9

MacNeil had eaten a good lunch; his client had no appetite. When he picked up his water glass the detective noticed that his hand was trembling.

‘You think she’s really going to marry him?’ It was the second or third time Graham had asked the question. MacNeil gave the same answer.

‘They’re lovers; I found that out in Dublin. He spent the last two nights in her suite before they came back. I watched them at the airport. I’d say she was crazy about him.’

‘The bastard,’ Graham said slowly. ‘He’d stoop to anything. It’s my fault; I should have told her the truth right at the beginning. The day he walked back into Beaumont I should have told her.’

‘Why didn’t you?’ MacNeil asked. He buttered a biscuit and spread it lavishly with cheese. The English cheeses were very good.

‘I didn’t want to let my old friend down,’ Andrew Graham said. ‘We’d covered it all for so long. He was a very proud man. He didn’t want anyone to know about Richard. What his wife did was bad enough.’

‘Funny,’ MacNeil said, with his mouth full. ‘A rich man like him; and so full of troubles.’

Andrew sighed. ‘He was the best man I ever knew. Generous, loyal to his friends, a helluva good sportsman. And he had the lousiest luck in his private life. And he worshipped Isabel. Now I see this. Shacking up with his son. There are times, MacNeil, when I feel inclined to let her get married to him first and find out for herself!’ He shook his head. ‘But I can’t,’ he said. ‘I owe it to Charles.’

‘You better go and see her then,’ MacNeil said. ‘Take the papers along with you. That ought to do it. She’ll run a mile.’

‘I hope so,’ Graham said. ‘I’ve been trying to think how to handle it. We fell out about him last time; she forbade me the house. What do I do if she won’t even listen –’ he wasn’t asking MacNeil, he was thinking aloud. ‘If he’s living with her I won’t get a chance –’

‘He’s not with her in Paris,’ MacNeil said. ‘I was sitting right behind them on the plane. I heard her asking him to come and he said no. As a matter of fact, he’s going to be at her house in the country tonight.’

Graham looked up at him. ‘Without her? What for?’

‘Good question,’ MacNeil said. ‘I can’t figure it out. Why don’t you fly to France and see her there?’

‘I think I will,’ Andrew Graham said. ‘And you’d better see what the hell Schriber’s doing. I don’t like it, MacNeil. I don’t like him going down there alone.’

‘No,’ MacNeil agreed. ‘You never know with guys like that –’ He finished his coffee. ‘You’re sure,’ he said, ‘that this is what’s behind it all?’

‘I’m certain,’ Andrew said slowly. ‘It all fits into the pattern. And that’s what I’ve got to make her see. You don’t know where she’s staying in Paris?’

‘Call the trainer – he’ll know. And don’t try to cover. Say who you are. I’ll get myself into some pub near the house at Epsom and take it from there.’

MacNeil signed for the bill and Graham went up to his room. He called Nigel Foster and explained who he was. He wanted to contact Isabel in Paris. Nigel was having his coffee with Tim Ryan and Sally. He covered the mouthpiece and said to Tim, ‘Someone called Andrew Graham asking for Isabel’s hotel – says he’s an old friend –’

Tim got up and reached for the phone. ‘I’ll talk to him,’ he said.

‘Andrew? How are you – it’s Tim.’

On the other end, Andrew sighed with relief. ‘Thank God – listen, I’ve got to see Isabel. I can’t go into too many details, but it’s about Richard.’

Tim’s voice changed. ‘What about him?’ he said.

‘She’s got to be told something. She won’t like it, but I’d be grateful for your help. We’ve got to get her away from him. I can trust you, Tim, I know that. Charles always trusted you. He must be turning in his grave right now.’

‘All right,’ Tim said quickly. ‘You can count on me. We’re staying at the Ritz. We’re taking the seven o’clock plane; you come up to the suite at about nine o’clock. I’ll be there and I’ll make sure Isabel is too.’

‘That’s fine,’ Graham sounded relieved. ‘I’ll be there. Nine o’clock.’ He hung up. Tim Ryan was an unexpected bonus. He’d be a powerful ally. Very powerful. He was going to tell him the same story and show him the same papers. That ought to clinch everything. He started packing his bag with pyjamas, shaving gear and a change of shirt. His hands were quite steady now. Then he put through a call and booked himself onto the six o’clock flight to Charles de Gaulle.

Mrs Jennings was waiting for Richard when he arrived at Coolbridge House. He drove down from London, taking his time; it was a hot evening and the traffic had moved sluggishly on the way out of the city. He had spent the afternoon, not at Cartiers as he told Isabel, but in a meeting with his solicitor. They had been discussing certain clauses in the multi-million-dollar trust his mother had set up for him. He drove slowly round the leafy lanes which had so delighted Isabel on her first visit; occasionally he blasted his horn at a blind corner, and then he passed the Victorian lodge and through the gates up the driveway. The house came upon him, richly glowing in the evening sunlight, a seventeenth-century red-brick jewel in a setting of great trees and lushly stocked gardens.

The housekeeper showed him inside and took his suitcase. He looked round the hall, which Isabel had so often described. Dark and cool, with the faint smell of must that comes with ancient brick and panelling. He followed Mrs Jennings up the stairs and she took him into a room at the end of the corridor. Richard looked round him.

‘This is very nice,’ he said. ‘Mrs Schriber’s been telling me how beautiful the house is – I’m looking forward to seeing it.’

‘She’s been very happy here,’ Mrs Jennings said. ‘I must say, sir, she’s a charming lady. I don’t mind telling you I was ever so worried about the sort of people we might have here, when Sir James decided they’d have to let. But Mrs Schriber looks after it like it was her own home. And there’s a note over there, sir. The drawing room’s at the bottom of the stairs on the right. I’ll put some ice out for you with the drinks tray. And dinner’ll be ready at eight fifteen, if that’s all right.’

