Bolt

Fourteen

We all went to Sandown races, except of course for Roland, still in the care of Sammy.

The recording telephone was in Mrs Jenkins’ office, with instructions to everybody that if anyone telephoned about any messages for Danielle, every word was to be recorded, and the caller must be asked for a number or an address for us to get back to him.

‘He may ask about a reward,’ I said to the wispy-waif secretary, and also to Dawson and to Sammy. ‘If he does, assure him he’ll get one.’ And they all nodded and asked no questions.

Litsi, Danielle and I delayed leaving the house until after Thomas had driven away with the princess and Beatrice, who was complaining that she didn’t like going to the races twice in one week. Thomas, closing her into the back seat, gave me a large wink before settling himself behind the wheel, and I thought how trusting all the princess’s staff were, doing things whose purpose they didn’t wholly understand, content only to be told that it was ultimately for the princess’s sake.

There was no sign of the Rolls when we walked round to the mews, and I alarmed Litsi and Danielle greatly by checking my car again for traps. I borrowed the sliding mirror-on-wheels which the mechanics used for quick inspections of cars’ undersides, but found no explosive sticky strangers, yet all the same I wouldn’t let the other two get into the car before I’d started it, driven it a few yards, and braked fiercely to a halt.

‘Do you do this every time you go out?’ Litsi asked thoughtfully, as they eventually took their seats.

‘Every time, just now.’

‘Why don’t you park somewhere else?’ Danielle asked reasonably.

‘I did think of it,’ I said. ‘But it takes less time to check than find parking places.’

‘Apart from which,’ Litsi said, ‘you want Nanterre to know where you keep your car, if he doesn’t know already.’

‘Mm.’

‘I wish this wasn’t happening,’ Danielle said.

When we reached the racecourse, they again went off to lunch and I to work. Litsi might have been lucky enough to dodge the publicity, but too many papers had spelled my name dead right, and so many strangers shook my hand that I found the whole afternoon embarrassing.

The one who was predictably upset by the general climate of approval was Maynard Allardeck who seemed to be dogging my footsteps, presumably hoping to catch me in some infringement of the rules.

Although not one of the Stewards officially acting at that meeting, he was standing in the parade ring before every race, watching everything I did, and each time I returned I found him on the weighing room steps, his eyes hostile and intent.

He was looking noble as usual, a pillar of society, a gentleman who wouldn’t know an asset if it stripped in front of him. When I went out for the third of my rides, on the princess’s runner Abseil, she at once remarked on Maynard’s presence at a distance of no more than a few yards.

‘Mr Allardeck,’ she said, when I joined her, Litsi, Danielle and Beatrice in the parade ring, ‘is staring at you.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Who is Mr Allardeck?’ Beatrice demanded.

‘Kit’s sister’s husband’s father,’ Danielle answered succinctly, which left her aunt not much better informed.

‘It’s unnerving,’ Litsi said.

I nodded. ‘I think it’s supposed to be. He’s been doing it all afternoon.’

‘You don’t, however, appear to be unnerved.’

‘Not so far.’ I turned to the princess. ‘I always meant to ask you what he said after Cascade won last week.’

The princess made a small gesture of distress at the thought of her horse’s fate, but said, ‘He insisted you’d flogged the horse unmercifully. Those were his words. If he’d been able to find a mark on Cascade...’ she shrugged. ‘He wanted me to confirm you’d been excessively cruel.’

‘Thank you for not doing it.’

She nodded, knowing I meant it.

‘I’ll be gentle on Abseil,’ I said.

‘Not too gentle.’ She smiled. ‘I do like to win.’

‘He’s still staring,’ Danielle said. ‘If looks could kill, you’d be in your grave.’

The princess decided on a frontal approach, and as if spotting Maynard for the first time raised both gloved hands in greeting and said ‘Ah, Mr Allardeck, such a splendid day, isn’t it?’ walking three or four paces towards him to make talking easier.

