Dead Ringer Read Free

Peel had raised his narrow, finely chiselled nose and was scowling about him in a patrician manner.
    It was quite the wrong moment for Ernest Wood to swagger forward to present his compliments and indulge in a little peacock preening. But then he was only a provincial corn merchant and I suppose knew no better. Greville saw him coming and muttered something to his companions, Lord George Bentinck shot a cold, hostile glance towards the puffed-up , swaggering, triumphant merchant and, as Wood reached the group, Bentinck pointedly turned his back, stepped aside.
    I made my excuses and left Lester Grenwood to edge forward on the trail of the corn merchant. I was impelled by curiosity, of course, but there was something else: a nervous coldness in my stomach, a forewarning of trouble. I always had an instinct about such things. I could always sniff out trouble. Not that I often acted upon such instincts, I must admit.
    As Bentinck moved away, stiff-backed and stiff-legged, the group broke up, with Greville, then le Tissier and the othersfollowing him, leaving Wood to converse with Colonel Peel alone. Wood glanced after the retreating men and frowned: it was common gossip at Brooks’s that Bentinck had wagered a large sum on
Orlando
, but Bentinck – the self-proclaimed ‘dictator of the Turf’ – was not normally noted for being a bad loser. And he was a rich man who could afford to pay up if he had backed a loser. Unlike me. With growing anxiety, I edged even closer as the corn merchant turned towards the owner of
Orlando
.
    Colonel Peel’s lidded eyes were cold, grey and expressionless. He was a taciturn, stiff-backed, lean sort of fellow at the best of times, normally controlled in his manner but known for occasional short-tempered outbursts in the House of Commons. Now his mouth was set in a grim line and he seemed to be holding back a simmering rage.
    In his excited confidence Ernest Wood was grinning, fatly innocent in his lack of social niceties.
Orlando
had not been the favourite: the sporting newspapers had all reckoned
Ugly Buck
would win in a canter. The betting world had reacted accordingly , and the corn merchant’s horse had been a rank outsider – which meant a considerable windfall for Wood, the owner of the triumphant
Running Rein
. And more importantly, for me, when wagers came to be settled.
    ‘Well, Colonel,’ Wood said in an affable tone, puffing out his cheeks, tapping his hand lightly on Peel’s shoulder and smiling broadly, ‘a close run thing, as the Duke of Wellington might say! What was it, three-quarters of a length?’
    Colonel Peel made a visible effort to reply in a civil tone. He inclined his narrow head, raised a supercilious eyebrow, brushed a hand across the shoulder of his sober, dark frock coat as though removing an irritating insect. ‘So I am informed, sir.’
    ‘Well, we can’t all be winners, hey?’ Wood asserted gaily. ‘And your
Orlando
put up a gallant fight, a gallant fight.’ He glanced around triumphantly and caught up in the triumph of themoment could not resist the jibe. ‘So will you be putting your nag out to stud, now?’
    Someone nearby laughed, a ripple of amusement spread among the bustling crowd, and Colonel Peel’s sallow features began to flush. Lord George Bentinck was now near the steps leading from the room, his hand on Baron le Tissier’s arm. He turned back, gestured to Colonel Peel. His voice rang clearly above the general hubbub. ‘We should be moving off,’ he called out, ‘if we’re to get back to Coombe Hall in good time.’
    Peel’s cold, baleful glance slipped past Ernest Wood. ‘You’ll excuse me – I must be leaving.’
    The corn merchant waved a careless, happy hand. ‘Of course, Colonel. It’s not a problem. I can call on you later in the week.’
    Peel hesitated. It seemed to me that something dark moved in his narrowing eyes, and his lean, saturnine features were tense. He raised his chin in distant contempt. ‘Settling up