"Selling now," Malcolm said. "I suppose that means there was a reserve on it?"

I nodded.

"So until the fellow says selling now', it's safe to bid, knowing you won't have to buy?"

"Yours might be the bid that reaches the reserve."

He nodded. "Russian roulette."

We watched the sales for the rest of the afternoon, but he aimed no bullets at his own head. He asked who people were.

"Who is that Mr Siddons) That's the fourth horse he's bought."

"He works for a blood stock agency. He's buying for other people."

"And that man in navy, scowling. Who's he?"

"Max Jones. He owns a lot of horses."

"Every time that old woman bids, he bids against her."

"It's a well-known feud."

He sniffed. "It must cost them fortunes." He looked around the amphitheatre at the constantly changing audience of breeders, trainers, owners and the simply interested. "Whose judgement would you trust most?"

I mentioned several trainers and the agents who might be acting on their behalf, and he told me to tell him when someone with good judgement was bidding, and to point them out. I did so many times, and he listened and passed no comment.

After a while, we went out for a break, an Ebury scotch, a sandwich and fresh air.

"I suppose you know," Malcolm said casually, watching yearlings skittering past in the grasp of their handlers, "that Moira and I were divorcing?"

"Yes, I heard."

"And that she was demanding the house and half my possessions?"

"Mm."

"And half my future earnings?"

"Could she?"

"She was going to fight for it."

I refrained from saying that whoever had murdered Moira had done Malcolm a big favour, but I'd thought it several times. I said instead, "Still no clues?"