Royal Heist

1

June 2001: Royal Ascot was into its third day, with crowds enjoying the unusually warm, sunny weather. There was a circus atmosphere at times, with clowns on stilts and booths selling racing memorabilia. A brass band was warming up, and the aroma of fish and chips still hung in the air. Ladies in extravagant hats were escorted by men in morning suits, and everywhere they walked, the champagne flowed. Affluent visitors headed toward private boxes or to the Royal Enclosure. Today, it was murmured, Her Majesty the Queen was present, for one of her own horses was running.

Outside the official car park, Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, and Mercedeses queued with buses, coaches, and station wagons. The car park closest to the main gates was only for owners and trainers, and rows of attendants checked the passes displayed on windscreens. Police and racecourse stewards directed pedestrians over a crossing that led to the gates and turnstiles. The stewards wore old-fashioned bowler hats, smart black suits, white shirts, and as requested by the track officials, sober ties.

Christina de Jersey pulled her navy Corniche, packed with two teenage daughters and their friends, into the closest car park. The girls all wore their large hats bedecked with flowers, while Christina’s was stowed safely in the trunk.

She had invited several guests to lunch in the de Jersey box and overseen the menu with her usual meticulousness. Though it was not twelve o’clock yet, she had wanted to avoid the even greater crush that would ensue nearer to the start of the first race, to give herself time to check the table and greet her guests.

A couple of hours earlier, in his helicopter, her husband had piloted his jockey, Mickey Rowland, and trainer, Donald Fleming, to the track. Now, from the busy helicopter pad, he made his way toward the racing stables on the far side of the track. Though fifty-seven, Edward de Jersey was still athletic and exceptionally fit from daily exercising his vast stable of racehorses. At almost six feet three, with broad, strong shoulders, he cut a striking figure. He wore not a gray top hat but rather a black silk one with a slightly curved Victorian-style brim.

De Jersey had a tight sensation in his stomach. Even though he had kept in constant touch with his stable lads, who had traveled by road from his stud farm, he would not feel easy until he had seen his entry, Royal Flush, for himself.

“What stall is he in?” he bellowed to his trainer.

“Number four,” said Fleming, breathlessly, catching up.

Fleming, too, had spoken frequently to the lads to make sure the prize colt had not suffered any adverse effects from the journey. Royal Flush could be moody; a horse that volatile might injure himself in or out of the horse box. He was to race in the three o’clock seven-furlong Chesham Stakes for two-year-olds with a 37,000-pound purse. Royal Flush had cost a fortune, and de Jersey was convinced that he was special enough to win the Derby the following year. He had won his maiden race at Lingfield by over a furlong: a spectacular result. Still, Royal Flush had to prove he wasn’t a one-race wonder.

As de Jersey approached the stables, he greeted his two lads. “How’s my boy?” Numerous other owners and trainers were also checking their horses. Royal Flush was draped in his blanket and appeared unruffled by the hubbub around him.

“He’s been a right bugger, sir. We cladded the sides of the box, but you know what he’s like, tried to bite me hand off earlier-and he’s been kicking and bucking. We gave him a good walkabout, though, in the backfield after breakfast, so he’s calmer now.”

De Jersey bent close to kiss the horse’s soft velvet muzzle. “You be a good fella now,” he told him. Then he checked virtually every inch of the horse. As he ran his hand over the muscular, glossy flanks, he felt breathless with anticipation. There was big competition against Royal Flush for the Chesham: the Queen’s horse was the favorite, and the Sheikh had a runner worth over a million.

At last, satisfied that all was in order, de Jersey went off by himself to stride the famous racetrack. He thought how perfect it was for his colt: well watered-and with the forecast of a hot summer day, he couldn’t have asked for better-the track would be firm. Royal Flush did not run well on soft ground.

He turned to look back at the finishing post, then at the stands and boxes, and half-wished they had not invited so many guests. If his “boy” wasn’t placed, he would be hard-pushed to remain the genial host.

“Good day for it, sir.”

De Jersey didn’t recognize the wizened little man in his suit and bowler hat.

“Harry Smedley, sir. Your lad came up earlier. Says to be sure Royal Flush goes into the starting gate last. Apparently he’s got a bit of a temper on him.”

“It’s imperative,” de Jersey replied. “He doesn’t like being stalled, and with so many young colts there’ll be a delay getting them in.”

Smedley nodded. “I’ll make sure of it. The lads working the starter stalls aren’t due up here yet, not until just before the first race, but I’ll warn ’em.”

De Jersey felt for his wallet.

“No need, sir, but let’s hope he runs a good race. Certainly ran a blisterer on his maiden.”

De Jersey was eager now to return down the track.

