The Silver Falcon (41 page)

‘She wouldn't see you otherwise,' Tim said bitterly. ‘She's completely under his influence. You just be there and leave the rest to me. I'll go back and find them now.'

He went up the steps and out to the entrance to the Members'. He felt sick with anger, anger at the rotten fate which had robbed him of so much, anger with Isabel for behaving in a way that was obstinate and out of character, and real hatred for Richard Schriber. Richard had taken her from him; if it hadn't been for him, the Falcon might have lost the race, but he could well have been on the way to marrying Isabel. Not for her money, but because he loved her, because they had everything in common and together they could have made his dream into a reality which would have given her as much joy as himself. Richard had wrecked everything, with the cunning of his kind, turned her against Andrew Graham because he knew the truth about him, beguiled and dominated her sexually until she hadn't a mind of her own.

The subterfuge he and Andrew had to adopt to get her to speak to Charles's best friend was typical of how cleverly Richard had managed her. Lies and deceit were a necessity, if she was to learn the truth.

He didn't care if she sacked him afterwards. It would be worth anything to get her away from Richard before she was duped into marrying him. He placed a bet on a horse in the next race and then went in to find her. Luckily Nigel was of the same opinion as himself. The Falcon needed time in his box before the journey. He wouldn't be going home to Lambourn until after the last race.

14

‘I feel so desperately sorry for Tim,' Isabel said. She was walking with Richard down to the paddock to see the horses before the last race. Her arm was through his, and they were able to pass through much more easily; some of the crowd had thinned out and only the enthusiasts were making the long trek down to the paddock at the end of the day. Isabel had wanted to get away from people and out of the stuffy champagne bar; the sense of frozen disappointment was changing to positive regret for Nigel and for Tim. ‘He's lost that money Charles left him,' she said. ‘It's a dreadful blow to him.'

‘I'd forgotten about that,' Richard said. He squeezed her arm against his side. She had behaved with admirable restraint after the Falcon's defeat; there was no sign of low spirits when people commiserated. She had shown generosity and good sportsmanship, and without any prompting, had come up publicly to congratulate Charles St George, Prince of Padua's owner.

Such gestures are noted in the racing world; she and the Falcon would get a very good press the next day. Richard had never been more proud of her or admired her more. He had wanted the Falcon to win for her, but as he said, it was a defeat without disgrace. The horse had earned himself a place in the history of the great race, by a performance of breath-taking courage which had almost won him the crown.

‘If you're worried about Tim,' he said, ‘maybe we could do something.'

‘He wouldn't take a penny,' Isabel said. ‘I tried that before. He was going to restore the house and put his father back into it. It was so mean of Charles to have left the money like that – he should have given it to him!'

‘Typical Charles,' Richard said. ‘He would have called it an incentive. Don't worry, darling. We'll think of something. The house is for sale, isn't it?' She nodded. ‘Well, maybe we could buy it. That would give him the money anyway. As my life is going to be one long trip from racecourse to racecourse, we might as well have somewhere in Ireland.'

Isabel stopped and looked up at him. ‘Richard, that's a wonderful idea! Because there's something I've been meaning to say to you. I don't want to live at Beaumont.'

He walked her slowly forward; they came to the paddock rails and stopped. The horses walked past them.

‘Neither do I,' he said slowly. ‘I wondered how to suggest it to you. I never want to see the place again. We could transfer most of the horses to Ireland and sell off the stock we don't want. And get right out the States. Personally, I don't want to have a place there.'

The owners, trainers and jockeys were entering the ring. It was strangely muted, a pale copy of the high drama which had taken place earlier that afternoon.

‘We'll talk to him about it,' Isabel said. She turned to Richard and smiled. ‘I'm so relieved,' she said. ‘I've wanted to get rid of Beaumont ever since Charles died, and I didn't know how to admit it. And we can help Tim and his family too – without hurting his pride. I'm sorry about the Falcon, but it isn't the end of the world. Either we'll go on running him as a four-year-old or he can retire to stud. We can bring the best of the brood mares and the stallions over and start breeding in Ireland – darling, you really are wonderful – are you sure you're not going to hate every minute of it?'