Richard smiled at her. ‘That will be just perfect, thank you.’ He picked up the envelope. ‘Richard.’ It was one sheet of paper and only two lines, obviously scribbled in a hurry.

‘Darling – I hope you like it. Mrs J. will do everything for you. Wish us luck for tomorrow. I’ll ring you after the race. All my love. I.’

The window was open and there was a soft breeze carrying garden scents. It was the sort of house she would fall in love with. He went down the stairs and in to the white and yellow drawing room. He poured himself a Scotch, filled it with ice and sat down in one of the deep armchairs.

There was no sound anywhere. It was the sort of house his mother would have loved. Peaceful, dignified, not vulgarized in any way by new wealth. His real father must have lived in a house like it. She had described him one day, her eyes full of tears, her voice guiltily low. They were alone together in her room at Beaumont. After she and Charles had been married for three years, Richard’s real father had come to the house. He came to visit the stud; he was tall and blond, with a gentle manner, and from a similar background in England as her own in Carolina. He had been so nice, she whispered to Richard. So kind. And neither of them had meant to fall in love so quickly. In the space of a week. And then he went away. Back to England. She had never heard from him again. When she found herself pregnant she hadn’t known if he or Charles were the father. She hadn’t known and neither had Charles until, two and a half years after Richard was born, Andrew Graham had examined Charles for a minor ailment, and the discovery was made that he was sterile. And always had been. She didn’t tell Richard what happened. But there wasn’t any need. He could imagine. The look was in her eyes. Fear. Physical and mental fear. He sat in the dying sunlight, with the evening shadows creeping through the garden and thought of his mother, with her nervous smile and broken spirit, and the hand holding his glass tightened and tightened. There was a sudden crack and the glass broke. Ice and whisky spilled on him, and blood mingled with it. He had cut himself. He got up, cleared the splinters and the ice away, wrapped his hand in a handkerchief. She was so close to him that night, closer than for a long time. He could almost feel her there. She had believed in life after death; remnants of her early Catholic upbringing clung to her. She had a hope of forgiveness and a trust in a loving God. God the Father. It wasn’t a symbol that Richard could accept. Life was a brief excursion into the light, followed by everlasting darkness. There was no Heaven where Frances Schriber could find reward for her unhappy life on earth. There was no Divine justice, nothing but human vengeance if a debt was going to be repaid. He went in to dinner, apologizing to Mrs Jennings for the accident. She stayed behind to wipe up the spilt whisky and search for more glass.

After dinner he began to explore the house. He went upstairs and looked through all the rooms. He found Isabel’s bedroom and lingered in it; her presence was in it, as strong as his mother’s had been downstairs, he opened the drawers and touched her clothes. And the bed. Large and draped, piled with embroidered cushions. He could visualize her in it, dark hair against white pillows, slender arms linked above her head, smooth breasts. Then down to the hall and through to the kitchens. Old-fashioned. Stone-floored. A range of larders and a game room. Boot cupboards, racks for fishing rods. A row of mackintosh coats, Wellington boots. A game bag. And the cellars. He switched on the light and started down the steps.

‘Tim, you’d no right to do this. I’m not going to see him!’

Isabel faced Ryan angrily. They’d travelled over on the plane with Nigel Foster; Tim had been silent and unlike his easy self. Nigel was staying at Longchamp to be near the horse, he left them at De Gaulle airport in high spirits, predicting a decisive win the next day. Isabel and Tim checked into the Ritz; both were well known there. Charles always stayed in the same suite whenever he came to Paris, and he had insisted on Tim having a room in the hotel. Isabel didn’t have time to unpack before Tim came to the sitting room. And then he told her about Andrew Graham. Her reaction was what he expected. She was surprised and then angry. He stayed calm.

‘Why won’t you see him?’ he asked. ‘He’s Charles’s oldest friend, and you went through it all together. What are you afraid of, Isabel?’

She swung round; for a moment she nearly ordered him out of the suite. Then she too controlled herself. There was an unpleasant sensation, as if her pulse was running too fast. The word afraid had stung.

‘I’m not afraid of anything he can tell me,’ she said. ‘He hates Richard, just because Charles hated him. And I’m not going to be influenced. He’s heard about the newspaper story and that’s what’s brought him running over here. He ought to have something better to do than interfere in my life now. It’s none of his business, and I’m going to tell him so!’

‘All right – but don’t get so uptight about it. For God’s sake just listen to him. That’s all I ask you.’ He abandoned his impersonal pose and came up to her, putting his hands on her shoulders. ‘I may be your racing manager,’ he said quietly, ‘and you can sack me tonight if you like. But I also love you. And that’s why I told Andrew to come here. Okay, you’ve chosen Richard and not me. I can accept that. But I want to be sure he’s right for you. And if you’re not frightened of hearing something that might prove he’s not, then you’ll see Andrew and listen to what he’s got to say.’ He let her go and turned away.

‘I also love you.’ She had known it ever since she came to Beaumont. Taken it for granted when she was married, and come closer than she realized during those days in Ireland before Richard came. She came up beside him and touched his arm.

‘Oh, Tim,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry. I’d no right to speak to you like that. I’m not frightened of seeing Andrew. It just seems unfair, when Richard can’t defend himself.’

Before he could say anything, Andrew Graham’s arrival in the lobby was announced. When he came into the sitting room Isabel came to meet him. She held out her hand. Her voice was calm and cool.

‘How nice to see you, Andrew. Come and sit down. What would you like to drink?’ He shook hands with Tim and took a chair. She thought he had aged in the months since she had last seen him. Out of his own environment, he looked smaller, uncertain.

