“Oh,” I said. It did not sound very interesting to me, but I suppose that the horses enjoyed it.
Aunt Japonica took another sip of tea. Then she went on to explain that the trainer, Mr. Fetlock, had not won a race for over three months. All of his horses, which were normally very fast, had become very slow. One of them had even sat down in the middle of a race. Another had thrown its rider off even before the race had begun. Mr. Fetlock had no idea what the trouble was, but it was obvious that somebody was interfering with the horses in some way.
It sounded very simple to me. If somebody was interfering with the horses—perhaps by putting thorns under their saddles or sleeping pills in their oats—surely the answer was to watch and see who was doing it. I could not see how I could possibly help. Then Aunt Japonica answered my question.
“I see that you’re wondering how you can help,” she said, glancing at Aunt Thessalonika as she spoke.
Aunt Japonica looked at me closely.
“Have you ever seen the people who ride racehorses?” she asked. “Have you ever seen a jockey?”
I scratched my head. I thought that I had seen pictures of them in the newspapers. They wore riding helmets and very colorful shirts.
My aunts did not give me time to reply.
“They’re smaller than most adults,” Aunt Japonica said, her eyes glinting with enthusiasm. “Small people are lighter, and this allows the horses to go faster. So jockeys are usually not tall and certainly never fat.”
“Yes,” agreed Aunt Thessalonika. “They’re really all … well, just about your size!”
Immediately, I knew why my aunts wanted me to help them on this case. But what exactly would I be asked to do, and would it be dangerous? Would I have to ride a horse? Worse still, would I have to enter a horse race?
That very afternoon I traveled with my two aunts out to Mr. Fetlock’s racing stables. Mr. Fetlock himself met us at the gate and walked us up the long driveway to the group of buildings where the horses lived. He was a tall man, wearing brown jodhpurs, a smart checked coat, and riding boots.
“It’s very good of you to come out here,” he said. “I lost another race yesterday. It was my very best horse, Black Lightning. Not only did he come in last, but the horses in front of him overtook him on their second time around the racetrack. I was so embarrassed, I went and sat in my stall so that nobody would see me.”
“Somebody’s cheating,” said Aunt Japonica through pursed lips. “If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a cheat.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Fetlock sadly. “But who can it be? The only people who have been anywhere near that horse over the last week are the stable boys and the jockeys themselves.”
“I see,” said Aunt Japonica thoughtfully. “Well, it must be one of them.”
Mr. Fetlock looked astonished. “But that’s impossible!” he snorted. “They wouldn’t cheat me!”
Aunt Japonica shook her head. “We’ll see about that,” she said. “But first, would you please show us the place where you keep all the riding clothes? You know, jodhpurs, boots, jackets—things like that.”
Mr. Fetlock looked puzzled, but, shaking his head, he led us to a small building near the stables. Unlocking the door, he pointed to a large cupboard against the wall.
“There’s an awful lot of stuff in there,” he said. “You could dress ten jockeys with that.”
“We need to dress only one,” said Aunt Japonica, opening the cupboard. She raked around inside, extracted some clothes, and passed them to me.
“If you’ll wait outside, Mr. Fetlock,” she said, “we will join you in a moment.”
I looked at the clothes. Then I looked at my aunts, who smiled and nodded. With their help, and with a lot of pinning and tucking from Aunt Thessalonika, I was soon ready. Then, with a flourish, Aunt Japonica opened the door and we went out to join Mr. Fetlock. He looked at me in astonishment, and then his face burst into a wide grin.
“Harriet!” he cried out. “Or should I call you Harry? You look like a perfect jockey! Well done, my boy!”
Black Lightning’s Stall
“Don’t worry,” said Aunt Japonica in a soothing voice. “You won’t have to ride a racehorse. Will she, Mr. Fetlock?”
I swallowed hard. It was all very well dressing up as a jockey, and I think I looked like one, but what if somebody asked me to get up on a horse? It’s not that I hadn’t ridden once or twice before; it’s just that there was every difference in the world between the small pony I had been on and the big racehorses I could see watching us from their stalls in Mr. Fetlock’s stables.
