Grey Timothy/Chapter 5

“London had an opportunity yesterday of watching the methods of the sensational turfman, Mr B. Pallard,” wrote the racing correspondent of the Sporting Chronicle. “Mr Pallard, with whose exploits in Australia the average reader is acquainted, has recently arrived in this country. He lost little time in getting to work, for he had not been a week in this country when he took over the palatial private training establishment of the late Mr Louis Brenzer at Wickham, and, by private purchase, acquired most of the horses in training of Lord Willigat. These horses, which were to have come up at the December sales, were taken over with their engagements, and it was generally anticipated that one at least would run in their new owner’s colours at Sandown yesterday. Mr Pallard’s colours, by the way, are unique, being black and white diagonal stripe and emerald green cap. This is the first time diagonals have been registered as far as my recollection goes.

In place of the expected Crambler, Mr Pallard was represented only by a three-year-old, Timberline, a brown colt by a son of Carbine out of a Galopin mare, the Norbury Selling Plate being the race selected.

With a strange jockey up, and no indication that the horse was fancied, Reinhardt was installed a good favourite, opening at 5 to 2, and hardening to 11 to 8. The only horse to be backed against him was Mr Telby’s Curb Fel, 10 to 2 bar two being freely offered. The horses were on their way to the post when a move was made in favour of Timberline, all the 100 to 8’s and 10’s being absorbed for small money. Big sums went on at 100 to 12, and not satisfied with this, one commissioner took 1,000 to 140 twice. Smoothly as the commission was worked, there was a hitch, for money came tumbling in from the small rings, and the price shortened to 5 to 1 and to 7 to 2, in the shortest space of time. Then, when it seemed that the commissioners had had enough, and Timberline weakened to 4 to 1, there came another determined onslaught on the rings. Any price offered was taken, and at the death it was impossible to get a quotation, though one of the prominent bookmakers took 600 to 400 twice. The price returned was 5 to 4 on, but at flagfall it was impossible to trade at that price.

The race, which was run over the Eclipse course, needs little description. Timberline lay up with the leaders till passing the pay-gate turn, where he took second place. Into the straight he was running on a light rein, and drawing away at the distance he won in a hack canter by four lengths.

At the subsequent auction Mr Pallard, staving off all opposition, bought in the winner for 1,200 guineas.”

Gladys Callander read this account with knit brows.

Day after day, Charles, her groom, had smuggled this excellent journal into her room.

“It is for the tennis, Charles; you know these sporting papers give so much more detail.”

“Yes, miss,” said the innocent Charles.

She read and re-read the account. Her ideas about the ‘market’ were vague. And what was the ring? She pictured a white-railed enclosure in which was penned a sinful body of men who shouted ‘Four to one!’ or ‘A hundred and eight!’ or whatever their outlandish cries were. But the mysteries of market fluctuation, the money that came ‘tumbling into the ring’, all this was beyond her. Did the money actually tumble into the ring, and would not dishonest people pick it up? She recognized that the ‘paygate turn’ was a piece of local topography, but who was the commissioner? And how did Brian benefit? And if he took 1,000 to 140, why did he do it twice, why not do it all at once?

All these matters puzzled her and she determined to seek elucidation.

She made a careless pilgrimage to the stables and found Charles hissing at a governess-car without any particular provocation. She stood watching him for a long time, then:

“Charles,” she said.

The man straightened his back and touched his hat.

“Charles, do—do you ever bet?”

Charles grinned and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Well, miss, I has a bet off an’ on.”

“Do you ever bet a hundred and eight?” she ventured learnedly.

“No, I don’t say as I do, miss,” said the staggered Charles.

“Have you been to the races?”

“Yes, miss, often. I used to drive a gentleman before I drove your father,” said Charles.

She eyed him severely, but saw no offence in his face.

“You mean you used to drive a leisured gentleman, Charles,” she corrected. “Did you ever see the ring?”

“Yes, miss.”

“And the money tumbling about in the ring?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Who gets it, Charles?”

“The bookmakers, miss,” said Charles sadly.

Gladys was as wise as ever. She had the paper folded small behind her and now she produced it.

“I was reading about the cricket, Charles,” she said. “You know how awfully interested I am in cricket”

“I thought it was tennis, miss,” said Charles.

“I mean tennis,” she said hastily. “Well, I was reading about the tennis and I saw this, and I can’t understand it a bit, Charles.”

She pointed out the paragraph and Charles, wiping his moist hands on his breeches, took it from her.

“Do you understand it?” she asked anxiously.

“Oh, yes, miss,” responded Charles, confidently. “It means, miss, that this here gentleman, Mr Pallard, slipped a horse in an overnight seller, an’ he waited till the ring found something hot, then he dropped in his commissioners to back it. You see, miss, they are in all the rings! An’ the tick-tack men got the wheeze and sent it back to Tatts, and then Mr Pallard hung on for the horse to go out a bit; then he popped in again and laid the stuff on. Why, it’s as plain as print!” he added proudly.

“Of course it is,” said the poor girl, and walked back to the house, her head whirling.

