9

The attack was so unexpected that Matt didn't have a chance to get his arms up to protect his face, with the result that his left cheekbone and temple connected painfully with the cold metal. Half stunned, he was easy prey to his attacker, and, before he could gather his scattered wits, his right arm was grasped and twisted up behind his back until his hand was somewhere in the region of the nape of his neck.

Pressure was applied, and he gritted his teeth, glad that he'd always been loose-jointed – something that had saved him from broken bones on many occasions.

Leaning hard, so that Matt's body was sandwiched between him and the unyielding side of the car, the man behind growled, 'I'm gonna to keep this short, 'cos we're just here to deliver a message, and it goes like this: Lay off the snooping and stick to riding the pretty horses, while you still can. Understand?'

Matt wasn't in a position to nod and his lung capacity was severely limited by the weight of his interrogator, but he managed a breathy affirmative.

Keeping up the pressure on Matt's arm, the man bounced his bodyweight against him once more, rocking the car on its suspension.

'Sorry. Didn't catch that. Come again . . .'

'Yes!'

'Yes, what?'

'Yes, I understand,' Matt said, through his teeth.

'Good.'

The man stepped back, pulling him upright, and air found its way back into Matt's lungs. It seemed that he took Matt's prompt acquiescence for submission, for, releasing the arm lock, he swung him round and sent him crashing into the side of the transit van.

Following him, the man leaned forward, as if to deliver a postscript to the message, and Matt found himself facing a stocky character in combat fatigues and a woolly hat, with a neck like a rhinoceros and an attitude to match. Matt was hazily aware that another figure stood to one side looking on, but his full attention was taken by the man in front of him.

Whether it was just that the attack came at the end of a long, frustrating day, he couldn't afterwards be sure, but, finding his arms free, he discovered within himself a fierce aversion to being manhandled and, without further thought, launched a powerful if unskilled uppercut into the face that jutted so aggressively towards his.

The stocky man grunted, staggering back, and Matt – a little off-balance himself – followed his opening gambit with an unscientific shove, which nevertheless sent his opponent sprawling backward across the low bonnet of the MR2.

It was the last fleeting moment of satisfaction that Matt was allowed, for now the silent partner got involved and what he lacked in loquacity he certainly made up for in action. In the blink of an eye and without quite understanding how he got there, Matt found himself lying on his back on the uneven turf of the car park, gasping for breath like a landed fish.

His instinct for survival was strong, however, honed by many years of dicing with serious injury amongst the hooves of racing thoroughbreds, and, even as he fought to breathe, he was aware of how horribly vulnerable he was in that position. Pulling his arms and legs in, foetus-like, and tucking his head between his elbows, he turned onto his side just a split second before the silent man's boot thudded into his ribcage.

At this point, Matt acknowledged, with a kind of fatalistic calm, his options weren't good. To move from his defensive curl would be to lay his belly and face open to potentially life-threatening injuries but, on the other hand, it would only take one hefty kick to the kidneys or spine and the outcome could easily be the same.

Somewhere around the third or fourth blow, he came to the decision that, if he didn't move soon, he might never do so again. He knew the first man could only have been temporarily incapacitated by his inexperienced punch and, once he was operational again, Matt's chances, already minuscule, would be non-existent.

'What the fuck are you doing?' The stocky man sounded furious, and the onslaught faltered.

Matt opened his eyes and peered through the gap between his upper arms. There was nothing within his field of vision other than grass and one of the front wheels of the van.

'Deliver the message and put the frighteners on him – that was the brief – not kick the shit out of him. We don't want a murder on our hands!'

'He asked for it,' the other one replied, punctuating his sentence with another kick, albeit with slightly less vigour, and Matt heard himself grunt.

'Cut it out, I said!'

Matt decided not to wait on the outcome of this dispute. The sight of the van wheel so close had given him an idea and, straightening out suddenly to full length, he rolled once, twice, and fetched up beneath the dark, oily-smelling underbelly of the transit.

Wriggling sideways until he estimated that he was halfway between the wheels, he stopped, face down and chest heaving – partly from exertion and partly from fear. Incidental injuries in the course of his job were one thing, but never before had he been on the receiving end of a concerted effort by one of his own kind to do him harm, and the sensation was immeasurably shocking.

What would they do next?

It seemed likely that, with the temptation one step removed, the stocky man would be able to cap his colleague's more murderous tendencies, but Matt wasn't about to bet on it. What might they have in their van that could make life under it untenable? The way he felt now, nothing short of a shotgun would induce him to leave the comparative safety of his bolthole.

