The Silver Falcon (35 page)

They drove past the horses, keeping carefully to the far side of the road. Their heads turned to watch the grey as they drew away. He was leading the file, dancing as lightly as a silver leaf, the power and thrust of his compact body perfectly controlled by the rider. Nigel grinned, returning to his concentration on the road ahead.

‘Won't even walk behind another horse,' he muttered.

Tension was growing in the yard as the hours ran into each other and the days before the great race shortened. So much depended upon how the horse worked over the mile and a quarter that morning. His performance would not only determine his chances, but whether he ran at all. A lack-lustre gallop, any indication that the horse was not in the peak of spirits and physical condition would put his fitness to race in doubt. And the thoroughbred, as highly tuned to pitch perfection as any racing machine constructed by man, was notoriously unpredictable. A change in blood condition, the presence of a sub-virus lurking in the system, an unsuspected strain in the fragile legs which were expected to carry their two-ton burden across the turf at a speed of forty miles an hour – any one of these imponderables could emerge during or after that gallop and change everything. It was not surprising that Nigel had shouted at his staff that morning and kept Sally up half the night going to the lavatory, switching on lights and generally expressing intolerable nervous tension. ‘We'll pull in here,' he said to Isabel. ‘Then we can walk across to the bushes at the final furlong. We can see them perfectly most of the way from there.'

The sun was higher and the early ground mist had evaporated. It was a perfect June morning and the panorama of the gallops unrolled before them as they walked to the edge of the line of little bushes, no more than eighteen inches high and spaced to mark the distances. The ground rolled and swelled to the right, coming up into a testing incline for the last three furlongs. Isabel had a feeling of tightness in her throat; Nigel and Tim were both silent, yet intently listening. The horses were approaching from a hidden angle. They would begin their work just below the dip, and out of sight for the first hundred and fifty yards. Richard gripped her arm. Nigel a flat tweed cap pulled low over his forehead, a husky waistcoat buttoned to his chin, stood with his legs astride, arms folded, tensely waiting. There wasn't a sound to be heard. Suddenly Tim thrust his head back.

‘I can hear them!' Isabel, straining, couldn't distinguish anything. But from the sudden pressure on her arm she knew that Richard could. And then it came to them, borne in the ground under their feet before it was discernible to the ear. The thud of galloping horses; and then clearly below them, rounding the swell in the green turf which had hidden them, a group of three horses, closely bunched, with the head of the Falcon protruding like a prow just in front. Tim raised his field glasses, Nigel, clear-eyed as a hawk, was leaning slightly forward, hissing under his breath. It was not meant to be a race; its purpose was to demonstrate the horse's peak of fitness and to bring him to a physical pitch which would need a final six-furlong gallop the day before the Derby to complete his preparation. But it was becoming a race. The iron-grey head was stretching forward, the ears flattened against his skull. The Falcon was to be allowed to go ahead from three furlongs out, but not at full stretch. A lot depended upon the ease with which he cruised past his companions. The jockey sat on top of him, perched in perfect balance and control above his withers, not moving, holding him in check.

‘Christ,' Nigel kept muttering, ‘Christ, he's pulling like a train.…'

And then the three-furlong bush was in sight; the noise of the flashing hooves had become a furious drumming, and as they watched, the Falcon started to draw clear as if someone had released a spring. There was nothing smooth about the way the horse emerged from the middle of the group. It was the same rocket-like propulsion he had shown in the Prix Lupin, an enormous surge of energy and speed. He thundered past them, drawing lengths clear of the others, Carlton pulling him up.

‘Fantastic! Bloody fantastic –' Nigel and Tim were exulting together. Richard turned to her. There was a look of excitement in his face which had never been there before when watching a horse.

‘I've never seen anything like him,' he said. ‘He left the others standing. Come on, darling, they're coming back now.'

The horses had pulled up and were walking back, led by the Falcon. Nigel and Tim had run on ahead; they were talking to the jockey, who was leaning down, patting the colt's steaming neck.

