To the hilt [en]

'Alexander…'

'I did believe on Saturday,' I said, 'that you were sincerely offering a truce. I hope you didn't know exactly what you were beckoning me into. I know you tried to stop that little lark with the barbecue… I could hear you. I know you got me help. Anyway,' I finished, running out of impetus, 'will you come into the bank?'

She nodded speechlessly and went with me into the conference room, where of course her looks and natural charm immediately enslaved the bank man who hadn't encountered her before. He fussed over a chair for her and offered her coffee, and she smiled at him sweetly, as she could.

We all sat down round the table. The bank man obligingly outlined all the measures so far taken to keep the brewery alive, and he explained that they were trying to find the missing millions by using the list.

'That list!' she murmured. 'What's on that list?'

'Don't let her see it,' Tobe said abruptly.

The bank man asked, 'Why ever not?'

'Because of what it cost to bring it here. Al may sit at this table with us hour after hour pretending there's nothing the matter, but he's halfway to fainting most of the time…'

'No,' I objected.

'Yeah, yeah.' He waved his toothpick in my direction. 'It was Oliver Grantchester, I'll bet you, who got Patsy to offer you a truce and to inveigle you into that garden. He may be in the lock-up at this moment, but he'll get out sometime, and he may know a way of using this list that we haven't fathomed, and he may have told her what to look for, so don't let her see it.'

There was an intense silence.

Patsy slowly stood up.

'Oliver used me,' she said. 'You are right. It's not easy to admit it.' She swallowed. 'I didn't know anything about any list before Oliver tried to make Alexander give it to him. Don't show it to me. I don't want to see it.' She looked directly at me, and said, 'I'm sorry.'

I stood up also. She gave me a long look, and a nod, and went away.

At the end of the afternoon that produced nothing but baffling frustration I drove back to London and Chesham Place and told my uncle, over a tumblerful of single malt, that three clever financial brains had spent two whole working days trying to make sense of Norman Quorn's list of bank accounts, and failing.

"They'll succeed tomorrow,' he said encouragingly.

I shook my head. 'They've given up. They've got other things they have to do.'

'You've done your best, Al.'

I was sitting forward, forearms on knees, holding my glass with both hands, trying not to sound as spent as I felt. I told him about Patsy's visit to the bank and about her understanding of Oliver Grantchester's intention of robbing the brewery. 'But between them,' I said, 'he and Norman Quora have fumbled the ball. The millions are lost. I'm glad Ivan didn't know.'

After a while Himself asked, 'What were you doing in hospital? Patsy wouldn't tell me.'

'Sleeping, mostly.'

'Al!'

'Well… it was Grantchester who sent the thugs to the bothy, thinking you'd given me the King Alfred Gold Cup to look after. He didn't tell them exactly what they were looking for, I suppose because he was afraid they would steal it for themselves if they knew how valuable it was. Anyway, when he found out I had that damned list, that has proved useless, he got the same thugs to persuade me to hand it over, but I still didn't like them - or him - so I didn't.'

He looked aghast.

'Some of my ribs are cracked. Grantchester's in a police hospital ward. Patsy and I may come to that truce in the end. You're making me drunk.'

My mother and I ate an Edna-cooked dinner and afterwards played Scrabble.

My mother won.

I took a pill at bedtime and stayed asleep for hours, and was astounded to meet Keith Robbiston on the stairs when I dawdled on my way down to breakfast.

'Come in here,' he said, pointing me into Ivan's lifeless study. 'Your uncle and your mother are both worried about you.'

I said, 'Why?'

'Your mother said she beat you at Scrabble and your uncle says you're not telling him the whole truth.' He studied my face, from which the swelling and bruises had largely faded, but which did, as I had to acknowledge, show grey fatigue and strain. 'You didn't tell either of them about any burns.'

'They worry too much.'

'So where are these burns?'

I took off my shirt, and he unwound the bandages. His silence, I thought, was ominous.

"They told me,' I said, 'that there wasn't any sign of infection, and that I would heal OK.'

'Well, yes.'

He got from me the name of the hospital and on Ivan's phone traced the grandmotherly doctor. He listened to her for quite a long time, staring at me throughout, his gaze slowly intensifying and darkening. 'Thank you,' he said eventually. 'Thank you very much.'

'Don't tell my mother,' I begged him. 'It's too soon after Ivan.'

'All right.'

He said he would not disturb the synthetic skin dressings, and re-wrapped the damage from armpits to waist.

"They gave you several injections of morphine in the hospital,' he said. 'And those pills I've given you, they too contain morphine.'

'I thought they were pretty strong.'

'You'll get addicted, Al. And I'm not being funny.'

'I'll deal with that later.'

He gave me enough pills for another four days. I thanked him, and meant it.

'Don't take more than you can help. And driving a car,' he observed, 'is only making things worse.'

I phoned Tobe's office and didn't get him. He had gone away for the weekend.

'But it's only Thursday,' I protested.

He would probably be back on Monday.

God damn him, I thought.

Margaret was 'unavailable'.

The big bank cheese had left me a message. 'All the King Alfred Gold Cup race expenses will be honoured by the bank, working closely with Mrs Benchmark who is now organising everything for the day at Cheltenham.'

Bully for Patsy. Big cheeses were putty in her hands.

I drifted through a quiet morning and companionable lunch with my mother and in the afternoon drove to Lambourn, arriving in the hour of maximum bustle; evening stables.

Emily, in her natural element, walked confidently around her yard in her usual fawn cavalry twill trousers, neat and businesslike, instructing the lads, feeling horses' legs, patting necks and rumps, offering treats of carrots, delivering messages of positive love to the powerful shining creatures that rubbed their noses against her in response.

I watched her for some time before she realised I was there, and I vividly understood again how comprehensively she belonged in that life, and how essential it was to her mind's well-being.

While I was still sitting in Ivan's car, a horsebox drove into the yard and unloaded Golden Malt.

He came out forwards, muscles quivering, hooves placed delicately on the ramp as he sought for secure footing, the whole process jerky and precarious: once out, he moved with liquid perfection, his feet on springs, his chestnut coat like fire in the evening sun, the arrogance of great thoroughbreds in every toss of his head.

Impossible not to be moved. He had twice let me lead him into misty unknown distances, taking me on faith. Looking at his splendid homecoming, I didn't know how I'd dared.

I stood up out of the car. Emily, seeing me, came to stand beside me, and together we watched the horse being led a few times round the yard to loosen his leg muscles after the confines of his journey.

'He looks great,' I said.

Emily nodded. 'The short change of scene suited him.'