Many years of experience in the art of falling ensured that Matt didn't stay down and helpless for very long. No sooner had he hit the ground than he was rolling, legs and arms drawn in, and coming to his feet once more.
In this instance the manoeuvre quite possibly saved his life, for, as he stood upright and backed away, the moonlight gleamed on a wicked-looking five- or six-inch blade in Delafield's hand.
Matt's chest constricted in fear. The muscular ex-army man would be a daunting opponent at any time but – armed with a knife? He stood slightly crouched, holding it almost casually, blade pointing to the sky, and, with his other hand, he beckoned. As Matt took another step backwards, he saw Delafield's lips draw back in a thoroughly unpleasant smile.
'I've hunted down guerrilla fighters in Bosnia and South America, you didn't really think you were going to get away, did you?' he asked, and, in that query, Matt found the answer to the question that had been nagging him. Pride had kept Niall Delafield from cutting and running. A veteran of the Special Forces, he couldn't bear the thought of being bested by a mere civilian.
Matt cleared his throat.
'Bartholomew's on his way,' he said, wishing with all his heart that it were true. 'The police know what happened with Sophie Bradford.'
Delafield shook his head.
'I have an alibi, remember?'
'Not any more. I was talking to Joe earlier.'
That had shaken him, Matt observed with satisfaction, as he saw the other man straighten up and pause.
'Joe doesn't know anything about it.'
'You underestimate him. He's not stupid, and he's very, very angry. Seems you broke one date too many.'
'He wouldn't talk to the police,' Delafield asserted.
'He already has,' Matt lied.
Distracted by the conversation, Delafield's next move caught Matt off guard and he had to jump back so hastily to try and avoid the slashing blade that he caught his heel and almost fell again, stumbling into the nearest of the horses, which, in turn, jostled the others. They shifted warily, their ironshod feet churning the dirt.
'Not quite quick enough, eh? Mister hotshot jockey.'
Matt had felt nothing more than a tug at the front of his sweatshirt, but even as the meaning of Delafield's words registered, so did a fiery streak of pain across his ribs. Without taking his eyes off the other man, he put an exploratory hand through the unzipped front of his jacket and encountered a gaping slash in the fabric. It felt wet to the touch and his fingers came away bloody. Clearly, the blade of Delafield's knife was razor sharp, and Matt was in big trouble.
Suddenly, behind him, there was a commotion amongst the horses and one of them burst away from the group in a flurry of stomping hooves. Matt took little notice; he had more important things on his mind and it was doubtless just a little rank-pulling, but his interest sharpened as he saw the reaction of the man facing him.
Niall Delafield, ex-minder, ex-Special Forces, was unmistakably terrified of the horses. Seeing his wide-eyed apprehension, Matt recalled Deacon's comment at the races one day: 'If I wanted to lose him, I'd just go down to the stables. Niall won't go near the horses – he's allergic'
Was he was allergic to horses or just plain scared? A bogus allergy would be one way to save face, Matt thought, and, empowered by the discovery that his super-tough adversary had an Achilles heel, he searched for a way to use this weakness to save himself. Getting back on board the shire – even if it could be accomplished – might save his skin, but would only return the situation to stalemate. What Matt needed was the Land Rover and, to get to it, he had to get past Delafield.
The horses had settled again, but Matt knew it would take very little to set them off, and he intended to provide a lot. He glanced over Delafield's shoulder to check the position of the Land Rover, and saw that it was – to all intents and purposes – blocking the exit from the yard. It was also pointing the wrong way for the ideal getaway vehicle, but that couldn't be helped.
Delafield noticed his glance and smirked, happier now the horses had stopped moving.
'Fancy your chances, do you?' he asked, jerking his head in the direction of the gate. He moved a step closer and Matt's heart rate accelerated off the scale. He'd survived the first lunge, but he was pretty sure that it hadn't been meant as a killing blow. Something told him that, when Delafield attacked again, it would be with the intent of finishing the business. Just how he would deliver the fatal cut Matt didn't know, and wasn't especially keen to find out; he did know that he hadn't a hope in hell of stopping him.