He removed his hat and bowed to her, and said rather hoarsely for him that yes, it was. The princess said how nice it was to see the sun again after so much cloudy weather, and Maynard agreed. It was cold, of course, the princess said, but one had to expect it at this time of the year. Yes, Maynard said.

The princess glanced across to us all and said to Maynard, ‘I do enjoy Sandown, don’t you? And my horses all seem to jump well here, always, which is most pleasing.’

This on-the-face-of-it innocent remark produced in Maynard an intenser than ever stare in my direction — a look of black and dangerous poison.

‘Why,’ Litsi said in my ear, puzzled, ‘did that make him so angry?’

‘I can’t tell you here,’ I said.

‘Later, then.’

‘Perhaps.’

The signal was given for jockeys to mount, and with a sweet smile the princess wished Maynard good fortune for the afternoon and came to say, before I went off to where Abseil waited, ‘Come back safely.’

‘Yes, Princess,’ I said.

Her eyes flicked momentarily in the direction of Danielle, and I suddenly understood her inner thought: come back safe because your young woman will be lost for ever if you don’t.

‘Do your best,’ the princess said quietly, as if negating her first instruction, and I nodded and cantered Abseil to the start thinking that certainly I could ride round conscious chiefly of safety, and certainly to some extent I’d been doing it all week, but if I intended to do it for ever I might as well retire at once. Caution and winning were incompatible. A too-careful jockey would lose his reputation, his owners, his career... and in my case anyway, his self-respect. The stark choice between Danielle and my job, unresolved all night, had sat on my shoulder already that afternoon through two undemanding hurdle races, and I had, in fact, been acutely aware of her being there on the stands in a way I hadn’t been when I hadn’t known of her turmoil of fears.

Abseil, a grey eight-year-old steeplechaser, was a fluid, agile jumper with reasonable speed and questionable stamina. Together we’d won a few races, but had more often finished second, third or fourth, because he could produce no acceleration in a crisis. His one advantage was his boldness over fences: if I restrained him in that, we could trail in last.

Sandown racecourse, right-handed, undulating, with seven fences close together down the far side, was a track where good jumpers could excel. I particularly liked riding there, and it was a good place for Abseil, except that the uphill finish could find him out. To win there, he had to be flying in the lead coming round the last long bend, and jump the last three fences at his fastest speed. Then, if he faded on the hill, one might just hang on in front as far as the post.

Abseil himself was unmistakably keen to race, sending me signals of vigour and impatience. ‘Jumping out of his skin,’ Wykeham had said; and this one would be wound up tight because he wouldn’t be running at the Cheltenham Festival as he wasn’t quite in the top class.

The start of two mile, five furlong ‘chases was midway down the far side, with one’s back to the water jump. There were eight runners that day, a pleasant sized field, and Abseil was second favourite. We set off in a bunch at no great pace, because no one wanted to make the running, and I had no trouble at all being careful over the first three fences, also round the long bottom bend, over the three fences which would be the last three next time round, and uphill past the stands.

It was when we turned right-handed at the top of the hill to go out on the second circuit that the decision was immediately there, staring me in the face. To go at racing pace over the next fence with its downhill landing, graveyard of many a hope, or to check, rein back, jump it carefully, lose maybe four lengths...

Abseil wanted to go. I kicked him. We flew the fence, passing two horses in mid-air, landing on the downhill slope with precision and skimming speed, going round the bend into the back straight in second place.

The seven fences along there were so designed that if one met the first right, one met them all right, like traffic lights. The trick was to judge one’s distance a good way back from the first, to make any adjustments early, so that when one’s mount reached the fence he was in the right place for jumping without shortening or lengthening his stride. It was a skill learned young by all successful jockeys, becoming second nature. Abseil took a hint, shortened one stride, galloped happily on, and soared over the first of the seven fences with perfection.

