Bolt - By Dick Francis Page 0,6

I walked with her slowly towards the gate, and through it, and across to where Thomas waited. He was out of the car, looking anxious, opening a rear door at our approach.

‘Thank you,’ the princess said faintly, climbing in. ‘Thank you, Kit.’

She sank into the rear seat, dislodging her hat on the way and apathetically watching it roll to the floor.

She peeled off her gloves and put one hand to her head, covering her eyes. ‘I think I …’ She swallowed, pausing. ‘Do we have any water, Thomas?’

‘Yes, madam,’ he said with alacrity, and went round to the boot to fetch the small refreshment box he habitually took along. Sloe, gin, champagne, and sparkling mineral water, the princess’s favourites, were always to hand.

I stood by the car’s open door, unsure how much help she would consider receiving. I knew all about her pride, her self-control, and her self-expectations. She wouldn’t want anyone to think her weak.

Thomas gave her some mineral water in a cut-glass tumbler with ice tinkling, no mean feat. She took two or three small sips and sat staring vaguely into space.

‘Princess,’ I said diffidently, ‘would it perhaps be of any use if I travelled with you to London?’

She turned her eyes my way and a sort of shudder shook her, rattling the ice.

‘Yes,’ she said with clear relief. ‘I need someone to …’ She stopped, not finding the words.

Someone to prevent her breaking down, I guessed. Not a shoulder to cry on but a reason for not crying.

Thomas, approving the arrangement, said to me prosaically, ‘What about your car?’

‘It’s in the jockeys’ car park. I’ll put it back by the racecourse stables. It’ll be all right there.’

He nodded, and we made a brief stop on our way out of the racecourse for me to move the Mercedes to a safe spot and tell the stable manager I’d be back for it later. The princess seemed not to notice any of these arrangements but continued staring vaguely at thoughts I couldn’t imagine, and it wasn’t until we were well on the way to London in the early dusk that she finally stirred and absent-mindedly handed me the glass with the remains of bubbles and melted ice as a kind of preliminary to talking.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘to have given you trouble.’

‘But you haven’t.’

‘I have had,’ she went on carefully, ‘a bad shock. And I cannot explain …’ She stopped and shook her head, making hopeless gestures with her hands. It seemed to me all the same that she had come to a point where assistance of some sort might be welcomed.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ I said neutrally.

‘I’m not sure how much I can ask.’

‘A great deal,’ I said bluntly.

The first signs of a smile crept back into her eyes, but faded again rapidly. ‘I’ve been thinking …’ she said. ‘When we reach London, will you come into the house and wait while I talk to my husband?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘You can spare the time? Perhaps … a few hours?’

‘Any amount,’ I assured her wryly. Danielle had gone to Leonardo and time was a drag without her. I stifled in myself the acute lurch of unhappiness and wondered just what sort of shock the princess had suffered. Nothing, it seemed now, to do with Monsieur de Brescou’s health. Something perhaps worse.

While it grew totally dark outside, we travelled another long way in silence, with the princess staring again into space and sighing, and me wondering what to do about the tumbler.

As if reading my thoughts, Thomas suddenly said, ‘There’s a glass-holder, Mr Fielding, located in the door below the ashtray,’ and I realised he’d noticed my dilemma via the rear-view mirror.

‘Thank you, Thomas,’ I said to the mirror, and met his amused eyes. ‘Very thoughtful.’

I hooked out what proved to be a chrome ring like a toothmug holder, and let it embrace the glass. The princess, oblivious, went on staring at uncomfortable visions.

‘Thomas,’ she said at length, ‘please will you see if Mrs Jenkins is still in the house? If she is, would you ask her to see if Mr Gerald Greening would be free to come round this evening?’

‘Yes, madam,’ Thomas said, and pressed buttons on the car’s telephone, glancing down in fractions while he drove.

Mrs Jenkins worked for the princess and M. de Brescou as secretary and all-round personal assistant and was young, newly married and palely waiflike. She worked only weekdays and left promptly at five o’clock, which a glance at my watch put