'It wasn't me that killed that tart,' Delafield said. 'The boy did it.'
Aware that he'd used conversation as a distraction the last time he'd struck, Matt didn't answer.
'Fuckin' idiot had been drinking. He knows he's not allowed. If that woman had crooked her finger, he'd have gone with her like a shot. Had to live like a bloody monk, the way the old man kept tabs on him. Not surprising he flipped, if she led him on. Did she fall or did he push her? He doesn't remember, but, whatever happened, she smacked her head on the stone wall. He was sitting beside her trying to wake her up when I got there,' Delafield added with contempt.
'So you dumped her body over the edge, took her credit cards, and planted them in Jamie's car,' Matt said, drawn in, in spite of himself. 'And I suppose it was you who beat Jamie up and stole his car that night in Bournemouth.'
'Well, I had to make sure the cops found the evidence, didn't I?'
'And the two thugs you sent after me?' Matt asked, and, playing Delafield at his own game, leapt back and sideways, mid-sentence, to plunge into the midst of the horses.
'Go-arn!' he shouted, waving his arms in the faces of the nearest ones and slapping the rump of another.
The horses threw up their heads and split into two groups, stampeding away from Matt in momentary panic. Out of the corner of his eye, Matt saw Delafield shrink back, gazing wildly around as the startled animals shot past him on either side. Finding the exit blocked, the horses bunched together and milled round before setting off with one accord to circumnavigate the yard once more. Once Matt could see which way they were going to run, he ran to meet them, spreading his arms and shouting to throw them into even more confusion, and, under cover of this, he made it to the driver's side of the Land Rover, opened the door, and slid behind the wheel.
The downfall of this plan would have been if Delafield had removed the keys, but the gods were with Matt on this occasion, and, with a low-voiced 'Yes!', he started the engine, flicked the lights on, and put the vehicle in reverse, familiar with the controls from his own, albeit older, Land Rover at home.
Flooring the accelerator, he backed, at speed, a little way up the track down which he had recently ridden, braked, and then drove forward, steering hard right to make the turn into the gravel track leading to the lane. Catching its nearside wheels in a pothole, the 4x4 tilted so violently that, for one heart-stopping moment, Matt thought it would roll, but somehow it recovered, settling comfortingly back onto four wheels, if somewhat skewed across the track. Matt stamped on the brakes, wrenching the wheel back the other way, and, as the Land Rover straightened out, he heard a thump from the passenger side. The inner light came on and, glancing across, he was in time to see the door swing open and Delafield start to pull himself inside, the knife held between his teeth.
Once again he steered hard right and had the satisfaction of seeing the other man jerked back, wildly off balance and forced to clutch at the doorframe, but, within the narrow confines of the track, Matt soon had to swerve back the other way. The rapid change of direction and the deeply pitted surface of the track combined to shake Delafield's grip loose and throw him bodily against the inside of the windscreen and then down onto the seat.
'Motherfucker!' he growled, and Matt's desperation at not having got rid of the man was tempered by the realisation that, to have articulated the words, Delafield must have dropped the knife.
A second attempt to throw him out by swerving was thwarted by the door having slammed shut. The Land Rover bumped and jolted down the track, becoming airborne more than once, and, after smacking his head on the front shelf a time or two, Delafield gave up trying to search for the weapon in the footwell and launched an attack with his fists, catching Matt with a stinging blow to the side of his head, which, in turn, resulted in him hitting the other side of his head on the window beside him. Seeing stars, Matt stamped savagely on the brakes and had the satisfaction of seeing Delafield impact heavily with the wind-screen for a second time.
It didn't improve his temper or his language.
Jamming the gear lever into first, Matt transferred his foot to the accelerator and the Land Rover leapt into the harness once more. Ahead, the lights picked out an apparently solid obstruction spanning the width of the track, and it took him a moment or two to realise that it was the hedge on the other side of the road. Within seconds they would be on the tarmac and he would have to make the choice of whether to go left or right – and what then? On the smooth, narrow lane, how long would it be before Delafield recovered the knife?