The decision had been made almost unconsciously. I couldn’t do anything else. What I was, what I could do, lay there in front of me, and even for Danielle I couldn’t deny it.

Abseil took the lead from the favourite at the second of the seven fences, and I sent him mental messages — ‘Go on there, go for it, pull the stops out, this is the way it is, and you’re going to get your chance, I am as I am and I can’t help it, this is living... get on and fly.’

He flew the open ditch and then the water jump. He sailed over the last three fences on the far side. He was in front by a good thirty yards all the way round the last bend.

Three more fences.

He had his ears pricked, enjoying himself. Caution had long lost the battle, in his mind as in mine. He went over the first of them at full racing pace, and over the second, and over the last of all with me almost lying on his neck to keep up with him, weight forward, head near his head.

He tired very fast on the hill, as I’d feared he would. I had to keep him balanced, but I could feel him begin to flounder and waver and tell me he’d gone far enough.

‘Come on, hang on to it, we’ve almost made it, just keep on, keep going you old bugger, we’re not losing it now, we’re so near, so get on...’

I could hear the crowd yelling, which one usually couldn’t. I could hear another horse coming behind me, hooves thudding. I could see him in my peripheral vision, the jockey’s arm swinging high in the air as he scented Abseil flagging... and the winning post came just in time for me that time, not three strides too late.

Abseil was proud of himself, as he deserved to be. I patted his neck hugely and told him he was OK, he’d done a good job of work, he was a truly great fellow, and he trotted back towards the unsaddling enclosure with his ears still pricked and his fetlocks springy.

The princess was flushed and pleased in the way she always was after close races.

I slid to the ground, smiled at her, and began to unbuckle the girths.

‘Is that,’ she said, without censure, ‘what you call being gentle?’

‘I’d call it compulsion,’ I said.

Abseil was practically bowing to the crowd, knowing the applause had been his. I patted his neck again, thanking him. He tossed his grey head, turning it to look at me with both eyes, blowing down his nostrils, nodding again.

‘They talk to you,’ the princess said.

‘Some of them.’

I looped the girths round my saddle, and turned to go in to weigh in, and found Maynard Allardeck standing directly in my path, much as Henri Nanterre had done at Newbury. Maynard’s hatred came across loud and clear.

I stopped. I never liked speaking to him, because anything I said gave him offence. One of us was going to have to give way, and it was going to be me, because in any sort of confrontation between a Steward and a jockey, the jockey would lose.

‘Why, Mr Allardeck,’ said the princess, stepping to my side, ‘are you congratulating me? Wasn’t that a delightful win?’

Maynard took off his hat and manfully said he was delighted she’d been lucky, especially as her jockey had come to the front far too soon and nearly thrown away the race on the run-in.

‘Oh, but Mr Allardeck,’ I heard her saying sweetly as I side-stepped Maynard politely and headed for the weighing room door, ‘if he hadn’t opened up such a lead he couldn’t have hung on to win.’

She wasn’t only a great lady, I thought gratefully, sitting on the scales, she actually understood what had been going on in a race, which many owners didn’t.

Maynard troubled me, though, because it had looked very much as if he were trying to force me into jostling him, and I was going to have to be extremely careful pretty well for ever to avoid physical contact. The film I’d made of him would destroy his credibility where it mattered, but it was an ultimate defence, not to be lightly used, as it shielded Bobby and Holly from any destructive consequences of Maynard’s obsession, not just myself. If I used it, Maynard’s life would be in tatters, but his full fury would be unleashed. He would have nothing more to lose, and we would all be in real peril.

Meanwhile, as always, there were more races to ride. I went twice more from start to finish without caution and, the gods being kind, also without hitting the turf. Maynard continued glaring and I continued being carefully civil, and somehow or other persevered unscathed to tea time.

I changed into street clothes and went up to the princess’s box, and found Lord Vaughnley there with her and Litsi and Danielle: no sign of Beatrice.

