Her defense continued to be that her husband had come to Watermeadows to talk her out of the divorce. “You were the only one who heard what Tony Servino had to say, so you could use that to your own advantage.” Finally, she had admitted that his reason for coming had had nothing to do with the divorce—something he himself had initiated—but to do with Gerald Summerston’s demands that Tony silence Ernest Temple.

But she couldn’t make that stick against the further charge of attempted murder, since there’d been witnesses to her shooting of Tom Brownell, even though she’d meant to shoot Melrose Plant. “Oh, well,” Melrose had said, “we all make mistakes.”

It would be some months before Flora’s trial. But since even Pete Apted (along with every other defense attorney) had turned the case down, the outcome was certain. Apted had said, “My God, she kills three people to save the reputation of one dead guy? Even Churchill, who never quit, would have yelled ‘Quit!’ to that.”

So on this blue day in March, with the horse in his trailer, they had set off for the Sundowner Racecourse.

Aggrieved, who hadn’t run a race in years, and had been trained for only three months—but trained by George Jenks, so it might as well have been three years—went calmly into the stable, where Sydney, who was acting as groom, began wiping him down. And brushing him. Aggrieved, whose coat managed to shine even in the shadows, needed no brushing. Aggrieved, with his never-lost racing demeanor and looking like the epitome of a thoroughbred racehorse, waited patiently for this unnecessary process to finish, since it was Sydney who was doing it. Because Sydney was his Person. Not simply his favorite person, but his Person. She should have been his jockey, for with Sydney on his back, he could have won not just this small-stakes race, but the Royal Ascot, the King George, the Derby, the Gold Cup, the St. Leger, every race run. “You can’t win ’em all” did not apply where Aggrieved and Sydney were concerned. But, worse luck, he was to be ridden by some bugger named “Bugsy.” Oh, well.

“I just lost me hundred-quid bet!” cried Mrs. Withersby. The Jack and Hammer was closed; everybody was at the track, all of the regulars—Melrose, Diane, Joanna, Trueblood—and the staff (not very big): Dick Scroggs and his char.

“Damned race is a walkout!” she added.

“Walkover, Withers. But congratulations on getting one syllable right,” said Trueblood.

They were all gathered, leaning on the rail, waiting for Aggrieved to come pounding alone out of the gate. “And you didn’t lose, for God’s sakes; you just didn’t win,” said Trueblood.

“Not winning’s losing,” she yelled at him. “Always has been, always will be.” She turned on George Jenks. “You cheat, you swindler, you rip-off artist!”