Since the night of Brian’s abrupt departure, and the scene which had followed the reappearance of Lord Pinlow, a dusty figure, dazed and wild of speech, Brian Pallard was a person who neither figured in the conversations of Hill View, nor, as Mr Callander had hoped in the most emphatic terms, occupied the thoughts of his household.

What control Mr Callander exercised over his children was in the main confined to a sphere outside mental influence, and it may be admitted that Gladys thought a great deal of her ‘courtesy’ cousin—for he was no more, she learnt, being the son of ‘my brother-in-law’s second wife’. This, her father had been at pains to inform her, deeming it necessary that she should not be afflicted with a sense of too dose relationship.

It was very wrong of Brian to strike Lord Pinlow so brutally.

“I went after him to apologize for any unintentional rudeness,” exclaimed the aggrieved peer, “and whilst I was talking he gave me a most unexpected blow; as a matter of fact, my head was turned at the time.”

Men, who know men best, believed him; Gladys was certain that he lied. To believe such a story would have meant the surrender of faith in her own judgment.

With the paper in her hand she made her way to her room, there to carefully cut out the paragraph relating to this strange relative of hers, and to as carefully destroy the remainder of the journal.

It was evident, she thought, that one can only understand racing by experience, and by bitter experience, too. She looked at the paper again. There was row after row of neat advertisements, and they were headed ‘Commission Agents’. She made a note of these; these were evidently the men who had done the extraordinary things she had read about.

She was sitting at her solitary lunch, reading a book, when the familiar ‘hump-hump’ of her father’s car aroused her. She got up hastily, stuffing the book away under some cushions—for Mr Callander held very strong views on malnutrition and literature. It was unlike her father to return home so soon. Before she could reach the door her father was in the hall.

“Ha, Gladys!” he said cheerfully, almost jovially; “has Gladys had her lunch, ’m? Gladys is surprised to see her father? Well, well!”

He was indeed most cordial, and followed her to the morning-room where she had been taking, her frugal meal, humming a little tune.

“I’ve come home to speak to you,” he said, “on a little matter which affects us both very nearly.”

He put on his pince-nez and carefully took out his pocket-book. From this he removed a slip of paper, carefully folded in two, as carefully written.

“I have sent this to the Morning Post,” he said.

She took the slip from his hand and read:

“A marriage has been arranged between Miss Gladys Edith Callander, the only daughter of Mr Peter Callander, of Hill View Park, Sevenoaks, and Lord Pinlow of Brickleton.”

She read it again, her brows knit. Then she looked up, a little pale, and asked quietly:

“Who has arranged this?”

Her father smiled. He was intensely satisfied with himself; his attitude, as he leant back in the big arm-chair into which he had sunk, spoke of that satisfaction.

“I arranged it, of course.”

“Of course,” she repeated, and nodded her head.

“He has a very old title,” he went on, “and at heart he is a very worthy and admirable man—the ideal companion and protector for a young girl who knows very little of life. A man of the world”

“I suppose he asked you?” she said.

All the brightness of the day had gone out at the sight of that slip of paper. Life had undergone a most revolutionary change.

“Yes,” he said complacently, “he asked me. Of course, he is not in a position to marry, but it is part of the—er”

“Bargain,” she suggested.

Mr Callander frowned.

“Arrangement is a better word,” he said; “it is part of the arrangement—or, let me put it this way, I intend to make provision for you both.”

She handed the slip back to him.

“Father,” she said quietly, “you have mistaken the age in which we live; in these enlightened years a girl usually chooses her own husband.”

“Gladys will take the husband I want her to take,” said Mr Callander icily, “and there is an end to it.”

“Very well,” she replied, and left him with no other word.

She went upstairs to her room, put on her hat and coat, and left the house without his realizing the fact that she had gone out. She was back again in a quarter of an hour, more cheerful.

He did not return to the City that day, but saw nothing of Gladys till Horace returned from town. They were taking tea on the lawn before he spoke to his daughter again.

“Pinlow is coming to dinner to-night,” he said; “he will want to speak to you.”

“If he had spoken to me before,” she said, “he would have saved himself a great deal of trouble, and you a great humiliation. I would no more think of marrying Lord Pinlow than I should think of marrying your valet.”

He stared at her dumbfounded, speechless.

“But, but!” he spluttered angrily; “I have passed my word—it will be announced to-morrow.”

“I have telegraphed to the paper to cancel the announcement,” she said simply.

He was purple with rage. There was nobody present save the three, for Horace was a silent, if interested, spectator.

“Gladys,” said Mr Callander, getting his temper under control with an effort, “I am used to being obeyed. You shall marry Pinlow, or you shall not remain under my roof. I—I will put you in a convent or something—I will, by God! I will not be—be brow-beaten by a fool of a girl!”

“Don’t be silly, Gladys,” murmured Horace.

She caught a quick little sob in her throat.

“I would not marry Lord Pinlow to save my life,” she said desperately.

“Go to your room!” said the exasperated Mr Callander.