And he was nervous; he kept wiping his hands on his trouser knees and glancing from her to Tim, as if looking for support. He asked for bourbon; until it arrived with Perrier water and ice, they made awkward conversation. She asked him about Joan and his children; he mentioned mutual friends in Freemont, and asked about the plans for the Falcon. Tim said he should back him in the race the next day; he looked to be a certainty. Graham said how pleased Charles would be if he could see it.

Graham drank his bourbon and coughed. Then he looked at Isabel. Some of his old authority had returned. He was Andrew Graham again, best friend of Freemont’s most powerful and respected citizen.

‘I don’t know if Tim’s told you why I’m here,’ he said. ‘But I ask you to believe that I wouldn’t fly four thousand miles unless it was for a damned good reason. I’ve brought something to show you. But before I do, I’d like to tell you about Charles and Frances. I know he never talked about it, and looking back, it was a great mistake. I wish I didn’t have to do it.’ He waited, and Isabel hesitated.

‘Before you say anything,’ she said slowly. ‘I know quite a bit about that marriage. And about Richard’s childhood. He’s told me everything. So it won’t come as a surprise.’

Andrew Graham raised his brows. ‘If you say so, Isabel,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think you’ll find the accounts match. Firstly, I’m here because I heard reports that you were going to marry Richard. If there’s no truth in it, if you and he aren’t involved with each other, I shan’t say another word. I’ve had this family secret on my mind for a very long time; I’d rather go on keeping it. But in fairness to you, and because Charles loved you the way he did, I can’t.’

‘Go on,’ Tim said. ‘Tell her. Whatever it is.’

Andrew leaned back a little and sighed.

‘The first thing you’ve got to believe, Isabel, is I’ve no personal motive in this. You accused me once of hating Richard. That’s not true. I hate what he did to his father and how he treated him, right up to the end, but I don’t hate Richard. I’m sorry for him. Just like I was sorry for his mother. You know she killed herself?’

‘Yes,’ Isabel said. ‘Yes, I know she did. Poor thing.’

‘That’s not a bad description,’ Andrew said. ‘A poor thing; unstable all her life, unfaithful to the best husband a woman could have had, a hopeless neurotic who couldn’t control herself and couldn’t face the consequences. He lived a life of misery with her. Covering up for her breakdowns, for the illegitimate child she had, which he pretended was his own. And seeing that child grow up to be just like her. I know; I looked after him from the time he was born. And there was always something wrong. Charles knew it too. We both pretended it wasn’t serious; just a difficult kid. Going through a phase. You know the lies people tell each other when they don’t want to face the truth.’

The room was absolutely quiet while he talked. There was no sound through the double-glazed windows of the traffic pouring through the Place Vendôme below them. Isabel was sitting rigid, her hands clasped in her lap. She could see Tim Ryan leaning forward, staring at Andrew Graham.

‘He had a totally neurotic relationship with both his parents. He hated and resented Charles; he was insanely jealous of him because he was completely mother-fixated. He worshipped her. When he was a little boy it was cute; by the time he got to adolescence it was plain sinister. He followed her everywhere; if she had an argument with Charles the boy went berserk, yelling at his father, trying to fight him. I don’t say she encouraged it. She probably didn’t know what she was doing; she was so vain, so shallow emotionally. She had to have someone in love with her. Even if it was her own son.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ Isabel heard herself saying. It sounded very clear. ‘He told Richard he was a bastard when the boy was fourteen years old. He blamed and bullied both of them; she was terrified of him and so was Richard. He was the abnormal one, hating a child and punishing a woman for one mistake for all those years. I’d like you to go, Andrew. I don’t want to hear any more.’ She was on her feet.

‘Isabel –’ Tim said. ‘Isabel, for God’s sake – listen to him!’

‘I thought he’d tell you a load of lies,’ Graham said sadly. ‘That was another thing. He twisted everything. He doesn’t know what the truth is. He’s a psychopathic personality, Isabel. What he told you is exactly how he sees what happened. But it’s all distorted. He hated his father so he makes out it was Charles who hated him. And when his mother took that overdose it wasn’t the first time; she’d done so half a dozen times before. Not serious suicidal attempts, just trying to gain notice, frighten Charles. And of course get the boy’s sympathy. But that night she went too far. By the time Charles found her she was dead. And Richard Schriber went clean off his head.’ He bent down and took up a small briefcase. He opened it, and handed Isabel a plastic folder.

‘If you won’t believe me,’ he said. ‘Read this.’

She didn’t move to take it. She stayed on her feet; she wanted to tell him it was lies, to order him out. But she felt frozen, paralysed with the remorseless logic; the only thing Richard wanted from Beaumont had been his mother’s picture. His obsessive hatred of Charles.…

‘I’d like to see him lose just once.’

She didn’t take the folder but Tim Ryan did. He read through it in silence. Andrew Graham looked very tired. He finished his bourbon. Then Tim looked up at Isabel.

‘He was committed to the Graneways Mental Nursing Home for nine months after his mother died,’ Tim said slowly. ‘Two specialists diagnosed a severe personality disorder. Endemic schizophrenia. You’d better read it for yourself. And sit down. I’ll get you a drink.’

She read through the typed pages, the doctors’ reports. Paranoid delusions, a tendency to violence. And that final dreadful prognosis. A psychopathic personality with schizoid tendencies. Unlikely to respond to treatment. He had been released into the guardianship of his Duckett grandmother. She closed the folder and handed it back to Tim. She felt physically sick.

‘I’m sorry,’ Andrew Graham said. ‘I’m really sorry. I know you won’t tell anybody anything; for Charles’s sake. I’d better take that back. And I’ll be going now. Get rid of him, Isabel. He’s not only unbalanced, but in my opinion, since his father died, he’s potentially a dangerous man.’