“Your dad would have been proud.” Smedley gave a knowing wink. “Right old character he was.”

Smedley reminded de Jersey of a garden gnome, with his bulbous nose and flushed cheeks. “You knew him?” he queried.

The small man looked baffled. “I’m Margie Smedley’s son. My family used to run the dairy at the end of your street, and we was at school together. Before you got into the grammar school. Long while ago now, but my mother knew yours.”

De Jersey still had no recollection of the man, but he nodded and smiled anyway.

Smedley moved closer. “You remember the corner shop just up from the dairy, two doors down from your old fella’s bettin’ shop? Gawd almighty, she was in and out like a ferret, my mother, never could resist a bet, and with it being on her doorstep…” Smedley chuckled. “You was always held up as an example to me. First, the only lad from round our way to get into the grammar school, then you went off to that officers’ training place, didn’t you?”

“Sandhurst.” Still de Jersey couldn’t place him.

“Your dad, he used to show us your picture in your uniform, proud as punch he was. And you had that handsome fella staying. He was wiv you at Sandhurst, right?”

De Jersey was surprised at the old man’s memory-he and Jimmy Wilcox had been very close; they had been at officers’ training together, and Wilcox was to this day someone he trusted.

“Mind you, it’s only cos I knew you way back that I’ve followed your career. I’d never have recognized you now, but being a racing man meself, I wondered if you was him. Then I spotted you at Epsom a few years back. Your dad was a card, wasn’t he?”

“He died a long time ago.”

“I know, but those were the days, eh? We was at his funeral. Wanted his ashes sprinkled over the Epsom racetrack, great character he was. Did you do it?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Do like he wanted, with his ashes?”

“No, they wouldn’t give me permission. Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Mr. Smedley,” said de Jersey, turning away, but the man tapped his arm.

“It’s Harry, sir, eh? Funny old life, isn’t it? I heard you had to leave that military college. Hurt yourself, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I injured my knee.”

“Fell off a horse, was it?”

“Playing polo.”

“It must have been fate. I mean, look at you now, eh? I hadda do National Service. Life’s full of surprises, isn’t it?”

“It certainly is, Harry,” replied de Jersey.

“No one would believe it, you and I was at school together in the East End.”

“Well, not many people know,” said de Jersey. This time he took out two fifty-pound notes from his wallet, saying, “Have a flutter on Royal Flush for old time’s sake.” He tucked the notes into Smedley’s top pocket and, before the man could say any more, walked off.

“Good luck today, sir,” Smedley said and tipped his bowler hat.

As he walked back down the track, de Jersey thought of his dapper little father, Ronnie Jersey. The “de” had been acquired many years after his father’s death: de Jersey thought it gave his name more of an upper-class ring. Once he had acquired the deep, rather plummy tones of an aristocrat, it was hard to detect any East End in his speech.

The injury to which Smedley had referred destroyed any hope of an army career; perhaps it had been fate, although at the time it had broken his heart. The fall damaged his kneecap so severely that he still limped and was often in pain, though he never allowed it to interfere with his grueling daily rides.

Down the track, Smedley was regaling one of the other stewards about his “school pal” Edward de Jersey.

“His father ran a bookies’-in fact, two of ’em. Nice earners, but back in the fifties he had a lot of aggravation from the villains. Word was, he was forced out of business and his son took ’em over but sold them fast. Looks a real toff now, but we was at school together. I tell you one thing, I’d like a share of his life. He’s worth bloody millions!”

De Jersey headed past the winner’s enclosure and through the famous hole-in-the-wall archway toward the boxes. On the third floor he got out of the lift and walked to his double box, pausing only to look over the railing at the throng below. The crowds were in good humor, standing almost shoulder to shoulder around the bandstand, where the brass band played a medley of old-time music-hall songs. The crowd joined in with the chorus: “Ohhhhh, there ain’t a lady living in the world that I’d swap for my dear old dutch.” As he listened, de Jersey remembered his dad standing at the piano in the pub close to their terraced house. His dad only had the nerve to get up and sing after he’d downed several pints. He’d sing at the top of his voice, button eyes focusing on his beloved wife, Florence. De Jersey laughed softly as the past swept over him and he heard his mother say, “Eddy, get your dad’s hat. We’re goin’ home!”

Someone brushed against his shoulder, and he turned to find Lord Wilby offering his hand. “Hello, Edward, wonderful day for it.” Wilby introduced his wife.

“Charming as ever.” De Jersey gave her a small bow and tipped his hat.

“How do you rate your colt’s chances?” Wilby had two runners himself that day.

“Rather good, as long as he keeps his head.”

