Bolt

Twenty one

Litsi and I drank brandy in the sitting room to celebrate, having thanked Thomas and Sammy copiously for their support; and we telephoned to Danielle to tell her we weren’t lying in puddles of blood.

‘Thank goodness,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been able to think what I’m doing.’

‘I suppose what we did was thoroughly immoral,’ Litsi commented, after I’d put down the receiver.

‘Absolutely,’ I agreed equably. ‘We did exactly what Nanterre intended to do; extorted a signature under threat.’

‘We took the law into our own hands, I suppose.’

‘Justice,’ I said, ‘in our own hands.’

‘And like you said,’ he said, smiling, ‘there’s a difference.’

‘He’s free, unpunished and rich,’ I said, ‘and in a way that’s not justice. But he didn’t, and can’t, destroy Roland. It was a fair enough bargain.’

I waited up for Danielle after Litsi had gone yawning downstairs, and went to meet her when I heard her come in. She walked straight into my arms, smiling.

‘I didn’t think you’d go to bed without me,’ she said.

‘As seldom as possible for the rest of my life.’

We went quietly up to the bamboo room and, mindful of Beatrice next door, quietly to bed and quietly to love. Intensity, I thought, drowning in sensations, hadn’t any direct link to noise and could be exquisite in whispers; and if we were more inhibited than earlier in what we said, the silent rediscovery of each other grew into an increased dimension of passion.

We slept, embracing, and woke again before morning, hungry again after deep satisfaction.

‘You love me more,’ she said, murmuring in my ear.

‘I loved you always.’

‘Not like this.’

We slept again, languorously, and before seven she showered in my bathroom, put on yesterday’s clothes and went decorously down to her own room. Aunt Casilia, she said with composure, would expect her niece to make a pretence at least of having slept in her own bed.

‘Would she mind that you didn’t?’

‘Pretty much the reverse, I would think.’

Litsi and I were already drinking coffee in the morning room when Danielle reappeared, dressed by then in fresh blues and greens. She fetched juice and cereal and made me some toast, and Litsi watched us both with speculation and finally enlightenment.

‘Congratulations,’ he said to me dryly.

‘The wedding,’ Danielle said collectedly, ‘will take place.’

‘So I gathered,’ he said.

He and I, a while later, went up to see Roland de Brescou, to give him and the princess the completed contracts.

‘I was sure,’ Roland said weakly, ‘that Nanterre wouldn’t agree to dissolve the company. Without it, he can’t possibly make guns... can he?’

‘If ever he does,’ I said, ‘your name won’t be linked with it.’

Gascony, the name we’d given to the new public company, was the ancient name of the province in France where the Château de Brescou stood. Roland had been both pleased and saddened by the choice.

‘How did you persuade him, Kit?’ the princess asked, looking disbelievingly at the Nanterre signatures.

‘Um... tied him in knots.’

She gave me a brief glance. ‘Then I’d better not ask.’

‘He’s unhurt and unmarked.’

‘And the police?’ Roland asked.

‘No police,’ I said. ‘We had to promise no police to get him to sign.’

‘A bargain’s a bargain,’ Litsi nodded. ‘We have to let him go free.’

The princess and her husband understood all about keeping one’s word, and when I left Roland’s room she followed me down to the sitting room, leaving Litsi behind.

‘No thanks are enough... How can we thank you?’ she asked with frustration.

‘You don’t need to. And... urn... Danielle and I will marry in June.’

‘I’m very pleased indeed,’ she said with evident pleasure, and kissed me warmly on one cheek and then the other. I thought of the times I’d wanted to hug her; and one day perhaps I would do it, though not on a racecourse.

‘I’m so sorry about your horses,’ I said.

‘Yes... When you next talk to Wykeham, ask him to start looking about for replacements. We can’t expect another Cotopaxi, but next year, perhaps, a runner anyway in the Grand National... And don’t forget, next week at Cheltenham, we still have Kinley.’

‘The Triumph Hurdle,’ I said.

I went to Folkestone races by train later that morning with a light heart but without Danielle, who had an appointment with the dentist.