He watched as one pair of boots hurried round to the other side of the van and then their owner knelt down and peered under.

'He's still there – in the middle. Shall I drive forward?'

Matt's heart leapt painfully. How stupid had he been to think he'd found refuge? One man to drive forward and one to pounce; he'd gained nothing.

Just as he was wondering if he could roll out again in the moments before the van moved – or even if he had the nerve to try – Matt heard the other man say urgently, 'Sshh! What was that?'

There was silence for a moment, even Matt holding his breath in anticipation, and then, from some distance away, someone called, 'Matt? Is that you?'

Casey!

Shit! He'd have to warn her, but would she hear if he shouted from under the van?

He started to edge forward, swearing as he bashed his head on some protruding piece of metalwork.

'Come on, we've done enough – let's go,' the man on the left suggested. The side door slid shut with a crash and, shortly after, the nearside cab door opened and the suspension dipped as he got in. Another dip, the two doors banged shut and the engine was gunned.

Matt stayed where he was, pressing the right side of his face to the grass, and folding his arms over his head, resisting – with extreme difficulty – the urge to draw himself up into a protective ball. Hoping against hope that the only way out for the van was directly forward, he shut his eyes and tensed his whole body, as if by doing so he could prevent injury from the rolling wheels and the ton or so of vehicle they conveyed.

For a moment nothing existed except noise, fear, and darkness, as the engine roared and the van pulled away over the rough ground. One of the wheels grazed Matt's elbow, dragging at the sleeve of his jacket, and then it was gone, the chaos replaced by silence and a degree of light.

Deliverance had been so sudden that relief was mingled with disbelief and he lay still, struggling to trust in his altered circumstances.

'Matt?' Casey's voice sounded breathless and much nearer, and he felt, more than heard, her running footsteps approaching. They stopped. 'Matt? Oh my God, are you OK?'

Matt wasn't sure. Compared with half a minute ago, he was terrific, but it had been a close call and, now that the terror was ebbing from his system, his brain was allowing the messages of physical trauma to get through. He wasn't looking forward to moving. In fact, given solitude and a less public place, he would have postponed the decision until he felt more in control, but Casey was waiting, her concern very evident as she repeated his name.

Matt gingerly raised his head three inches.

'Just give me a moment,' he told her, surprised at the normality of his voice.

'What happened? Who were those men? Shall I call the police?'

Realising he wasn't going to be allowed the luxury of breathing space, Matt pushed himself up onto his elbows, wincing a little as all the major muscles of his torso protested in unison.

'I should call the police,' Casey said, but she didn't sound convinced.

'Not yet. I need to think.'

With an effort, Matt turned partly onto his side, brought his legs up, and got as far as one knee, where he paused, waiting to catch his breath.

Casey stepped forward, offering her hand, and, leaning on her a little, he got to his feet and managed the five or six feet across to his car. Once there, he remembered the state of the door handle and swore.

'What's up?' Casey looked at him. 'Haven't you got the keys?'

'Yeah . . .' As he said it, Matt remembered that he had been holding them when he was attacked. He glanced down at the grass in the failing light. 'Actually, I dropped them, but anyway, the bastards glued up the handle.' Feeling unequal to initiating a search, Matt turned round, leant against the car, and slid down it till he was sitting on the ground with his back resting on the bodywork. He felt shaky and unutterably weary.

'You can't sit there!' Casey exclaimed.

'Just for a moment.'

She looked down at him, her hair falling forward a little around her face, and Matt squinted through the twilight, thinking – for the second time that day – that something was different about her. Apparently working on the If you can't beat them, join them philosophy, Casey watched him for a second or two more, then moved over to the car, turned round, and sat down beside him.

'So, who were they? What did they want?'

Matt shook his head slightly.

'I've never seen them before, and, if I never see them again, it'll be too soon.'

'Well, didn't they say anything?' Casey was beginning to sound impatient, but Matt's scattered wits were reassembling and he recalled her vocation.

'Listen, I don't want a whisper of this in tomorrow's paper.'

'Oh, that's not fair! You can't ask me to pass up something like this.'

'Not a whisper. Promise?' Matt looked hard at her through the gloom.

At first she returned his gaze, but then she rolled her eyes heavenward and sighed.

'Oh, all right. So what did they want? Were they sent to warn you off?'

'Apparently.'

'But that's great! It means we've got someone worried. So now we just have to figure out who sent them.'

Matt wished he could view the affair as matter-of-factly as she seemed to.

