Field of Thirteen - Dick Francis [112]
Christopher Haig, one storey above them, marvelled that Moggie Reilly, without his feet in the stirrups, was still on board at all, even though, with Lilyglit well ahead coming to the final hurdle, he had no hope of winning. Tiring, indeed, Storm Cone would find it difficult, Chris Haig thought from his long judging experience, to hang on to finish second. Two horses he had passed were closing on him again.
That clear assessment was Christopher Haig’s last coherent thought.
He saw Lilyglit approach the final flight of hurdles. He saw the horse make a rare mistake in taking off too soon to reach the far side without stumbling. He saw Lilyglit’s nose go down in the classic pattern of fallers… and before Lilyglit had crashed to the ground at high speed, his own heart had stopped.
The judge’s assistant had no medical knowledge and was hardly a fast thinker on his feet. When Christopher Haig collapsed beside him into a graceless sprawled-leg heap on the floor, the assistant bent over him in horror and didn’t know what to do.
He’d heard Chris Haig’s head crunch onto the floorboards of the judge’s box, and he heard also the brief rattle of the last lungful of air escaping. He saw Chris Haig’s face flush suddenly to a greyish dark blue. He saw the dark colour vanish and the skin fade to white. He loosened Christopher Haig’s adventurous tie in shaking shock and several times called his name.
Christopher Haig’s eyelids were partly open, but neither he nor his devastated assistant witnessed the close finish of the Cloister Hurdle. No one called ‘Photograph, photograph’ over the loudspeaker. No one announced the winner.
One of the stewards with presence of mind ran up the stairs to the judge’s box to complain crossly about the silence. The sight of Chris Haig’s immobile body temporarily clogged his own tongue instead. A man of experience, he knew irreversible death when he saw it and, having conclusively checked on the absence of pulse in the Haig neck, he sent the assistant to fetch the doctor and hurried downstairs again with the unthinkable news.
‘We, as stewards,’ he told his fellows, ‘will have to determine the winner from the photo-finish recording. As you know, it’s in the basic rules.’ He called on the intercom for the technicians to furnish a print of the moment when the leading horses crossed the line, saying he needed it quickly.
A. technician appeared fast, but red faced and empty handed. In deep embarrassment he explained that the former trouble had re-surfaced, and the photo system had scrambled itself just when Lilyglit lay in front, before the last hurdle, two furlongs from home.
The stewards, dumbfounded, were advised by the Stipendiary Steward – the official interpreter at the meeting of all Rules of Racing- that in the absence of the judge (and Christopher Haig, being dead, could be classed as absent) and in the absence of photo-finish evidence (the equipment having malfunctioned) the stewards themselves could announce who had won.
The stewards looked at each other. One of them was certain Storm Cone had won by a nose. One thought Moggie Reilly had tired and had let Storm Cone fall back in the last two strides. One of them had been looking down the course to see if the motionless Lilyglit had broken his neck.
In confusion they announced over the broadcasting system that there would be a Stewards’ Enquiry.
The Tote, in the absence of an announced winner, had refused to pay out at all. Bookmakers were shouting odds on every outcome but the right one. Media people scurried round with microphones at the ready.
Television cameras, perched near the roof of the stands, favoured a slightly blurred dead-heat.
The two other jockeys involved in the close finish believed that Storm Cone had beaten them by an inch, but their opinion wasn’t