guest diners, that evening after racing; diners who didn’t have to say grace as they knew what they were about to receive.

  ‘Can you try to explain how you’ve managed to get involved with this latest fiasco?’ Freddie asked after they were seated. ‘And I’d like to hear it from the beginning, please, because I’ve certain reservations, about which I’ll say more later.’

  ‘From the beginning? Yes, of course – I’ll try to do that, but I don’t want to spoil our meal!’

  ‘You can’t do that, Giles. Simpson’s will not allow that to happen…believe me!’

  ‘I believe you!’ Giles smiled, and the tension in his face relaxed, as he sipped a little of the red wine.

  ‘It was in the St James’s Club, at 106 Piccadilly.’ he nodded to the gentleman pouring the drinks. It’s a gentlemen’s club once tenanted by the Coventry Club and, during the Second World War, was briefly occupied by Ian Fleming, the creator of James Bond. It was ten days before Christmas and I was giving a lecture to an invited audience of stage magicians and circus proprietors. I was expounding on the impact that feats of disappearance could have if performed in the circus ring, as opposed to those exhibited on stage.’