The Silver Falcon (25 page)

A very dark bay horse, almost black, although superstition forbade anyone to mention the colour on a racecourse, walked into the ring.

‘That's nice,' Patsy murmured. Farrant looked it up. ‘Prince of Padua,' he said. ‘Lester's riding it. Should have a chance.' It was a handsome horse with a fine action; its form was not too impressive.

Farrant thought for a moment he might have some money on, and then Patsy nudged him.

‘Look! Look – there he is!'

There was a definite movement among the crowd gathered round the paddock. Farrant drew in his breath. The grey colt came into the ring like a monarch. His walk was long and arrogant, the man holding him was having his work cut out to keep up, the head was held boldly on a proud crested neck, the dark dappled coat was shining like metal in the sunlight, and the eye flashed an imperious challenge at the people and the other horses.

‘Jesus,' Farrant said. ‘That's some horse!'

Patsy didn't say anything. She was going to say soothingly he wasn't as nice as Rocket Man and thought better of it. There just wasn't a comparison between the grey and any other animal. She had never seen Roy look so sick for a moment. Then he turned quickly beside her and she heard him say heartily, ‘Hullo, Isabel! Good luck today!'

Isabel, accompanied by Tim and Nigel Foster, was on her way to the paddock. She stopped, hearing her name, and Roy Farrant was beside her, smiling warmly, holding out his hand. She shook it and thanked him.

‘Great looking horse, your Falcon,' he said. ‘Knocks spots off everything here. But we're still going to beat you on June 5th!'

‘We'll have to see,' Isabel said.

‘Richard not with you?' Roy asked.

‘No, he wouldn't come,' Isobel said. ‘I was very disappointed. But he keeps saying he hates racing. So there it is.'

‘You'll have to change that,' Farrant said gaily. ‘Tell me –' he had his hand on her arm, detaining her. ‘Are congratulations in order yet? I read my Peter Partridge, you know.'

‘Not yet,' Isabel said.

Tim Ryan caught her by the arm. ‘Come on,' he said curtly, ignoring Farrant. ‘The jockeys are coming in.' She smiled at Farrant and passed on.

‘There's Barry,' Patsy said. Farrant could see him. He was standing in the centre of the paddock, with Gerry Garvin and three people talking in the earnest way that owners have before a race. They didn't know they hadn't got a chance. Barry Lawrence was standing with his short legs astride; he was very small, and he had to strain to look up at the others; his arms were folded, with the whip tucked under the left one. It was a jockey's stance, duplicated in other groups; the colours of the silks were like splashes from a spilt paintbox. The bell rang. The jockeys were put up and the horses began to leave the paddock, led by the great Lester Piggott, impassive and impervious as usual, perched as lightly as a feather on the back of his mount. Farrant wished again that he'd had a bet. Lawrence passed them high up on Happy Hero. He didn't look to right or left; his expression was relaxed.

‘Come on,' Farrant said urgently. He began striding away towards the members' stands, his raceglasses swinging. Patsy, tottering on high heels, was left some way behind him.

Isabel, Tim, Nigel Foster and Sally were standing in a little group half way up the stand just short of the winning post.

‘Nervous?' Tim asked her. ‘You needn't be. I'd put my shirt on him today.'

‘I
have
put my shirt on him,' Nigel muttered.

Tim grinned. ‘I've had a few pounds on myself,' he said.

‘I think he'll win,' Isabel said quietly.

‘I heard Farrant wishing you luck,' Nigel said. ‘I'd take that with a packet of salt, if I were you. I bet he came over here just to have a look at him.' He was watching Tim as he spoke. He had his suspicions about who had sent the unlucky David Long into the horse's box.

‘He can look,' Tim said grimly. ‘All he or his rotten horse will ever see of the Falcon will be his backside! They're under orders –' he gripped Isabel's arm. ‘They're off!'

The French jockey had been told to settle the Falcon, to let him come out of the stalls and get away behind the leaders and stay there for the first five furlongs. After that it was up to him to judge when to make the run for home. A lot would depend upon how hard the colt was fighting for his head. At all costs he wasn't to be given a hard race; the whip was not to be used, even to win. In Nigel's view it wouldn't be needed. If the Falcon's aggressive competitive spirit on the home gallops was anything to go by, then the real problem would be holding him back for the first part of the race.

