‘I’m sorry,’ said the publican as I struggled in through the door with both cases and my crutches. ‘We don’t have any accommodation, we’re only a pub.’

I explained to him that another taxi was picking me up later and he kindly allowed me to store my bags in his office in the interim.

‘Now,’ he said as I half sat myself on one of the Windsor-style bar stools. ‘What can I get you?’

‘Glass of red, please,’ I said. ‘Merlot, if you have it.’

He poured a generous measure and set the glass down on the wooden bar top.

‘I called and booked for dinner,’ I said.

‘Mr Mason?’ he said. I nodded. ‘For two? At eight?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m early.’ I looked around the bar. I was so early that, even on a Friday evening, I was his only customer. ‘Quiet tonight,’ I said to him.

‘It’ll be much busier later,’ he said. ‘All my regulars will be in soon.’

I rather hoped that Larry Clayton would not be amongst them.

I pulled a copy of the Millie and foal photograph from my jacket and placed it on the bar. ‘Do you recognize either of the people in this picture?’ I said, pushing it towards him.

He had a good look. ‘I don’t know the woman,’ he said. ‘But I think the man is Jack Rensburg.’

‘Does he live round here?’ I said. I could hardly control my excitement. I had thought the pub might be a long shot and hadn’t expected to get an answer so quickly.

‘He used to,’ the publican replied. ‘He worked at the stables on the Woolstone road. He’s been gone for two or three years, at least.’

‘How well did you know him?’ I asked.

‘Is he in trouble?’ he said.

‘No, nothing like that,’ I assured him with a laugh.

‘He used to talk a lot about cricket,’ he said. ‘He’s South African. He played for the village team here and they come into the pub after matches in the summer. He was always going on about how much better the South Africans were than the English team. But it was just banter. He’s a nice enough chap.’

‘Do you know why he left?’ I asked.

‘No idea,’ he said. ‘I think he went away on holiday and never came back.’

‘And you don’t know when exactly?’ I asked him.

He thought for a moment but shook his head. ‘Sorry.’

Some more customers arrived and he went off to serve them.

So, I thought, the stud groom was called Jack Rensburg and he was a South African who liked cricket and he had left Uffington at least two or three years ago, possibly to go on a holiday from which he had not returned. Young men the world over, especially those living away from their homeland, went on holidays all the time from which they didn’t return. The nomadic life of the young expatriate male should not be a surprise to anyone. Perhaps he met a girl, or simply went home and stayed there.

Eleanor arrived promptly at eight and I was still half standing, half sitting on the bar stool enjoying a second glass of Merlot.

She came over, gave me a peck on the cheek and sat on the stool next to me and ordered a glass of white. Where, I thought, had the kiss on the lips gone?

‘Had a good day?’ she asked rather gloomily, tasting her wine.

‘Yes, actually, I have. I’ve bought up most of the menswear in Newbury, washed, shaved and preened my body, and,’ I said with a flourish, ‘I’ve discovered the name of the man in the picture.’

‘Wow,’ she said, mocking. ‘You have been a busy boy.’ She smiled and it felt like the sun had come out.

‘That’s better,’ I said, smiling back. ‘And what have you been up to?’

‘I’ve spent most of the day monitoring the two-year-old from last night. And discussing his future with the owner.’ She raised her eyes to the heavens. ‘He would have much rather I put the animal down than save its life.’

‘How come?’ I said.

‘Seems it’s insured against being dead, but not against being a hopeless racehorse.’

‘And is it a hopeless racehorse?’ I asked.

‘It might be after yesterday,’ she said. ‘Might not be able to race at all. Much more profitable to him dead.’

‘Is bleeding in the lungs common in horses?’ I asked.

‘Fairly,’ she said. ‘But mostly EIPH. This one was a static bleed.’

‘EIPH?’ I said.

‘Sorry,’ she replied, smiling. ‘Exercise-induced pulmonary haemorrhage.’

I began to wish I’d never asked.

‘Lots of horses bleed slightly into their lungs during stressful exercise but that usually clears up quickly and spontaneously without too much damage and without any blood showing externally. Horses’ lungs are big and efficient but they need to be. Aracehorse needs masses of oxygen delivered to its muscles to run fast. You just have to see how hard they blow after the finish.’ She paused, but only for breath herself. ‘During the race their action helps their breathing. As they stretch out their hind quarters, they draw air in, and then that’s blown out again by their legs coming forward in the stride. It makes Thoroughbreds very efficient gallopers when both their hind legs move together, pumping air in and out of their lungs like pistons. But it also means that the air fairly rushes in and out at hurricane speeds and that sometimes damages the lining, which, by definition, has to be flimsy and fragile to let the oxygen pass into the bloodstream in the first place.’

I sat there listening to her, understanding every word and loving it. Not since Angela had died had I enjoyed the experience of a bright, educated and enthusiastic female companion describing to me something complicated because it interested her, and not just because I had asked her to do so as part of my job.

‘So, is a static bleed worse?’ I asked her.

‘Not necessarily,’ she said. ‘But it might make EIPH more likely. And horses that regularly show blood on their nostrils after racing are discouraged from running again and, in some countries, they’re not allowed to. The horses are usually referred to as having burst a blood vessel, or having had a nosebleed.’

I had heard both the terms used often on the racecourse.

‘It’s not really a blood vessel as such,’ she said. ‘And the blood comes not from the nose but from the alveoli in the lungs. In America they all use a drug called Lasix to help prevent it, but that’s against the Rules of Racing here.’

I didn’t really want to stop her but the publican came over and asked us if we were ready to eat, so we moved to a table in the corner of the bar.

‘Tell me about the man in the picture,’ Eleanor said as we sat down.

‘Not really much to tell,’ I said. ‘His name is Jack Rensburg, and he’s a South African who used to work for the Radcliffes but has now gone away.’

‘Where to?’ she said.

‘I haven’t found that out yet,’ I said.

‘Is he coming back?’ she said.

‘I don’t know that either, but I doubt it. He’s been gone for two years or more.’

‘Bit of a dead end, then?’ she said.

‘Yeah,’ I agreed. ‘But I’ll set Arthur onto it on Monday. He loves a challenge.’

‘Arthur?’ she asked.

‘Chief Clerk at my chambers,’ I said. ‘Knows everything, walks on water, that sort of thing.’

‘Useful,’ she said, smiling broadly, but the smile faded.

‘Horse walks into a bar -’ I said.

‘What?’ said Eleanor, interrupting.

‘Horse walks into a bar,’ I repeated. ‘Barman says, “Why the long face?”’

She laughed. ‘The old ones are always the best.’

‘So, why the long face?’ I said to her again.

She stopped laughing. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘I’m just being silly.’

‘If it’s nothing,’ I said. ‘Tell me.’

‘No,’ she said in mock seriousness. ‘It’s private.’

‘Have I done something wrong?’ I said.

‘No, of course not,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing. Forget it.’

‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘For the first time in more than seven years I don’t feel guilty at being out with another woman and, suddenly, there’s something wrong. And I’m worried it’s because of what I’ve said or done.’