The Silver Falcon (14 page)

‘I'm glad they didn't stay to lunch,' she said. ‘She was very upset. If she had any idea of what that brute did to the lad she'd back out of the whole thing. I had to do some pretty fast talking, darling. Told all about my accidents, broken vertebrae – the lot. I think it helped.'

‘I'm sure it did,' Foster said. ‘You're marvellous with them; bloody owners! If only we didn't have to have them near the place. Just turn up on the racecourse, fill themselves with champagne when the horses won and then piss off – Christ, I wish we'd never taken the Falcon! Ryan says there'll be another attempt to get at him, and he thinks whoever is behind it wants to knock him out of the Derby. I'm certain he knows who it is, too.' He lit a cigarette, passed one to his wife. ‘She's a reasonable woman, thank God,' he said. ‘And she's got Ryan behind her. But it would have been easier if the old man was alive. He could have been told the truth.'

Sally Foster shook her head. ‘You can be glad he isn't,' she said. ‘Don't wish to have him back. He was a difficult, ruthless bastard. I kept thinking this morning, thank God we don't have to tell
him
about this!'

‘Security guards, rumours flying round the place – and a killer in the yard. Sal, tell me honestly; wouldn't we be better without all this? Shouldn't I tell her to send the Falcon somewhere else and let them cope with him?'

She leaned over and squeezed him. He was a moody man, inclined to fits of depression and elation, which his owners never saw. He was far the more temperamental of the two.

‘No darling,' she said. ‘You shouldn't. You're a great trainer; Charles Schriber knew it, that's why he picked you. You can cope with the Silver Falcon; security guards aren't that much of a nuisance, and if the rumours get round that somebody's out to get the horse, it won't do you any harm. It's all publicity, and so long as it's good, it keeps your name in the headlines. Tell Phil to have a lad with him when he goes into the box; Falcon doesn't try anything when he's out. Two of them will manage him. All you've got to do is train the brute. Remember Golden Bird – he used to get down on the gallops and tear up the ground with his teeth – you won the St Leger with him –'

‘He was mad,' Foster said. ‘Nutty as a fruit cake. This one's not like that. He hates people. He's a wicked bastard. I saw what he did to Long.'

‘Long asked for it,' she said. ‘Maybe the horse knew what he was going to do. Anyway it won't happen again. If you send him away and he wins the Derby for someone like Shipley or O'Brien, you'll never forgive yourself. So don't be silly!'

He looked round at her and at last he grinned.

‘I'd shoot my bloody self,' he said.

‘All right then,' Sally Foster got up. ‘I'm going to get us both a nice big vodka tonic while you go and phone up the Securicor people. And I'll call the hospital later to find out how Long is, and then I'll ring Isabel this evening. How's that?'

‘You're marvellous,' he said.

The estate agents in Hanover Square had provided a list of six suitable houses; two in Berkshire, one on the Sussex border and three in Surrey. Richard had arranged to take Isabel to see them. When she got back to the hotel she found a message from him saying that he couldn't keep the date. He gave no explanation.

Tim was delighted. ‘That's great,' he said. ‘That gives me the excuse to come. It's a beautiful day, we'll keep the hire car and go driving round the countryside. There's a nice little hotel near Dewhurst, and I'll take you to lunch. And I love looking at houses.'

‘You're the first man I've ever heard of who did,' Isabel said. ‘Charles never rented anything when he came over; we spent three months in the Dorchester last time. I was longing for a garden.'

‘You're not a city girl,' Ryan said gently. ‘I've always known that.'

He was determined to make her forget about what had happened that morning. She had been silent on the way back from Lambourn, asking only one question. ‘Do you think that boy will die?'

And Tim had said no, decisively. He just hoped to God he was right.

They lunched in the hotel he had chosen; it was a small, seventeenth-century farmhouse which had been skilfully adapted as a restaurant, with a limited number of bedrooms, and an intimate bar with a huge fireplace, filled with copper pots and artifacts, with fresh flowers on the tables and potted plants in the windows.

‘I'll have prawns and then Dover sole. On the bone.'

He smiled. ‘Fish twice?'

‘It's just what I feel like.'

‘Then that's exactly what you shall have. With a bottle of Montrachet to go with it.'