‘No problem,' he was saying. ‘Soon as I let him have an inch, away he went – he's got more acceleration than anything I've come across. He'll do the job all right on Wednesday!' The wide mouth split into a grin which included Isabel. ‘You've got a nice horse here, Madam –' Isabel came close to the colt's head. The eye showed a rim of white and the ears flattened. He was jigging about impatiently, his nostrils dilated and reddened inside, the tracery of veins in relief under his coat.

Nigel turned to Isabel. ‘Look at that –' he said. ‘Not blowing hard enough to blow out a bloody candle!' He was patting the colt on the neck, ignoring the horse's evident resentment at being touched.

‘All right,' Nigel said. ‘You walk on back to the box. We'll go ahead and wait for you.' He linked his arm through Isabel's for a moment. He wasn't a man who was very demonstrative, except to Sally, but he was so pleased he couldn't contain himself.

‘We're going to do them,' he said. ‘We're going to murder the lot of them on Wednesday! There isn't anything to touch him!'

They drove back to the place where they had left the box. Isabel and Richard stayed behind in the Range Rover while Tim and Nigel got out to oversee the loading up of the horses.

‘We're going to win,' Isabel said. ‘I knew it after the Lupin. That horse is a freak – I've never seen anything pull out a turn of foot like that –'

Richard grinned at her. ‘You sould like a seasoned campaigner,' he said. ‘Remember what I said in Barbados – I didn't want you to end up knee deep in manure and married to Tim? I can see I'm the one who's going to need the Wellington boots!'

‘You're just as excited as I am,' Isabel reproved him. ‘So don't pretend. It's a pity the Falcon hates people so much, but maybe that's what makes him want to win. Charles always said the great horses are the ones who would have led the herd in the wild state; you have to have the same aggressive spirit to beat the other horses on the track.'

‘Darling,' Richard said gently. ‘I grew up at Beaumont. I lived and breathed horses from the moment I was born. I do know what makes a great racehorse. And they don't all have to be bastards like Falcon.'

‘I'm sorry,' Isabel said quickly. ‘I'm just getting Derby fever that's all. Everything's turned out so wonderfully well for us – and I'm so happy!' Nigel, his horses safely loaded up and the box on its way, turned back to the Range Rover with Tim following. He stopped and caught his arm. Isabel and Richard were clearly visible.

‘Uhm,' Nigel coughed. ‘Time those two got married.' He didn't notice the expression on Tim's face or the fact that he didn't answer.

The party that Saturday night was held in the Fosters' garden. Sally Foster was an accomplished hostess; she didn't particularly like entertaining, but she did it as efficiently as she did her husband's accounts. There were sixty people invited, including all the leading trainers in the Lambourn area and their wives, some of them with horses running against the Falcon in the Derby. The party was in Isabel's honour and about half-way through, Nigel called for silence and announced his owner's engagement to Richard. Somebody raised a cheer, and immediately they were both surrounded. One flamboyantly pretty blonde, eyes bright with Moët and Chandon, kissed Isabel, who had never seen her before. They stood together, in a group of well-wishers that eddied and flowed around them in the Fosters' pleasant garden, the sun dipping behind the line of trees, radiating happiness. Tim stood a little apart, watching them. Somebody touched him on the arm; it was one of the Fosters' small daughters. There was a telephone call for him. He was glad to escape into the house, to leave Isabel and Richard, arms linked, laughing and holding court. It all looked so marvellous, and yet he couldn't rid himself of the most unhappy premonition. A feeling of coming disaster that was quite separate from his own jealousy. He took the call in Nigel's office. It was Andrew Graham.

There was only one incident that shadowed a very gay weekend. Inspector Lewis telephoned, asking for an appointment to see Isabel in London. She agreed to meet him on Monday afternoon, giving him Richard's address. He tried to be brief on the telephone, unwilling to be drawn, but she managed to elicit one answer. There were no further clues as to the identity of the man who had killed her housekeeper. Nothing fresh had turned up. Which was one of the reasons he wanted to talk to her. She might have remembered something else; like last time – Isabel saw Tim waiting for her as she came out of Nigel's office.

‘Any news,' he said. He looked strained and awkward. ‘Have they found anything –'

‘No,' Isabel said. ‘Nothing. They want to see me again in case I've got anything new to tell them.'

