“The female jockey.”

“Oh. Melissa—Herfeld, I think.”

“Only female jockey I ever saw.”

“Only one there.”

“Do you want to be one?”

“Me? God, no. I’m not really in favor of horse racing.”

“For not favoring it, you seem to know a lot about it.”

“I think it might be inhumane.”

“Really? You mean the training the horses go through? But all training is rigorous: baseball, soccer, tennis. It doesn’t have to be cruel. I’ve never known a trainer to mistreat his horses.”

“Is that what you do, Vernon? I mean, is your business to do with horses?”

Vernon laughed. “No, except as far as investing is concerned. I have an investment firm in the City. But my stepfather owns a stud farm. I spend a lot of time there. It’s where Mr. Plant got Aggrieved. He’s a great horse.”

Melrose was back in the room, saying, “Macalvie called.” He handed Jury a note. “He asked me why the hell you aren’t in Exeter. Tom’s there.”

“He always wants to know why I’m not in Exeter. He’s probably holding Tom prisoner.”

“But this one is your case too, isn’t it?”

“Only by accident.”

Vernon said, “What is the case, Superintendent? Or should I not ask?”

Given Jury had told him at least that part of it involving Sydney, he didn’t blame him for asking, but said, “Another piece of the puzzle. Forgive me if I can’t tell you the whole of it. It’s an ongoing investigation.” To Melrose he said, “Isn’t it enough that Brownell’s there? Why would he need me?”

Melrose shrugged. “How would I know?”

“That’s my grandfather,” said Sydney. “That case will get solved, never fear.”

Melrose and Jury exchanged a surprised glance. It was the first time they’d heard Sydney mention him, much less compliment him.

“Your grandfather?” said Vernon.

“Thomas Brownell. One of the Metropolitan police’s greatest detectives.” Sydney looked at the window where Mr. Blodgett was leading Aggrieved back to the barn.

“I’ve heard of him. It’s Sir Thomas, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Sydney, still gazing at the window and looking as if she thought titles should be conferred on horses, not humans.

“Then I expect I’d better call him,” said Jury, rising.

“Of course,” said Melrose. “But Ruthven can bring the phone in here.”

“No, no. I’ll call from the living room.”

“Macalvie,” said Jury, as soon as he himself was out of earshot. “What’s going on?”

“If you were here, you’d know.”

“Well, I’m not, so I don’t.”

“Moira Quinn. She worked with an agency when she lived in London. Battersea. She …” Macalvie’s voice trailed off, or, rather, was directed not at the phone but at one of his team with whom he was obviously annoyed. “No, for Lord’s sake. Where in hell’s Gilly Thwaite? Get her in here, will you?”