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“That one, Holmes.” I pointed to the handsome black horse heading to the post. “If that’s a two-year-old I’ll eat my hat.”
Holmes admires horses tremendously, but this is one instance where my expertise outstrips his; my history of losing my wound-pension at the track makes me a mediocre judge of horseflesh but very knowledgeable about equines otherwise. It was just as well for the owners of legitimate two-year-olds and the race’s backers that I’d accompanied Sherlock Holmes to the racetrack in question.
Holmes headed to the announcer, who called a temporary halt to the proceedings (to loud groans and imprecations from the spectators).
Over the angry objections of Sir Anthony and his jockey Carl Montrose, we approached Black Lightning, and the gelding himself revealed the truth when we opened its mouth – an act which permanently silenced both their threats and also revealed a whiff of turpentine, administered to give the animal a youth’s skittishness.
“Sir Anthony, you have half an hour to take your four-year-old and leave.” I made my voice as cold as possible, for I loathed cheats. “Tell the papers whatever you wish to save face, but libel will be met with our evidence – and the racing circuit will ban you from entering another colt forever.”
The culprits slunk away.
“Uneaten, dear fellow!” Holmes handed me my bowler.