'And do you have any bright ideas as to how we go about that?' he asked, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

'Well, the van registration might give us something,' she said, studiously casual.

Matt's eyes snapped open again.

'You didn't . . . ? You got the number?'

'Part of it,' she said. 'Echo Tango November, and I think there was a two or a five – it was a bit dark. But it might be enough.'

'You little . . .' He couldn't think of a suitable epithet, and finished, 'Well done! That's brilliant!'

Casey glowed.

'So what about the police? Aren't you going to tell them?' she asked.

Matt groaned. The thought of a session with Bartholomew, when all he really wanted was a hot bath and a stiff whisky, wasn't inviting. After all, what could he realistically report?

'No, not tonight. I will sometime.'

'Bartholomew won't be pleased . . .'

'So what are you, my conscience?' he demanded. 'What can I tell him anyway? That I was set upon by two men – one of whom I didn't get a good look at, and one who looked like any other tough Joe – but that I don't know who sent them, or why. He's bound to think I'm not telling him the whole story. It'll take all night. Let's wait and see if the registration throws up something, then I'll tell him.'

'OK.' Casey didn't seem unduly perturbed by the prospect of bypassing the authorities. 'Well, hadn't we better see if we can find your keys?'

'Actually . . .' Matt shifted his weight a little. 'I think I may be sitting on them.'

To Matt's great relief, they found the handle on the passenger door was clear and, edging across from that side, Casey was able to open the driver's door from within, but she then stubbornly refused to budge, insisting that Matt was in no fit state to drive home.

Aware that she was probably right, Matt nevertheless didn't relish the idea of the youngster at the controls of his precious car, even though the racecourse was his closest, being a bare thirty-five or forty miles from Spinney Cottage. However, Casey assured him that she had her licence and was perfectly capable, and so it proved; in fact, she drove the sports car so carefully that Matt was moved to ask her, as she headed along the A37 at a steady forty-five, what kind of car she herself owned.

'I haven't got a car, as such. Not yet, anyway,' she admitted, not taking her eyes off the road.

'So when exactly did you pass your test?' Matt asked, with a growing conviction that he didn't want to hear the answer.

'Um – in August.'

'This August? Last month? Why the hell didn't you tell me?'

'Because you wouldn't have let me drive, if I had,' she pointed out with inescapable logic.

'Too right!'

In spite of her inexperience, the short journey was accomplished without mishap and Casey pulled up in front of the cottage with an unmistakable air of triumph.

Kendra met them at the door and was visibly shocked at Matt's condition. He knew from the car's sun visor mirror that a rapidly purpling bruise on his cheekbone now matched the one on the bridge of his nose and, however much he tried, he couldn't disguise the stiffness that had set into his damaged muscles on the journey home.

'What's happened? Jamie said you'd had a fall – he saw it on TV – but he said it didn't look too bad. Oh – hello Casey,' she added, raising her eyebrows in mute enquiry as Matt stepped past her into the room.

'Casey drove me home. We need to call her a taxi,' he said, knowing that the explanation was woefully insufficient.

'That was kind of her.' Kendra led the way through to the kitchen. 'My God, Matt! What on earth have you been up to?'

Matt looked down at his clothes, becoming aware – for the first time – of the grass and mud stains on his beige trousers and the elbows of his jacket. He sighed.

'I – er . . . had a spot of trouble,' he said.

A quarter of an hour later, when the taxi arrived, Kendra was in possession of the full story and, due to Casey's interjections, far more of the details than Matt had intended she should have. Her reaction had been less pronounced than he'd expected, but it clearly wasn't an accurate gauge of her emotions for, as soon as they had seen Casey off, she got straight down to business. They were back in the kitchen, where he was finishing a cup of coffee to which Kendra had added a good slosh of whisky. It was making him feel drowsy, and he was looking forward to a hot bath.

'I want you to stop this, Matt,' Kendra said suddenly.

'Stop . . . ?'

'You know damn well what I mean. Stop this messing about – playing at being a private eye! I know why you're doing it, and I love you for it, but it's getting scary now. You could have been killed today, and for what? You say you don't even know why they attacked you. It's crazy! If Jamie's innocent, he'll be OK. The police will find out who did do it; it's their job. Those men were right – your job is riding horses, as if that wasn't dangerous enough . . .'

'Hang on,' Matt cut in. 'What do you mean if Jamie's innocent? Don't you believe it anymore?'

'Well, of course I want to believe he is – but how can we be 100 per cent sure?'