Wilby checked his race card. “Ah, Mickey Rowland, yes, he’s a good jockey. Handled well at Lingfield.” Then more owners were acknowledging de Jersey, and the conversation ended.

Christina had decorated the box navy and white, his racing colors, and had the table laid for twelve. On the balcony, rows of seats overlooked the track. De Jersey’s box faced the large screen that would televise the races, situated opposite the winning post. There were television screens inside the box, where some preferred to watch the action, especially if the weather was bad. Today, though, it was perfect.

Christina was arranging the flowers on the table when he entered. She wore little makeup and, like him, was lightly tanned. Even after twenty years of marriage, de Jersey continued to be amazed by how attractive he found her. She was tall, almost five ten, with long, naturally platinum blond hair, which she wore loose or caught up in a wide-toothed butterfly clip. De Jersey loved the delicate wisps that fell down to frame her perfect face, chiseled cheekbones and full mouth, though Christina’s eyes, a strikingly deep blue, were her best feature. She was de Jersey’s second wife; his first was merely a distant memory. Christina had two children, yet she still had the body of a young woman. She also retained the lilt of her Swedish accent.

She was wearing a white, wide-brimmed hat, with a black band and a large bow draped down one side, a tailored white jacket, tight black pencil skirt, and high-heeled black sling-back shoes. She still had a wonderfully voluptuous figure. She looked so cool and sophisticated; it was easy to tell that she had once been a model.

De Jersey encircled her waist and kissed her neck.

“Mind my hat,” she said, laughing.

“You look stunning,” he said.

She cocked her head to one side. “You’re quite appetizing yourself, Mr. de Jersey. Go, welcome your guests, there’s champagne open.”

“I was watching you and thinking what a lucky man I am. I do love you.”

She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Did he travel well?”

“He did, and he’s behaving himself, but he’s got serious competition. I’ll be happy if he just gets placed.”

“He’s going to win,” Christina said with certainty. She did not share his passion for this colt, though she liked horses and enjoyed riding. De Jersey had been in property development when they met and was already a very rich man, the cultured voice honed to perfection. She still knew little of her husband’s past and would have been astonished to learn that he had come from London’s East End. Christina had been at his side throughout his career in racing, watching with pride as the stud farm grew to be one of the biggest in England. She took no part in the running of the racing yard but had an important role in de Jersey’s life, giving him a stability he had never previously believed possible.

She poured him a glass of champagne and prompted him to join his guests, watching him go. Their nineteen-year age difference had never been an issue. Christina was above all a contented woman. She knew that behind his extrovert image her husband was a private man and, at times, inadequate at small talk. She enjoyed entertaining and smoothing the way for him. They made a good team.

“We have a beautiful day for it.” He shook hands and opened another bottle of Krug. She knew he would prefer water until Royal Flush’s race was over. Aware that he would be totally focused on his horse, she had chosen her guests carefully. Donald Fleming’s wife was there, and their local vicar, who had leapt at the chance of going to the races, with his wife, a shy, retiring woman. After the racing they could spend time box hopping with the Sangsters and the Henry Cecils.

Leonie and Natasha stood close by their father as he discussed the racing form with the overeager vicar. “Here’s my tip: first race I’d say an each-way bet on Cold Stream and maybe a tenner on the outsider, Charcoal.” Before he could continue, David Lyons, his business and financial adviser arrived with his wife, Helen.

De Jersey gave him a bear hug, dwarfing David, who was no more than five feet seven. The financial adviser’s hired morning suit was a trifle large, and his prominent ears held up his top hat.

“And Helen, what a wonderful creation,” de Jersey said, referring to her hat, a bright pink ensemble of huge roses that made her pinched, nervous face seem even paler.

“Thank you. David said it was awful.” Helen, who had spent weeks shopping for her outfit, had been upset by her husband’s criticism.

“It’s stunning.” Christina kissed her and passed Helen a glass of champagne.

“I’d say your husband has some nerve,” de Jersey said, laughing as he tapped David’s topper, which sank low on his red, sweaty face. “What happened, David? No suits in your size left at Moss Bros?”

David smiled self-consciously. Like his wife, he had never attended Royal Ascot. Normally he was fastidious in his dress, but unfortunately he had left it until the last moment to hire his suit.

“I think you look splendid,” Christina said. “Champagne? Now, if you need any help placing bets, Natasha will guide you through the procedure. Edward’s suggested a possible winner for the first race, but I never pay any attention to him. I bet on the horse whose name I like best.”

Quickly, David removed his hat and went to sit on the far side of the box, where he lit a cigar. De Jersey joined him. “Glad you could make it. It’s been months since I’ve seen you, and I have a lot to thank you for. You made me a wealthy man.”

