Field of Thirteen - Dick Francis [113]
Moggie had ridden most of the race without his feet in the stirrups (as Tim Brookshaw once did in the Grand National). He’d knelt on Storm Cone’s withers and squeezed with the calves of his legs and kept his balance precariously over the hurdles. It had been a great feat of riding and he deserved the cheers that greeted his return. He was sure he had won despite everything, and he would personally get even one day, he thought, with that crazy dangerous Arkwright.
John Chester, Storm Cone’s trainer, who couldn’t imagine why the judge hadn’t called for a photograph, had no doubt at all that his horse had won. The owner, with pride, led his excited winner and his exhausted jockey into the enclosure allocated to the victor and received provisional compliments. John Chester savoured the exquisite joy of for once, and at last, dislodging Percy Driffield from his arrogant pinnacle as top trainer. John Chester preened.
Percy Driffield himself cared not a peanut at that moment for John Chester or the trainers’ championship. His dazed jockey had been collected uninjured by ambulance, but Lilyglit still lay ominously flat on the landing side of the last flight of hurdles, and as he ran down the course towards him the trainer’s mind was filled only with grief. Lilyglit, fast and handsome, was the horse he loved most in his stable.
On the stands, his daughter Sarah stood watching her father’s terrible urgency and was torn between pity for him and admiration for Moggie’s skill. Along with all the knowledgeable race crowd, she’d seen the empty stirrups swinging wildly as Storm Cone had jumped the hurdles and sped to the finish.
Percy Driffield reached the prostrate Lilyglit and went down on his knees beside him. His own breath shortened and practically deserted him when he found the brilliant chestnut still alive, and realised that the crash to the ground had been so fast and hard that it had literally knocked all the air out of the horse’s lungs. The term ‘winded’ sounded relatively minor: the reality could be frightening. Lilyglit needed time for his shocked chest muscles to regain a breathing rhythm and, while Percy Driffield stroked his neck, the horse suddenly heaved in a gust of air, and in a moment more had staggered to his feet, unharmed.
There was a cheer from the distant stands. Lilyglit was near to an idol.
Wendy Billington Innes, clutching a wet handkerchief in her sitting-room, had believed Lilyglit had died, even though the television race commentator, still stalwartly filling up air-time for viewers, had discussed ‘winded’ as a cause for hope. When Lilyglit stood up, Wendy Billington Innes wept again, this time with relief. Jasper, wherever he was – and she still hadn’t reached him – would rejoice that the hurdler he worshipped had survived.
Back on the racecourse Vernon Arkwright, disgruntled, reckoned the whole Cloister enterprise had been a waste of time. True, he had stopped Storm Cone from beating Lilyglit, but Lilyglit hadn’t won anyway. Vernon thought his chances of being paid his ‘commission’ by Jasper Billington Innes were slim to nowhere, which was unfair when one took into account the risk involved.
Vernon had chosen the top bend on the course for his attack because the curve of the rail and the horses bunched end-on behind him there would hide his swift move on Moggie. He didn’t know and couldn’t expect that the runners to his rear would unexpectedly part like curtains, revealing him nakedly to the patrol camera’s busy lens.
The racing authorities had for several years yearned for damningly clear evidence of Arkwright skulduggery. Now they had almost enough for attempted manslaughter. They couldn’t believe their luck.
In the stewards’ room, film from various other patrol cameras flickered on the screen. Hurriedly the officials viewed the head-on pictures that would reveal bumping incidents during the finishing furlong. In this case there weren’t any, but neither was there any firm indication as to which horse had crossed the line first.
The side-on patrol camera nearest to the winning post