‘Don't worry,' Richard said. ‘I shall have my own interests. I shall drink and gamble and run after women; but maybe not for the first twenty years – let's go back and watch this race. I fancy no. 7. Nice-looking sort, rather like your chestnut. By the way, you haven't given him a name yet.…'

‘You think of one,' Isabel said. ‘And that scraggy animal isn't anything like him – you can lose your money on him if you like!'

They watched the race from the stands; it was won by Richard's choice. Isabel found Tim coming towards them. He smiled, but it was obviously an effort. ‘I've been looking for you,' he said to her.

‘Richard's just backed another winner,' she said. ‘He's the only one who's had any luck today.'

‘I'll go and collect it,' Richard said. ‘Take care of Isabel for me; I'll meet you both in the owners' bar. We'll have a bottle together, and get Nigel and Sally to join us. They need cheering up.' He turned away, making for the Tote. Tim watched him go.

‘Nigel wants you to come and see the Falcon,' he said. ‘Phil and Harry would appreciate it. He'll be loaded up pretty soon now.' Isabel nodded. ‘Of course I'll come. I'd like to see them and thank them. How is the Falcon?'

‘I'm not sure,' Tim said slowly. ‘It's certainly taken the stuffing out of him. Let's go this way, we can dodge some of the crowds coming out.'

He took her arm briefly, steering her to the exit nearest the stable entrance, guiding her through the cars which were beginning to stream out onto the road. She wouldn't thank him for what he was doing; she might even turn round and walk away when she saw Andrew Graham. He would probably lose his job when Richard heard what he had done. But he didn't care. He had lost everything himself, and seen his horse defeated. He thought of the Falcon as his, as much as anyone's: he had nurtured the foal through his first year of life, watched over him as a yearling, and planned his victorious two-year-old campaign. He had shared Charles Schriber's hopes every day for three years, seeing the dream come nearer to reality, seeing, in that codicil, a new life for himself and a bright future. Now there was only disillusion and disappointment left. From the time he was a boy, and he had realized that so much depended upon him, Tim Ryan had suppressed and disciplined his emotions. He had prided himself on being a cool, hard-headed Irishman. Now his nature was in revolt; bitterness and frustration had overcome his caution and innate shrewdness when the Falcon lost the Derby, beaten by one he had so easily defeated when they met at Longchamp on equal terms.

And he had lost Isabel too. If she could somehow be dragged back from marrying Richard Schriber, then he could perhaps hope that one day.…

‘Here we are,' he said. ‘Last race, and they send the security boys home. We can just walk in.'

Andrew Graham had timed it perfectly. He too had crossed the road but earlier, loitering near enough to the stable gates to go through as soon as the guards went off duty. He walked through into the big yard, unchallenged by anyone. There were horseboxes inside, and a lot of bustle; horses were being loaded up, engines started to rev up and a giant blue-painted horsebox loomed in front of him, making for the open gateway. He stepped aside, bumping into a stable lad carrying a travelling rug. Andrew shouted at him.

‘I'm looking for the Silver Falcon's box – you know where it is?'

The lad called back as he hurried away. ‘Down on the right –'

Andrew quickened his pace; he asked again at the start of the row of loose boxes, some with their doors wide open, and someone pointed to a box at the very end of the line. He thanked him, but they had gone back inside their box, tending the horse hidden from view. Andrew was smiling. Right at the end of the line. He would have a perfect view of her when she came along. And of Ryan. There was so much activity about, and noise. It would be so easy – so quickly done, and then he could slip away – twenty million dollars, the house and the stud, the horses.…

He raised his left elbow and unfastened the race-glasses case. He had reached the end box; the door was closed, and he looked inside.

A man was crouching beside the Falcon, tying the ends of the last bandage on his foreleg. He straightened up as Andrew spoke to him.

Andrew had dealt with stablemen all his life. He had a natural authority.

‘Your boss is looking for you,' he said. ‘He wants you up at the main gate right away. Mrs Schriber's on her way over.'

