Bolt - By Dick Francis Page 0,45

crow. He struts like a rooster. We have known him since he was young, when the horses belonged to his father Louis, who was a very nice man, a gentleman.’

‘So Henri inherited the horses?’ I said.

‘But yes, along with everything else. Louis was soft-headed. He thought his son could do no wrong. So stupid. Henri is a greedy bully. Villon is welcome to him.’

‘In what way is he a greedy bully?’ I asked.

Her plucked eyebrows rose. ‘We bought a yearling filly with nice blood lines that we were going to race ourselves and breed from later. Henri saw her in the yard – he was always poking round the stables – and said he would buy her. When we said we didn’t want to sell, he said that unless we did, he would take all his horses away. He had eight … we didn’t want to lose them. We were furious. He made us sell him the filly at the price we’d paid for her … and we’d kept her for months. Then a few weeks later, he telephoned one evening and said horse-boxes would be arriving in the morning to collect his horses. And pouf, they were gone.’

‘What happened to the filly?’ I said.

Her mouth curved with pleasure. ‘She contracted navicular and had to be put down, poor little bitch. And do you know what that bastard Nanterre did?’

She paused for effect. About four voices, mine included, said ‘What?’

‘Villon told us. He was disgusted. Nanterre said he didn’t trust the knackers not to patch up the filly, pump her full of painkillers and sell her, making a profit at his expense, so he insisted on being there. The filly was put down on Villon’s land with Nanterre watching.’

Mrs Roqueville looked both sick and disappointed. ‘He seemed a pleasant enough man when we met him at Long-champ, and again at Newbury.’

‘I expect the Marquis de Sade was perfectly charming on the racecourse,’ Madeleine said sweetly. ‘It is where anyone can pretend to be a gentleman.’

After a respectful pause, I said, ‘Do you know anything of his business affairs?’

‘Business!’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘He is the de Brescou et Nanterre construction company. I don’t know anything about his business, only about his horses. I wouldn’t trust him in business. As a man deals with his racehorse trainer, so will he deal in business. The honourable will be honourable. The greedy bully will run true to form.’

‘And … do you know where I could find him in England?’

‘I wouldn’t look, if I were you.’ She gave me a bright smile. ‘He’ll bring you nothing but trouble.’

I relayed the conversation to Litsi and Danielle up in the princess’s box.

‘What’s navicular?’ Litsi said.

‘A disease of the navicular bone in a horse’s foot. When it gets bad, the horse can’t walk.’

‘That Nanterre,’ Danielle said disgustedly, ‘is gross.’

The princess and Beatrice, a few feet away at the balcony end of the box, were talking to a tall, bulky man with noticeably light grey eyes in a big bland face.

Litsi, following my gaze, said, ‘Lord Vaughnley … he came to commiserate with Aunt Casilia over Col not winning. Do you know him? He’s something in publishing, I think.’

‘Mm,’ I said neutrally. ‘He owns the Towncrier newspaper.’

‘Does he?’ Litsi’s agile mind made the jump. ‘Not the paper which attacked … Bobby?’

‘No, that was the Flag.’

‘Oh.’ Litsi seemed disappointed. ‘Then he isn’t one of the two defeated press barons after all.’

‘Yes, he is.’ Lord Vaughnley’s attention was switching my way. ‘I’ll tell you about it, some time,’ I said to Litsi, and watched Lord Vaughnley hesitate, as he always did, before offering his hand for me to shake: yet he must have known he would meet me in that place, as my being there at the end of each day’s racing was a ritual well known to him.

‘Kit,’ he said, grasping the nettle, ‘a great race … such bad luck.’

‘The way it goes,’ I said.

‘Better luck in the Gold Cup, eh?’

‘It would be nice.’

‘Anything I can do for you, my dear fellow?’

It was a question he asked whenever we met, though I could see Litsi’s astonishment out of the side of my eyes. Usually I answered that there wasn’t, but on that day thought there was no harm in trying a flier. If one didn’t ask, one would never learn.

‘Nothing, really,’ I said, ‘except … I suppose you’ve never come across the name of Henri Nanterre?’

Everyone watched him while he pondered, the princess with rapidly sharpening interest, Litsi and