She heard him leave the suite; Tim saw him out to the door; she could hear them talking quietly. She looked at the drink Tim had given her and sipped it again. It was brandy. Nine months in a mental home. A tendency to violence. Schizoid. Paranoid delusions. He had held her in his arms, made love to her, taken her on a crazy walk through Dublin streets in the early morning rain, with his arm round her waist, laughing as they got wetter.

He wasn’t what they said. Living in a world of fantasy, seeing his mother and his life through a mirror of emotional distortion. That wasn’t Richard. Tim had come back. He came and sat beside her and put his arms round her.

‘You’ve got to believe it, Isabel,’ he said. ‘The evidence was all there. Thank God you found out in time. Andrew was talking to me just now. He reminded me of that swimming accident in Barbados. He thinks you could be in real danger if you go on seeing Richard. And so do I.’

‘I don’t believe him,’ Isabel said slowly. ‘I’ve known Richard long enough to judge for myself. Even if it was true – if he did go over the edge when his mother committed suicide, there’s nothing wrong with him now. I love him. I’d know if there was. As for what happened in Barbados – I did that myself. I panicked and went wild under water. Richard saved my life. You ought to remember that when you say such things.’

‘Don’t cry,’ Tim said quietly. ‘He can’t help it. It’s not his fault.’

‘Go away, please,’ she whispered. ‘Just go away and leave me alone. I know you mean well, but I don’t want to hear any more. Please, go away.’

‘All right,’ Tim got up. He was reluctant to leave her, but she wasn’t hysterical; he had never seen a woman cry so quietly, without any sound or ugliness.

He went out, and she heard the door close softly.

It had all been so factual, so low key. There was none of the heat which had characterized that early confrontation between Richard and Graham after the funeral. He had been so cool that evening, so determined to be impartial. ‘I don’t hate Richard. I feel sorry for him.’ If Richard was lying, so then was Andrew Graham when he said that. He hated Richard just as Charles had hated him. If he had been sick and disturbed as a child, broken down as a young man after his mother’s suicide, was that any reason to blame him – to keep him away from his home and his stepmother, away from the funeral of the man who was supposed to have loved and protected him in spite of not being his own. It was hypocrisy, and she could see right through it. She had lived in that tight little community, so insular and suspicious of anyone who broke its rules. Maybe Richard was everything they said; perhaps his mother was vain and empty and her love affair was an amoral tumble in the hay, dignified by her unhappy son into a single error. The way Graham spoke of her, it sounded like constant infidelity. Maybe it was all true, and Richard had been permanently scarred. It didn’t mean he had to be abandoned, driven away, like the sick in primitive societies for fear they would pass on their devils to the healthy. Overlying the clinical terms, the cruel, impersonal terminology with which his suffering was described, there lay the pathetic image of the boy growing up at Beaumont. Unwanted, unloved, except by someone, herself, far too weak to help him. She went into the bedroom, picked up the telephone and asked for the number of Coolbridge. She made a great effort to sound calm when he answered.

‘Richard?’

He sounded surprised and then pleased. It had taken a long time before he answered the phone.

‘I just wanted to find out if you liked the house.’

‘I think it’s lovely. No wonder you took root down here.’

‘Are you comfortable – did Mrs Jennings look after you?’

It was a silly conversation, banal questions, but it kept them talking, and she needed that. She needed to hear his voice, to hear it sounding normal and even gay. He was teasing her about Coolbridge; she didn’t really listen. ‘Lady of the manor,’ he was saying. ‘I liked your bedroom. That’s one hell of a regal bed. I’ll have to make an appointment –’ His laughter was so natural. She could imagine him at Coolbridge. Sitting in the yellow drawing room, with his leg slung over the arm of the chair. Drinking, of course. He drank too much. It couldn’t help him.

‘Where are you? What part of the house?’

‘I’m in the hall. I’ve been exploring, that’s why it took so long to answer. They’ve got a good cellar. How’s the Ritz?’

‘Just the same. I miss you.’

‘I miss you too,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you called.’

‘So am I,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to tell you I loved you.’ There was a pause. ‘Richard? I thought we’d got cut off.’

‘No, darling,’ his voice was louder as if he had moved the receiver close to his mouth. ‘No way. You might call back in five minutes and say it again. I rather like it.’

‘I meant it,’ she said. ‘Take care of yourself. Call me after the races tomorrow.’ She hung up and lay back on the pillows.

She fell asleep without realizing it, worn out with emotional strain and woke up with a cry of fear that echoed from her dream. A dark, confused and tortured dream in which she had been drowning, anchored under water by a chain which turned out to be an arm, gripping remorselessly, until her lungs burst and filled with water. The face floating so near to her, twisted in a murderous grimace, was Richard’s, and the arm that imprisoned her under the suffocating seas belonged to him.

If there was one thing Roy Farrant didn’t criticize about his wife, it was the way she dressed. She had a natural sense of what suited her, and the years when she modelled had given her a flair for line and colour.

Patsy had chosen white to wear at Longchamp, a crisp silk suit with a black and white spotted blouse, a straw hat trimmed with the same material. She looked magnificent that day and he was very proud of her; heads were turning as they walked round the members’ enclosure. ‘You look very good,’ he said grudgingly. ‘I like that outfit.’

She smiled with real pleasure. ‘I’m glad you think it’s nice. I went to this new shop in Knightsbridge –’ Farrant cut off, not listening. It was a brilliant day, mercifully cool with a pleasant breeze that fluttered the brims of the large hats. Farrant loved racing in France; he liked the elegance, the banks of flowers, the sensation of exclusivity which made every meeting an occasion like Royal Ascot. It didn’t bother him that the doyens of French racing barely acknowledged him. He didn’t speak French and he didn’t give a damn about whether he was snubbed or not.