I rode four races and won two, and felt fit, well, bursting with health and for the first time in weeks, carefree. It was a tremendous feeling, while it lasted.

Bunty Ireland, the Towncrier’s racing correspondent, gave me a large envelope from Lord Vaughnley: ‘Hot off the computers,’ Bunty said. The envelope again felt as if it contained very little, but I thanked him for it, and reflecting that I thankfully didn’t need the contents any more, I took it unopened with me back to London.

Dinner that evening was practically festive, although Danielle wasn’t there, having driven herself to work in her Ford.

‘I thought yesterday was her last night for working,’ Beatrice said, unsuspiciously.

‘They changed the schedules again,’ I explained.

‘Oh, how irritating.’

Beatrice had decided to return to Palm Beach the next day. Her darling dogs would be missing her, she said. The princess had apparently told her that Nanterre’s case was lost, which had subdued her querulousness amazingly.

I’d grown used to her ways: to her pale orange hair and round eyes, her knuckleduster rings and her Florida clothes. Life would be quite dull without the old bag; and moreover, once she had gone, I would soon have to leave also. How long, I wondered, would Litsi be staying...

Roland came down to dinner and offered champagne, raising his half-full glass to Litsi and to me in a toast. Beatrice scowled a little but blossomed like a sunflower when Roland said that perhaps, with all the extra capital generated by the sale of the business, he might consider increasing her trust fund. Too forgiving, I thought, yet without her we would very likely not have prevailed.

Roland, the princess and Beatrice retired fairly early, leaving Litsi and me passing the time in the sitting room. Quite late, I remembered Lord Vaughnley’s envelope which I’d put down on a side table on my return.

Litsi incuriously watched me open it and draw out the contents: one glossy black and white photograph, as before, and one short clipping from a newspaper column. Also a brief compliments slip from the Towncrier: ‘Regret nothing more re Nanterre.’

The picture showed Nanterre in evening dress surrounded by other people similarly clad, on the deck of a yacht. I handed it to Litsi and read the accompanying clipping.

‘Arms dealer Ahmed Fuad’s fiftieth birthday bash, held on his yacht Felissima in Monte Carlo harbour on Friday evening drew guests from as far as California, Peru and Darwin, Australia. With no expense spared, Fuad fed caviar and foie gras to jet-setting friends from his hobby worlds of backgammon, night clubs and horseracing.’

Litsi passed back the photograph and I gave him the clipping.

‘That’s what Nanterre wanted,’ I said. ‘To be the host on a yacht in the Mediterranean, dressed in a white dinner jacket, dispensing rich goodies, enjoying the adulation and the flattery. That’s what he wanted... those multi-millions, and that power.’

I turned the photograph over, reading the flimsy information strip stuck to the back: a list of names, and the date.

That’s odd,’ I said blankly.

‘What is?’

‘That party was held last Friday night.’

‘What of it? Nanterre must have jetted out there and back, like the others.’

‘On Friday night, Col was shot.’

Litsi stared at me.

‘Nanterre couldn’t have done it,’ I said. ‘He was in Monte Carlo.’

‘But he said he did. He boasted of it to Beatrice.’

I frowned. ‘Yes, he did.’

‘He must have got someone else to do it,’ Litsi said.

I shook my head. ‘He did everything himself. Threatened the princess, chased Danielle, set the trap for you, came to put the bomb in my car. He didn’t trust any of that to anyone else. He knows about horses, he wanted to see his own filly shot... he would have shot Col... but he didn’t.’

‘He confessed to all the horses,’ Litsi insisted.

‘Yes, but suppose... he read about them in the papers... read that their deaths were mysterious and no one knew who had killed them... He wanted ways to frighten Roland and the princess. Suppose he said he’d killed them, when he hadn’t?’

‘But in that case,’ Litsi said blankly, ‘who did? Who would want to kill her best horses, if not Nanterre?’

I rose slowly to my feet, feeling almost faint.

‘What’s the matter?’ Litsi said, alarmed. ‘You’ve gone as white as snow.’