The lower door opened and Phil came out. ‘Thanks very much, sir.' He strode off in search of Nigel Foster. Andrew slipped off the race-glasses case and opened it. MacNeil's gun was inside, fully loaded. He turned aside slightly and slipped it into his right pocket; then he adjusted the empty case back on his shoulder. His heart had begun to beat faster, but not too fast. His hand was steady, and dry; he felt as he had done the night he waited outside the drawing room door at Coolbridge, with the spanner in his grasp. Calm, almost detached, possessed of unnatural strength and nerve. It would look as if someone with a racing grudge had killed them. Them. He couldn't let Ryan live, of course. Nobody would ever know of the arrangement they had made to bring Isabel to the stables. It would be a real mystery. His plane ticket was in his wallet; he would be on his way back to the States while they were still in the first stage of investigation. And with so much noise and activity, the sound of the two shots wouldn't be noticed. He would be out of the gates while everyone else was running towards Isabel and Ryan.… He looked up and then he saw Nigel Foster. The trainer was half turned away from him, talking to someone else. Andrew went stiff. Foster had seen him when he called at Kresswell House. And again that afternoon when he came up to Tim Ryan. He hadn't bothered to acknowledge him then, but if he saw him again, just before the killings, he would be certain to remember. If he turned fully round and saw him, his whole plan was at risk. Andrew didn't hesitate. He swung round, unbolted the Falcon's door and slipped inside.

Isabel and Tim came through the gates; they paused, as Andrew had done, stepping aside to let a transport through. Phil came up to them. ‘Afternoon, Madam. Bad luck our feller didn't win – he ran a great race though –'

‘Yes,' Isabel said. ‘He did.' She opened her handbag and took out a clip of notes. Phil saw it coming and pretended not to; she pressed the tip into his hand, and he saluted.

‘Thank you, Madam. Thank you very much. Have you seen the guvnor? He wants me –'

‘No,' Tim spoke impatiently. ‘He's sure to be here somewhere.' He took Isabel's arm and led her through and into the yard. He couldn't see Andrew anywhere, and it was just as well. He must be keeping in the background. They had planned exactly what to do. He would bring her to the Falcon's box, show her the horse, and Andrew would come up and speak to her. After that it was up to him to make her stay and listen to him. Tim would have played his part; he intended to slip away and leave them alone. Andrew said he had the copy of the death certificate, showing that Richard Schriber's father had died in the mental institution.

‘This way,' Tim said to her. ‘He's in the last box up here.'

The inside of the Falcon's box was dim. Andrew stood pressed against the side of the upper door, where he could see out. The grey horse hadn't moved. He was standing at the back, and Andrew had soothed him quietly as he came inside. His head had raised for a moment at the intruder and then lowered. Man, the enemy was close to him. But not too close. His quarters stung from the cuts of the whip and there was pain and stiffness in his body from the tremendous physical strain it had endured. Andrew glanced back at him briefly, and then looked sideways out of the open door. Isabel and Tim Ryan were walking directly towards him, Ryan a little in front of her on the nearside. Andrew took the gun out of his pocket, balanced his left arm on the edge of the door, rested his gun arm on it and took careful aim. One shot; he was aiming at her head, and he had been a first-class marksman with both a rifle and a pistol since he was a young man. Right through the middle of the forehead, so conveniently exposed by the close-fitting hat. And then Ryan. One. Two. Two seconds and it would all be over.

He slipped the safety catch.

It was pure chance that he killed Tim Ryan first. Pure chance that Nigel Foster broke off his conversation with a fellow trainer and called out to them as he saw them walking along the line of boxes.

‘Isabel! Hang on a minute –' She heard him and stopped, half turning as she did so. Tim Ryan swung round with her. In the split second when Andrew Graham squeezed the trigger, it was Tim who came into range. For the next two or three seconds his body masked Isabel, the bullet had hit him in the side of the head, his hat went spinning off, and he began to sag quite slowly. Andrew had lost the sighting necessary to get a lethal shot at Isabel. He heard her scream as Ryan collapsed; for a moment she stood upright, paralysed, and he steadied his wrist again to take aim.

There was a rustle behind him but he didn't hear it.