Enquiry - By Dick Francis Page 0,74

and thought about Grace. She’d left on me a fair legacy of bruises from her pinches to add to the crop grown by Oakley. Also my coat would cost a fortune at the invisible menders, and my throat felt like a well developed case of septic tonsils. I looked gloomily down at my plastered leg. The dangers of detection seemed to be twice as high as steeplechasing. With luck, I thought with a sigh, I could now go back to the usual but less frequent form of battery.

Tony came out of the house with Roberta and Jack Roxford. Jack looked dazed, and let Tony help him into the front of the estate car as if his thoughts were miles away. As indeed they probably were.

I scrunched across the gravel towards Roberta.

‘Is your neck all right?’ I asked.

‘Is yours?’

I investigated her cut more closely. It wasn’t deep. Little more than an inch long.

‘There won’t be much of a scar,’ I said.

‘No,’ she agreed.

Her face was close to mine. Her eyes were amber with dark flecks.

‘Stay here,’ she said abruptly. ‘You don’t have to go to the races.’

‘I’ve an appointment with Lord Ferth… Best to get this business thoroughly wrapped up.’

‘I suppose so.’ She looked suddenly very tired. She’d had a wearing Saturday morning.

‘If you’ve nothing better to do,’ I suggested, ‘Would you come over tomorrow… and cook me some lunch?’

A small smile tugged at her mouth and wrinkled her eyes.

‘I fell hopelessly in love with you,’ she said, ‘When I was twelve.’

‘And then it wore off?’

‘Yes.’

‘Pity,’ I said.

Her smile broadened.

‘Who is Bobbie?’ I asked.

‘Bobbie? Oh… he’s Lord Iceland’s son.’

‘He would be.’

She laughed. ‘Father wants me to marry him.’

‘That figures.’

‘But Father is going to be disappointed.’

‘Good,’ I said.

‘Kelly,’ yelled Tony. ‘Come on, for Hell’s sakes, or I’ll be late.’

‘Goodbye,’ she said calmly. ‘See you tomorrow.’

Tony drove to Reading races with due care and attention and Jack Roxford sat sunk in gloomy silence from start to finish. When we stopped in the car park he stepped out of the car and walked dazedly away towards the entrance without a word of thanks or explanation.

Tony watched him go and clicked his tongue. ‘That woman isn’t worth it.’

‘She is, to him,’ I said.

Tony hurried off to declare his horses, and I went more slowly through the gate looking out for Lord Ferth.

It felt extraordinary being back on a racecourse. Like being let out of prison. The same people who had looked sideways at me at the Jockeys’ Fund dance now slapped me familiarly on the back and said they were delighted to see me. Oh yeah, I thought ungratefully. Never kick a man once he’s up.

Lord Ferth was standing outside the weighing room in a knot of people from which he detached himself when he saw me coming.

‘Come along to the Stewards’ dining-room,’ he said. ‘We can find a quiet corner there.’

‘Can we postpone it until after the third race?’ I asked. ‘I want my cousin Tony to be there as well, and he has some runners…’

‘Of course,’ he agreed. ‘Later would be best for me too, as it happens. After the third, then.’

I watched the first three races with the hunger of an exile returned. Tony’s horse, my sometime mount, finished a fast fourth, which augured well for next time out, and Byler’s horse won the third. As I hurried round to see how Jack Roxford would make out in the winner’s enclosure I almost crashed into Kessel. He looked me over, took in the plaster and crutches, and said nothing at all. I watched his cold expressionless face with one to match. After ramming home the point that he had no intention of apologising he turned brusquely on his heel and walked away.

‘Get that,’ Tony said in my ear. ‘You could sue him for defamation.’

‘He’s not worth the effort.’

From Charlie West, too, I’d had much the same reaction. Defiance, slightly sullen variety. I shrugged resignedly. That was my own fault, and only time would tell.

Tony walked with me to the winner’s enclosure. Byler was there, beaming. Jack Roxford still looked lost. We watched Byler suggest a celebration drink, and Jack shake his head vaguely as if he hadn’t understood.

‘Go and fish Jack out,’ I said to Tony. ‘Tell him you’re still looking after him.’

‘If you say so, pal.’ He obligingly edged through the crowd, took Jack by the elbow, said a few explanatory words to Byler, and steered Jack out.

I joined them and said neutrally, ‘This way,’ and led them along towards the