‘Exactly. The house where Anton Valance parked his car outside for two hours on Monday evening. And who was the prime minister at the outbreak of the First World War?’

Chico shrugged his shoulders. ‘No idea, mate. Not the bloke you’ve just been talkin’ to, that’s for sure. He ain’t old enough.’

I laughed again. ‘If it were him, he’d be a hundred and seventy by now. No, but his name is the same. Henry Asquith. The prime minister was actually Herbert Henry Asquith, but he was known by his family as Henry.’

‘How the bleedin’ hell do you know that?’ Chico asked.

‘Because I looked him up on the internet this morning. It’s funny how the brain works. You were talking to me about my new hand as I was driving home yesterday afternoon. Because of that, I thought about Harry the Hands, my transplant surgeon. Word association and all that. I knew I’d met someone else called Harry recently and spent ages trying to remember who. Suddenly, in the middle of last night, the brain engaged and Bingo! Henry—call me Harry—Asquith. I met him at Catterick races eight days ago.

‘And the crazy lady, living a hundred years in the past, had met him and she must think he really is the prime minister. I checked Asquith’s address with Simon Paulson this morning and, sure enough, it’s the big house next to the chapel in East Witton.’

‘So is he Valance’s accomplice?’

‘He might be, although I have a sneaking suspicion that it is, in fact, the other way round.’

I stood by the rail of the parade ring watching as Ricardian was led round prior to the fifth race.

Standing on the grass in the centre of the ring were the owners and trainers of the seven runners, including Harry Asquith, his daughter, his grandson, and Simon Paulson, the three adults in conversation, while young Henry concentrated on watching the horses.

Jimmy Shilstone soon joined them and Henry stared up at the red-and-blue-clad figure in total adulation.

A bell was rung and the seven jockeys moved over to their respective horses and were tossed up onto the saddles by the trainers.

As Jimmy rode past me, adjusting his stirrup leathers, I called out to him.

‘Good luck.’

He stared down from his lofty position with that panicky look back in his eyes.

‘Do your best,’ I said. And he nodded, just ever so slightly.

The horses made their way out onto the racecourse and I watched as the Asquith party plus Simon Paulson went up into the space on the grandstand reserved for owners and trainers. Chico joined me in another section of the stand to watch the race.

As expected, Ricardian was the clear leader in the betting market, with most bookmakers showing a price for him of five-to-two on their brightly lit boards, with the next best at four-to-one.