In the event, he found out even sooner than he'd feared, for, as the Land Rover bucketed over the last few yards of gravel, Delafield came upright again and this time he had the blade in his hand.
Matt made a snap decision. Applying the handbrake, he dragged the wheel round to the left, forcing the locked back wheels to describe a 180-degree arc around the front end. The vehicle crossed the lane travelling backwards with a deafening screech of tyres and hit the bank on the other side with a whip-cracking jolt. The stunt had effectively pinned Delafield against the passenger door and Matt's intention, in the absence of any better ideas, had been to open the driver's door and take off on foot once more, but, before he could implement this part of the plan, the cab was filled with dazzling light and something hit the Land Rover, broadside on and very hard indeed.
When the chaos of noise and movement stopped, Matt found himself on Delafield's side of the vehicle, half-lying against the man, his eyes assaulted by a flashing blue light, and the hissing sound of escaping steam in his ears. Broken glass littered the seat and cascaded from his clothing as he cautiously sat up, whereupon he could see that Delafield's head was lolling out of the side window.
The driver's door was wrenched open and a uniformed policeman shone a torch in.
'You all right, sir?'
Matt nodded, hardly believing it. He felt a little light-headed and there were a few decidedly sore spots, but he'd had a lot worse.
'Yeah, I think so,' he said, beginning to edge towards the open door.
The policeman put a helping hand under Matt's elbow as he stepped down onto the road, wincing a little as his injured ankle took his weight, and a green-jacketed paramedic passed him en route to go to Delafield's aid. They made their way round to the other side of the Land Rover, where another paramedic was asking the unresponsive Delafield if he could hear him. Here, Matt discovered that the vehicle that had crashed into them was, in fact, a police car. Behind it, parked on the verge of the narrow lane, were a police Range Rover, a paramedic's car, and a dark-coloured saloon. Edging past them, blue lights still flashing, came an ambulance. It seemed that the cavalry had arrived, en masse.
'Well, Mr Shepherd, you've certainly been busy,' a familiar voice observed, and DI Bartholomew hove into view.
Matt would never have believed he could be pleased to see the detective, but the circumstances were indeed extreme.
'How did you know where to find us? Did someone call you?'
'You did,' Bartholomew stated dryly. 'You left your phone on and there seemed to be something major going on, so we took a fix on it, and here we are.'
'And just in time,' Matt remarked, wishing he could sit down.
'We aim to please. Wait a minute . . .' The DI put out a hand to move Matt's jacket front a little. 'Can we have a medic over here?' he asked, raising his voice.
'It probably looks worse than it is,' Matt told him. The knife wound had paled into insignificance in the frantic struggle for survival that had followed.
'Nevertheless . . . So, would you like to tell me what's been going on here?'
'Oh my God! Deacon!' Matt said, suddenly remembering.
Bartholomew nodded soberly.
'Yes, we found him.'
Matt didn't miss the significance of the tone. 'Is he . . . ?'
'I'm afraid he didn't make it.'
'I tried to call an ambulance . . .'
Bartholomew shook his head.
'From what the medic said, they wouldn't have been able to save him had they been here when it happened.'
'Poor bastard!' Matt said bitterly, and all at once the events of the evening seemed overwhelming and pointless. He looked up at Bartholomew, wanting to explain about Deacon's illness, about how Delafield had run him down by mistake, but somehow he couldn't focus on the big man's face. He frowned, blinking to try to clear his vision, and felt the road tilt under his feet.
Someone caught him as he fell and the last thing he heard before he passed out was Bartholomew shouting, 'Where's that bloody medic?'
