Cut Throat (33 page)

On the way they narrowly escaped being mown down by Telamon, who was proceeding crabwise through the crowd in spite of, or perhaps because of, Jim Pullen's best efforts to restrain him.

Roland seemed impressed by the giant chestnut.

‘Now that's a spirited creature!' he exclaimed. ‘A real old-fashioned charger. Carry one into battle, don't you think?'

Ross looked sideways at his companion.

‘I suppose so. If one had a battle to go to,' he agreed, sardonically.

‘Exactly so,' Roland said, typically appearing to miss the intended sarcasm. ‘Well, well. There's old Perry. Nice to see you again, Perry old chap.'

Perry Wilson, who, Ross remembered, had been the Colonel's rider for a good many years, was not in fact as old as Ross had imagined he would be. Slight, with a thin face and wire-rimmed spectacles, he looked to be around forty, maybe younger.

‘Hi. Ross Wakelin.' Ross held out his hand in greeting.

‘Hello. Well done, too.' Perry had a ready smile. ‘You're doing a great job with those horses.'

‘Perry was plagued with back trouble, poor chap. Had to give up,' Roland explained for Ross' benefit. ‘Cruel shame. Wicked. Cut off in his prime, you know the sort of thing . . .'

‘I'm sorry,' Ross said with genuine sympathy. There but for the grace of God. Who could say? It might be him before long.
Plagued with an old injury, you know. Such a shame
.

‘Oh, it wasn't quite that tragic,' Perry said, laughing. ‘I wasn't ever going to be another David Broome.'

‘Well, you won the Hickstead Derby!' Ross pointed out. ‘That's no mean feat!'

‘My moment of triumph,' Perry agreed. ‘That was the horse of a lifetime, though. The trick is being able to get the best out of any mount.'

On impulse, Ross asked, ‘What did you think of Ginger when you used to ride her?'

Perry frowned. ‘She seemed a nice mare. Very novice then, of course, but plenty of promise. Why? Are you having trouble?'

Ross was uncomfortably aware of Roland by his side and began to wish he hadn't spoken but it was too late now.

‘I wondered if she'd ever been badly frightened in any way? She gets very uptight sometimes.'

‘Not that I know of,' Perry said, shaking his head. ‘She always seemed fairly placid. I started her as a youngster but then she became unsound and was put in foal. She came back into training last summer, not long before I gave up. She'd miscarried, I believe. There was some sort of upset . . . I can't remember the details, sorry. You could ask Annie Hayward, though. The mare was with her at the time. Anyway, I really didn't ride her a lot.'

‘Thanks. I don't suppose there's anything in it but it never hurts to ask.'

‘Too right,' Perry agreed. ‘Well, I must get on. I'm course-building these days, you know. Nice to meet you, Ross. Roland.'

The last class of the day in the main ring had attracted a high-profile field and Ross found himself queuing for the practice jump with partnerships the likes of which he had only previously seen on television.

Woodsmoke was not daunted, however, and they swept out of the ring with a clear round, marred only by a momentary lack of concentration on Ross' part which almost resulted in Woody taking the wrong fence.

Ross was furious with himself. Just because he had caught sight of a face in the crowd that reminded him of someone – someone who was most unlikely to be there – he had almost thrown the competition away before he started.

The public address system crackled. ‘I should take more water with it, Ross,' Harry Douglas advised. ‘But seriously, that was a nice round. At least the horse had his mind on the job! A clear for Ross Wakelin and Woodsmoke.'

The crowd laughed, unaware of the barbs hidden under the smooth tones.

Ross could see from a few of the sideways glances in the collecting ring that the implication hadn't gone unnoticed there. He ignored them, his face set in a mask of indifference. Changing on to Black Bishop, he concentrated on settling and suppling him.

For some reason, the horse didn't give him the usual, well-oiled, confident feel. Afraid that he was letting his own tensions communicate themselves to the animal, he consciously tried to empty his mind and relax.

‘Don't let 'em get to you, Ross m'boy.' Mick Colby circled past on King's Defender.

Ross raised his eyebrows theatrically. ‘Who?' he asked.

