He laughed. ‘I’ll say. So what does he do?’
‘Well, the pigeons always fly straight home. He just has to take the camera-bird to some spot out in the country, a place where your house is on the route home, and let it go. Flap-flap goes friend pigeon, fluttering homeward. As it flies over your stable yard, snap-snap goes the camera, and Jimmy has photographs of what you’ve been up to.’
‘Preposterous,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud.
‘Marvellous,’ said Sir Hector. ‘I’ll get Bert to put up a tarpaulin or somethin’, so the blighter can’t see into the yard. We’ll beat him, by George. We’ll beat him yet.’
The race took place a couple of weeks later, on the last Sunday in September. As promised, Sir Hector had invited a number of friends, and quite a few villagers had also turned out to join in the fun.
‘Why didn’t we know about this?’ asked Lady Hardcastle as we walked past the onlookers. ‘It seems as though most of Littleton Cotterell and more than half of Woodworthy are here. It’s quite the local festival.’
‘You were indisposed this time last year,’ I said. ‘Bullet in the belly.’
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Yes, that would account for our absence.’
The course ran from the gates of The Grange, down the hill and into Littleton, with the finishing line just beside the village green. There was a festival atmosphere on the green. Holman the baker and Spratt the butcher had set up stalls to supply the crowd with food, while Old Joe from the Dog and Duck was selling beer and cider from a table outside the pub.
The crowds thinned out as we climbed the hill, with little knots of onlookers on the more dangerous-looking bends. The Farley-Strouds’ friends were gathering on the lawn in front of The Grange.
‘What ho, Emily, old girl,’ said Sir Hector as we walked through the gates.
‘Don’t call her that, dear,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘She’s easily half your age.’
‘Hardly,’ said Lady Hardcastle.
‘Term of affection, what?’ said Sir Hector, as unfazed as ever by his wife’s remonstrations. Lady Farley-Stroud left to welcome some newcomers.
‘How go the plans?’ asked Lady Hardcastle. ‘Is your wingèd chariot fully fettled and poised for victory?’
‘As ready as we’ll ever be,’ said Sir Hector. ‘Not seen Jimmy’s go-cart yet, mind you. It’s over there on that wagon. Covered up.’
He pointed down the drive to where a delivery cart stood, its horse munching contentedly in a nosebag. A tarpaulin covered its cargo.
‘Must say, though,’ he said, ‘he doesn’t seem his usual cocksure self. Might be in with a chance this time.’
Dora the housemaid was circulating with a tray of drinks. She offered one to Lady Hardcastle, and made to walk off. Lady Farley-Stroud strode over and called her back.
‘I think Miss Armstrong needs one of those, Dora,’ she said.
‘Thank you, my lady,’ I said. ‘But there’s really no need.’
‘Nonsense, m’girl. Don’t remember my history lessons too well, but I’m sure the gladiators got a tot of something before going into battle.’
‘I beg your pardon, my lady?’
‘What? Has Hector not asked you yet? He’s a buffer, he really is. Hector!’
‘What, dear?’ said Sir Hector.
‘I thought you were going to ask Miss Armstrong something.’
‘I was, dear. Just getting round to it. Give a chap a chance.’
‘Ask me what, sir?’ I said.
‘Well, you see, m’dear, the thing is, Jimmy and I aren’t nearly so young as we once were, so we’ve had to change the rules a bit this year. We used to race the go-carts ourselves, but at our age . . . You know how it is. Reactions not what they used to be. Joints not what they used to be, either. Eyesight’s a bit shabby, too, to tell the truth. So this year, we decided we ought to nominate someone to drive for us. A champion, d’you see?’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘And . . . ?’
‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘And I chose you. Spoke to Emily about it. She said you were disappointed you couldn’t drive the racin’ car at her pal’s place. So we thought this would be the next best thing.’
‘Oh, Sir Hector, that’s wonderful,’ I said. ‘But I’m not dressed for it.’ I indicated my uniform.
‘We thought of that,’ he said. ‘See the memsahib and she’ll kit you out in some overalls. Might be a bit big for you, but I’m sure everything will roll up. Will you do it?’
‘I’d be honoured, Sir Hector,’ I said.
Jimmy Amersham had picked a young lad from Woodworthy as his champion. They both smirked when they saw me in my ill-fitting overalls, battered leather helmet, and goggles. Their smirks faded when Bert and Sir Hector wheeled the go-cart out of the old stable yard and onto the drive beside Jimmy’s horse-drawn wagon.
I didn’t know much about the mechanics of wheeled vehicles, but I could tell that there was something clever about Sir Hector’s go-cart. The shell was of beaten tin, and looked sleek and modern, of course. But there was something going on with the wheels. They weren’t the wobbly wheels that kids pinched from abandoned prams; they were sturdy, with thick tyres. And the chassis looked like something Mr Waterford would have designed for one of Lord Riddlethorpe’s racing cars.
‘What do you think, Jimmy, old chap?’ said Sir Hector. ‘D’you think I’ve got a chance this year?’
‘Never give up hope, m’boy,’ said Jimmy, with a great deal more cheer than his expression might have predicted.
‘Let’s see whatcha got, then,’ said Sir Hector, who was clearly enjoying his friend’s discomfort.
Reluctantly, Jimmy and the village lad manoeuvred a couple of planks to serve as a ramp at the back of the wagon. They lifted the tarpaulin to reveal their go-cart. Superficially, it appeared very similar. The hammered tin shell was suitably modern, and just different enough from Sir Hector’s so as not to be a direct copy. It was obvious where its inspiration had come from, though. The real differences were in the wheels and the chassis. Jimmy had used much thinner wheels mounted on a much flimsier frame.
‘We tried somethin’ like that a month or so ago,’ said Sir Hector with a grin. ‘Had to abandon it. Wheels kept comin’ off.’
Jimmy was not best pleased.
‘What’s the matter, Jimmy, old chap?’ said Sir Hector. ‘Did my pigeon-proofin’ spoil your spyin’?’
‘Put the kibosh on it good and proper,’ said Jimmy ruefully.
‘Put up a tarpaulin to stop your camera pigeons seein’ into the yard.’
Jimmy laughed delightedly. ‘You cunning old buffer. How on earth did you fathom that? I thought we’d definitely got you on that one. Pal of mine put me on to it. You remember Tug Wilson? Commanded the HMS Whatchamacallit. Lives in Cheltenham now. He read about it in some journal or other and thought it would be just the job for beating you.’ He chuckled. ‘Ah well,’ he said at length. ‘Cheats never whatnot, and all that. Can’t be helped. You tumbled me, then?’