'I'm sure,' Matt stated quietly. 'And you were, last time I heard. You've certainly changed your tune.'

'I haven't. Oh, don't change the subject! We were talking about you getting beaten up – for nothing.'

'But, don't you see? This means I'm getting somewhere. Somebody's scared of what I might find out; that's what this was all about. Why else would they go to all that trouble?'

Kendra, who had been pacing round the room, stopped and made an exasperated noise.

'But how does it help, if you don't know what prompted it and you don't know who sent them?'

'We'll wait and see what the registration number throws up,' Matt said.

'No. Give it to the police. If this was just a warning, what'll these people do next time?'

'I'll be more careful now,' he promised. 'And I will tell Bartholomew, if Casey comes up with something.'

Kendra pulled out a chair and sat on it, abruptly, heavily, as if all the strength had gone from her legs. She pushed back her long blonde fringe and Matt was shocked to see tears in her eyes. She rarely cried.

'What's this all about?' he asked gently. 'It's not just what happened today, is it? You've been on edge for a while. Can't you tell me about it, Kennie? Maybe I can help.'

'No, it's not just what happened today,' she admitted. 'It's everything – Sophie, Jamie, you doing this stuff, Deacon's cat, everything. I just feel scared all the time and I should be so happy – especially now . . .'

Matt's attention sharpened.

'Especially now?' he asked, the penny teetering on the edge.

'Because I'm pregnant,' Kendra announced, and burst into tears.

'But that's brilliant!' Matt exclaimed. 'Are you sure?'

'Of course I'm sure!' she sobbed. 'Oh – and I wasn't going to tell you like this – I wanted it to be special . . .'

'It is special.' Matt leaned over the table, reaching out to take and hold her hands, oblivious – in the joy of the moment – to the discomfort of his bruises. 'It's absolutely amazing! When's it due?'

'About May-time, I think.'

'Oh, wow! This is incredible! You're incredible!'

'Well, you had a little something to do with it,' Kendra told him, with a flash of a watery smile.

'That's a relief to hear,' he joked. 'But, you know, that's why you've been so anxious lately. You're hormonal.'

'Oh – that's it! Now you're happy,' she exclaimed. 'The male answer to every female emotion – hormones.' She pulled her hands free and wiped her eyes.

Matt prudently changed the subject.

'One thing still puzzles me. Where does your brother's cat fit into all this?'

'Oh, that was so sad. The poor little thing got run over.'

'Not by Deacon?'

'No. It was Niall, I think – Niall Delafield. Deacon was devastated. I didn't see him, but Mum says it brought on one of his awful migraines. He stayed in his room all day.'

'Oh, I'm sorry. Poor Deke!' Matt wasn't a cat man, but he knew how he'd feel if it happened to one of the dogs. 'By the way, when are we going to tell your family the news?'

'Not just yet, I think,' she said. 'Let's keep it to ourselves for a little bit longer, shall we?'

With the conversation back to Kendra's exciting revelation, they spent some little time marvelling and making plans before Matt finally rose stiffly to his feet and headed upstairs for the longed-for bath.

In spite of his aches and pains, he felt wonderfully content. They hadn't planned to start a family so soon, but, now that it had happened, he wouldn't have had it any different. The only cloud on his horizon was their unresolved disagreement over his efforts to clear Jamie's name, but he decided, with a complacency born of exhaustion, that he'd deal with that another day.

Unfortunately, 'another day' turned out to be the very next day and, furthermore, first thing in the morning, over the breakfast table.

Unusually for him, Matt had slept late, and Kendra had let him, informing him – when he awoke in a panic – that she had already rung Rockfield and excused him from riding out.

'You didn't say anything about what happened last night?' Matt asked in alarm.

'No, I just said you'd had a problem with the car and didn't get in until late. I also said you'd picked up a few bruises from your fall yesterday. Well, John's bound to notice, with you moving around like an eighty-year-old!' she added, as he started to protest. 'And that's another reason why you should leave this Sophie business to the police. If you won't do it for me and the baby, you should do it for yourself. If you get yourself all beaten up, you won't be able to ride. I know you're in demand right now, but only as long as you deliver the goods. Look what happened to Jamie. If word gets about that you're not as fit as you might be, they'll drop you like a shot.'

'That sounds like your father talking,' Matt said, the knowledge that she was right giving his voice a bitter edge. 'Anyway, they just caught me by surprise yesterday. I'll be more careful in future.'

'Oh, and that'll be all right then, will it? From what Casey said, they were big powerful men. Just how do you propose to deal with them if they come looking for you again?'