‘He killed,’ I said with a mouth stickily dry, ‘the horse I might have won the Grand National on. The horse on which I might have won the Gold Cup.’

‘Kit...’ Litsi said.

‘There’s only one person,’ I said with difficulty, ‘who hates me enough to do that. Who couldn’t bear to see me win those races... who would take away the prizes I hold dearest, because I took away his prize...’

I felt breathless and dizzy.

‘Sit down,’ Litsi said, alarmed.

‘Kinley,’ I said.

I went jerkily to the telephone and got through to Wyke-ham.

‘I was just going to bed,’ he complained.

‘Did you stop the dog-patrols?’ I demanded.

‘Yes, of course. You told me this morning there was no more need for them.’

‘I think I was wrong. I can’t risk that I was wrong. I’m coming down to your stables now, tonight, and we’ll get the dog-patrols back again, stronger than ever, for tomorrow and every day until Cheltenham, and probably beyond.’

‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

‘Have you taken your sleeping pill?’ I asked.

‘No, not yet.’

‘Don’t do it until I get down to you, will you? And where’s Kinley tonight?’

‘Back in his own box, of course. You said the danger was past.’

‘We’ll move him back into the corner box when I get down to you.’

‘Kit, no, not in the middle of the night.’

‘You want to keep him safe,’ I said; and there was no arguing with that.

We disconnected and Litsi said slowly, ‘Do you mean Maynard Allardeck?’

‘Yes, I do. He found out, about two weeks ago, that he’ll never get a knighthood because I sent the film I made of him to the Honours department. He’s wanted that knighthood since he was a child, when he told my grandfather that one day the Fieldings would have to bow down to him, because he’d be a lord. He knows horses better than Nanterre... he was brought up in his father’s racing stable and was his assistant trainer for years. He saw Cascade and Cotopaxi at Newbury, and they were distinctive horses... and Col at Ascot... unmistakable.’

I went to the door.

‘I’ll telephone in the morning,’ I said.

‘I’ll come with you,’ he said.

I shook my head. ‘You’d be up all night.’

‘Get going,’ he said. ‘You saved my family’s honour... let me pay some of their debt.’

I was grateful, indeed, for the company. We went round again to the dark mews where Litsi said, if I had the car-starter in my pocket, we might as well be sure: but Nanterre and his bombs hadn’t returned, and the Mercedes fired obligingly from a fifty-yard distance.

I drove towards Sussex, telephoning to Danielle on the way to tell her where and why we were going. She had no trouble believing anything bad of Maynard Allardeck, saying he’d looked perfectly crazy at Ascot and Sandown, glaring at me continuously in the way he had.

‘Curdling with hate,’ she said. ‘You could feel it like shock waves.’

‘We’ll be back for breakfast,’ I said, smiling. ‘Sleep well.’ And I could hear her laughing as she disconnected.

I told Litsi on the way about the firework bombs that had been used to decoy the dog-handler away from Col’s courtyard, and said, ‘You know, in the alley, when Nanterre said he hadn’t put a bomb in my car, I asked him if it was a firework. He looked totally blank... I didn’t think much of it then, but now I realise he simply didn’t know what I was talking about. He didn’t know about the fireworks at Wykeham’s because they didn’t get into the papers.’

Litsi made a ‘Huh’ sort of noise of appreciation and assent, and we came companionably in time into Wykeham’s village.

‘What are you going to do here?’ Litsi said.

I shrugged. ‘Walk round the stables.’ I explained about the many little courtyards. ‘It’s not an easy place to patrol.’

‘You do seriously think Allardeck will risk trying to kill another of Aunt Casilia’s horses?’

‘Yes. Kinley, particularly, her brilliant hurdler. I don’t seriously suppose he’ll try tonight rather than tomorrow or thereafter, but I’m not taking chances.’ I paused. ‘However am I going to apologise to Princess Casilia... to repay...’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Cascade and Cotopaxi and Col died because of the Fielding and Allardeck feud. Because of me.’

‘She won’t think of it that way.’

‘It’s the truth.’ I turned into Wykeham’s driveway. ‘I won’t let Kinley die.’