Aunt Japonica drew me aside.
“We’re going to leave you now,” she whispered. “Then, when the others come back from their afternoon ride, Mr. Fetlock will tell them that you’re a new jockey who’s come to work here.”
I nodded. That part of the plan seemed simple enough, but what would happen after that?
“But what do I have to do?” I asked my aunt, wondering whether it was too late to say that I had changed my mind and that I wanted to go home.
“Really, Harriet!” said Aunt Japonica impatiently. “If you want to be a detective, you’ll have to use your imagination. Just do what all the other jockeys do and see who’s up to no good. Then you let us know. We’ll be staying with Mr. Fetlock in his house over there.”
“Will I be staying there too?” I asked.
Mr. Fetlock had overheard my question, and he laughed.
“Oh, no,” he said. “I’m afraid all the jockeys have little rooms next to the horses. You can have the room next to Black Lightning’s stall. Very comfortable. A bit smelly, perhaps, but jockeys don’t mind!”
“So you see,” said Aunt Japonica, “it’s all worked out. Now off you go to your room and wait for the others to come back. They’ll be here in no time!”
For the first time since I had found all my aunts, I felt really miserable. As I sat on the edge of my bed in the little room next to Black Lightning’s stall, I could hear my companion next door, scraping at his trough, his hooves tapping on the stone floor. I realized that I had made a terrible mistake. If only I had told my aunts that I was too busy to help them, or if only I had refused to get into the jockey’s clothes, then I would not be sitting in this dark little room, waiting for something to happen.
There was a knock at the door. I looked up and saw a small person peering through my doorway.
“Are you Harry?” he said cheerfully. “Mr. Fetlock just told us there’s a new jockey.”
I stood up and walked over to the doorway, making sure that my hair was still tucked safely into my riding helmet.
“Er … yes,” I said hesitantly. I would have to be careful to remember my new name, or I could easily give myself away.
“I’m Ted,” said the jockey. “And that’s Fred over there, and Ed’s just getting a bucket of water.”
I looked in the direction he was pointing. Fred waved to me, and Ed nodded in my direction as he came around the corner with his bucket.
“Well,” said Ted, wiping at his brow with a rather dirty old cloth, “it’s time to groom the horses. Are you ready?”
“Of course,” I said, trying to make my voice sound as deep as I could.
“You’ll need these,” he said, tossing me a large brush and a strong metal comb. “You look after Black Lightning, and I’ll do the one next door.”
I stood outside Black Lightning’s stall. The large racehorse, shiny black and curious, stared out at me. His nostrils were flared, and his breath came in deep heaves, as if two big bellows were pumping away within his chest.
I edged the door open and began to go into the stall.
“Now don’t be frightened, Black Lightning,” I said, holding out my hand to him. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
This was ridiculous, of course. I couldn’t possibly hurt Black Lightning, who was ten times my size; but he could hurt me—very easily. The horse watched me nervously, his large yellow eyes fixed o
n every movement I made. Slowly I lifted up the brush and pushed it toward him.
It was this movement that disturbed him. With a sudden whinnying noise, he rose up on his hind legs, his forelegs raised to strike at me. I fell back, trying to escape the heavy hooves that seemed to be falling all around me. Just behind me, set against one of the walls, was his trough, and I scrambled my way to safety under it. Black Lightning struck the ground a few more times, then stopped.
I was perfectly safe in my hiding place, as Black Lightning’s hooves would never be able to reach me there. But I was also trapped, and as long as the racehorse was in his stall, it would be impossible for me to get out. I could try to crawl, I supposed, but the horse would easily be able to crush me if I did that.
I lay very still, wondering what to do. If I called for help, I was sure that Ted, Fred, or Ed would hear me, but what would they think if they found me hiding under a trough? They would realize at once that I was not a real jockey, and that would be the end of that.
