Bolt - By Dick Francis Page 0,76

‘Princess Casilia’s expecting me.’

He gave no sign of hearing, but when I took another sideways step he didn’t move. Nor did he move when I went past him, but two steps further on, at the top of the steps, I received a violent shove between the shoulders.

Unbalanced, I fell stumbling down the three steps, landing in a sprawl on the tarmac path. I rolled, half expecting Maynard to jump down on me, but he was standing on the top step, staring, and as I watched, he turned away, took three paces and attached himself to a small group of similar-looking men.

A trainer I sometimes rode for, who happened to be near, put a hand under my elbow and helped me to my feet.

‘He pushed you,’ he said incredulously. ‘I saw it. I can’t believe it. That man stepped right behind you and pushed.’

I stood on one leg and brushed off some of the debris from the path. ‘Thanks,’ I said.

‘But he pushed you! Aren’t you going to complain?’

‘Who to?’

‘But Kit …’ He slowly took stock of the situation. That’s Maynard Allardeck.’

‘Yeah.’

‘But he can’t go around attacking you. And you’ve hurt your leg.’

‘He didn’t do that,’ I said. ‘That’s from a fall in the third race.’

‘That was some mess …’ He looked at me doubtfully. ‘If you want to complain, I’ll say what I saw.’

I thanked him again and said I wouldn’t bother, which he still found inexplicable. I glanced briefly at Maynard who by then had his back to me as if unaware of my presence, and with perturbation set off again towards the princess’s box.

The push itself had been a relatively small matter, but as Maynard was basically murderous, it had to be taken as a substitute killing, a relief explosion, a jet of steam to stop the top blowing off the volcano.

The film, I thought uneasily, would keep that volcano in check; and I supposed I could put up with the jets of steam if I thought of them as safety valves reducing his boiling pressure. I didn’t want him uncontrollably erupting. I’d rather fall down more steps; but I would also be more careful where I walked.

The princess was out on the balcony when I reached her box, huddled into her furs, and alone.

I went out there to join her, and found her gazing blind-eyed over the racecourse, her thoughts obviously unwelcome.

‘Princess,’ I said.

She turned her head, her eyes focusing on my face.

‘Don’t give up,’ I said.

‘No.’ She stretched her neck and her backbone as if to disclaim any thought of it. ‘Is Helikon all right?’ she asked.

‘Dusty said so.’

‘Good.’ She sighed. ‘Have you any idea what’s running next week? It’s all a blank in my mind.’

It was a fair blank in mine also. ‘Icefall goes on Thursday at Lingfield.’

‘How did Helikon fall?’ she asked, and I told her that it wasn’t her horse’s fault, he’d been brought down.

‘He was going well at the time,’ I said. ‘He’s growing up and getting easier to settle. I’ll school him next week one morning to get his confidence back.’

She showed a glimmer of pleasure in an otherwise un-pleasurable day. She didn’t ask directly after my state of health, because she never did: she considered the results of falls to lie within the domain of my personal privacy into which she wouldn’t intrude. It was an attitude stemming from her own habit of reticence and, far from minding it, I valued it. It was fussing I couldn’t stand.

We went inside for some tea, joining Danielle, Litsi and Beatrice, and presently Lord Vaughnley appeared on one of his more or less regular visits to the princess’s box.

His faint air of anxiety vanished when he saw me drinking there, and after a few minutes he managed to cut me off from the pack and steer me into a corner.

I thanked him for his packet of yesterday.

‘What? Oh yes, my dear chap, you’re welcome. But that’s not what I wanted to say to you, not at all. I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a leak … it’s all very awkward.’

‘What sort of leak?’ I asked, puzzled.

‘About the film you made of Maynard Allardeck.’

I felt my spine shiver. I desperately needed that film to remain secret.

‘I’m afraid,’ Lord Vaughnley said, ‘that Allardeck knows you sent a copy of it to the Honours people in Downing Street. He knows he will never again be considered for a knighthood, because of your sending it.’ He smiled half anxiously but couldn’t resist the journalistic summary: ‘Never