“I’ve been caught up with work, but I have tried calling you.” David drained his glass, which de Jersey refilled. They had known each other for twenty-five years but rarely socialized. David’s latest business venture on de Jersey’s behalf, financing an Internet company, had proved a gold mine.

“What do you say is going to be a surefire bet? Come on now, you’ve got to have insider information, Edward.”

“There never is one.” De Jersey hesitated. David’s words were an eerie reminder of his father, who always used to say the same thing. He suddenly felt like talking about his father but resisted. David would have heart failure if he knew some of the things de Jersey had done. He was straight and honest, the very reason de Jersey placed so much trust in him.

“David, I am really pleased you and Helen could join us today.”

David smiled. He had whiter than white teeth and always appeared suntanned. His balding head and big ears were often a source of amusement, but he was, in actual fact, a very confident man. Now that he was flushed with champagne, David’s discomfort at wearing an oversize morning suit was beginning to lessen.

“Edward, lemme tell you. What with Helen’s ruddy flower garden hat and me in this suit, I was of two minds about whether to come today. I said to this bloke at Moss Bros, can’t you take the trousers up? No, he said, then puts the jacket on me and the sleeves covered my hand. I said, I can’t go to Royal Ascot looking like a chump. Can’t you recommend someone that’s got one more my size? And you know what he said? No one will notice! I said, They will when I do a pratfall in front of the Queen.

“And then I get the manager, and he starts kneeling down with these pins in his mouth. He says to me, Can you stand on the stool? And I says, That’s not gonna help. I can’t carry that around the racetrack!” David chortled with laughter and showed the wide hem on his trousers as Helen blushed with embarrassment.

By the time Christina suggested they sit down for lunch, everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves. The vicar had accompanied David to the Tote and appeared to have backed every horse in the first race. It was one thirty. More champagne was offered, then chilled white Chablis as the oysters were served. They were to be followed by wild salmon in aspic with new potatoes and salad. There would be a break between courses to watch the races from the balcony.

Just as they finished the oysters, the crowds below cheered wildly and everyone left the table to watch the Royal procession pass beneath the balcony. Moments later the first runners were under starter’s orders, and they were off. Their guests, led by David, cheered on the winner-Charcoal at twelve to one-then David and the vicar rushed out to collect their winnings.

De Jersey felt the knot in his stomach tighten. Two more races, then he would go down to the stables.

David was making his way to the Tote on the floor directly below. Natasha had already placed her bet, but when she saw him join the line she waited, and they returned together. David hurried to the balcony, but Natasha joined her father.

“Daddy, David put on an enormous amount of money!”

“Shush,” Christina admonished.

“He can afford it, sweetheart,” de Jersey said, grinning. “What’s he backed?”

“Classy Lady.” Natasha giggled. “Maybe because of his wife’s awful rose-garden hat.”

Christina said sternly, “That will do, Natty. Edward, don’t encourage her. They’re your guests.”

De Jersey pulled a po-face. “Me?”

Natasha stood on tiptoe to kiss him. “I’m on Blue Babushka, the outsider, a fiver on the nose.”

“Then join the others or you’ll miss the race.” Christina glanced at the table, now freshly laid for the next course. Natasha left, and de Jersey watched the television screen as the horses cantered past, heading for the starting gate. “Royal Flush will go in last,” he said. “He gets so frisky. I might go and have another look at him.”

“Not before we finish lunch. You’ve got almost two hours yet… Darling?”

He was staring into space. “Next year, the Derby. That’s my dream, to have a Derby winner.” He lapsed into silence again. Sometimes he wanted to tell her about his childhood, but so much of the past was buried beneath the person he had become that the less she knew the safer he felt.

They had just finished the main course when Donald Fleming came into the box. “Mickey’s in the weighing room,” he said.

“I won the last race!” his wife called to him.

Fleming blew her a kiss, then turned to Christina. “Thank you for inviting my wife.”

Christina patted his arm. “She looks wonderful.”

“Thanks to you, all those dresses you sent over-she was like a little girl at Christmas. And don’t tell me they were ones you didn’t wear anymore because a couple had the price tags still on them.”

“You didn’t mind, did you? I knew she hadn’t been well enough to go shopping.”

“Mind? Course not. Having her here today makes it even more special. Cream’ll be if Royal Flush wins.”

Fleming crossed to his wife. She was talking about her recent mastectomy with Helen Lyons, who found operations fascinating.

De Jersey turned to Christina. “What was that about his wife?”

“I sent over some dresses for her to choose something to wear. She’s been very poorly.”

“I thought the operation was a success,” he said, looking at his watch. He was impatient to go to the stables.