It was a mellow late October day, and Matt was circling at the two-mile start on Henfield Racecourse, along with fifteen other jockeys. It was normal for the adrenalin to start pumping through his veins at this point, but today, deep inside, fizzed an extra excitement, for it was the day of the prestigious Henfield October Cup and he was riding Woodcutter. They had been circling for a minute or two already, because the seventeenth runner, Rollo's mount, had spread a plate, or lost a shoe, in layman's terms, and the farrier had been sent for.
Woodcutter was taking the delay well, as were the two runners from Rockfield: Inkster, ridden by Ray Landon; and Jamie's mount, Secundo.
Jamie caught Matt's eye as he passed.
'You really think that little half-pint animal is going to beat the mighty Secundo?' he enquired derisively.
'We'll see,' Matt replied. Jamie had received a formal offer to ride for Rockfield just a week ago and it was good to have the Irishman back on side. For Matt's part, his relationship with Kendra's father had undergone something of a change since Deacon's death and the revelations that came hot on its heels.
Walking the little bay horse round with the autumn sunshine warm through his thin silks, his mind drifted back to the days following that terrifying night.
He had awoken in the ambulance on his way to hospital, but, after the examination and stitches in the knife wound and wire tear, he'd succumbed to fatigue and slept through the night and half of the next day.
Waking in a hospital room, the first person he'd seen had been Kendra, who was sitting in the easy chair at his bedside, staring out of the window with reddened eyes. He'd softly spoken her name, and the hug she gave him – if a little physically uncomfortable in the circumstances – reassured him that, whatever else might fall apart, their relationship wasn't about to.
Deacon's death had hit the family hard, coupled – as it was – with the shock of discovering his involvement in Sophie Bradford's killing, but after three weeks, Matt was relieved to see that what could have split the family asunder had actually united them more strongly. Even Grace, not usually a team player, had seemed to rise to the occasion, although, as Frances remarked wickedly to Matt, in her case there was plenty of scope for upward motion.
Delafield was still in hospital with head injuries and the knowledge that DI Bartholomew was eagerly awaiting his discharge. Matt wasn't looking forward to the inevitable court appearance, but knowing how slowly the wheels of the justice system rumbled along, he was able to relegate it quite comfortably to the back of his mind for the time being.
When the police had finished questioning Matt, there had been a very difficult interview with Charlie Brewer to endure. Matt could recall it with uncomfortable clarity. The businessman had asked him to come to his study, offered him a seat; a drink, which he had refused; and then stood looking out of the window whilst apparently searching for the words to begin. In the end, Matt had taken pity on him.
'I know why you did what you did,' he said. 'I don't condone it and I find it hard to forgive just at the moment, but I do understand why you tried to cut me out of the picture.'
Brewer swung round.
'It wasn't my idea. Niall told me to get rid of you. He said, if you stayed, you were bound to work out the truth about Deacon and then we'd all be up on charges.'
'It was that evening I heard the two of you in here, wasn't it? That's when it all started to go belly-up.'
'So you did overhear,' the businessman said. 'I wondered if you had . . .'
'Not much, frankly, and what I did hear didn't make much sense, but I could tell that Delafield had something on you.'
'I'd just found out that he was gay,' Brewer said, his face twisting into an involuntary expression of distaste. 'I wasn't going to have that kind of influence around my son, so I told Niall he'd have to go. That's when he told me what Deke had done. He threatened to go to the police with it; said he'd tell them that I'd known all along. What could I do? I couldn't just hand my own son over to the police.'
'He needed proper help,' Matt pointed out. 'Didn't it occur to you that it might have been better for him, in the long run? Bartholomew says he'd probably have got off on diminished responsibility; it would have been manslaughter rather than murder. And, anyway, didn't you ever think of the girls?'
Brewer had cast him a look of deep anguish.
'Of course I thought of the girls – they were constantly on my mind – and God knows I'd never have put them in any danger, but . . . Well, Niall said it was probably an accident – the Bradford girl, I mean. He told me that Deacon gave him the slip and went off with the girl. The boy was naive, a dreamer. If she led him on and then got scared . . . Maybe they struggled and she fell . . . ? I don't know. But Niall said, if the police found out about Deacon's illness, they'd lock him up and throw away the key. And well – he's my son, for God's sake!'