Barry Lawrence came out of the stalls well. His horse had taken a strong hold and was fighting to overtake the three horses in front; it needed all Barry's extraordinary strength to keep him back without completely upsetting him. The grey colt was to the right, the masterly French jockey balanced on top; by the way he was sitting Lawrence could see that the Falcon was pulling his arms out in the effort to blaze away and pass the others. Lawrence held on, keeping as close as he could. After the five-furlong marker the course bends to the right and the field begins to run round the curve of the rails.

The Falcon was just ahead of him; there was a little bunch of horses in front, with Lester Piggott's mount well up among them. If daylight showed, Barry judged that the Falcon would streak through it. His jockey wasn't moving on him, just keeping him in check, not flickering a hand to change the rhythm of that hungry stride. The moment was coming; Barry wasn't frightened. He had done it once or twice before and he had the advantage of being the aggressor. He began to move inexorably towards the right-hand side of the course, easing the reins a fraction to let his horse come within striking distance of the Falcon.

On the stands, Roy Farrant, glasses tight against his eyes, saw the move begin; he started to whisper under his breath. ‘Go on … go on, you bastard … get him, get him –'

And Tim saw it too, watching the Falcon racing on the right hand, near the curve of the rail, ears flat back, fighting to get ahead the moment a gap appeared in front of him. He saw Barry Lawrence and Happy Hero moving up and hanging right.

‘Christ!' he said it aloud, ‘Christ, he's going to bump him! He'll put him into the rails.…'

Lawrence was up by the Falcon's quarters. He saw Jean-Martin glance sharply to the left as he began to draw level and to come closer, forcing his horse to hang inwards, edging the Falcon nearer and nearer to the spinning line of white railing. He saw Jean-Martin raise his whip and guessed that the blow was coming at him; he crouched lower and belted his horse with his own whip on the left shoulder to bring him in to the right. Another few seconds and both horses would strike into each other, and at that speed of forty miles an hour, the horse on the outside would crash sideways into the rails like an express train. Lawrence tensed himself for the impact and made ready to pull Happy Hero away to the left the moment afterwards.

But it was at that precise second, when the collision was only a mere two feet off, when a blow from Jean-Martin's whip actually cut into Barry Lawrence's shoulders and his furious curse in French was torn away on the wind, it was exactly then that the horses in front of them were separated by the lay of the ground and the Falcon saw the gap he had been waiting for. There was no time for his jockey to give any signal; it was like launching a rocket. He lengthened his stride and catapulted forward through the gap. Jean-Martin gave him his head; his whip had gone in the brief flurry trying to beat off his attacker. It was Happy Hero, swerving right-handed towards a buffer that had shot past him, who lost his balance and went crashing into the rails.

The death of Barry Lawrence made headlines. Happy Hero had to be destroyed on the course; he had a broken cannon bone on the off fore. The Silver Falcon won the race by three lengths. Isabel had hardly seen the accident; she had been too engrossed in the fantastic burst of speed that carried the grey colt away through the rest of the field and out in front. She heard the huge gasp from the crowd and exclamations from all sides of her, but the race-glasses were shaking in her hands with excitement; all she saw was the Silver Falcon eating the ground with every stride, passing the winning post with contemptuous ease. At the same moment the hooter blared, signifying a Stewards' Enquiry.

Tim and Nigel had grabbed her by the arms and hurried her down to the winner's enclosure. There was a burst of applause as the grey came through the crowd; Nigel ran to meet him and was hurrying alongside, patting the horse's neck and talking up to Jean-Martin. People were congratulating Isabel. The jockey had dismounted; he slipped off the saddle, shook hands with her, and said briefly in French, ‘A marvellous horse, Madame. Nothing came near him.'

She patted the Falcon's neck; a light steam was rising from him and her hand was wet with his sweat. There were photographers crowding round them; the Falcon stood while a blue sweat rug was thrown over him and then the great quarters bunched and he let fly a savage kick which scattered everyone behind him.

‘My God,' Tim Ryan kept saying, over and over in his excitement. ‘What a race – did you see that finishing speed?'