“Yes, but she lost self-confidence.” Christina touched the emerald-and-diamond brooch on her lapel. “Can you see if the safety catch is on?” Her husband bent to look. “I don’t know why you wanted me to wear it. I’m always afraid of losing it, and with these crowds…”

“Looks okay. It suits that jacket.”

Christina nuzzled his neck. “It would suit any jacket. It’s magnificent.”

De Jersey grinned boyishly. He adored buying her expensive gifts. This brooch, for her last birthday, had been especially costly. The matching earrings were in his pocket. He had intended to give them to her before he left that morning but then decided that if Royal Flush won they would make it a memorable day for her too.

The next race was ready for the off. Fleming beckoned to de Jersey; it was time to get Royal Flush saddled up. De Jersey asked Christina to take the girls to the parade ring; he would join them there. He leaned close. “Just you and the girls, darling. You know I don’t like too many people around when we saddle up.” She nodded. As de Jersey and Fleming left, she joined the guests on the balcony to explain they would return after the race. David was put out that he couldn’t come, so Christina explained Edward’s nervousness and suggested that David could make his way to the stands around the parade ring and watch the saddling from there.

“Will the Queen be with her horse?” he asked like a kid.

“Yes, I believe so. She has a runner in the same race.”

“Bloody hell, I wouldn’t miss that. We’ll go over to the stands then after the next race. Which way do we go?” After giving him directions, Christina signaled to the girls, and the five of them left the box.

They passed under the archway and headed along the grass path toward the arena, where the horses would be brought to their owners and trainers. There, the jockeys received their last-minute instructions before mounting to ride down the track to the starting gate. Dense crowds lined the fenced walkway to watch the Queen as she, too, made her way toward the parade ring.

De Jersey arrived at the stables as the horses were being walked outside. They were unsaddled but draped in their owners’ colors, and their numbers were attached to their bridles. The sun blazed, and some were already sweating. Royal Flush was number seven. He was playing up, tossing his head. A couple of other horses walked sideways; some were kicking out. Her Majesty’s trainer walked with her to the ring, surrounded by bodyguards and security officers, six feet in front and behind. Although they had walkie-talkies and were monitoring the crowds, they were discreet, and there was a wonderful atmosphere of well-being. Here at Royal Ascot the Queen could relax and enjoy her favorite pastime. She acknowledged the cheers but was deeply engrossed in talking to her trainer.

Quite a way behind, Christina was strolling with the girls, who were agog at such glamour. They excitedly spotted stars of movies and television and kept taking secret glances ahead to the Queen’s party.

Royal Flush was still acting up as he was led into a stable. Fleming and de Jersey saddled him. De Jersey dipped a sponge into a bucket and squeezed water into the horse’s mouth past the bit, talking to him all the time, but the horse was increasingly hard to control. Finally, the saddle was on and he was led out, rearing and bucking, ears flattened. De Jersey looked on, concerned.

“He’s in a right mood,” muttered Fleming.

“It’s bloody hot for him.”

As the stable lad took the reins, de Jersey tapped his shoulder. “See you in the ring.”

“Yes, sir. He’ll calm down. He’s just desperate to get onto that track.”

De Jersey straightened his gray silk cravat and replaced his topper. “Let’s go.” Then he and Fleming walked side by side toward the parade ring.

At the center the crowds pressed against the railings, and the green was full of owners and trainers. The Sheikh was waiting for his runner to appear, and de Jersey could see Christina and the girls chatting to friends. Making his way toward them, he passed the Queen and tipped his top hat. He was astonished when she acknowledged him. He had seen her on several occasions, but never before had she spoken to him.

“Do you play cards, Mr. de Jersey?” the Queen asked, smiling.

“Infrequently, ma’am.” He bowed.

“I wondered how your horse came about his name.”

De Jersey flushed to the roots of his hair; the royal flush was an unbeatable poker hand. “Whether it will prove to be his rightful name remains to be seen, ma’am.”

The Queen inclined her head; the conversation was over.

His heart pounding, de Jersey replaced his top hat and continued to cross the green. He could hardly believe that Her Majesty had known his name and stopped a moment to get his breath.

“You all right?” Fleming asked.

“I’m fine, just… She knew who I was, Donald!”

Fleming laughed. “She doesn’t miss a trick. She’s got a stable of horses on a par with yours, and I bet she knows just what the competition is from our boy. That’s her horse being led into the ring now.” He gestured to a magnificent bay draped in the Royal colors, bigger than Royal Flush, and calmer. Royal Flush, a deep, almost burnt chestnut, still tossed his head, and there was a white film of sweat on his neck.

“Bloody hot for his second time out,” de Jersey said. Then he greeted Christina by slipping an arm around her waist, and they watched as his lad walked Royal Flush round the ring.

