Bolt - By Dick Francis Page 0,22

celebrate this lovely win. And Kit, come up soon.’

‘Yes, Princess.’

I weighed in and, as it was my last ride of the day, changed into street clothes. After that, I made a detour over to the saddling boxes because Basil Clutter, as Jamie had told me, would be there, saddling up his runner for the last race.

Trainers in those places never had time to talk, but he did manage an answer or two, grudgingly, while he settled weight cloth, number cloth and saddle onto his restless charge’s back.

‘Frenchman? Nanterre, yes. Owns horses in France, trained by Villon. Industrialist of some sort. Where’s he staying? How should I know? Ask the Roquevilles, he was with them. Roquevilles? Look, stop asking questions, ring me tonight, right?’

‘Right,’ I said, sighing, and left him sponging out his horse’s mouth so he should look clean and well-groomed before the public. Basil Clutter was hard-working and always bustling, saving money by doing Dusty’s job, being his own travelling head lad.

I went up to the princess’s box, drank tea with lemon, and re-lived for her and the friends the glories of Kinley’s jumping. When it was time to go she said, ‘You will come back with me, won’t you?’ as if it were natural for me to do so, and I said, ‘Yes, certainly,’ as if I thought so too.

I picked up from my still parked car the overnight bag I habitually carried with me for contingencies, and we travelled without much trouble back to Eaton Square where I telephoned to Wykeham from the bamboo room. He was pleased, he said, about Kinley, but annoyed about Hillsborough. Dusty had told him I’d made no show and been hauled in by the Stewards for it, and what did I think I was doing, getting into trouble two days in a row?

I could strangle Dusty, I thought, and told Wykeham what I’d told the Stewards. ‘They accepted the explanation,’ I said. ‘Maynard Allardeck was one of them, and he’s after me whatever I do.’

‘Yes, I suppose he is.’ He cheered up a good deal and even chuckled, ‘Bookmakers are taking bets on when – not whether – he’ll get you suspended.’

‘Very funny,’ I said, not amused. ‘I’m still at Eaton Square, if you want me.’

‘Are you?’ he said. ‘All right then. Goodnight, Kit.’

‘Goodnight, Wykeham.’

I got through next to Basil Clutter, who told me the Roquevilles’ number, and I caught the Roquevilles on their return from Newbury.

No, Bernard Roqueville said, he didn’t know where Henri Nanterre was staying. Yes, he knew him, but not well. He’d met him in Paris at the races, at Longchamp, and Nanterre had renewed the acquaintanceship by inviting him and his wife for a drink at Newbury. Why was I interested, he asked.

I said I was hoping to locate Nanterre while he was in England. Bernard Roqueville regretted he couldn’t help, and that was that.

A short lead going nowhere, I thought resignedly, putting down the receiver. Maybe the police would have better luck, although I feared that finding someone to give him a finger-wagging for waving an empty gun at a foreign princess wouldn’t exactly bring them out steaming in a full-scale manhunt.

I went downstairs to the sitting room and discussed Hillsborough’s fall from grace over a drink with the princess, and later in the evening she, Roland de Brescou and I ate dinner together in the dining room, served by Dawson; and I thought only about twenty times of the Florentine Banquet up north.

It wasn’t until after ten, saying goodnight, that she spoke about Nanterre.

‘He said, didn’t he, that jockeys have accidents.’

‘That’s what he said. And so they do, pretty often.’

‘That wasn’t what he meant.’

‘Perhaps not.’

‘I couldn’t forgive myself if because of us you came to harm.’

‘That’s what he’s counting on. But I’ll take my chance, and so will Thomas.’ And privately I thought that if her husband hadn’t cracked instantly with a gun to his wife’s head, he was unlikely to bend because of a whole barrage pointed at ours.

She said, remembering with a shiver, ‘Accidents would happen to those I liked … and employed.’

‘It’s only noise. He won’t do anything,’ I said encouragingly, and she said quietly that she hoped not, and went to bed.

I wandered again round the big house, checking its defences, and wondered again what I’d overlooked.

In the morning, I found out.

I was already awake at seven when the intercom buzzed, and when I answered, a sleepy-voiced Dawson asked me to pick up the ordinary telephone as there was an