‘My dear chap,’ Lord Vaughnley said, his large bland face full of kindness, ‘I came to congratulate Princess Casilia. Well done, well done, my dear fellow, a nice tactical race.’

‘Thank you,’ I said mildly.

‘And yesterday, too. That was splendid, absolutely first class.’

‘I’ didn’t have any runners yesterday,’ the princess said, smiling.

‘No, no, not a winner. Saving that fellow’s life, don’t you know, at Bradbury races.’

‘What fellow?’ the princess asked.

‘Some damn fool who went where he shouldn’t and fell off a balcony. Didn’t Kit tell you? No,’ he considered, ‘I suppose he wouldn’t. Anyway, everyone has been talking about it all afternoon and it was in most of the papers.’

‘I didn’t see the papers this morning,’ the princess said.

Lord Vaughnley obligingly gave her a full second-hand account of the proceedings which was accurate in essence. Litsi and Danielle looked studiously out of the windows and I wished I could eat the cream cakes, and eventually Lord Vaughnley ran out of superlatives.

‘By the way,’ he said to me, picking up a large brown envelope which lay on the tea table, ‘this is for you. All we could find. Hope it will be of some help.’ He held the envelope Towards me.

‘Thank you very much,’ I said taking it. ‘

‘Right,’ said Lord Vaughnley, beaming. ‘Thank you so much, dear Princess Casilia, for my tea. And again, congratuations.’ He went away in clouds of benevolence, leaving the princess wide-eyed.

‘You were at Bradbury,’ the princess said to Danielle and Litsi. ‘Did you see all this?’

‘No,’ Danielle said, ‘we didn’t. We read about it this morning in the Sporting Life.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ ‘Kit didn’t want a fuss.’

The princess looked at me. I said, shrugging, ‘That’s true, I didn’t. And I’d be awfully grateful, Princess, if you didn’t tell Mrs Bunt.’

She had no chance to ask me why not, as Beatrice reappeared as if on cue, coming into the box with a smug expression which visibly deepened when she saw I was there. Watching me all the time she ate a cream cake with gusto, as if positively enjoying my hunger. I could more easily put up with that, I thought wryly, than with most other tribulations of that day.

The princess told Beatrice it was time to leave, the last race being long over, and shepherded her off to the Rolls. There was no chance of Litsi going with them, even if he wanted to, as Danielle clung firmly to his arm all the way to the car park. She didn’t want to be alone with me after her explanations in the night, and I saw, as I suppose I’d known all day, that she couldn’t have come at all without his support. Racing was again at Sandown the next day, and I began to think it would be less of a strain for everybody if she stayed away.

When we reached the car, Litsi sat in the front at Danielle’s insistence, with herself in the rear, and before starting the car I opened the large brown envelope Lord Vaughnley had brought.

Inside there was a small clipping from a newspaper, a larger piece from a colour magazine, a black and white eight by ten photograph, and a compliments slip from Lord Vaughnley, asking me to return the pieces to the Towncrier, which now only had photocopies.

‘What is it?’ Litsi said.

I passed him the black and white photograph, which was of a prize-giving ceremony after a race, a group of people giving and receiving a trophy. Danielle looked over Litsi’s shoulder and asked, ‘Who are those people?’

‘The man receiving the pot is Henri Nanterre.’

They both exclaimed, peering closer.

‘The man at his side is the French racehorse trainer Villon, and at a guess, the racecourse is Longchamp. Look at the back, there might be some information.’

Litsi turned the photograph over. ‘It just says, “After the Prix de la Cité, Villon, Nanterre, Duval”.’

‘Duval is the jockey,’ I said.

‘So that’s what Nanterre looks like,’ Litsi said thoughtfully. ‘Once seen, easily remembered.’ He passed the photograph back to Danielle. ‘What other goodies do you have?’