Mickey Rowland adjusted his chin strap, whip under his arm, and looked around. Spotting de Jersey, he came over. “Hot out here,” he murmured, nodding to Christina.

“You’ve met my daughters, and these two young ladies are-” De Jersey suddenly saw that Leonie was about to take a photograph. “Not now,” he snapped.

“But, Daddy-”

“No! Christina, take the camera off her now!”

Leonie looked frightened and lowered it. Christina took the camera, explaining, “It’s supposed to be unlucky, sweetheart. Take as many as you like after the race.”

De Jersey, Fleming, and Mickey were deep in conversation, the incident forgotten. “I think it’s best to give him his head. With this ground it’s going to be fast. Let’s see what he can do, maybe give him a tap halfway, keep him off the rails, center of the course. It’s already been churned up, so if it’s too rough move him across.”

Mickey’s face was expressionless. He and de Jersey walked toward Royal Flush. De Jersey bent low, speaking privately: “You know him best, Mickey. Do what you have to do. Let’s see how good he is.”

Mickey smiled. “See you in the winner’s enclosure, then, shall I?”

De Jersey laughed and gave his jockey a leg up. Mickey tightened his gloves, tapped his helmet with his whip, and urged Royal Flush to walk out of the ring. The crowd headed back for the stands to watch the race. The horses would take a good, easy canter to the starting gate.

De Jersey walked ahead toward the owners’ and trainers’ stand, leaving Fleming to guide Christina and the girls. He didn’t see David and Helen Lyons waving from behind the barrier, but they had seen him pause by the Queen; David had the photograph to prove it.

Christina fanned herself with her race card as they headed up the steps to the front row of the stand. They were all very hot. She knew not to speak to her husband as he trained his binoculars on Royal Flush cantering up to the starting gate. De Jersey lifted them, lowered them, looked to the wide screen, then went back to the binoculars. Fleming was more relaxed.

“He’ll start his shuffle in a minute,” he whispered to Christina. Whenever de Jersey watched one of his horses race, he would shift from one foot to the other as if he were standing on hot coals. They exchanged smiles.

Now the commentator was saying that all the horses were in the gates except Royal Flush. Then he was in, and the next second they were off. Fleming stood close by de Jersey, who muttered, “Came out well, but he’s boxed in. Move him up, Mickey, that’s it-good, he’s in a nice position.”

As Christina squinted at the screen, Natalie asked where Royal Flush was.

“I think he’s fourth, no fifth-he’s right in the center. See the star on Mickey’s cap?”

De Jersey yelped, and everyone turned to look. He was hopping up and down. “He’s dropped back! What the hell is he doing?” His face was like thunder. “Come on, come on, Mickey! Ride him. That’s it! That’s it.” He nudged Fleming so hard that he was almost knocked off his feet. “He’s moving up, sitting in a lovely position, see him?”

But the Queen’s bay was breaking away from the pack. He was almost a length in front of the rest of the field.

De Jersey lowered the binoculars as the horses thundered down the backstretch. Royal Flush was still in fourth but looked as if he was tiring. Boxed in on both sides, he was struggling to hold his position. Then, suddenly, he began to draw ahead of the horses, neck and neck on either side of him.

Christina turned to see her husband standing, as if frozen, his hands at his sides. Then she was shouting at the top of her voice: “Come on . . . Come on. Yes, Yes. Come on!”

Suddenly Royal Flush seemed to get a second wind. The horse flew, his stride never faltering as he moved up from fourth to third, and then he was unstoppable. He passed the winning post two lengths ahead of the field. Mickey, high in the saddle, turned to look behind as he raised his whip in victory.

Fleming and de Jersey looked at each other, speechless for a moment, then Fleming gasped. “He’s done it, just like you knew he would.” De Jersey blinked back tears. Then Christina was in his arms, and his girls were hugging him. There were congratulations from everywhere, but he could hear nothing, his heart was pounding fit to burst.

They hurried to the winner’s enclosure. Mickey rode in to cheers. De Jersey and Fleming took the reins as the jockey slid off Royal Flush and wrapped his arms around the sweating horse’s neck. Then he removed the saddle. As he loosened his chin strap, Mickey said, “He’s got a lot more under the bonnet. I’ve never felt anything like it. I hardly had to touch him.”

De Jersey held the horse’s head. “Next year it’s the Derby, my boy.”

Fleming laughed. “Give him a break! He’s just won the Chesham. That’s good enough for now.”

The prize giving was a blur. De Jersey forced himself to keep calm, though he wanted to shout out that he had found it, a champion of champions! The dream of every trainer and owner, the fulfillment of twenty years’ hard work. It was his!