Mick grinned. ‘Atta boy!'

Stephen Douglas rode by, wearing what could only be described as an unpleasant smirk. ‘Found a drinking partner?' he enquired of Ross.

‘Yes, you're too late!' Mick responded swiftly and the smirk faded.

‘Thanks, but don't bother,' Ross said wearily as Douglas rode on. ‘Besides, there's no point in joining me in the stocks.'

‘Oh, I don't mind the odd rotten tomato,' Mick said, grinning. ‘And anyway, we Brits always support the underdog. It's in our nature.'

Ross grimaced. ‘You're doing wonders for my self-esteem.'

‘I never thought Stephen would let himself be poisoned like that, though,' Mick went on thoughtfully. ‘He used to be a nice lad.'

Mick was directly before Ross in the jumping order and so the American didn't see his round. Instead, he concentrated on gaining Bishop's full attention and obedience.

For once, the horse seemed reluctant to respond, feeling awkward and unwilling, and Ross had to work really hard. He heard the hooter go for the start of King's round and voices hush around the arena as the horse went to work. Bishop still didn't seem himself. Ross slowed him up and let him walk. It would only be a minute or two before he was called and nothing more could be done.

Suddenly, from the arena came an appalling crash and splintering of timber, and the grunting thud of horseflesh hitting the ground. A gasp, magnified by many throats, sounded around the ringside and died into silence.

Ross stood in his stirrups to see.

Midway across the ring and partly obscured by another fence, King was struggling to regain his feet amongst a tangle of red and white poles. Six feet or so away, lying ominously still, was his rider.

A stab of apprehension twisted through Ross. He sat back in the saddle and began to walk Bishop round once more. All the riders knew it could happen but it was nevertheless a shock when it did, and it was all the worse for being a personal friend too.

St John's Ambulance workers bustled by, ducking under the ropes and running across the ring. Ross hoped Mick was just winded. Nine times out of ten, that was all it was.

A speculative buzz of conversation began to build up once more and a moment or two later an ambulance could be heard, its siren sounding intermittently, threading its way through the crowds towards them.

The riders in the collecting ring drew to one side as it passed. Scores of tired day-trippers, who had been heading for the exits, now turned with renewed interest to flock, vulture-like, to the ringside.

Ross remembered that day almost a year ago and wanted to shout at them to go away; to mind their own business. Tragedy is a personal thing and should be kept that way.

He knew it wouldn't do any good. Accidents exercise a compulsive attraction for the average human being and human nature will rarely be denied.

At least for Mick it was a long-distance affair. Nobody could see if his face was sweating and drawn with pain. Nobody could hear if a groan was forced from him when they moved him. And nobody else was involved.

Ross shook the memories away. That way lay madness.

He concentrated on Bishop's ears. The big black flicked them to and fro, sensitive like all his kind to atmosphere. It seemed an age that they circled the collecting ring, weaving between the other waiting competitors, but eventually the ambulance reappeared, moving slowly across the uneven ground, and made its way back through the collecting ring and across the showground.

Shortly after this, King was led past by his girl groom. The horse seemed unhurt although his saddle didn't look to have much of a future. The girl seemed upset. Several people besieged her, asking for news of Colby, but she merely shook her head and shrugged, apparently knowing nothing.

The loudspeakers crackled, apologised for the delay and said that they hoped, as they were sure everybody else did, that Mr Colby would be all right. Next to jump, they said, would be Ross Wakelin on Mr Robert Fergusson's Black Bishop.

Ross was waved in by the stewards and while he trotted Bishop in steady circles, waiting for the team of army cadets to finish rebuilding the shattered fence, he could hear the ambulance siren blare out to clear a way through the traffic on the main road.

The cadets retreated, the hooter sounded and Ross turned Bishop towards the first fence. It was a low, rustic pole and brush fence that would ordinarily have caused the black no problem at all, but on this occasion he approached it at a choppy, unbalanced canter so unlike his usual fluent self that Ross was seriously worried that he might be lame. They cleared the obstacle, though not by much, and Ross swung him towards the second, a formidable spread fence.