‘This piece is from an English magazine and seems to be a Derby preview from last year. Villon apparently had a runner, and the article says “fresh from his triumph at Longchamp”. Nanterre’s mentioned as one of his owners.’

The newspaper clipping, also from an English paper, was no more helpful. Prudhomme, owned by French industrialist H. Nanterre, trained by Villon, had come to run at Newmarket and dropped dead of a heart attack on pulling up: end of story.

‘Who took the photograph?’ I asked, twisting round to see Danielle. ‘Does it say?’

‘Copyright Towncrier,’ she said, reading the back.

I shrugged. ‘They must have gone over for some big race or other. The Arc, I dare say.’

I took the photograph back and put all the bits into the envelope.

‘He has a very strong face,’ Danielle said, meaning Nanterre.

‘And a very strong voice.’

‘And we’re no further forward,’ Litsi said.

I started the car and drove us to London, where we found that nothing of any interest had happened at all, with the result that Sammy was getting bored.

‘Just by being here,’ I said, ‘you earn your bread.’

‘No one knows I’m here, man.’

‘They sure do,’ I said dryly. ‘Everything that happens in this house reaches the ears of the man you’re guarding its owner against, so don’t go to sleep.’

‘I’d never,’ he said, aggrieved.

‘Good.’ I showed him the Towncrier’s photograph. ‘That man, there,’ I said, pointing. ‘If ever you see him, that’s when you take care. He carries a gun, which may or may not have bullets in it, and he’s full of all sorts of tricks.’

He looked at the photograph long and thoughtfully. ‘I’ll know him,’ he said.

I took Lord Vaughnley’s offerings up to the bamboo room, telephoned Wykeham, picked up my messages, dealt with them: the usual routine. When I went down to the sitting room for a drink before dinner, Litsi, Danielle and the princess were discussing French impressionist painters exhibiting in Paris around 1880.

Cézanne... Pissarro... Renoir... Degas... at least I’d heard of them. I went across to the drinks tray and picked up the scotch.

‘Berthe Morisot was one of the best,’ Litsi said to the room in general. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘What did he paint?’ I asked, opening the bottle.

‘He was a she,’ Litsi said.

I grunted slightly and poured a trickle of whisky. ‘She, then, what did she paint?’

‘Young women, babies, studies in light.’

I sat in an armchair and drank the scotch, looking at Litsi.

At least he didn’t patronise me, I thought. ‘They’re not all easy to see,’ he said. ‘Many are in private collections, some are in Paris, several are in the National Gallery of Art in Washington.’

I was unlikely, he must have known, to chase them up.

‘Delightful pictures,’ the princess said. ‘Luminous.’

‘And there was Mary Cassatt,’ Danielle said. ‘She was brilliant too.’ She turned to me. ‘She was American, but she was a student of Degas in Paris.’

I would go with her to galleries, I thought, if that would please her. ‘One of these days,’ I said casually, ‘you can educate me.’

She turned her head away almost as if she would cry, which hadn’t in the least been my intention; and perhaps it was as well that Beatrice arrived for her ‘bloody’.

Beatrice was suffering a severe sense of humour failure over Sammy who had, it appeared, said, ‘Sorry, me old darlin’, not used to slow traffic,’ while again cannoning into her on the stairs.

She saw the laugh on my face, which gravely displeased her, and Litsi smothered his in his drink. The princess, with twitching lips, assured her sister-in-law that she would ask Sammy to be more careful and Beatrice said it was all my fault for having brought him into the house. It entirely lightened and enlivened the evening, which passed more easily than some of the others: but there was still no one telephoning in response to the advertisements, and there was again no sound from Nanterre.

Early next morning, well before seven, Dawson woke me again with the intercom, saying there was a call for me from Wykeham Harlow.

I picked up the receiver, sleep forgotten.

‘Wykeham?’ I said.

‘K... K... Kit.’ He was stuttering dreadfully. ‘C... C... Come down here. C... Come at once.’