'Delafield has no idea what happened,' Matt stated. 'He wasn't even there – I bet he didn't tell you that. He left Deacon and went out with his boyfriend. The whole thing was his fault, and he would have said anything to keep his job.'
Brewer nodded miserably.
'I know that now.'
'And the cat? Was that an accident, too?'
Brewer flinched as if Matt had hit him.
'That was later. Until then, I didn't know he was capable of something like that and, by that time, I was in too deep.' He hesitated, then said dully, 'You don't think the girl was an accident?'
Matt shook his head.
'I don't know. I don't suppose we'll ever know now. Deacon couldn't remember. He just seemed totally bewildered by what had happened.' He paused, looking at Brewer contemplatively. 'I still find it hard to believe that you'd go along with a vicious bastard like Delafield. Ruining my career was bad enough, but trying to turn Kendra against me – frightening her like that!'
'I didn't know he was going to do that,' the businessman protested. 'You know I would never have agreed to anything like that.'
'But you weren't above making use of it to try and separate us.'
Brewer met Matt's eyes for a moment and then looked away.
'I know it was wrong. I'm sorry.'
'I was never good enough for her, in your eyes, was I?' Matt stated without heat. 'A commoner. A steeplechase jockey. You wanted a title, or, at the very least, money.'
Brewer turned back.
'All right, I admit it, I did want more for her. I wanted the best, what father wouldn't?'
'No, you're wrong there. Most fathers want their children to be happy. And the bottom line is that if you hadn't been so worried about what the world would think, none of this mess would have happened.' Matt had stood up, intending to leave before he said something that would irrevocably damage their future relationship; after all, the man was going to be his father-in-law one day, however little either of them relished the fact.
'Do you think I don't know that?' Brewer demanded. 'Do you think I don't blame myself every waking moment? It's my fault that the girl is dead and it's my fault Deacon is dead, and, whatever you may think of me – I did love him. I love all my family, and all I've done is fuck things up for everybody!'
Matt sighed, moved to compassion in spite of himself, but he couldn't truthfully think of anything comforting to say. He turned his back and went to the door.
'I don't blame you for hating me,' Brewer said. 'But, for Kendra's sake, can't we try and start again? I'd like to offer you your job back, on whatever terms you like. Will you consider it? The horses run better for you than for anyone else.'
Matt paused on the threshold, reluctantly impressed. He was only too aware how much the admission would have cost Brewer, after all he'd said in the past.
'I'm sorry. The answer's no,' he said, after a moment. 'I'll ride for you, when you've got something good to offer, but I don't want my job back – not yet awhile, anyway. I've a fancy to stay freelance. Why don't you give it to Jamie?'
Now, Matt sighed. The whole business had been so destructive; he had no idea how long it would take for the repercussions to die away. As well as Delafield, Charlie would be facing charges in due course, but it was expected that the courts would show a degree of leniency in the circumstances.
A quickening in Woodcutter's pace alerted Matt to the fact that Rollo's horse had been reshod and things were on the move, so he shrugged off the memories, shortened his reins, and pulled down his goggles. He was confident that the little bay was good, but there was no excuse for handicapping him by missing the jump-off at the start.
'Jockeys!' The familiar call set his nerves atingling and Woodcutter began to canter in a rocking-horse motion on the spot. Within moments, the tape flew back and they were away.
Woodcutter hadn't run on a track since Matt's win with him at Maiden Newton, and, although he'd exercised him a number of times at Doogie's, he hadn't shown any great enthusiasm on the gallops. This was clearly a horse that saved his best for the racecourse.
Keen and yet biddable, he had the ability to take the race on from the front, yet allowed Matt to play a waiting game, slotting in a third of the way down the field, on the outer edge to keep clear of trouble, and jumping as if there were prizes for style. Matt's only worry was that some unforeseeable problem would crop up, such as a loose horse taking him out at one of the fences, but it didn't happen, and Woodcutter gave him the ride of a lifetime.