He, Roy Farrant from Barnsley, born in one of those grim terraced houses they showed on TV in documentaries about the twenties, was as rich as any of them and more successful than most. He had a beautiful wife on his arm and a string of winners to his credit. But at that moment he was looking out for Isabel Schriber. He had decided to come to the meeting after he and Barry had worked out their plan. He wanted to be there to see the Silver Falcon. The idea of that grey colt obsessed and tormented him more and more. He wouldn’t rest until he’d watched the race and seen Barry Lawrence do his stuff. The draw favoured them; that was a piece of luck. Garvin’s horse was a front runner who faded, that helped too; it meant Falcon wouldn’t outdistance them to start with if Jean-Martin had been told to go on ahead, and if he was riding a waiting race, then Lawrence could hold his mount back and keep right with him.

‘I’m going down to the paddock,’ Farrant said. ‘They’ll be coming in any minute.’

‘I’m coming,’ she said. ‘I’m dying to see the Silver Falcon, aren’t you?’

‘Yeh –’ he said, heavily sarcastic. ‘Dying is the right word.’

The paddock was very green; in spite of the warm weather French racecourses were extensively watered, producing the smooth springy turf that so often confounded the firm-ground horses. They took up a position by the entrance for owners and trainers, perching on the little stools. There were three horses in the ring already, walking serenely round and round, led by their stable lads. Paddock cloths were bright, the coats of the three thoroughbreds, one chestnut and two dark bays, gleamed like oilskin. They stepped proudly, daintily, their eyes examining the scene. Farrant looked them up in the race card. He saw Garvin’s horse Happy Hero come in, a strongly built bright bay, with a fine head; his looks belied his lack of stamina. Garvin always turned his horses out beautifully. This particular no-hoper looked a perfect picture of health and fitness. Farrant looked at the closed-circuit TV screen which showed the money going on each horse and noted that there was a fair bit on Happy Hero. Barry Lawrence’s change of mount had been noted in the papers, and criticized as usual, but it brought the punters in.

A very dark bay horse, almost black, although superstition forbade anyone to mention the colour on a racecourse, walked into the ring.

‘That’s nice,’ Patsy murmured. Farrant looked it up. ‘Prince of Padua,’ he said. ‘Lester’s riding it. Should have a chance.’ It was a handsome horse with a fine action; its form was not too impressive.

Farrant thought for a moment he might have some money on, and then Patsy nudged him.

‘Look! Look – there he is!’

There was a definite movement among the crowd gathered round the paddock. Farrant drew in his breath. The grey colt came into the ring like a monarch. His walk was long and arrogant, the man holding him was having his work cut out to keep up, the head was held boldly on a proud crested neck, the dark dappled coat was shining like metal in the sunlight, and the eye flashed an imperious challenge at the people and the other horses.

‘Jesus,’ Farrant said. ‘That’s some horse!’

Patsy didn’t say anything. She was going to say soothingly he wasn’t as nice as Rocket Man and thought better of it. There just wasn’t a comparison between the grey and any other animal. She had never seen Roy look so sick for a moment. Then he turned quickly beside her and she heard him say heartily, ‘Hullo, Isabel! Good luck today!’

Isabel, accompanied by Tim and Nigel Foster, was on her way to the paddock. She stopped, hearing her name, and Roy Farrant was beside her, smiling warmly, holding out his hand. She shook it and thanked him.

‘Great looking horse, your Falcon,’ he said. ‘Knocks spots off everything here. But we’re still going to beat you on June 5th!’

‘We’ll have to see,’ Isabel said.

‘Richard not with you?’ Roy asked.

‘No, he wouldn’t come,’ Isobel said. ‘I was very disappointed. But he keeps saying he hates racing. So there it is.’

‘You’ll have to change that,’ Farrant said gaily. ‘Tell me –’ he had his hand on her arm, detaining her. ‘Are congratulations in order yet? I read my Peter Partridge, you know.’

‘Not yet,’ Isabel said.

Tim Ryan caught her by the arm. ‘Come on,’ he said curtly, ignoring Farrant. ‘The jockeys are coming in.’ She smiled at Farrant and passed on.

‘There’s Barry,’ Patsy said. Farrant could see him. He was standing in the centre of the paddock, with Gerry Garvin and three people talking in the earnest way that owners have before a race. They didn’t know they hadn’t got a chance. Barry Lawrence was standing with his short legs astride; he was very small, and he had to strain to look up at the others; his arms were folded, with the whip tucked under the left one. It was a jockey’s stance, duplicated in other groups; the colours of the silks were like splashes from a spilt paintbox. The bell rang. The jockeys were put up and the horses began to leave the paddock, led by the great Lester Piggott, impassive and impervious as usual, perched as lightly as a feather on the back of his mount. Farrant wished again that he’d had a bet. Lawrence passed them high up on Happy Hero. He didn’t look to right or left; his expression was relaxed.

‘Come on,’ Farrant said urgently. He began striding away towards the members’ stands, his raceglasses swinging. Patsy, tottering on high heels, was left some way behind him.

Isabel, Tim, Nigel Foster and Sally were standing in a little group half way up the stand just short of the winning post.

‘Nervous?’ Tim asked her. ‘You needn’t be. I’d put my shirt on him today.’

‘I have put my shirt on him,’ Nigel muttered.

Tim grinned. ‘I’ve had a few pounds on myself,’ he said.

‘I think he’ll win,’ Isabel said quietly.

‘I heard Farrant wishing you luck,’ Nigel said. ‘I’d take that with a packet of salt, if I were you. I bet he came over here just to have a look at him.’ He was watching Tim as he spoke. He had his suspicions about who had sent the unlucky David Long into the horse’s box.

‘He can look,’ Tim said grimly. ‘All he or his rotten horse will ever see of the Falcon will be his backside! They’re under orders –’ he gripped Isabel’s arm. ‘They’re off!’