The minutes ticked past slowly. Black Lightning moved a little, but I felt that he was still watching me, and I did not dare attempt to escape. Then, quite suddenly, I heard footsteps outside. I froze. If only it were Mr. Fetlock, or, even better, if only it were one of my aunts!
Slowly the door of the stall was pushed open.
“Hello in there,” said a voice. “Anybody there?”
I said absolutely nothing. It sounded a bit like Ted’s voice, but then again it sounded a little different. Could it be Fred, or even Ed?
I now saw boots coming into the stall. From where I was hiding, that was all I could see. I looked at the boots. They were ordinary riding boots, badly scratched at the back, just above the heels.
“Keep calm, boy,” said the voice as the boots moved toward Black Lightning. “This isn’t going to hurt you.”
I wriggled as close as I could to the edge of the trough. Now I could see a little bit more—boots and a pair of legs mostly, but there was something else. There was a hand, and it was holding something that glinted. For a moment I could not make it out. Then I realized that it was a pot of something, with a brush sticking out of the top.
I held my breath as I watched what was happening. The person—whoever he was—had now run his hand down one of Black Lightning’s legs and lifted up the hoof, as you see people doing when they put on a new horseshoe or pick out a stone. Taking the brush out of the pot, he slapped paste of some sort on the hoof and put it down on the ground. Then he moved to the other side of the horse and did the same thing again. Within a few minutes he had put the paste on all of Black Lightning’s four hooves.
“That’ll fix you for a while,” he muttered, and then, with a chuckle, the boots walked out of the stall, and the door was quietly closed.
I lay there for a while, wondering what I had seen. Somebody had certainly done something unpleasant to Black Lightning, but what was it? The horse seemed to be standing quite still and was certainly making no noise, so it could not have been anything painful. I slid forward again and peered out.
When Black Lightning saw my face peeking out from under his trough, he gave a start. Once again, his nostrils flared and his eyes shone with anger. I drew back slightly, expecting him to rear up and strike out at me again, but—to my astonishment—all he did was shake. For some reason, it seemed as if he was stuck to the spot.
I moved again. This time I stuck a leg out. Black Lightning watched it and shook his head from side to side. But once again, although all his muscles seemed to ripple and quiver with effort, his feet stayed exactly where they were.
Suddenly I realized what had happened. I had thought that Black Lightning was stuck to the spot. Well, he was! Black Lightning could not lift his hooves because the paste that had been put on them by the mysterious person in the riding boots was a powerful glue!
I now knew that it was safe for me to crawl out, and I did this. Black Lightning watched every move I made, but he was powerless to do anything about it. I left the stall quickly and went back into my room. There I lay down on my uncomfortable bed and thought about what I had seen. Why would anybody stick Black Lightning’s hooves to the floor? And, even more importantly, who had done this peculiar thing? Was it Ted, Fred, or Ed? And how could I possibly find out?
At the Races
I was woken the next morning by the sound of Mr. Fetlock’s voice outside my door.
“Time to get up,” he called. “We’ll be leaving for the races in half an hour. No time to waste.”
I leapt out of bed and climbed into my jockey clothes. It was hard work putting on the riding boots, as boots like that are always tight, but at last I succeeded and made my way out into the yard. I wanted very much to talk to Mr. Fetlock—to tell him what had happened and to warn him that Black Lightning’s hooves were stuck to the floor of his stable—but the trainer was busy talking to Ed and Fred.
I picked up a bucket of oats that looked as if it needed to be carried somewhere, but at just that moment, Ted came around the corner, and to my absolute astonishment I saw that he was leading Black Lightning! So the hooves had become unstuck overnight, or even been unstuck by somebody while I lay sleeping next door. It was all very mysterious.
“Hey!” shouted Ted. “Leave those oats, please. They’re for Black Lightning. He’s got a big race ahead of him today.”
Mr. Fetlock looked over in my direction.
“Get into the truck with the other jockeys, Harry,” he called out. “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us.”
So I would not have the chance to warn Mr. Fetlock about what had happened. Still, I thought, I might be able to speak to him about it later, if I managed to get him by himself. Or I could tell my aunts. But where were they? There was no sign of them in the truck.