Turning into the final straight with two to jump, his heart was singing. The little bay was placed fourth, tracking Secundo, Inkster, and Rollo's chestnut, and, as Matt let him have a little more rein, Inkster quickly dropped out of the equation. Woodcutter took the last level with the chestnut, but he was quick in the air and landed half a length clear.
'You've got him, Matt!' Rollo called as he fell behind and, hearing him, Jamie glanced over his shoulder before stepping up the pressure on the favourite.
Secundo responded willingly, but Matt knew he was on the better horse. With half a furlong to run, he finally gave Woodcutter his head and had to stifle a cry of pure exhilaration as the little bay lengthened his stride and passed Jamie's horse as if it was standing still.
Crossing the line, some four lengths the winner, Matt stood in his stirrups and punched the air. The October Cup was theirs, but that was quite plainly only the start of what this horse was capable of achieving. This was a one in a million kind of horse and, if Matt had his way, no one was ever going to ride it but himself; he was entitled to celebrate.
Back in the winner's unsaddling area, Jamie was magnanimous in defeat, seeming almost as excited as Matt was about the horse's performance, and later, after the presentation, he accompanied Matt, Doogie, and Woodcutter's new owner to the bar for a celebratory tonic water.
When the race had been relived half a dozen times and ambitious plans mooted for the little horse's future, the talk turned to the other hot topic of the day. It was rumoured that Lord Kenning had, citing ill health, stepped down from his position at the Jockey Club. No one was sure of the facts, but the peer was noticeably absent from what was one of his local meetings.
Matt had his own ideas about Kenning's sudden decision and when, as they left the bar, he spotted Stephen Naismith in a queue at the Tote kiosks, he excused himself from the company of the others and went across.
'Matt, hi!' Maple Tree's owner smiled. 'Caught in the act!'
'Collecting on Woodcutter's win, I hope,' Matt said.
'And placing a little sum on Maple in the last,' he replied, nodding. 'It's all rather worryingly addictive. I see what my mother saw in it now.' In a lower voice he added, 'What do you know about a mare called Peacock Penny? I'm told she'd be a good investment.'
'Is she for sale?' Matt asked, surprised. He remembered the serious young man who had been in the paddock the day he'd ridden the mare.
'Apparently. Her owner is rather put out by Westerby's imminent retirement from training, and has decided to sell both his horses and buy dogs instead.'
At this point he reached the kiosk and stepped forward to conduct his business, leaving Matt to digest the information he had imparted. Joining Matt again, minutes later, he folded a wad of cash into his back pocket with an evident air of satisfaction.
'I hadn't heard about Westerby,' Matt said thoughtfully. 'When did you hear?'
'Last night, when I visited to finalise the arrangements for removing Maple to Mr McKenzie's yard. The greedy sod tried to garner commission for putting me onto Peacock Penny!'
'This wouldn't have anything to do with Lord Kenning's sudden retirement, would it? I'm assuming we have you to thank for that . . .'
'Ill health, so I heard.' Naismith assumed an expression of innocence.
'And the rest!'
'Well, all right, I might have pointed out to him the benefits of a dignified withdrawal from the public eye, but, actually, when the facts were presented to him, he didn't really have much option. And I had a couple of aces to play.'
'The photos?'
'Those, and the little matter of a witness to his involvement with Westerby.'
'Not Rick Smith?'
'Yes, indeed. Nice lad. He was very helpful and good enough to sign a statement indicating his willingness to testify in court, if the need arose.'
'How on earth did you manage that?' Remembering the head lad's reticence with him, Matt could hardly believe it.
'Merely by offering the services of a top-class lawyer, if it should transpire that he needed one – not that I thought he would for a minute. Any half-competent judge would easily recognise how he'd been manipulated.'
'And how would a lad like Rick be able to afford this top-flight lawyer, may I ask?'
Naismith looked a little sheepish.
