To the Death

“Well, he’s the boss. But a lot of the staff here worked for his father. That makes a big difference. The department heads know as much about the place as he does. But Mr. Rick is the main man. And he’s got his daddy’s touch with a breeding stallion.”

Lt. Commander Ramshawe was not exactly certain what that last part meant. But it sounded important, and for a moment it crossed his mind that Commander Hunter might be altogether too busy to save Arnold’s life. However, he understood that, somehow, breeding racehorses was a seasonal business; and he asked if August was a busy time of the year.

“Not really. Thoroughbred stallions cover mares between February and July at the very latest,” he said. “Their foals gotta be born in the new year, up through May. No one wants what we call a June foal.”

“How long are the mares pregnant for?” asked Jimmy.

“Eleven months. And that means we don’t really want them going in foal too late.”

“Why don’t people want a June foal?” said Jimmy.

“Well, all racehorses have their birthday on January 1. On that day, any foal born two years previously becomes two. They are young and immature, still growing; but the horse who was born in January really is two, where the one born in June is only nineteen months. And that makes a difference when they get on the track. The older ones are stronger and bigger, and usually faster. No June foals, sir. No June foals.”

“So there’s no action in August. The stallions are resting.”

“Correct, sir. We have the usual anxiety about mares in foal. But it’s not like the spring, when everyone’s giving birth. And the stallions are working day and night. And the staff are often up all night.”

“Including Mr. Hunter?”

“Oh, sure. He’s a real hands-on kind of guy.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Olin drove the truck through big stone gates, in front of which was a two-ton rock with HUNTER VALLEY carved smoothly on its surface. The drive was long, lined with lime trees and carefully trimmed grass.

At the end was another pair of stone pillars, set to the left. And beyond there was the main house, standing back across a wide lawn. There were Doric columns on either side of the front door, and to the left was a three-acre paddock in which there were three mares, two of them with foals at foot.

Diana Hunter saw the truck arrive and came out to meet the naval officer from Fort Meade. She was dressed in riding boots, jodhpurs, and a white shirt, and her accent was English. She was a great-looking horsewoman, slender, with swept-back blonde hair, light blue eyes.

“Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe?” she said. “Hello, I’m Diana, Rick’s wife. He’ll be here in a few minutes. Come on in and have some coffee.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am,” said Jimmy. “This is a very beautiful place you have here. Olin’s been trying to educate me about racehorses.”

“He’ll be pretty good at that,” she laughed. “His family’s been in the business for five generations, like mine. He’s our head stallion man — and he’s the great-great-grandson of the man who looked after Black Toney.”

“Black Tony!” exclaimed Jimmy. “We had a Black Tony back home in Australia.”

“Was he a thoroughbred?”

“Not likely. He was a bank robber.”

Diana Hunter laughed, already taking to the intelligence officer who sounded like the Man from Snowy River. “Out here, Black Toney was a great Kentucky stallion,” she said. “Sired two winners of the Kentucky Derby in the 1920s and ’30s. Probably not as interesting as your Black Tony.”

“Probably not,” agreed Jimmy, earnestly. “Our Black Tony was Tony McGarry, knocked over the Sydney National Bank for a million dollars and shot four cashiers dead. They hanged him about sixty years ago. He was no relation.”

Diana Hunter laughed loudly this time. “I didn’t think he was,” she said. “Your name’s not McGarry.”

“No, but my grandma’s was. I forgot to mention that.”

Just then, Commander Rick Hunter came in. “Okay, you guys,” he grinned, “what’s so funny? I could do with a joke.”

“Oh, nothing,” said his wife. “Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe just thought Black Toney was a bank robber who was hanged for murder.”

Rick Hunter walked over with his right hand outstretched. “Hi,” he said. “Lieutenant Commander Ramshawe? Admiral Bergstrom refused to tell me what you wanted, so I’ll get a cup of this coffee and you can fill me in.”

The ex-Navy SEAL commander stood a little over six feet, five inches tall. He was built like a stud bull, carried not one ounce of fat, and looked as if he could pick up a thoroughbred stallion with his bare hands.