Bolt - By Dick Francis Page 0,19

down to go to the races, with Dawson hovering and Thomas, alerted by telephone, drawing smoothly to a halt outside. She was wearing a cream-coloured coat, not the sables, with heavy gold earrings and no hat, and although she seemed perfectly calm she couldn’t disguise apprehensive glances up and down the street as she was seen across the pavement by her three assorted minders.

‘It is important,’ she said conversationally as soon as she was settled and Thomas had centrally locked all the doors, ‘not to let peril deter one from one’s pleasures.’

‘Mm,’ I said noncommittally.

She smiled sweetly. ‘You, Kit, do not.’

‘Those pleasures earn me my living.’

‘Peril should not, then, deter one from one’s duty.’ She sighed. ‘So stuffy, don’t you think, put that way? Duty and pleasure so often coincide, deep down, don’t you think?’

I did think, and I thought she was probably right. She was no mean psychologist, in her way.

‘Tell me about Cotopaxi,’ she commanded, and listened contentedly, asking questions when I paused. After that, we discussed Kinley, her brilliant young hurdler, and after that her other runner for the day, Hillsborough, and it wasn’t until we were nearing Newbury that I asked if she would mind if Thomas accompanied her into the meeting and stayed at her side all afternoon.

‘Thomas?’ she said, surprised. ‘But he doesn’t like racing. It bores him, doesn’t it, Thomas?’

‘Ordinarily, madam,’ he said.

‘Thomas is large and capable,’ I said, pointing out facts, ‘and Monsieur de Brescou asked that you should enjoy the races unmolested.’

‘Oh,’ she said, disconcerted. ‘How much … did you tell Thomas?’

‘To look out for a frog with a hawk’s nose and keep him from annoying you, madam,’ Thomas said.

She was relieved, amused and, it seemed to me, grateful.

Back at the ranch, whether she knew it or not, John Grundy was sacrificing his Saturday afternoon to remain close to Roland de Brescou, with the number of the local police station imprinted on his mind.

‘They already know there might be trouble,’ I’d told him. ‘If you call them, they’ll come at once.’

John Grundy, tough for his years, had commented merely that he’d dealt with fighting drunks often enough, and to leave it to him. Dawson, whose wife was going out with her sister, swore he would let no strangers in. It seemed unlikely, to my mind, that Nanterre would actually attempt another head-on attack, but it would be foolish to risk being proved wrong with everything wide open.

Thomas, looking all six foot three a bodyguard, walked a pace behind the princess all afternoon, the princess behaving most of the time as if unaware of her shadow. She hadn’t wanted to cancel her afternoon party because of the five friends she’d invited to lunch, and she requested them, at my suggestion, to stay with her whatever happened and not to leave her alone unless she herself asked it.

Two of them came into the parade ring before the first of her two races, Thomas looming behind, all of them forming a shield when she walked back towards the stands. She was a far more likely target than de Brescou himself, I thought uneasily, watching her go as I rode Hillsborough out onto the course: her husband would never sign away his honour to save his own life, but to free an abducted wife … very likely.

He could repudiate a signature obtained under threat. He could retract, kick up a fuss, could say, ‘I couldn’t help it.’ The guns might not then be made, but his health would deteriorate and his name could be rubble. Better to prevent than to rescue, I thought, and wondered what I’d overlooked.

Hillsborough felt dull in my hands and I knew going down to the start that he wouldn’t do much good. There were none of the signals that horses feeling well and ready to race give, and although I tried to jolly him along once we’d started, he was as sluggish as a cold engine.

He met most of the fences right but lost ground on landing through not setting off again fast, and when I tried to make him quicken after the last he either couldn’t or wouldn’t, and lost two places to faster finishers, trailing in eighth of the twelve runners.

It couldn’t be helped: one can’t win them all. I was irritated, though, when an official came to the changing room afterwards and said the Stewards wanted to see me immediately, and I followed him to the Stewards’ Room with more seethe than resignation, and there, as expected,