‘Knew somethin’ was up when you kept beatin’ me. M’friend Emily suggested camera pigeons, so we put up the tarpaulin.’
‘She’s a wee bit too clever, your pal,’ said Jimmy. ‘Cleverer than Tug and me, at any rate. Come on, then, old boy, shall we race?’
‘We can’t let our public down, old chap. Are you ready, drivers?’
We nodded.
The rules were simple. We started on opposite sides of the road. We were to be given a shove to get us going. If we came off the road, we were allowed to enjoin such spectators as were willing to help get us going again.
I sat in the cart and waited for the starter’s signal. The steering seemed simple enough, as did the brakes. I thought of poor Ellis Dawkins, and double-checked that everything was properly connected. The starter raised his flag. We were off.
A heavy cart is a fast cart in gravity racing, and the substantial farm lad in Jimmy’s go-cart should have had the advantage. Fortunately, my own diminutive size was offset by the bulk of the chassis that Sir Hector and Bert had built. We were neck and neck as we arrived at the first bend, but that was where Sir Hector’s new design really came into its own. My opponent forced me to the outside of the turn, but even so, I managed to keep pace with him. His wheels looked a little shaky, but mine were firmly planted, guiding me exactly where I pointed them.
I gained a little ground on the straight, but it was the next bend that saw his undoing. I was on the inside as we approached, and had confidence enough in my little machine that I decided not to brake. John had begun to slow on the approach, but when he saw that I wasn’t bothering, he laid off the brakes, and we both hit the bend at full pelt.
I took it easily, holding my line as the little go-cart shot round the curve. John wasn’t so lucky. Despite his brave efforts, he couldn’t control the cart, and biffed sideways into the hedge. A barrage of colourful curses was followed by urgent entreaties to the assembled crowd to give him a push. And what a mighty push they gave him.
I could hear him thundering up behind me as we neared the home straight. One last little bend and we’d be home. But he was gaining. The push had really given him an extra burst of speed, and as I glanced over my shoulder, I could see his front wheel drawing level with my back wheel.
As we came to the last bend, he had one last trick to try. He was on the inside again, and as I turned in, he kept going straight ahead. I clipped his wheel, but he carried on. He was trying to push me off the road.
But then I learned why Lord Riddlethorpe needed Mr Waterford. Engineering was everything in motor racing, and it turned out to be rather important in go-cart racing, too. Jimmy Amersham’s flimsy front wheel design was no match for Sir Hector’s machine, and John’s attempt to push me aside was thwarted when the mounting gave way and the wheel bounced off down the road on its own.
I pulled ahead again as John tried to nurse the three-wheeled go-cart on towards the finishing line.
The cheers as I crossed the line were equal to anything I might have heard at Brooklands. And certainly more than I’d have got at Codrington Hall.
I’d won a race at last.
I was still in my overalls as I stood on the village green with Lady Hardcastle. We were sipping cider from Old Joe’s makeshift stall, while I accepted congratulations from the villagers. No one had told us that there was as much rivalry between Littleton and Woodworthy in the event as there was between Sir Hector and Jimmy. The pride of the village had been resting on my shoulders, it seemed.
‘Well done, Armstrong,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud heartily. ‘Knew you could do it.’
‘Thank you, my lady.’
‘Means a lot to Sir Hector. Done him proud.’
‘I’m glad I could help,’ I said. ‘Any time you need a racing driver, I’m at your service.’
‘Might hold you to that, m’girl,’ she said. ‘But not till next year. Poor old Bert needs a rest from all the work Hector’s been making him do on that blessed go-cart.’
‘They both did a marvellous job,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Perhaps it’s time for you to indulge one of your own interests now, though, eh?’
‘Already in hand, m’dear,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘And you’re an essential part of it.’
‘I am? How splendid.’
‘You are,’ said the older lady. ‘I’ve managed to get one of those travelling picture shows to come to the village in a few weeks. We’d like to see some of your work. You can show off your moving pictures to a real promoter. It could be your big break.’
‘Gosh,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘I’ll have to see if I can get anything finished in time.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Lady Farley-Stroud. ‘Now come along, you two, I think there’s some sort of prize ceremony over by the church.’
Sir Hector beamed with pride as Reverend Bland handed me the tiny trophy that the two old friends competed for every year.
‘You earned that, m’dear,’ he said as he shook me by the hand. ‘Think we might have to retire that little trophy and let you keep it. Couldn’t have won it without you.’
‘Thank you, Sir Hector,’ I said. ‘But this doesn’t mean the end of the go-kart racing, I hope.’
‘The end, m’dear? I should say not. Already workin’ on designs for next year. You’ll drive for me again?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a taste for it now.’
About the Author
T E Kinsey grew up in London and read history at Bristol University. He worked for a number of years as a magazine features writer before falling into the glamorous world of the Internet, where he edited content for a very famous entertainment website for quite a few years more. After helping to raise three children, learning to scuba dive and to play the drums and the mandolin (though never, disappointingly, all at the same time), he decided the time was right to get back to writing. Death Around the Bend is the third in a series of mysteries starring Lady Hardcastle.
You can follow him on Twitter – @tekinsey – and also find him on Facebook: www.facebook.com/tekinsey.