Inside there was a small clipping from a newspaper, a larger piece from a colour magazine, a black and white eight by ten photograph, and a compliments slip from Lord Vaughnley, asking me to return the pieces to the Towncrier, which now only had photocopies.
‘What is it?’ Litsi said.
I passed him the black and white photograph, which was of a prize-giving ceremony after a race, a group of people giving and receiving a trophy. Danielle looked over Litsi’s shoulder and asked, ‘Who are those people?’
‘The man receiving the pot is Henri Nanterre.’
They both exclaimed, peering closer.
‘The man at his side is the French racehorse trainer Villon, and at a guess, the racecourse is Longchamp. Look at the back, there might be some information.’
Litsi turned the photograph over. ‘It just says, “After the Prix de la Cité, Villon, Nanterre, Duval”.’
‘Duval is the jockey,’ I said.
‘So that’s what Nanterre looks like,’ Litsi said thoughtfully. ‘Once seen, easily remembered.’ He passed the photograph back to Danielle. ‘What other goodies do you have?’
‘This piece is from an English magazine and seems to be a Derby preview from last year. Villon apparently had a runner, and the article says “fresh from his triumph at Longchamp”. Nanterre’s mentioned as one of his owners.’
The newspaper clipping, also from an English paper, was no more helpful. Prudhomme, owned by French industrialist H. Nanterre, trained by Villon, had come to run at Newmarket and dropped dead of a heart attack on pulling up: end of story.
‘Who took the photograph?’ I asked, twisting round to see Danielle. ‘Does it say?’
‘Copyright Towncrier,’ she said, reading the back.
I shrugged. ‘They must have gone over for some big race or other. The Arc, I dare say.’
I took the photograph back and put all the bits into the envelope.
‘He has a very strong face,’ Danielle said, meaning Nanterre.
‘And a very strong voice.’
‘And we’re no further forward,’ Litsi said.
I started the car and drove us to London, where we found that nothing of any interest had happened at all, with the result that Sammy was getting bored.
‘Just by being here,’ I said, ‘you earn your bread.’
‘No one knows I’m here, man.’
‘They sure do,’ I said dryly. ‘Everything that happens in this house reaches the ears of the man you’re guarding its owner against, so don’t go to sleep.’
‘I’d never,’ he said, aggrieved.
‘Good.’ I showed him the Towncrier’s photograph. ‘That man, there,’ I said, pointing. ‘If ever you see him, that’s when you take care. He carries a gun, which may or may not have bullets in it, and he’s full of all sorts of tricks.’
He looked at the photograph long and thoughtfully. ‘I’ll know him,’ he said.
I took Lord Vaughnley’s offerings up to the bamboo room, telephoned Wykeham, picked up my messages, dealt with them: the usual routine. When I went down to the sitting room for a drink before dinner, Litsi, Danielle and the princess were discussing French impressionist painters exhibiting in Paris around 1880.
Cézanne... Pissarro... Renoir... Degas... at least I’d heard of them. I went across to the drinks tray and picked up the scotch.
‘Berthe Morisot was one of the best,’ Litsi said to the room in general. ‘Don’t you think?’
‘What did he paint?’ I asked, opening the bottle.
‘He was a she,’ Litsi said.
I grunted slightly and poured a trickle of whisky. ‘She, then, what did she paint?’
‘Young women, babies, studies in light.’
I sat in an armchair and drank the scotch, looking at Litsi.
At least he didn’t patronise me, I thought. ‘They’re not all easy to see,’ he said. ‘Many are in private collections, some are in Paris, several are in the National Gallery of Art in Washington.’
I was unlikely, he must have known, to chase them up.
‘Delightful pictures,’ the princess said. ‘Luminous.’
‘And there was Mary Cassatt,’ Danielle said. ‘She was brilliant too.’ She turned to me. ‘She was American, but she was a student of Degas in Paris.’
I would go with her to galleries, I thought, if that would please her. ‘One of these days,’ I said casually, ‘you can educate me.’
She turned her head away almost as if she would cry, which hadn’t in the least been my intention; and perhaps it was as well that Beatrice arrived for her ‘bloody’.
Beatrice was suffering a severe sense of humour failure over Sammy who had, it appeared, said, ‘Sorry, me old darlin’, not used to slow traffic,’ while again cannoning into her on the stairs.
She saw the laugh on my face, which gravely displeased her, and Litsi smothered his in his drink. The princess, with twitching lips, assured her sister-in-law that she would ask Sammy to be more careful and Beatrice said it was all my fault for having brought him into the house. It entirely lightened and enlivened the evening, which passed more easily than some of the others: but there was still no one telephoning in response to the advertisements, and there was again no sound from Nanterre.
Early next morning, well before seven, Dawson woke me again with the intercom, saying there was a call for me from Wykeham Harlow.
I picked up the receiver, sleep forgotten.
‘Wykeham?’ I said.
‘K... K... Kit.’ He was stuttering dreadfully. ‘C... C... Come down here. C... Come at once.’
Fifteen
He put the receiver down immediately, without telling me what had happened, and when I instantly rang back there was no reply. With appalling foreboding, I flung on some clothes, sprinted round to the car, did very cursory checks on it, and drove fast through the almost empty streets towards Sussex.
Wykeham had sounded near disintegration, shock and age trembling ominously in his voice. By the time I reached him, they had been joined by anger, which filled and shook him with impotent fire.
He was standing in the parking space with Robin Curtiss, the vet, when I drove in.
‘What’s happened?’ I said, getting out of the car.
Robin made a helpless gesture with his hands and Wykeham said with fury. ‘C... Come and look.’
I followed him into the courtyard next to the one which had held Cascade and Cotopaxi. Wykeham, shaky on his knees but straight backed with emotion, went across to one of the closed doors and put his hand flat on it.
‘In there,’ he said.
The box door was closed but not bolted. Not bolted, because the horse inside wasn’t going to escape.
I pulled the doors open, the upper and the lower, and saw the body lying on the peat.
Bright chestnut, three white socks, white blaze.
It was Col.
Speechlessly I turned to Wykeham and Robin, feeling all of Wykeham’s rage and a lot of private despair. Nanterre was too quick on his feet, and it wouldn’t take much more for Roland de Brescou to crumble.
‘It’s the same as before,’ Robin said. ‘The bolt.’ He bent down, lifted the chestnut forelock, showed me the mark on the white blaze. ‘There’s a lot of oil in the wound... the gun’s been oiled since last time.’ He let go of the forelock and straightened. ‘The horse is stone cold. It was done early, I should say before midnight.’
Col... gallant at Ascot, getting ready for Cheltenham, for the Gold Cup.
‘Where was the patrol?’ I said, at last finding my voice.
‘He was here,’ Wykeham said. ‘In the stable, I mean, not in the courtyard.’