All his life Tim had assessed situations in terms of risk. He was a natural calculator, and he didn't pretend to be otherwise. Being the eldest son of a family constantly embarrassed by lack of money, with an old name and a crumbling ancestral house that nobody wanted to buy, Tim had learnt very early on the necessity to think before he acted, and then to act with a profit in view.

He didn't believe in waiting on events, or that opportunities arose without assistance. His attraction to Isabel had been spontaneous; looking at her now, part of his mind was asking questions. How important was the money?

‘You're very quiet, Tim – are you worrying about this morning?'

‘No,' he said. ‘I wasn't thinking about it.'

‘I was,' she said slowly.

He could say yes to himself, of course it hasn't made a difference, and still not know. He was prepared to do many things for money, but never consciously to marry for it. He wouldn't live at peace with her or himself unless he could give himself an honest answer. If Silver Falcon won the Derby, under the terms of Schriber's will he would inherit a quarter of a million dollars. Then there would be no need for any questions.

‘What were you thinking?' he asked her.

‘That it was like a bad omen,' Isabel said.

Ryan laughed. ‘I thought it was the Irish who were superstitious! Bad omen be damned – there's enough superstition in racing anyway without you thinking up a new one. If every lad who got kicked in the arse was an ill omen, there wouldn't be a runner left on the racecourses!' He leaned over and put his hand on hers.

‘Stop thinking about it,' he said. ‘Come on; let's decide which house we're going to see. Ancient or modern – which do you want? An architect's dream house complete with indoor swimming pool and sauna, electronic kitchen and a master suite with circular, electrically controlled push-button bed, with panoramic views over the Sussex downs –'

‘God forbid,' Isabel said firmly. ‘What's the “ancient”?'

‘Coolbridge House. A gracious seventeenth-century brick manor house in twenty acres of grounds –'

‘Let's go there. I've always wanted to be the lady of the manor.'

He was pleased to hear her laugh. ‘Even if it is only for a few months. How far is it?'

‘Coolbridge – about twenty miles from Epsom and thirty from here. The situation sounds just right. Let's have some coffee and we'll go.'

They drove round the Sussex lanes after leaving the main Dewhurst road and, escaping from the ugly river of traffic were forced into a slow pace by the bends and twists, under the low branches of trees budding with spring blossom, the hedgerows wild and green on either side, blocking the view of the fields. There was nothing like it in the States, this small disorder where nature held ungoverned sway against an occasional incursion from one old man with a billhook to clear the way. Isabel had forgotten how narrow the country roads in England could be; she was conditioned to the broad highways and the open dust roads of the States. She had forgotten the essential smell of greenery and earth, and the brightness of the wild flowers growing in the ditches. There was a pair of wrought-iron gates between red brick pillars; a small Victorian lodge on the right, inside the gates. The driver had the prospectus and directions. He slowed down and glanced back at Isabel. ‘This looks like it, Madam.'

The drive was bordered by huge lime trees, and it turned at right angles so that they didn't see the house until they rounded the bend.

It was two storey, built in the soft red brick which fifty years later would have been plastered over and painted white; the front was gabled, in the Dutch style that became fashionable during the reign of Mary and William of Orange. It was not a very big house, and on the lawn in front of the gravelled entrance, there stood the biggest copper beech tree that Isabel had ever seen.

There was a housekeeper to show them round; she was a pleasant woman in her forties, dressed in a blue nylon overall, and she seemed anxious to let the property.

‘Sir James and Lady Beaton are in South Africa,' she explained. ‘Their daughter lives out there. This is the drawing room.'

Isabel followed her, Tim a little behind. The hall was cool and casual, with a big open fireplace, relic of an earlier age, and the walls were covered with dark pictures, most of them portraits and too ill-lit to see. The drawing room was panelled and painted white; it was full of colour, and Isabel stood for a minute looking round it. It had the same casual, family atmosphere as the hall. There were charming materials on the sofas and chairs in a design of birds and foliage, some very fine eighteenth-century walnut furniture with a superb black lacquer bureau bookcase at the end of the room, its doors held open to display an elaborate interior. There were photographs and personal belongings on the tables, and a stool covered in gross point that was obviously the work of the absent Lady Beaton. There were potted plants arranged in a big centre piece. Sunshine poured in through the windows. It was the most welcoming room Isabel had ever been into.

She turned to the housekeeper.

‘This is lovely,' she said. ‘Isn't it, Tim?'