The French jockey had been told to settle the Falcon, to let him come out of the stalls and get away behind the leaders and stay there for the first five furlongs. After that it was up to him to judge when to make the run for home. A lot would depend upon how hard the colt was fighting for his head. At all costs he wasn’t to be given a hard race; the whip was not to be used, even to win. In Nigel’s view it wouldn’t be needed. If the Falcon’s aggressive competitive spirit on the home gallops was anything to go by, then the real problem would be holding him back for the first part of the race.

Barry Lawrence came out of the stalls well. His horse had taken a strong hold and was fighting to overtake the three horses in front; it needed all Barry’s extraordinary strength to keep him back without completely upsetting him. The grey colt was to the right, the masterly French jockey balanced on top; by the way he was sitting Lawrence could see that the Falcon was pulling his arms out in the effort to blaze away and pass the others. Lawrence held on, keeping as close as he could. After the five-furlong marker the course bends to the right and the field begins to run round the curve of the rails.

The Falcon was just ahead of him; there was a little bunch of horses in front, with Lester Piggott’s mount well up among them. If daylight showed, Barry judged that the Falcon would streak through it. His jockey wasn’t moving on him, just keeping him in check, not flickering a hand to change the rhythm of that hungry stride. The moment was coming; Barry wasn’t frightened. He had done it once or twice before and he had the advantage of being the aggressor. He began to move inexorably towards the right-hand side of the course, easing the reins a fraction to let his horse come within striking distance of the Falcon.

On the stands, Roy Farrant, glasses tight against his eyes, saw the move begin; he started to whisper under his breath. ‘Go on … go on, you bastard … get him, get him –’

And Tim saw it too, watching the Falcon racing on the right hand, near the curve of the rail, ears flat back, fighting to get ahead the moment a gap appeared in front of him. He saw Barry Lawrence and Happy Hero moving up and hanging right.

‘Christ!’ he said it aloud, ‘Christ, he’s going to bump him! He’ll put him into the rails.…’

Lawrence was up by the Falcon’s quarters. He saw Jean-Martin glance sharply to the left as he began to draw level and to come closer, forcing his horse to hang inwards, edging the Falcon nearer and nearer to the spinning line of white railing. He saw Jean-Martin raise his whip and guessed that the blow was coming at him; he crouched lower and belted his horse with his own whip on the left shoulder to bring him in to the right. Another few seconds and both horses would strike into each other, and at that speed of forty miles an hour, the horse on the outside would crash sideways into the rails like an express train. Lawrence tensed himself for the impact and made ready to pull Happy Hero away to the left the moment afterwards.

But it was at that precise second, when the collision was only a mere two feet off, when a blow from Jean-Martin’s whip actually cut into Barry Lawrence’s shoulders and his furious curse in French was torn away on the wind, it was exactly then that the horses in front of them were separated by the lay of the ground and the Falcon saw the gap he had been waiting for. There was no time for his jockey to give any signal; it was like launching a rocket. He lengthened his stride and catapulted forward through the gap. Jean-Martin gave him his head; his whip had gone in the brief flurry trying to beat off his attacker. It was Happy Hero, swerving right-handed towards a buffer that had shot past him, who lost his balance and went crashing into the rails.

The death of Barry Lawrence made headlines. Happy Hero had to be destroyed on the course; he had a broken cannon bone on the off fore. The Silver Falcon won the race by three lengths. Isabel had hardly seen the accident; she had been too engrossed in the fantastic burst of speed that carried the grey colt away through the rest of the field and out in front. She heard the huge gasp from the crowd and exclamations from all sides of her, but the race-glasses were shaking in her hands with excitement; all she saw was the Silver Falcon eating the ground with every stride, passing the winning post with contemptuous ease. At the same moment the hooter blared, signifying a Stewards’ Enquiry.

Tim and Nigel had grabbed her by the arms and hurried her down to the winner’s enclosure. There was a burst of applause as the grey came through the crowd; Nigel ran to meet him and was hurrying alongside, patting the horse’s neck and talking up to Jean-Martin. People were congratulating Isabel. The jockey had dismounted; he slipped off the saddle, shook hands with her, and said briefly in French, ‘A marvellous horse, Madame. Nothing came near him.’

She patted the Falcon’s neck; a light steam was rising from him and her hand was wet with his sweat. There were photographers crowding round them; the Falcon stood while a blue sweat rug was thrown over him and then the great quarters bunched and he let fly a savage kick which scattered everyone behind him.

‘My God,’ Tim Ryan kept saying, over and over in his excitement. ‘What a race – did you see that finishing speed?’

‘We’ll murder them at Epsom,’ Nigel Foster exulted. He wasn’t a man who made extravagant claims to the press but he said it loud enough for anyone to quote.

And then they heard the howl of the ambulance as it raced down the course; the veterinary ambulance was following more slowly. And the first rumours, whispered among the crowd surrounding them.

‘There was a terrible accident – Barry Lawrence – the horse crashed through the rails.’

One of the Stewards of the French Jockey Club approached them in the unsaddling enclosure. He took his hat off to Isabel. ‘Congratulations, Madame Schriber. A superb performance. You must be looking forward to the Derby with some confidence – such a pity that this terrible accident happened. I hear that the jockey Lawrence was killed outright.’

When he went on his way, Tim and Nigel Foster looked at each other and then at Isabel. She had turned very white.

It was Nigel who spoke first. ‘Don’t let it upset you,’ he said. ‘Tim and I saw what happened; so did a hell of a lot of other people. He was trying to put the Falcon into the rails; it could have been Jean-Martin with his neck broken for all he cared. He got what he deserved.’

‘He was put up to do it,’ Tim said flatly. ‘I should have known when he changed to Garvin’s horse. It was all fixed by Farrant. He went out there to kill or maim the Falcon, and the Falcon bloody well did him instead.’