Tim hesitated. ‘You're sure they don't think whoever it was might try again –'

Isabel stood still. ‘No,' she said. ‘It wasn't directed at me; I convinced them of that last time. I told you, the Inspector didn't mention anything new. They've run out of clues.' She turned and walked away, leaving Tim Ryan standing in the hall. Exactly as Andrew Graham had said. The police hadn't turned up anything and they hadn't taken his proposition seriously. And Isabel wouldn't listen.… That's why he, Tim, was her last hope.

The hotel receptionist called out to Andrew Graham as he walked across the hotel lobby. ‘Dr Graham – could you spare me a moment?'

He nodded. ‘Of course. What can I do for you?'

‘It's about one of our guests. A Mr MacNeil.' The half-smile of enquiry on Andrew's face went a little stiff.

‘Yes?' he said mildly. The woman looked uncomfortable.

‘He seems to have disappeared,' she said. ‘He hasn't checked out and his luggage is all there. I've seen you talking together and I wondered whether you knew where he'd gone … he didn't say he was going away or anything. I can't understand it.'

‘That's odd,' Andrew said. ‘I thought he would have told you … he's gone to France, and he didn't want to take all that baggage with him. He asked me to take care of things, and we're going to meet up in Paris at the end of next week. Maybe he expected me to say something – I must have gotten it confused. But that's how it is; there's nothing to worry about. Did he settle the bill – otherwise I can do it.…'

‘Well,' she hesitated. Being owed money, and having a room which couldn't be let, outweighed the doubts about letting the other American take charge. They were friends; it must be all right. Anyway if he'd had the manners to tell her before going off.… A nasty, brusque type, typical Yank. She leaned over the counter and smiled at Andrew. ‘Thank you very much, Dr Graham. I'll make up his bill along with yours. Just make sure he pays you – what about the luggage?'

‘Just send someone up with me and I'll take it all into my room. And I'll be leaving myself around ten o'clock on Wednesday morning. I'll settle both the bills then.'

‘Sorry to lose you,' she said. ‘I hope you've enjoyed your stay in London. Maybe we'll see you again?'

‘I hope so,' Andrew said. ‘I've been very comfortable. Next time I'll bring my wife.'

As Andrew had suspected, MacNeil had made notes. He sat in his room surrounded by MacNeil's cases, and prised open the black briefcase which he had found in a drawer. He adjusted his glasses and sat down to read. He had been puzzled by MacNeil's discovery of him. He couldn't think what had made him suspicious in the first place. He was also surprised at the amount of investigation that had been undertaken behind his back, home in Beaumont. There were pages of photocopied reports which had come in from the States. He read through them slowly. Frances Schriber's suicide. The accusation of murder made by Richard, and his subsequent certification. Gossip gleaned from servants, interviews with friends. All gained by a clever ruse. The investigator had posed as a journalist writing an article on Charles for one of the major news magazines. People had fallen over themselves to talk. And in Mac-Neil's own handwriting, he read of the doubt which started it all. He had looked up the terms of Charles's will, and seen the clause there which nobody else appeared to have noticed. If Isabel died unmarried within two years, Andrew would inherit everything. It was the mind trained to detect crime, a mentality warped by years of dealing in human venality that saw the crooked in preference to the straight. He had asked himself the simple question, and underlined it.
‘If Isabel S. marries anyone, Andrew G. loses the lot. Time factor of two years. Does this connect with Andrew G's attitude to relationship with stepson? If stepson really attempted homicide, Andrew G's prospects of inheriting twenty million look bright. Why would he stop him? There ain't nobody that noble.'
It went on for page after page, tearing Andrew's stories to pieces. MacNeil had been very fair. He had tried to trust his client, and it wasn't until almost the last two pages of the notebook, that Andrew found what had given him away.

It was a report of a telephone call from MacNeil's agent, the bogus journalist, who had come back from Freemont. It was there, ringed around and standing out. One of the maids at Beaumont had been taken to hospital after an overdose of sleeping pills. The journalist had decided to visit her when he heard it was Mrs Schriber's personal maid Ellie.