‘It is,' he said. He was looking with an appraising eye at some of the furniture. ‘They have beautiful things,' he said.

The housekeeper nodded.

‘Oh yes, and they've managed to keep quite a lot of them. But things are very difficult for people like Sir James these days, you know. They've started selling some of the family pictures already.' Her mouth set angrily. ‘It's a disgrace, that's what I call it. Come through, Mrs Schriber and I'll show you the dining room. It'll be a great help to them if they can let the house while they're away. It's very comfortable and warm; if you can afford the central heating, that is. This way.'

She had made up her mind to rent Coolbridge even before she went upstairs and saw the bedroom, with its Hepplewhite four-poster bed, and the collection of exquisite eighteenth-century needlework pictures which were its only decoration. There was a warm and soothing feel about the house which appealed to her even more than the charm and elegance of its furnishing. There was no swimming pool and the kitchen, though clean and modern, lacked the refinements of the very rich.

‘I've been with them fifteen years,' the housekeeper said. ‘I live at the lodge, and my husband does the garden. I'd be happy to help out, Mrs Schriber, if you don't want to bring your own staff. If you take the house, that is.'

‘I'm going to take it,' Isabel said. ‘And I'd be very pleased if you and your husband would like to work for me. I'm not the sort of person who needs staff. I shall be living here alone.'

The woman glanced at her, and then quickly at the good-looking Irishman. Alone, she said. That was a surprise.

‘You won't need to be nervous,' she said. ‘This is a very quiet place. And we're on the end of the telephone, down at the lodge.'

Isabel shook hands with her; Tim did the same. ‘I want to walk round the garden,' Isabel said. She took Tim's arm. ‘I love the house, don't you? Hasn't it got the most happy atmosphere?'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘I think it's just right. A bit big, and maybe you should think of getting someone to live in with you. A maid, somebody to sleep in at nights.'

‘Don't be silly,' Isabel said. ‘Whatever for? Besides, you can come and stay with me. Look, I knew it – there's the most lovely rose garden! Just think what it will be like in June!'

Ryan smiled at her. ‘Just think of the party you can have here on Derby day,' he said. ‘After we've won.'

6

Barry Lawrence had enjoyed his trip to Barbados. He liked staying with the Farrants; his association with Roy Farrant went back a long time, longer than anybody knew. They had a bond in common which made it easy for Barry to relax, and normally he wasn't a man who felt happy with owners. As a species, he despised and disliked them; those who knew nothing about racing in general and their own horses in particular were one degree less of a nuisance than those who prided themselves on being experts.

Even when he was an apprentice and had all the way to make, he found it difficult to be polite to them. It gave him positive pleasure to get down off some pig-eyed no-hoper and tell the flustered owner that in his opinion it was absolutely useless. He had lost a lot of rides in the beginning by being truthful about bad horses. Now, he always lied. It was expected; he had a string of excuses ready. The ground didn't suit him, or her. The distance was too long or too short. We got knocked into coming into the straight and he or she lost their stride. He or she needed the race. Jesus Christ, Barry used to think while he produced that knock-kneed old cliché, what the bugger really needed was a bullet through the ear – he had perfected a charming manner with owners. It was his only concession to an individual style which was otherwise modelled to the smallest detail on his hero, the incomparable Lester Piggott. He drove a big Mercedes and smoked cigars; his favourite drink was champagne. As he became successful, he took a chance and went freelance, riding for any stable that would retain him; he rode two Classic winners in his first season on his own, and he was suddenly a big-name jockey, able to pick and choose his rides. And the owners liked him. There was an old racing dictum among jockeys. You can call a man a crook, sleep with his wife, tell him his daughter's a prize whore, but God help you if you say his horses aren't any good. And it was true. He kept the truth for the trainers. After that it was up to them. The only man he had never deceived about a horse's capabilities was Roy Farrant. And if Farrant wanted him to ride for him, Barry rode. And rode to win. Unless otherwise instructed. The holiday in Barbados was an annual trip; he expected to be asked, and to be supplied with booze and girls. It wasn't that Farrant patronized him; it was much more of a partnership. He was loyal to Roy, not only because he couldn't afford to be otherwise, but because he liked him. Loyal enough to send Patsy Farrant back to her own bed when she tried creeping into his one night, naked as a snake. He didn't like her for it, but he knew better than to mention it to Roy.