Moments later, Fleming was being interviewed by the television sports team, but de Jersey sidestepped them. He avoided publicity and always left the interviews to his trainer.

After seeing that Royal Flush was hosed down and made ready to be driven home, de Jersey returned jubilantly to his box. The guests had all bet on Royal Flush. David was standing on a chair waving a fistful of fifty-pound notes, singing, “We’re in the money!” They celebrated well into the afternoon, and David and Helen Lyons were the last to leave. After monitoring him drinking numerous cups of black coffee, Helen assured Christina that David was sober enough to drive.

“Don’t worry, it’ll take us a good hour to get out of the car park,” David said and then clasped de Jersey’s hand. “This has been one of the best days of my life. Delicious food, the best champagne and… and… I’m going to get that photograph of you with the Queen framed. I’ll have it on my desk!”

“It was a special day, David, and I am glad you were here to share it. If it wasn’t for you I probably wouldn’t have been able to afford it!” de Jersey said, shaking David’s hand. His financial adviser’s mood suddenly deflated. He looked as if he wanted to say something but decided against it, saying instead, rather briskly to his wife, “Let’s go, Helen, we don’t want to overstay our welcome or we won’t be invited next year.”

Then dropping his voice, David said soberly to de Jersey, “Everything is going to be all right.” They were gone before a puzzled de Jersey could reply.

De Jersey sat down, exhausted, watching while Christina marshaled the girls. “Will you be all right to fly the helicopter?” she asked.

He made no reply. As she repeated the question, he reached out and brought her hand to his lips. “I’m going for a walk. I’ll see you at home. Thank you for today. It was a good idea to invite David and Helen. I think it meant a great deal to them.”

She laughed softly. “I don’t know if it was such a good idea to invite the vicar. Donald’s had to drive him home. He could hardly stand up.”

De Jersey blew his daughters a kiss, then stood up. “Drive carefully. I won’t be too late.” He picked up his top hat and walked to the door. “There’s something for you on the table,” he said to his wife over his shoulder. Then he left.

De Jersey walked toward the winner’s enclosure. It was cooler now, and thousands of race goers were streaming out of the gates. He went to the number-one post and stood there-it had felt so good to lead Royal Flush into the winner’s position. Then he headed toward the helipad. His was the only helicopter left. He walked slowly, breathing in the scent of the grass, and remembered how his father had opened his betting shop. After placing a winning bet on an outsider, he made enough to open his own betting shop. He never laid another bet. “It’s a fool’s game, but sometimes the fool wins. And luck runs out, so I’m not takin’ any chances,” he had said.

Ronnie Jersey’s luck had run out months after he opened his second betting shop. Cancer was diagnosed. Shortly before his death he told his son, “Eddy, you run those shops for me. Take care of your mother. I know it’s not what you wanted, but you can earn a good living, an’ there’s a good kid that works for me. You know Tony Driscoll.” Tony was the illegitimate son of the woman who cleaned the shops. He had been just a toddler when Ronnie took them under his wing, and they owed everything to him. De Jersey had trouble remembering Mrs. Driscoll’s first name. What he did remember was how they both wept at his father’s funeral. Ronnie had been a surrogate dad to Tony and had even left him a few hundred pounds. The boys had not been that close as youngsters, but years later, when de Jersey needed him, Tony Driscoll, like James Wilcox, was one of the few men he trusted.

“I was hopin’ I’d see you.”

It was Smedley. By the tilt of him he’d had more than a few beers.

“What a win, eh? Clean as a whistle! I nearly had heart failure-I’d put those two fifties you give me on him!”

“Really?” De Jersey moved away, wanting to avoid another conversation.

“All the lads was on him, I tipped them off.” Smedley bumped against the fence, then ducked beneath it. There was no getting away from him. “You got anythin’ running tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Ah, well, maybe not push your luck too far, eh? You goin’ down the track? I’ll walk wiv you. I need to sober up. Been in the stewards’ lounge.”

De Jersey made no reply but strode off, leaving Smedley, swaying slightly, a hurt expression on his red face. “I’m sorry if I bothered you,” he said loudly.

De Jersey stopped. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. I have to get a move on-don’t like flying at night.”

“Oh, understandable,” Smedley said, trotting after him. When he approached the helipad, de Jersey could hear Smedley wheezing behind him. As de Jersey opened the cockpit door, Smedley gasped. “You’d never get me up in one of them.” De Jersey climbed aboard, and Smedley held up his square rough hand. “I’d like to shake your hand, sir.”

De Jersey bent down to grasp it. He was beginning to find the man unbearably irritating. “I’ll tell my grandson about it, me and you being at the same school. You got any?”