‘That’s the second time,’ Isabel said. ‘That stable lad David Long –’

‘Went into the stable with an iron bar,’ Tim said brutally. ‘Paid by the same person. If the Falcon hadn’t gone for him, he’d have broken that colt’s front legs and left him there. I didn’t want to upset you by telling you all this, but it’s time you stopped seeing omens – there’ve been two attempts to kill or cripple the Falcon and he’s just looked after himself, that’s all. And I reckon we’ll find he’s broken the course record today.’ He went to the bar and came back with another bottle of champagne. His expression was grim.

Nigel found seats for them and Tim opened the bottle and filled three glasses.

‘Let’s drink a toast,’ he said. ‘To the Falcon. And to Charles Schriber. He bred a horse that won’t be beaten!’

Before Isabel could answer someone had come up behind her, full of congratulations and there were others rapidly approaching. There was a look on Tim’s face that surprised Isabel. A look of hard determination, a look that said he didn’t give a damn for Long or Lawrence or anyone else who tried to get in the way of his horse. And he expected her to match him. Two attempts on the horse; paid for by Roy Farrant who wanted his horse to win. The genial host in Barbados, lavishing hospitality upon them. Making a point of wishing her luck only minutes before the race, congratulating her about Richard as if he were pleased for them both. Knowing that he had arranged a hideous accident which could have killed the Falcon’s jockey. As it had killed Barry Lawrence. She looked into Tim Ryan’s face and deliberately raised her glass.

‘Here’s to the Falcon,’ she said. ‘And to the Derby.’

They took a party of thirty people to Maxim’s that night to celebrate the win. The chef had prepared a special dessert for them, a mountain of meringue and chestnuts and cream, topped by a galloping silver horse. A telegram was delivered to Isabel at the table. It was from Richard.

‘Congratulations, darling. Hurry home. Richard.’

Tim hadn’t told her the truth about Long’s attempt; there had been a general conspiracy to keep her ignorant. She leaned across to Tim and said quietly, ‘Tomorrow morning, before we leave for England, I want to see you and Nigel in my suite.’

It was not an interview that Ryan or Nigel Foster enjoyed. ‘Sit down, please.’ She dismissed their attempts to be jocular; when Tim complained about a hangover she didn’t respond. ‘I asked you both to come and see me because I felt there’d been a misunderstanding,’ Isabel said. ‘Charles left me Beaumont and his horses. When he did so, he was perfectly confident in my ability to know exactly what was going on. I’m surprised and rather angry that you, Tim, especially, should have lied to me over David Long. You’d no right to keep me in the dark. Nor had you, Nigel.’

‘We did it from the best motives,’ Tim protested. ‘You’d just lost Charles, you weren’t in a fit state for any more shocks. If you’d known that Long had been injured trying to maim the Falcon, you might have decided to pull out altogether.’

‘And that wouldn’t have suited you,’ Isabel said. ‘Either of you.’

‘No,’ Tim Ryan said. ‘It wouldn’t. But that isn’t why we kept quiet. We genuinely didn’t want to worry you. It was our responsibility to protect the colt. Nobody could anticipate what happened yesterday.’

‘I ran him in the Lupin rather than the Two Thousand Guineas to avoid any attempt at interference on the course,’ Nigel Foster said. ‘I’m sorry if you’re annoyed, Isabel, but as Tim says, we did it for the best.’

‘I’m sure you did,’ Isabel stood up. ‘But please – don’t do anything like it again. We’d better hurry now. I’ll meet you downstairs.’

Outside the suite Nigel looked at Tim.

‘Christ,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve always said women shouldn’t be allowed in this game! If you tell them anything they throw a fit and if you don’t they yell bloody murder. For a moment I thought we were going to get our marching orders.’

He was surprised to see Tim Ryan grin. ‘So did I,’ he said. ‘And I like her all the better for it. You’d better smile sweetly on the way home, or you could lose that Monkstown colt!’

‘Oh Christ,’ Nigel said again. He sat in the car on the way to the airport with an air of deep gloom. He had no talent for soothing angry women and he hated atmospheres. He couldn’t think what the Irishman found so admirable about Isabel Schriber wanting to read the small print. It was just going to make training for her more difficult.

Tim took the seat beside her on the plane.

‘Are you still mad with me?’

‘No,’ Isabel said. ‘But I wasn’t joking.’

‘I didn’t think you were,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry. It was a great evening last night. I didn’t get a chance to tell you this morning, but the Falcon’s in grand shape. He ate his manger clean and looked as if he’d been out for a hack yesterday. That race was just what he needs. Next time we’ll be at Epsom with him.’

‘Yes,’ Isabel said. ‘Whatever happens now, we’re going to run and I believe we’re going to win.’

‘Richard, why didn’t you tell me yourself?’

He was propped up in the bed beside her, smoking. He hadn’t turned round to look at her while she talked. He had been at the airport to meet her, and driven her straight back to Coolbridge. He had made love to her with furious urgency; the wine and the cold food laid out for lunch was untouched. He took her to bed and kept her there. Lying in his arms Isabel gave herself up to him with pity and tenderness as well as passion. She felt that behind the intense sexuality there was a need for reassurance. And this was only natural; insecurity was the cornerstone on which his life had been built. She kept seeing him as Andrew Graham had described, and far from turning her against him, it added a deeper significance to her love for him.

‘Why didn’t I tell you –’ he repeated the question. There was no expression on his face. ‘Tell you what, Isabel? The true version of what happened, or Graham’s pack of bloody lies? Which would you believe?’

‘Darling –’ she said. ‘If you were ill after your mother died, there wasn’t any need to hide it. There’s nothing to be ashamed of –’

To her surprise he laughed out loud.