Bishop still wasn't happy. His ears were back and his head held high. As he saw what was expected of him he faltered, and when Ross tried to drive him forward he dug in his toes and refused.

For Ross this was more than enough to tell him that all was not right. The horse had never before refused. Normally, the problem, if anything, was to hold him back. With a young horse, nothing could be gained by forcing him on, even if it could be achieved, and everything stood to be lost.

Glancing towards the judges' caravan, Ross touched the brim of his crash hat and nodded, the accepted signal for retiring from the competition. With a sigh of disappointment he let the black walk from the arena on a long rein. The next competitor rode past him without so much as a glance and the crowd clapped unenthusiastically. In the commentary box, Harry Douglas cleared his throat.

Wait for it, Ross thought. This should be good.

‘I don't think we can blame Ross if nerves got the better of him there,' Douglas said sympathetically. ‘It isn't easy to tackle a big course like this one at the best of times, and especially not when you have just witnessed a nasty fall.

‘Still, I'm sure our next competitor won't be put off, for next we have Derek Campbell on Summer-lane. Derek is one of our most promising young internationals, who has just returned from competing in Europe . . .' He went on to give a brief resume of the redoubtable Derek's recent triumphs.

Ross reached the collecting ring and dismounted, wearily wondering if Douglas Senior would ever tire of his sport.

‘Ross!' Danielle was beside him, leading her grey mare. ‘He has no right to say such things! He goes too far. Anyone with half a brain could see that Bishop was not right. It was no fault of yours.'

‘Good thing I'm not sensitive,' he said with the ghost of a smile.

‘Ah, but he smudges your reputation, no?'

‘Smears,' Ross corrected helpfully.

Danielle tossed her head, her dark eyes sparkling. ‘Smears, smudges – what's the difference? He should now be stopped.'

Ross was busy running his stirrup irons up and loosening Bishop's girth. ‘What do you suggest I do?' he enquired mildly. ‘Pull him out of the commentary box and punch him out?'

‘It would do him good!' Danielle declared.

‘Maybe,' Ross agreed. ‘But I'm afraid, much as I'd enjoy it, it's not a good idea. The thing that bothers me is that people are beginning to believe him.'

‘Ah, pooh! They do not know you. Me, I have seen you ride horses they would not believe! I know you are not afraid.'

Ross watched her dark, animated face with its engagingly expressive features and felt a sudden rush of affection. He leant forward and kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you, Danielle,' he said earnestly.

‘But I have not helped!' she cried in exasperation.

‘Sure you have. More than you know,' he told her warmly. ‘Now you'd better get on board, they'll be calling you in a moment. I'll give you a leg up.'

She obediently bent her knee and he boosted her into the saddle. She was as light as thistledown and he was smiling as he turned back to Bishop – and came face to face with the Colonel and Robbie Fergusson.

The Colonel was obviously concerned and looked at Ross with a question in his eyes. Fergusson was coldly furious.

‘Is there a problem, Ross?' the Colonel began, but Fergusson cut in abruptly.

‘Yes, there's a problem!
He's
the problem! He flunked it! He's a spineless has-been who should never have been allowed back on a horse – anyone's horse – let alone mine!'

Ross flinched inwardly and a muscle tightened in his jaw but he held his temper.

The Colonel was visibly upset.

‘Look, steady, Robbie. We agreed we'd listen to what Ross has to say. It's only fair.'

‘Oh, yes. By all means,' Fergusson sneered. ‘This should be good. Let's hear why a promising young horse with a brilliant career ahead of him was retired from his first major class after only one jump!'

Ross had never felt less inclined to explain anything to anyone in his life. Only his desperate need to retain the ride on Bishop kept him from speaking his mind.

‘Ross?' The Colonel spoke softly but there was no mistaking the underlying steel.
Don't let me down
, he was warning. Quietly, Roland came up to stand behind him.

‘The horse wasn't comfortable,' Ross stated with a studied calm. ‘And I'm not about to ruin a potential Grand Prix horse for the sake of a single class. If that's what you would have me do, then you'd better get someone else to ride your horses.'