Dick Francis's Gamble - Felix Francis [123]
However, the noise of the metal horseshoes clickety-clacking on the tarmac as we cantered along suddenly sounded alarmingly loud in the night air. Which was safer, I wondered, speed or stealth? That same question had been taxing military strategists ever since armies had been invented.
I opted for speed, but I did slow to a walk as we reached the edge of Southam village and, as much as I could, I used the grass there to minimize the noise. Even though it was late, and still raining, the sound of a horse at such an hour, especially one moving at speed, might bring people out of their houses to investigate, and there was no way I wanted to have to stop and explain what I was doing, not yet.
The horse and I went right through the village of Southam without attracting any unwelcome attention, other than a curious look or two from a cat out on its nocturnal hunt for food.
Southam to Woodmancote was less than a mile, and I trotted the horse down the center of the road, using the dotted white line for guidance. At long last the rain was beginning to stop, not that it made much difference to me. I was completely soaked to the skin and cold because of it.
I skirted around the edge of the village towards the lane where my mother lived.
The lane was actually the fourth arm of a crossroads junction, and I was just approaching it from straight ahead when a car came along the other road and turned right into it. The car had to be going to my mother’s cottage, as it was the only one down there.
I kicked the horse forward and followed, keeping to the grass to deaden the noise of the hooves.
Halfway down the lane I slid off the horse’s back and tied him to a tree, moving forward silently but quickly on foot. I stayed close to the hedge as I came around the last turn.
I could now see the cottage, and Shenington was standing to one side of it by the front door, his face brightly lit by the outside light. I crept closer, across the grass, towards the gravel drive.
“Viscount Shenington,” he was saying loudly. “We met earlier at the races.”
“What do you want?” I could hear Claudia shouting back from inside.
“I’m returning Mr. Foxton’s coat,” Shenington said. “He must have left it in my box by mistake.” He was holding my coat out in front of him.
Don’t open the door, I willed Claudia. PLEASE—DON’T OPEN THE DOOR.
She did of course. I could hear her turning the lock.
Once Shenington was inside, I would have no chance. He could simply put a knife to Claudia’s neck, or a gun to her temple, and I would do exactly as he wanted. A lamb to the slaughter it would certainly be.
My only chance was to act decisively and to act now.
As the front door swung open I ran for him, crunching across the gravel. He turned slightly towards the noise, but I was on him before he had a chance to react.
At school, despite my moderate size, I’d been a regular member of the first XV rugby team and primarily for my tackling.
I caught Shenington just above the knees in a full-blown flying rugby tackle that literally lifted him off his feet.
The two of us crashed to the ground together, the whiplash causing his upper body and head to take most of the impact.
Shenington was in his mid- to late sixties and I was less than half his age, and I had the strength brought on by desperation and anger.
He really had no chance.
I jumped up quickly and sat on him, twisting my fingers in his hair and forcing his head down into a rain-filled puddle on the drive. How did he like it, I wondered, having his face held underwater?
Claudia stood, shocked and staring, in the doorway.
“Nick,” she wailed. “Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. You’ll drown him.”
“This is the man who has been trying to kill me,” I said, not releasing my grip.
“That doesn’t mean you can kill him,” she said.
I reluctantly