Bolt - By Dick Francis Page 0,90

a shame about the Gold Cup,’ Danielle said. ‘She says you won’t have a ride in it, now Col’s dead.’

‘Not unless some poor bugger breaks his collar bone.’

‘Kit!’

‘That’s how it goes.’

She looked as if she didn’t need to be reminded, and I was sorry I had. I went out to the fifth race wondering if that day was some sort of test: if she were finding out for herself with finality whether or not she could permanently face what life with me entailed. I shivered slightly in the wind and thought the danger of losing her the worst one of all.

I finished third in the race, and when I returned to the unsaddling enclosure, Danielle was standing there waiting, looking strained and pale and visibly trembling.

‘What is it?’ I said sharply, sliding down from the horse. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘He’s here,’ she said with shock. ‘Henri Nanterre. I’m sure … it’s him.’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I’ve got to weigh in, just sit on the scales. I’ll come straight back out. You just stand right outside the weighing room door … don’t move from there.’

‘No.’

She went where I pointed, and I unsaddled the horse and made vaguely hopeful remarks to the mildly pleased owners. I passed the scales, gave my saddle, whip and helmet to my valet and went out to Danielle, who had stopped actually trembling but still looked upset.

‘Where did you see him?’ I asked.

‘On the stands, during the race. He seemed to be edging towards me, coming up from below, coming sideways, saying “excuse me” to people and looking at me now and then as if checking where I was.’

‘You’re sure it was him?’

‘He was just like the photograph. Like you’ve described him. I didn’t realise to begin with … then I recognised him. I was …’ she swallowed ‘… terrified. He sort of snaked round people, sliding like an eel.’

‘That’s him,’ I said grimly.

‘I slid away from him,’ Danielle said. ‘It was like … panic. I couldn’t move fast … so many people, all watching the race and annoyed with me … when I got off the stands the race was over … and I ran … What am I going to do? You’re riding in the next race.’

‘Well, what you’re going to do is dead boring, but you’ll be safe.’ I smiled apologetically. ‘Go into the Ladies and stay there. Find a chair there and wait. Tell the attendant you’re sick, faint, tired, anything. Stay there until after the race, and I’ll come and fetch you. Half an hour, not much more. I’ll send someone in with a message … and don’t come out for any message except mine. We’ll need a password …’

‘Christmas Day,’ she said.

‘OK. Don’t come out without the password, not even if you get a message saying I’m on my way to hospital, or something like that. I’ll give my valet the password and tell him to fetch you if I can’t … but I will,’ I said, seeing the extra fright in her expression. ‘I’ll ride bloody carefully. Try not to let Nanterre see you going in there, but if he does …’

‘Don’t come out,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’

‘Danielle …’

‘Yes?’

‘I do love you,’ I said.

She blinked, ducked her head, and went away fast, and I thought Nanterre would have known I would be at Windsor races, he had only to look in the newspaper, and that I and anyone in the princess’s family was vulnerable everywhere, not just in dark alleys.

I followed Danielle, keeping her in sight until her backview vanished into the one place Nanterre couldn’t follow, and then hurried back to change colours and weigh out. I didn’t see the Frenchman anywhere, which didn’t mean he hadn’t seen me. The highly public nature of my work on racecourses, however, I thought, might be acting in our favour: Nanterre couldn’t easily attack me at the races because everywhere I went, people were watching. In parade rings, on horses, on the stands … wherever a jockey went in breeches and colours, heads turned to look. Anonymity took over at the racecourse exits.

I rode that last race at Windsor with extreme concentration, particularly as it was a steeplechase for novice jumpers, always an unpredictable event. My mount was trained not by Wyke-ham but by Betsy’s husband, the Lambourn trainer, and it would be fair to say he got a good schooling run rather than a flat-out scramble.

Betsy’s husband was satisfied with fourth place because the horse had jumped well, and I said,