Bolt - By Dick Francis Page 0,26

powder burns at the entry, and also blood coming down the nose, and probably also from the mouth. Not much, sometimes, but it’s there, because of the widespread damage done inside, you see.’

‘Yes,’ I said, sighing, ‘I see.’ I watched him wrap up his gun again and said, ‘I suppose you have to have a licence for that.’

‘Sure. And for the captive bullet also.’

There must be thousands of humane killers about, I reflected. Every vet would have one. Every knackers’ yard. A great many sheep and cattle farmers. The huntsman of every pack of hounds. People dealing with police horses … the probabilities seemed endless.

‘So I suppose there are hundreds of the old bolt-types lying around, out of date and unused.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘under lock and key.’

‘Not last night.’

‘No.’

‘What time last night, would you say?’

He completed the stowing and locking away of his own pistol.

‘Early,’ he said positively. ‘Not much after midnight. I know it was a cold night, but both horses were stone cold this morning. No internal temperature. That takes hours … and they were found at half six.’ He grinned. ‘The knackermen don’t like fetching horses that have been dead that long. They have difficulty moving them when they’re stiff, and getting them out of the boxes is a right problem.’ He peeled off his overalls and put them in the boot. ‘There’ll have to be post-mortems. The insurance people insist on it.’ He closed the car boot and locked it. ‘We may as well go into the house.’

‘And leave them there?’ I gestured back towards the courtyard.

‘They’re not going anywhere,’ he said, but he went back and shut the boxes’ doors, in case, he said, any owners turned up for a nice Sunday look-round and had their sensibilities affronted. Robin’s own sensibilities had been sensibly dumped during week one of his veterinary training, I guessed, but he didn’t need a bedside manner to be a highly efficient minister to Wykeham’s jumpers.

We went into Wykeham’s house, ancient and rambling to match the yard, and found him and the princess consoling themselves with tea and memories, she at her most sustaining, he looking warmer and more in command, but puzzled.

He rose to his feet at our appearance and bustled me out of his sitting room making some flimsy remark about showing me where to make hot drinks, which I’d known for ten years.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said, leading the way into the kitchen. ‘Why doesn’t she ask who killed them? It’s the first thing I’d want to know. She hasn’t mentioned it once. Just talks about the races in that way she has, and asking about the others. Why doesn’t she want to know who killed them?’

‘Mm,’ I said. ‘She suspects she knows.’

‘What? For God’s sake then, Kit … who?’

I hesitated. He looked thin and shaky, with lines cut deep in the wrinkled old face, the dark freckles of age standing out starkly. ‘She’d have to tell you herself,’ I said, ‘but it’s something to do with her husband’s business. For what it’s worth, I don’t think you need worry about a traitor in your own camp. If she hasn’t told you who she thinks it is, she won’t tell anyone until she’s discussed it with her husband, and they might decide to say nothing even then, they hate publicity so much.’

‘There’s going to be publicity anyway,’ he said worriedly. ‘The ante-post co-favourite for the Grand National shot in his box … Even if we try, we can’t keep that out of the papers.’

I rattled about making fresh tea for Robin and myself, not relishing any more than he did the fuss lying ahead.

‘All the same,’ I said, ‘your main worry isn’t who. Your main worry is keeping all the others safe.’

‘Kit!’ He was totally appalled. ‘B … bloody hell, K … Kit.’ He was back to stuttering. ‘It w … won’t happen again.’

‘Well,’ I said temperately, but there was no way to soften it, ‘I’d say they’re all at risk. The whole lot of her horses. Not immediately, not today. But if the princess and her husband decide on one particular course of action, which they may do, then they’ll all be at risk, Kinley, perhaps, above all. So the thing to do is to apply our minds to defensive action.’

‘But Kit …’

‘Dog patrols,’ I said.

‘They’re expensive …’

‘The princess,’ I remarked, ‘is rich. Ask her. If she doesn’t like the expense, I’ll pay for them myself.’ Wykeham’s mouth opened and closed again when I pointed out, ‘I’ve