George Jenks thought about this for a few moments. “Hard to decide on one. But probably Secretariat. A combination of his stride, his heart, his metabolism. They were not only great in and of themselves, they came together seamlessly. If you can think of the phrase in a positive sense, Secretariat was a perfect storm.”

35

Jenks having left, with a promise to return to talk about training, Melrose told Ruthven he was going out.

“Out” not being much of a destination in Long Piddleton, he wound up heading for the Jack and Hammer with Vivian, Joanna, Diane, Trueblood and the unwelcome Theo Wrenn Brown.

Diane was holding forth about drugs in horse racing. “He was up before the Horseracing Authority disciplinary board several times. A hypo found in his kit in the stables before the Oaks. It was Bork Sands’s own horse, something called Silver Sands, I think.”

“Diane,” said Melrose, “where do you get all of this horse-racing arcana? Who’s Bork Sands?”

At just that point the door of the Jack and Hammer’s saloon bar opened and to Melrose’s surprise George Jenks walked in. Walked in and walked over to their table, bent down and kissed Diane Demorney on her cheek.

If there is such a thing as a communal gasp, the other five occupants of the table gasped it.

“Hello, sweetheart,” said George to Diane.

Sweetheart?

“Hello, Georgie.”

Georgie? Sweetheart? A communal jaw-drop.

When George lay his arm across the back of Diane’s chair, had the others allowed themselves a rude response, they would have whipped out their phones and clicked a picture.

Mrs. Withersby, however, unconcerned about rudeness and having no camera, resorted to mop and mouth. “Bloody hell!” she said loudly as her mop dropped out of its two inches of water, which water spread over Theo Wrenn Brown’s shoe.

Diane introduced him: “George Jenks, my ex-husband.”

Communal crash of mugs and glasses on table.

George laughed. “But I’m only one of them.”

“The others not being welcome,” said Diane, plugging a cigarette into her holder, which George then lit.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said to the table in general. Then, to Melrose, and looking at Diane, he said, “The mutual friend.”

“We were talking about horses and drugs. Did you ever hear of a trainer named Bork Sands?” said Diane.

“The Borkster?” said George with a laugh. “Sure, only he wasn’t a trainer. He was a vet.”

“A horse vet? What stables did he work for?”

“Different ones. Mainly the Summerston stables.” He turned to Diane. “You remember that horse Epiphany? Won the St. Leger? Won a lot of races for such a mediocre horse.” George smiled. “That horse couldn’t’ve made it out of the backstretch without a great jockey and God.”

“Are you saying,” said Joanna Lewes, “the horse won because he was drugged?”

“No, but you don’t hire Bork Sands just to get rid of stable cough.”