‘Ashamed? Of being locked up as a nut for nine months – what was that diagnosis he gave you – schizoid tendencies, paranoia? For Christ’s sake, Isabel! I wonder you’re not scared being alone with me – aren’t you just a little worried I might turn peculiar?’

‘Please, Richard, don’t take this attitude. It doesn’t make the slightest difference to me. If anything,’ she said it slowly, ‘I think it’s made me love you more.’

‘Pity is akin,’ he quoted. ‘No thanks, darling. I can do without that.’ He threw the covers aside and got up.

He began to dress without looking at her. Isabel watched him, helpless and unhappy; he turned at the bedroom door.

‘If you loved me,’ he said harshly, ‘you wouldn’t have bloody well listened to him!’ Then he went out and the door crashed behind him. Isabel dressed slowly. The change from passionate tenderness to anger and reproach had been dramatic. She had been very gentle in her approach; it hadn’t diminished his reaction. He hadn’t defended himself, he hadn’t explained anything or even really denied it. The door had slammed so hard that it shook the pictures on the walls. Isabel went downstairs; Mrs Jennings went home in the afternoon and they were alone in the house. She called him.

‘Richard! Richard, where are you?’

He came into the hall as she ran down the stairs. He had a whisky in his hand. It reminded her painfully of the first time she had seen him at Beaumont, drinking before breakfast.

‘Oh, darling, don’t be angry – don’t be upset –’ She came and put her arms around him. ‘I love you so much –’

‘In spite of my mental history?’ It was said with such bitterness that she stepped away from him.

‘Are you sure you’re not just sorry for me? Poor Richard, he went into a nut house after his mother killed herself. No thanks, darling. You want to believe Andrew, go ahead. You might try a little loyalty next time.’

She saw him drain the glass. ‘You know something –’ he was moving to the front door as he spoke. ‘I haven’t been properly drunk in weeks. I’ll call you, Isabel.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t go like this,’ she said. ‘Please, Richard –’

He stopped and faced her. They were standing apart like strangers. He looked white and tense.

‘I’ve been trying to rush you, and you were the one who wanted time. Now I want you to have it. I want you to think very carefully before you commit yourself to me. You’ve touched a very sore spot, Isabel; maybe I’m over-reacting, but I can’t help it. I’ll be in touch.’

He didn’t come near to kiss her; he put his empty glass down on the table and walked out. She went to the window and saw him get into the car; there was violence in the way he wrenched the door shut, and the car shot forward, skidding on the gravel and sending a shower of little stones to either side. The house was very silent then. A grandfather clock in the hall struck four. She turned and went back upstairs. She was angry with herself because in some way she had behaved with less tact than honesty, but honesty was what was needed, if they were going to make a life together. There could be no question marks, no grey areas which couldn’t be discussed. And his reaction had been out of all proportion. She had never seen him so close to losing control. It was a disturbing sensation. She went upstairs slowly, borne down in spirit; the loving reunion, the aftermath to her triumph at Longchamp had gone awry. She felt nervous and depression was creeping over her.

She had a bath and changed her clothes. When she came down again Mrs Jennings came hurrying to meet her.

‘I read about the race, Madam,’ she said. ‘Terrible that jockey getting killed like that – congratulations on your win, though. Lots of us had a little bet on your Falcon …’ She followed Isabel into the drawing room still talking. She had liked Mr Schriber. He’d been so interested in the house. Went round the grounds and into all the rooms … the kitchen and the pantries. And there was a bit of a bloodstain on the drawing room carpet where he’d cut himself, but she’d get it out in time.… Isabel wasn’t listening. She longed for the woman to go away. She had a headache and a sense of desolate anticlimax as the result of their quarrel. Alone at last, she tried again to rationalize his anger.

Male pride was an obvious reason; she had made the stupid mistake of showing that she pitied him. She blamed herself for insensitivity. The aftermath of his long, eager love-making was the worst moment in which to remind him of an episode in his life which he had hidden from her out of shame. She had been thoughtless and crude. Fool, she called herself, fool to have hurt him, driven him to defend himself.

She picked up the telephone and dialled his number.

There was a car driving slowly up the leafy lanes leading to Coolbridge House; although it was now quite dark, the car showed only sidelights. There was nothing else on the road at that hour of the evening. The lodge and the white gates showed up on the right-hand side, dimly in the darkness, picked out for a second as the headlights flashed on and then cut out. The car slowed abruptly; it drew into the side of the lane and turned up a cart track where it stopped. Engine and lights were switched off. The driver was alone; he sat very still in the parked car, with the darkness and silence of the sleeping countryside around him. He looked at the luminous dial on his watch. It showed a few minutes to ten. He took off the watch, laid it in the glove pocket, and began to struggle out of his jacket. His shirt and tie followed; it was difficult to strip within the confined space but after some minutes he was completely naked. He opened the car door and slipped outside. Rain had begun to spatter down. He waited, listening, watching for some beam of light along the road. There was no noise, and no penetration of the darkness by a distant headlight. He went round, stepping carefully on the rutted ground, and opened the boot of the car. A dim light showed as he lifted the lid. He took out a parcel wrapped in newspaper, and unrolled it. There was a pair of cotton gloves, and an industrial spanner, about a foot long and made of steel. The end had been bound round with adhesive tape, forming a handle. He put on the gloves and took up the spanner. The car boot snapped shut and the little blur of light was extinguished. The naked figure came to the end of the cart track and onto the road. It crossed over to the gates of Coolbridge House and lifting the latch, opened them wide enough to slip inside. There was light showing in the lodge, behind transparent curtains, and a faint murmur from a television set was the only sound. The man shifted the spanner in his right hand for a moment; it was very heavy. Then he bent low and crept past the lodge and began to move up the drive in the shelter of the trees.

It had begun to rain heavily.