'She's right, Matt.' Unseen by either of them, Jamie had come to stand in the kitchen doorway. 'God knows I'm grateful for what you've been trying to do, but I don't want you to muck up your career on my account. Bad enough that one of us is on the breadline. And I don't want you guys falling out over me, either. I've been thinking it might be better if I head off back to Cambridge.'

'Oh? And what are you going to use for rent money up there?' Matt enquired. 'You're skint, remember?'

'I dunno – get myself a paper round or something. Anyway, I think you two deserve a bit of space. Or should I say, you three – sorry, I kind of overheard you last night. Congratulations, by the way!'

Matt wasn't keen on the idea of Jamie being so remote while he was still see-sawing on the edge of depression. Who would watch out for him if he drank himself into a stupor again?

'Thanks,' he said. 'But I think you going up to Cambridge is a bad idea. Besides, you haven't worked off what you owe us for rent yet.'

He didn't pitch it any stronger, unsure of how Kendra would view the situation, but she rose to the occasion as he'd hoped she would.

'And I call it bloody ungrateful to waltz off just when I need a bloke around the house to do the heavy lifting for me when Matt's not here.'

She didn't say just what heavy lifting she had in mind and nor did either of the others question it.

'Well, if you put it like that,' Jamie said, glancing at each of them in turn. 'Of course I'll stay.'

It being a Sunday, early evening found Matt and Kendra heading for Birchwood Hall and the family dinner. There was still some tension between them, but Kendra hadn't returned to the contentious matter of Matt's extracurricular activities, and he certainly wasn't about to.

At the Brewer home, the atmosphere wasn't much better. Deacon was still indisposed and missing from the pre-dinner gathering, as was Charlie, who – Joy told them, as she greeted Matt with a kiss – was in his office dealing with a matter of business.

'Oh dear. You look as though you've been in the wars,' she remarked, stepping back to arm's length and taking a good look at him.

'Been fighting with the horses again?' Grace enquired from the sofa, where she was sitting within the circle of Rupert's arm. 'Or has my sister been beating you up?'

'Oh Grace, you're so not funny,' Frances told her.

'How long do you think Charlie will be?' Matt asked. 'I was hoping to have a word with him.'

'Well, he said ten minutes or so, but that was half an hour ago,' Joy told him, consulting her watch. 'So you could go and see. Only don't keep him too long or dinner will spoil.'

'And I'm hungry,' Grace added in a plaintive tone.

'Oh well – that'll certainly make me hurry,' Matt said, sending a private wink Frances's way as he headed for the door.

Charlie Brewer's study was on the first floor, at the end of an impressive corridor flanked on both sides by items of antique furniture bearing numerous objets d'art. On the deep-red walls hung an extensive collection of portraits – amongst them, one each of the Brewer family in sumptuous evening wear and painted in the old style. The door stood slightly ajar and, as Matt approached, the noise of his footfalls lost in the dense pile of the carpet, he could hear voices emanating from within the room. He hesitated – Charlie wasn't alone, and, by the sound of it, there was some pretty significant business being conducted.

Matt was debating whether to postpone his own business with Kendra's father or whether to cough loudly, knock on the door, and go in, when the sound of Charlie's angrily raised voice temporarily distracted him from either course.

'I don't care how politically incorrect it is; in my house, I make the rules, and I say get rid of him.'

'You're overreacting. He's never been here – and never would have.' The second voice was calmer and sounded familiar to Matt, although he couldn't immediately put a name to it.

'It's not up for discussion. If you want to keep your job, you know what to do.'

Matt started to turn away. This quite plainly wasn't any of his business and it just as plainly wasn't an auspicious moment to raise his own point of contention with Kendra's father.

The other voice came again.

'That's an empty threat, you know you're not going to fire me.'

'And you know you can't talk,' came the response. 'Not now.'

There was a long silence, during which Matt leaned closer, etiquette forgotten in the face of this fascinating exchange. He'd recognised the second voice now. It was Niall Delafield, Charlie's security man.

'Well, just make sure you keep your end of the bargain, or we'll all be fucked!' It was Delafield who eventually spoke, and so much nearer to the door that Matt was shocked into swift retreat.

The corridor was way too long to traverse in the second or two he might have, so, to be spared the ignominy of being caught eavesdropping – albeit accidentally – he waited until he saw the door open, and then began to walk forward.

'Oh, hello!' he exclaimed, on coming face to face with Delafield.

Delafield glowered, nodded briefly, and stood back to let him pass.

