Bolt - By Dick Francis Page 0,17

inspection afterwards.

‘How is Cascade?’ I asked.

‘We weighed him. He’s lost thirty pounds. He can hardly hold his head up. You don’t often send horses back in that state.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘There’s winning and winning,’ he said testily. ‘You’ve ruined him for Cheltenham.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said again, contritely. Cheltenham, two and a half weeks ahead, was of course the top meeting of the jumping year, its races loaded with prestige and prizes. Wyke-ham liked above all to have successes there, as indeed did I and every jump jockey riding. Missing a winner there would serve me right, I supposed, for letting unhappiness get the better of me, but I was genuinely sorry for Wykeham’s sake.

‘Don’t do anything like that tomorrow with Kalgoorlie,’ he said severely.

I sighed. Kalgoorlie had been dead for years. Wykeham’s memory was apt to slip cogs to the point that sometimes I couldn’t work out what horse he was referring to.

‘Do you mean Kinley?’ I suggested.

‘What? Yes, of course, that’s what I said. You give him a nice ride, now, Kit.’

At least, I thought, he knew who he was talking to: he still on the telephone called me often by the name of the jockey who’d had my job ten years earlier.

I assured him I would give Kinley a nice ride.

‘And win, of course,’ he said.

‘All right.’ A nice ride and a win couldn’t always be achieved together, as Cascade very well knew. Kinley however was a white hot hope for Cheltenham, and if he didn’t win comfortably at Newbury, the expectations could cool to pink.

‘Dusty says the princess didn’t come into the ring before Cotopaxi’s race, or see him afterwards. He says it was because she was angry about Cascade.’ Wykeham’s old voice was full of displeasure. ‘We can’t afford to anger the princess.’

‘Dusty’s wrong,’ I said. ‘She wasn’t angry. She had some trouble with … er … a visitor in her box. She explained to me after … and invited me to Eaton Square, which is where I am now.’

‘Oh,’ he said, mollified. ‘All right, then. Kinley’s race is televised tomorrow,’ he said, ‘so I’ll be watching.’

‘Great.’

‘Well then … Goodnight, Paul.’

‘Goodnight, Wykeham,’ I said.

Wryly I telephoned to the answering machine in my own house, but there was nothing much in the way of messages, and presently Dawson returned with a supper of chicken soup, cold ham and a banana (my choice).

Later together, we made another tour of the house, meeting John Grundy, a sixty-year-old widower, on his way to his own room. Both men said they would be undisturbed to see me wandering around now and then in the small hours, but although I did prowl up and down once or twice, the big house was silent all night, its clocks ticking in whispers. I slept on and off between linen sheets under a silk coverlet in pyjamas thoughtfully supplied by Dawson, and in the morning was ushered in to see Roland de Brescou.

He was alone in his sitting room, freshly dressed in a city suit with a white shirt and foulard tie. Black shoes, brilliantly polished. White hair, neatly brushed. No concessions to his condition, no concession to weekends.

His wheelchair was unusual in having a high back – and I’d often wondered why more weren’t designed that way – so that he could rest his head if he felt like dozing. That morning, although he was awake, he was resting his head anyway.

‘Please sit down,’ he said civilly, and watched me take the same place as the evening before, in the dark red leather armchair. He looked if possible even frailer, with grey shadows in his skin, and the long hands which lay quiet on the padded armrests had a quality of transparency, the flesh thin as paper over the bones.

I felt almost indecently strong and healthy in contrast, and asked if there were anything I could fetch and carry for him.

He said no with a twitch of eye muscle that might have been interpreted as an understanding smile, as if he were accustomed to such guilt reactions in visitors.

‘I wish to thank you,’ he said, ‘for coming to our defence. For helping Princess Casilia.’

He had never in my presence called her ‘my wife’, nor would I ever have referred to her in that way to him. His formal patterns of speech were curiously catching.

‘Also,’ he said, as I opened my mouth to demur, ‘for giving me time to consider what to do about Henri Nanterre.’ He moistened his dry lips with the tip of