'Oh, well, there's this one guy I know who has been known to take on the odd case for a pittance, now and then, in the interests of justice.'
'A guy you know,' Matt repeated, eyebrows raised.
'Yes. Actually, it's not as noble as it sounds. Often the mere threat of his involvement is enough to see the case settled amicably, as now,' he observed.
'And Kenning's vendetta against me – all to hide his smutty little secrets?'
'Ah, but, you see, he'd had word there could be honours in the offing,' Naismith said. 'Needless to say, he won't be accepting – if the question does arise!'
Matt shook his head, smiling, but his attention was caught by Jamie, who had apparently hooked up with Casey McKeegan, and who was now standing by the door to the premier stands, trying to convey, by way of hand signals, that they were going up to the Brewers' box.
'You're wanted,' Naismith said, following his gaze.
'In a minute. Why don't you come up for a drink?'
The lawyer shook his head.
'Thanks, but I'm here with a party – my wife and some colleagues. I'm trying to drum up some interest in forming a syndicate,' he confided, with a smile.
'OK. Well, I'll let you get back to them,' Matt said. 'And thank you for what you've done. Racing can do without people like Kenning and Westerby'
'The world can do without them, if you ask me!' Naismith suggested, his eyes twinkling. 'But I suppose we must be content with less drastic measures.'
Matt laughed.
'I guess so.'
'Oh, and Matt – I don't have to ask you to keep this under your hat . . . ?'
'Of course not, and I'll look forward to seeing you at Doogie's.'
He waved a hand and, as he turned to follow Jamie and Casey, Woodcutter's owner left Doogie McKenzie and fell in beside him.
'Come up to the box,' Matt invited. 'There's someone I want you to meet.'
'Is this the best time? I mean – owner of the horse that beat theirs . . .' The man was a couple of years older than Matt, and an inch or two taller. He was dressed smartly in a suit, his tie bearing the red and white logo of Q&S Holdings.
'You're my guest,' Matt said, slapping him on the back. 'Anyway, quite apart from anything else, you represent my sponsors. You've every right to be there. Come on, faint heart.'
The box Charlie Brewer had hired was, predictably, the most expensive on the course, being both spacious and directly opposite the finishing post. In spite of its size, however, it was well peopled, hosting – at that moment – the whole Brewer clan, Rupert Beaufort, Jamie and Casey, John, Reney and Harry Leonard, and – somewhat surprisingly – Toby Potter and a redheaded woman, unknown to Matt, who was presumably his partner.
Kendra spotted Matt first, weaving her way through the crowd to his side. He slipped his arm round her and gave her a kiss. Since his return to racing, ten days ago, she hadn't missed a single meeting, knowledge of his deadly duel with Niall Delafield altering her attitude in a way even she was at a loss to understand.
'Do you know – I actually enjoyed watching that last race,' she told him, adding to his companion, 'That's the first time I've been able to watch the whole thing without hiding behind my hands. I'm getting better!'
Matt laughed, kissing her again.
'Luke, this – you will have gathered – is my fiancée, Kendra. Kendra, this is the head of Q&S Holdings UK Ltd, my brother Luke.'
They leaned forward to exchange kisses, Kendra saying archly, 'Ah, you must be the good-looking one of the family . . .' for which she earned an indignant slap on the behind from Matt.
Just then, someone rapped on one of the tables with the handle of a knife, and they all turned to see Frances standing, a little pink-faced, beside Harry's wheelchair. Harry himself appeared to be more interested in his hands, which he held clasped in his lap.
'Er, Harry and I have something to tell you,' she began, turning pinker under the interested scrutiny of family and friends.
'Not another wedding to pay for!' Charlie said, in horrified accents, and Joy frowned at him.
'Is it, Frannie?' she asked, looking more animated than Matt had seen her at any time since Deacon's death.
'Well, that's part of it,' Frances admitted, and, for a moment, any further revelations were drowned out by the mass of congratulations.
Then Harry raised his voice.
