Field of Thirteen - Dick Francis [114]
It seemed there was nothing in the rule book giving the incident-gathering patrol cameras ultimate authority in proclaiming the winner.
The doctor, summoned to the stewards’ anxious enquiry, confirmed that Christopher Haig was dead and had died, according to the judge’s assistant, well before Storm Cone or any other horse had reached the finishing line. The actual cause of death would depend on post-mortem findings.
The Stipendiary Steward, having consulted the Jockey Club big-wigs in London as well as his own soul, told the three officiating stewards that they would have to declare the race void.
Void.
It was announced that the race had been declared void primarily because of the death of the judge. All bets were off. Money staked would be repaid.
The word ‘void’ reverberated round the racecourse, and John Chester in a fury barged into the weighing-room like a tank, insisting his horse had won, demanding to be credited with Storm Cone’s prize money, dogmatically asserting that he had dislodged Driffield at the top of the trainers’ list.
Sorry, sorry, he was told. Void meant void. Void meant that the race was judged not to have taken place. No one had won any prize money, which meant that Percy Driffield was still ahead on the list.
John Chester lost control and yelled with rage.
Moggie Reilly, who believed that he and Storm Cone had certainly won on the line, shrugged philosophically over the loss of his percentage of the winner’s prize. Poor old Christopher Haig, he thought; and couldn’t know on that Friday that his own exalted riding and his trustworthiness had won him both huge upward moves in his career and also the lasting devotion of the divine Sarah Driffield, the toast of all Lambourn; his future wife.
The worst gnashing of teeth came from the stewards themselves. They could hardly believe it! They had in their hands and before their mesmerised eyes a clear sharp film showing Vernon Arkwright stretching his hand out under the heel of Moggie Reilly’s boot and jerking upwards with all his strength. They could see the force. They could see Moggie Reilly rise in the air and then plunge down over his horse’s shoulder, clinging on for life with only taut-pulled tendons to save himself.
They could see it all… and now the Stipendiary Steward – the uncontestable interpreter of the Rules of Racing – now he was telling these three in-charge stewards that they couldn’t use either the patrol camera film or the evidence of their own eyes. They couldn’t accuse Vernon Arkwright of any sort of misdeed, because the Cloister Handicap Hurdle was deemed never to have taken place. If the race was void, so were its sins.
Void meant void in all respects.
Too bad. Couldn’t be helped. Rules were rules.
‘Dear God, Christopher,’ the competent steward thought, calling on his friend the judge, ‘why didn’t your heart beat just five minutes longer?’
Haig’s death prevented John Chester from becoming top trainer (ever).
Haig’s death saved Vernon Arkwright (that spring) from being warned-off. Amazed by his luck he prudently ‘forgot’ the reason for his (now voided) assault on Moggie. It was definitely not the moment to say he’d agreed to be bribed.
Christopher Haig’s death, in keeping Vernon Arkwright quiet, saved Jasper Billington Innes his untainted reputation.
Jasper himself, grindingly unhappy, watched Winchester’s fourth race on banks of rectangular screens in a shop selling television sets. Large and small, the sets showed identical action, but all were silent. The shop favoured pop music to bring in trade: loud music, throbbing with a heavy bass beat, wholly at odds with the cool pictures of horses and riders moving round the parade ring, anonymous in their absence of commentary.
Jasper asked a shop helper for sound with the races. Sure, he was told, but the music continued unabated.
With a feeling of unreality, Jasper watched the runners