Charlie was sitting staring at his desk when Matt knocked on the open door. He looked up.

'Oh, hello, Matt. I didn't realise it was that late.' He glanced at the ornate Regency carriage clock on the mantelpiece and got to his feet. 'I'd better come down. Er . . . did you want something?'

'No. Just to say the meal's ready,' Matt told him, and Brewer, his mind clearly distracted, seemed to find nothing odd in this.

* * *

The mood at the dinner table that evening was edgy and uncomfortable, a state of affairs which Grace did nothing to improve. It was clear to Matt that he and Kendra were not the only ones wrestling with problems; even had he not overheard the exchange in the office, he would have guessed that something was bothering Kendra's father, because he spoke little and his usually prodigious appetite had apparently deserted him. Joy, too, seemed tense and unhappy, displaying dark circles under her eyes, as if she hadn't slept well.

With conversation floundering, it was left to Grace to hold the floor, which she did by regaling the company with the details of her visit to Rupert's father's jewellery showrooms. Since, for her, the most memorable aspect of the tour seemed to have been the extravagant prices of the various sumptuous pieces on show, Matt very quickly grew bored, but Joy and Kendra exhibited the requisite wonderment – whether real or feigned – so Grace was encouraged to continue. When she had exhausted that topic, though, she reverted to her usual pastime of stirring up trouble and, as was often the case, Matt was her target.

It was as the dessert was being served that she casually dropped the most unwelcome nugget of information into the silence.

'So, Matt, Kendra tells us you've been tangling with thugs.'

Surprised and disappointed, Matt looked across at Kendra, who coloured up, saying, 'I didn't! I was talking to Mum. You shouldn't have been listening, Grace. You bitch!'

'Should have kept your voice down then, shouldn't you, little sister?' Grace replied, and Matt saw Rupert looking a little uncomfortable, as though for the first time he were seeing another side to her. For his own part, he couldn't imagine what had taken the man so long.

'Girls, please!' Joy pleaded.

'That's enough!' Charlie thundered from the head of the table. It was the first time he'd involved himself in the conversation, and it produced instant silence. 'I don't much care who said what and who shouldn't have been listening, but I do want to know why I wasn't told about this. Matt? What's this all about?'

Matt hesitated, wondering how little he could get away with, and Grace answered for him.

'A couple of men attacked him in the car park after the races. That's where he got those bruises.'

'Is that true?' Charlie frowned heavily at Matt, who had no option but to give an affirmative.

'Well, what did they want? Did you report it? Why wasn't I told?'

'It was a private matter,' Matt stated. 'No real damage done. Everyone's making a mountain out of a molehill.'

Across the table Kendra looked intensely unhappy and he gave her a quick reassuring smile.

Her father paused, regarding Matt thoughtfully through narrowed eyes, and, for a moment, he thought he might just have got away with it, but Grace hadn't finished yet.

'It wasn't anything to do with Matt Shepherd – Private Eye, then?' she asked, her face the picture of innocence.

'Was it?' Charlie demanded.

'Like I said a minute ago, it's private.'

'Not when it affects your riding, it isn't!'

'It hasn't affected my riding. It happened last night, after the meeting. Look, can we just drop this?'

'This whole damn thing is affecting your riding,' Charlie argued. 'Look at the way you rode Kenning's horse the other day, and what about Temperance Bob yesterday?'

'I don't know what was the matter with Bob – but it certainly wasn't down to me,' Matt protested.

'Not what the stewards thought, was it? And what about the others, huh? Not exactly the performance we've come to expect from you, was it?'

Matt stared, a little hurt. Surely this wasn't still fallout from the upset about the sponsorship deal. Charlie was brusque by nature, but he knew what an up-and-down business racing was, and he was normally very supportive.

'Well, what about Woodcutter? Nothing wrong with my riding there, was there?' he asked, forced to defend himself and, as he said it, remembering that he still hadn't contacted Doogie about the horse. Events had put it right out of his head.

There was a sudden scraping noise as Kendra pushed her chair back and got to her feet. She mumbled something with her hand half covering her mouth and hurried from the room.

'Excuse me.' Matt rose to follow her, glad of the chance to escape, and, as he rounded the end of the table, Joy looked up and put out a sympathetic hand to touch his arm.

'We'll talk about this another time,' Charlie promised grimly.

From the corner of his eye, Matt could see Grace smirking quietly and, for the first time in his life, he contemplated doing violence to a woman. He'd liked to have rammed her face firmly into her bowl of apple pie and custard.