'Can we have some quiet, please? I have asked Fran to be my wife, and – for some reason known only to herself – she has accepted.' He paused while several disrespectful comments were passed. 'But I was determined that I wouldn't do so until I could do one thing . . .'
Matt held his breath, almost certain he knew what was coming.
Harry put his hands on the arms of his wheelchair and pushed himself upright, as he normally did when transferring to a chair or his car, but there was no other support within reach.
Matt looked across at Harry's parents and saw the bewilderment in their faces; he had obviously been successful in keeping his progress from them. Reney even took a step forward, as if to help her son, but John put a hand on her arm, watching Harry intently.
'I told Fran that I would only marry her when I was able to walk down the aisle and stand by my best man for the ceremony,' he said, breathing a little faster than normal. 'Well, I'm not quite there yet, but we've booked the church for six months' time,' he added, and, fixing his gaze on the table, some eight feet away, walked six wavering steps through an anxious silence to reach it.
Once there, he leaned thankfully on a chair back, breathing hard, and smiled radiantly. As if that was the signal, the assembled company broke into delighted applause, with the exception of Reney, who burst into tears.
'But . . . but how? When did this happen?' his father asked above the tumult. 'Why didn't you tell us?'
'I wanted it to be a surprise,' Harry said. 'At first, when I thought there was an improvement, I didn't want to say anything until I was sure it would continue, and then – when it did – I decided I'd wait until I'd got something really impressive to show you.'
Fran had moved to stand beside him now, clearly enjoying his moment of triumph just as much as he was, and Joy went over and hugged them both, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
'But, hang on,' Harry spoke up again. 'There's a very important person I have to thank for all this – besides Frannie, of course – Toby Potter, my craniosacral therapist. That's spelt Q U A C K to you, Charlie,' he added, laughing. 'But, seriously, without his healing hands, I'd still be stuck inside my self-limiting circle of pain and fear – to quote his wise words. Toby – come forward and take a bow.'
The vet went across, shaking his head and smiling.
'I should be thanking this fella for taking a chance on a horse doctor, and letting me practise my new-found techniques on him,' he remarked. 'But his recovery was 10 per cent therapy and 90 per cent determination. He just needed the belief.'
'Hey – you didn't tell me you were just practising, I thought you were a pro!' Harry exclaimed, and suddenly everyone was crowding round, talking and laughing, and wanting to hear about Toby Potter's miracle-working.
Having added his own congratulations and given Frances a hug, Matt squeezed out of the throng and made his way back to his brother's side, arriving in the same moment as Charlie Brewer.
'Ah, Charlie – this is Woodcutter's new owner, my brother Luke.'
Charlie raised an eyebrow and inclined his head.
'Well, congratulations on an impressive win – even though you beat my horse.'
'Thanks. Yes, sorry about that. I'm new to racing, but Matt told me Woodcutter was a good investment, and today I realised he was right. Even I could see that the horse is something special.'
'Matt, you didn't tell me your brother had bought the animal. I assumed it was your sponsors,' Charlie said then.
'Luke is Q&S Holdings,' Matt told him. 'At least, he's the UK branch. It's a family company.'
Brewer's face became very still as he took in this information.
'Your family owns Q&S Holdings International?'
'That's right,' Matt said lightly, enjoying the moment. 'Queenbury and Shepherd – Q&S. My father is the managing director. Dick Queenbury died last year and we bought his widow out.'
'We . . . ?' Charlie asked faintly.
'Yeah. Like I said, it's a family company. Equal shares – though I don't take a regular wage, being something of a sleeping partner, so to speak.'
Charlie was looking at Matt as if seeing him properly for the first time, and it was Kendra who spoke up, linking her arm through Matt's and laying her head on his shoulder.
'So you see, your little girl didn't do too badly for herself after all, did she?'
'Why did you never tell me?' her father asked.
'I didn't know,' she replied simply. 'And, anyway, it's never been about money for me. The guy I'm marrying is going to be the next Champion Jockey, and that's far more exciting!'