I stopped the car in the parking space, and we stepped out into the silence of midnight under a clear sky sparkling with diamond-like stars. The heights and depths of the universe: enough to humble the sweaty strivings of earth.

I took a deep breath of its peace... and heard, in the quiet distance, the dull unmistakable thudding explosion of a bolt.

Dear God, I thought. We’re too late.

I ran. I knew where. To the last courtyard, the one nearest to Wykeham’s house. Ran with the furies at my heels, my heart sick, my mind a jumble of rage and fear and dreadful regrets.

I could have driven faster... I could have started sooner... I could have opened Lord Vaughnley’s envelope hours before... Kinley was dead, and I’d killed him.

I ran into the courtyard, and for all my speed, events on the other side of it moved faster.

As I watched, as I ran, I saw Wykeham struggle to his feet from where he’d been lying on the path outside the doors of the boxes.

Two of the box doors were open, the boxes in shadow, lit only by the light outside in the courtyard. In one box, I could see a horse lying on its side, its legs still jerking in convulsive death throes. Into the other went Wykeham.

While I was still yards away, I saw him pick up something which had been lying inside the box on the brick windowsill. I saw his back going deeper into the box, his feet silent on the peat.

I ran.

I saw another man in the box, taller, grabbing a horse by its head-collar.

I saw Wykeham put the thing he held against the second man’s head. I saw the tiny flash, heard the awful bang...

When I reached the door there was a dead man on the peat, a live horse tossing his head and snorting in fright, a smell of burning powder and Wykeham standing, looking down, with the humane killer in his hands.

The live horse was Kinley... and I felt no relief.

‘Wykeham!’ I said.

He turned his head, looked at me vaguely.

‘He shot my horses,’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘I killed him. I said I would... and I have.’

I looked down at the dead man, at the beautiful suit and the hand-sewn shoes.

He was lying half on his face, and he had a nylon stocking pulled over his head as a mask, with a hole in it behind his right ear.

Litsi ran into the courtyard calling breathlessly to know what had happened. I turned towards him in the box doorway, obstructing his view of what was inside.

‘Litsi,’ I said, ‘go and telephone the police. Use the telephone in the car. Press O and you’ll get the operator... ask for the police. Tell them a man has been killed here in an accident.’

‘A man!’ he exclaimed. ‘Not a horse?’

‘Both... but tell them a man.’

‘Yes,’ he said unhappily. ‘Right.’

He went back the way he’d come and I turned towards Wykeham, who was wide-eyed now, and beginning to tremble.

‘It wasn’t an accident,’ he said, with pride somewhere in the carriage of his head, in the tone of his voice. ‘I killed him.’

‘Wykeham,’ I said urgently. ‘Listen. Are you listening?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where do you want to spend your last years, in prison or out on the Downs with your horses?’

He stared.

‘Are you listening?’

‘Yes.’

‘There’ll be an inquest,’ I said. ‘And this was an accident. Are you listening?’

He nodded.

‘You came out to see if all was well in the yard before you went to bed.’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘You’d had three horses killed in the last ten days... the police haven’t been able to discover who did it... You knew I was coming down to help patrol the yards tonight, but you were naturally worried.’

‘Yes.’

‘You came into this courtyard, and you saw and heard someone shoot one of your horses.’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Is it Abseil?’ I longed for him to say no, but he said, ‘Yes.’

Abseil... racing at breakneck speed over the last three fences at Sandown, clinging to victory right to the post.

I said, ‘You ran across to try to stop the intruder doing any more damage... you tried to pull the humane killer out of his hands.’

‘Yes.’

‘He was younger and stronger and taller than you... he knocked you down with the humane killer... you fell on the path, momentarily stunned.’

‘How do you know?’ Wykeham asked, bewildered.

‘The marks of the end of the barrel are all down your cheek. It’s been bleeding. Don’t touch it,’ I said, as he began to raise a hand to feel. ‘He knocked you down and went into the second box to kill a second horse.’

‘Yes, to kill Kinley.’