I climbed into the cab of the truck with Mr. Fetlock and the other jockeys. The horses had already been loaded into the back, and now that Black Lightning was also on board, we were free to leave.
“We’ve got three runners today,” Mr. Fetlock said as he started the engine. “Fred, I want you to ride Silver Streak. Ted, you ride Nifty Dancer, and, Ed, you’re on Black Lightning again. Harry, you just watch today.”
“Right-oh, boss,” said Fred. “That suits me. Silver Streak’s due for a win.”
“All my horses are due for a win,” sighed Mr. Fetlock. “I can’t understand why they’ve been losing so badly. Can any of you?”
I glanced from under my helmet at the faces of the three jockeys, wondering whether one of them would give himself away as the cheat. People often go red in the face if they’re trying to hide something, but not one of them moved a muscle.
It could have been any of them, I thought. Ted looked honest, though. He had a cheerful grin on his face, and he smiled nicely whenever I looked at him. I wasn’t so sure about Ed, and when it came to Fred, well, there was something about him that I just did not trust. He looked a little bit like a rat, I’m afraid to say, with sharp teeth at the front of his mouth and little whiskers growing out of his ears.
I tried to look down at the boots that everybody was wearing. Perhaps if I saw the pair of boots again more closely, I might recognize the scratches, which I had noticed above the heel. Just as I was thinking this, an idea came to me. If I dropped something, a coin perhaps, I would be able to have a better look at everybody’s boots.
“Excuse me,” I said suddenly. “I think I dropped some money on the floor of the cab.”
“Then pick it up,” said Mr. Fetlock jovially. “There’s nothing down there to bite you.”
I leaned forward and began to scramble around on the floor of the cab. As I did so, I looked closely at the boots. Whose were those? Ted’s. But were they at all scratched? No. He had just polished them, as had Ed and Fred. So everybody was going to the races in freshly polished boots. There was no possibility, then, of working out whose legs I had watched in Black Lightning’s stall.
The journey seemed to pass very quickly. In no time at all, Mr. Fetlock w
as swinging the large horse truck into the racing grounds. As the truck came to a halt, Ted and Fred jumped out and opened the back door. Then, while Ed held the door, the two jockeys led the horses out and tied them securely to a nearby railing.
I stayed near Mr. Fetlock, hoping to have the opportunity to talk to him, but one of the other jockeys always seemed to be at his side. Eventually I gave up. Perhaps it wasn’t so important after all. I glanced down at Black Lightning’s hooves; there was nothing wrong with them, as far as I could make out. Perhaps gluing them to the floor of the stable was just some sort of practical joke among the jockeys.
The time came for the first race. This was the race in which Silver Streak was entered, and in good time Fred was up in the saddle, ready to make his way to the starting gate. I walked across to the railings with Mr. Fetlock and Ed, and together we watched the horses line up for the start.
The starter’s pistol took me by surprise and made me jump. Ed looked at me sideways.
“You should be used to that by now,” he said suspiciously.
“Oh, he is, aren’t you, Harry?” Mr. Fetlock blurted out jovially, trying to cover up for my mistake. “It’s just that he had a little accident with a starter’s pistol once, didn’t you, Harry?”
“Oh?” said Ed. “What happened?”
I looked up at Mr. Fetlock. I had no idea what to say.
“I … er … I … er …” I tried desperately to think of a likely story, but my mind was a blank.
“He sat on one,” said Mr. Fetlock quickly. “I mean, he, er, sort of stepped on it and … Actually he doesn’t like to talk about it, do you, Harry?”
“No,” I said quickly. “I don’t.”
Ed was still looking at me, and although he said nothing further, I could tell that he was very suspicious. But fortunately, or rather, unfortunately, his attention was distracted by what was happening on the racetrack. Several of the horses had collided with one another and fallen in a tangled heap. And at the bottom of the heap, struggling to get back on his feet, was Silver Streak.