‘We'll murder them at Epsom,' Nigel Foster exulted. He wasn't a man who made extravagant claims to the press but he said it loud enough for anyone to quote.

And then they heard the howl of the ambulance as it raced down the course; the veterinary ambulance was following more slowly. And the first rumours, whispered among the crowd surrounding them.

‘There was a terrible accident – Barry Lawrence – the horse crashed through the rails.'

One of the Stewards of the French Jockey Club approached them in the unsaddling enclosure. He took his hat off to Isabel. ‘Congratulations, Madame Schriber. A superb performance. You must be looking forward to the Derby with some confidence – such a pity that this terrible accident happened. I hear that the jockey Lawrence was killed outright.'

When he went on his way, Tim and Nigel Foster looked at each other and then at Isabel. She had turned very white.

It was Nigel who spoke first. ‘Don't let it upset you,' he said. ‘Tim and I saw what happened; so did a hell of a lot of other people. He was trying to put the Falcon into the rails; it could have been Jean-Martin with his neck broken for all he cared. He got what he deserved.'

‘He was put up to do it,' Tim said flatly. ‘I should have known when he changed to Garvin's horse. It was all fixed by Farrant. He went out there to kill or maim the Falcon, and the Falcon bloody well did him instead.'

‘That's the second time,' Isabel said. ‘That stable lad David Long –'

‘Went into the stable with an iron bar,' Tim said brutally. ‘Paid by the same person. If the Falcon hadn't gone for him, he'd have broken that colt's front legs and left him there. I didn't want to upset you by telling you all this, but it's time you stopped seeing omens – there've been two attempts to kill or cripple the Falcon and he's just looked after himself, that's all. And I reckon we'll find he's broken the course record today.' He went to the bar and came back with another bottle of champagne. His expression was grim.

Nigel found seats for them and Tim opened the bottle and filled three glasses.

‘Let's drink a toast,' he said. ‘To the Falcon. And to Charles Schriber. He bred a horse that won't be beaten!'

Before Isabel could answer someone had come up behind her, full of congratulations and there were others rapidly approaching. There was a look on Tim's face that surprised Isabel. A look of hard determination, a look that said he didn't give a damn for Long or Lawrence or anyone else who tried to get in the way of his horse. And he expected her to match him. Two attempts on the horse; paid for by Roy Farrant who wanted his horse to win. The genial host in Barbados, lavishing hospitality upon them. Making a point of wishing her luck only minutes before the race, congratulating her about Richard as if he were pleased for them both. Knowing that he had arranged a hideous accident which could have killed the Falcon's jockey. As it had killed Barry Lawrence. She looked into Tim Ryan's face and deliberately raised her glass.

‘Here's to the Falcon,' she said. ‘And to the Derby.'

They took a party of thirty people to Maxim's that night to celebrate the win. The chef had prepared a special dessert for them, a mountain of meringue and chestnuts and cream, topped by a galloping silver horse. A telegram was delivered to Isabel at the table. It was from Richard.

‘Congratulations, darling. Hurry home. Richard.'

Tim hadn't told her the truth about Long's attempt; there had been a general conspiracy to keep her ignorant. She leaned across to Tim and said quietly, ‘Tomorrow morning, before we leave for England, I want to see you and Nigel in my suite.'

It was not an interview that Ryan or Nigel Foster enjoyed. ‘Sit down, please.' She dismissed their attempts to be jocular; when Tim complained about a hangover she didn't respond. ‘I asked you both to come and see me because I felt there'd been a misunderstanding,' Isabel said. ‘Charles left me Beaumont and his horses. When he did so, he was perfectly confident in my ability to know exactly what was going on. I'm surprised and rather angry that you, Tim, especially, should have lied to me over David Long. You'd no right to keep me in the dark. Nor had you, Nigel.'

‘We did it from the best motives,' Tim protested. ‘You'd just lost Charles, you weren't in a fit state for any more shocks. If you'd known that Long had been injured trying to maim the Falcon, you might have decided to pull out altogether.'

‘And that wouldn't have suited you,' Isabel said. ‘Either of you.'

‘No,' Tim Ryan said. ‘It wouldn't. But that isn't why we kept quiet. We genuinely didn't want to worry you. It was our responsibility to protect the colt. Nobody could anticipate what happened yesterday.'