De Jersey looked down into the gnomelike face. “Just two daughters.”

“Ah, well, we can’t all be blessed. I got four lads, three grandsons and…”

The engine started up, and de Jersey slid the door shut. He waited for Smedley to scuttle away to a safe distance; the blades began to turn. As the helicopter lifted into the air, de Jersey saw the man grow smaller, and he felt an odd mixture of emotions. Most of his life had been spent escaping his past, but despite his massive wealth, the Smedleys of the world proved that he could never let his guard down. He had far too much to lose, having acquired, by various means, everything he ever wanted in life. However, Smedley did have something he coveted, a son… in fact, four of them. De Jersey’s good humor returned. He had Royal Flush. Today had been just the beginning. He would fulfill his dream to win the Derby, and if he did, he would kiss the track, like his dad had done the day he’d made the twenty-five-to-one bet on the Derby outsider.

The light was fading as the helicopter flew over his vast estate. He couldn’t help smiling at what lay below, which included a racing stable, just twenty-five miles from Newmarket and its famous racetrack, and close to the famous Tattersalls bloodstock auctions; a stud farm at a separate holding, ten miles from the stables; vast tracts of land for training; and separate yards and paddocks for the brood mares.

The electronically controlled gates gave access to a three-mile drive leading to his mansion overlooking a lake. The drive branched off from the house toward the stables. There were garages set back from the house with living quarters above for the chauffeur. De Jersey owned a Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce, a Mercedes convertible, a Range Rover, two Aston Martins, three motorbikes, and four golf carts, all in the same dark navy as the stable colors. His personal favorite was his Mercedes, whose registration plate read CHAMPION.

The stable lads in the yard shaded their eyes when they saw de Jersey’s helicopter. They waved their caps as he flew over the neat row of outbuildings that had been converted into their living quarters. Beyond was a complex of cottages for the jockeys, a sauna, swimming pool, and gymnasium. The estate and its occupants were valued at over a hundred million pounds. De Jersey employed head lads, yardmen, work riders, two assistant trainers, a head trainer, stable lads, and traveling head lads, and he contracted two top jockeys in addition to Mickey Rowland. There were three large stable yards, and Donald Fleming’s house was on the northern side of the old yard. The office, in the newest yard, was manned by a personal assistant, a racing secretary, and two managers.

The stable lads were yelling as De Jersey landed, and when he jumped down from the helicopter there were cheers from his staff. “Champagne all round!” he shouted.

De Jersey had naturally a rather off-putting, steely manner, but if you got to know him it was soon dissipated when he gave one of his shy smiles. The trust, admiration, and respect he demanded from his staff were returned threefold. He was, as his wife knew, a very reserved man. He had never raised his voice to anyone at the stables. He’d never needed to. With the adroit management, competent secretaries, and loyal employees, there was little to criticize. De Jersey actually detested losing his temper; to him doing so was a sign of weakness. He had tight control of his emotions, but his charm made his employees guard his privacy ferociously. There was not a single member of staff’s wife, husband, child, or grandchild whose name he couldn’t recall, and now, surrounded by them all as the champagne corks popped, he toasted his success and was blissfully happy.

He raised his glass. “To Royal Flush and to next year-the Derby!”

The cheers intensified with the arrival of the horse box. As Royal Flush was led down, they grouped around him, and de Jersey cupped some champagne into his hand and patted the horse’s head with it. Then he led the horse back to his stable and watched over him like a doting father. The traveling stable lads brought his feed, and de Jersey was pleased when Royal Flush couldn’t wait to get at it. It was always a good sign when a young horse was not put off his feed after a race.

“You’ll wear it out,” Christina said, putting down a tray of sandwiches and tea as de Jersey rewound the tape of the race.

The oak-paneled drawing room was comfortable, with polished pine floors and exquisite Persian rugs. Soft throws and cushions covered the sofa, and a fire blazed in the grate.

De Jersey pressed play and prepared to glory once more in Royal Flush’s victory.

“I’m going to keep him under wraps for the rest of the season,” he said. He ate the sandwiches hungrily. “Just some light training before he rests for the winter.”

“Thank you for my beautiful earrings,” Christina drew back her hair to show him she was wearing them.

He kissed her neck. “I’d give you the world if I could,” he said. His eyes strayed back to the TV screen and the moment Royal Flush passed the winning post.

Christina switched off the television. “Can we go to bed so I can thank you properly?” she asked. Now she had his attention. As they kissed, he scooped her up into his arms, but they didn’t make it to the bedroom. Later, as she nestled beside him in front of the fire, wearing nothing but the earrings, de Jersey sighed. “I’m a lucky man,” he murmured.