Field of Thirteen
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A superbly crafted collection of thirteen tightly plotted tales that treats readers to murder, mystery, and mayhem in the world of horseracing.
Kingdom Hill Racecourse, took his briefcase to the routine meeting of the Executive Committee, most of whom detested each other. Owned and run by a small private company constantly engaged in boardroom wars, the racetrack suffered from the results of spiteful internecine decisions and never made the profit it could have done. The appointment of Cawdor-Jones was typical of the mismanagement. Third on the list of possibles, and far less able than one and two, he had been chosen solely to sidestep
you’ll get a lot of movement back. And they say you’ll begin to feel things any day now.” “They say,” said Chick sneeringly. “I don’t believe them.” “You’ll have to, in time,” said Morrison impatiently. Chick didn’t answer, and Arthur Morrison cast uncomfortably around in his mind for something to say to pass away the minutes until he could decently leave. He couldn’t visit the boy and just stand there in silence. He had to say something. So he began to talk about what was uppermost in his
Angela’s affections, she contentedly spent her time in going to steeplechase meetings to see her darlings run, in clipping out mentions of them from the racing pages of newspapers and in telephoning her trainer, Clement Scott, to inquire after their health. She was a woman of kindness and good humor, but suffered from a dangerous belief that everyone was basically as well-intentioned as herself. Like children who pat tigers, she expected a purr of appreciation in return for her offered
frowned—“why did you put up money for his bail?” “Because of his mother’s distress. I did it for her.” Jules gestured towards her. “I did it because she was crying. I did it because she’s English, and so am I. You yourselves might have come to the aid of a fellow American if one begged you for help in a foreign country. I did it simply because I wanted to.” There was a short moment of open-mouthed silence. Then a lady among the committee cleared her throat and said with humor, “If you don’t
quick way to lose my license. To Jasper Billington Innes he replied reassuringly, “Your horse Lilyglit is good enough to win without help.” “But think of the handicap. It alters everything. And last time out Lilyglit at level weights beat Storm Cone by only two lengths . . .” The voice rose in worry. “Mr. Billington Innes,” Moggie Reilly said patiently, near to shivering, “there are eleven runners in the Cloister. Theoretically it’s anybody’s race because of the handicap, and if Storm Cone