‘Listen... He had the humane killer in his hand.’

Wykeham began to shake his head, and then stopped.

I said, ‘The man was going to shoot your horse. You grabbed at the gun to stop him. You were trying to take it away from him... he was trying to pull it back from your grasp. He was succeeding with a jerk, but you still had your hands on the gun, and in the struggle, when he jerked the gun towards him, the thick end of the barrel hit his head, and the jerk also caused your grasp somehow to pull the trigger.’

He stared.

‘You did not mean to kill him; are you listening, Wykeham? You meant to stop him shooting your horse.’

‘K... Kit...’ he said, finally stuttering.

‘What are you going to tell the police?’

‘I... t... tried to s... stop him shooting...’ He swallowed. ‘He j... jerked the gun... against his head... It w... went off.’

He was still holding the gun by its rough wooden butt.

‘Throw it down on the peat,’ I said.

He did so, and we both looked at it: a heavy, ugly, clumsy instrument of death.

On the windowsill there were several small bright golden caps full of gunpowder. One cocked the gun, fed in the cap, pulled the trigger... the gunpowder exploded and shot out the bolt.

Litsi came back, saying the police would be coming, and it was he who switched the light on, revealing every detail of the scene.

I bent down and took a closer look at Maynard’s head. There was oil on the nylon stocking where the bolt had gone through, and I remembered Robin Curtiss saying the bolt had been oiled before Col... Robin would remember... there would be no doubt that Maynard had killed all four horses.

‘Do you know who it is?’ I said to Wykeham, straightening up.

He half-knew, half couldn’t believe it.

‘Allardeck?’ he said, unconvinced.

‘Allardeck.’

Wykeham bent down to pull off the stocking-mask.

‘Don’t do that,’ I said sharply. ‘Don’t touch it. Anyone can see he came here trying not to be recognised... to kill horses... no one out for an evening stroll goes around in a nylon mask carrying a humane killer.’

‘Did he kill Kinley?’ Litsi asked anxiously.

‘No, this is Kinley. He killed Abseil.’

Litsi looked stricken. ‘Poor Aunt Casilia... She said how brilliantly you’d won on Abseil. Why kill that one, who couldn’t possibly win the Grand National?’ He looked down at Maynard, understanding. ‘Allardeck couldn’t bear you being brilliant, not on anything.’

The feud was dead, I thought. Finally over. The long obsession had died with Maynard, and he had been dead before he hit the peat, like Cascade and Cotopaxi, Abseil and Col.

A fitting end, I thought.

Litsi said he had told the police he would meet them in the parking place to show them where to come, and presently he went off there.

Wykeham spent a long while looking at Kinley, who was now standing quietly, no longer disturbed, and then less time looking at Maynard.

‘I’m glad I killed him,’ he said fiercely.

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Mind you win the Triumph Hurdle.’

I thought of the schooling sessions I’d done with that horse, teaching him distances up on the Downs with Wykeham watching, shaping the glorious natural talent into accomplished experience.

I would do my best, I said.

He smiled. Thank you, Kit,’ he said. ‘Thank you for everything.’

The police came with Litsi: two of them, highly official, taking notes, talking of summoning medical officers and photographers.

They took Wykeham through what had happened.

‘I came out... found the intruder... he shot my horse.’ Wykeham’s voice shook. ‘I fought him... he knocked me down... he was going to shoot this horse also... I got to my feet...’

He paused.

‘Yes, sir?’ the policeman said, not unsympathetically.

They saw, standing before them on the peat inside the box, standing beside a dead intruder with the intruder’s deadly weapon shining with menace in the light, they saw an old thin man with dishevelled white hair, with the dark freckles of age on his ancient forehead, with the pistol marks of dried blood on his cheek.

They saw, as the coroner would see, and the lawyers, and the press, the shaking deteriorating exterior, not the titan who still lived inside.

Wykeham looked at Kinley; at the future, at the horse that could fly on the Downs, tail streaming, jumping like an angel to his destiny.

He looked at the policemen, and his eyes seemed full of sky.

‘It was an accident,’ he said.