Dick Francis's Gamble

of them was Ben’s father. He towered above the others by a good five or six inches. The “tall” gene was clearly alive and well in all the Roberts family.

“Dad,” said Ben during a lull in the men’s conversation, “this is Mr. Foxton and Claudia, his fiancee. My father, Viscount Shenington.”

“Delighted to meet you,” I said, offering my hand.

He looked down at me and slowly put forward his hand to shake. It was hardly the most friendly of welcomes, but I hadn’t really expected anything else. I knew that even though he was prepared to speak to me, he didn’t truly want to.

“Good evening, Mr. Foxton,” he said. “Good of you to come.” He turned slightly towards Claudia. “And you too, my dear.”

That wouldn’t go down too well, I thought. My father always called Claudia “my dear,” and she hated it, claiming that he was an arrogant old git who shouldn’t be so patronizing.

“Have a drink,” Shenington said. “And some food.” He waved a hand towards the impressive buffet table. “We’ll speak later.”

He went back to his former conversations.

“Good,” said Ben with considerably more warmth. “What would you both like to drink? Champagne?”

“Lovely,” Claudia said.

“Fruit juice for me, please,” I said. “I’m driving.”

“Yeah, me too,” said Ben, holding up a glass of orange liquid. “But I’ll get a proper skinful later at the Boat Club dinner.”

“Rowing?” I asked.

“Absolutely. Tonight’s our home celebration for beating the hated enemy.”

“The hated enemy?” said Claudia.

“Cambridge,” Ben said, smiling broadly. “In the Boat Race. Beat them by half a length. Dead easy!”

“Were you in the crew?” I asked.

“Certainly was,” he said, pulling himself up to his full six feet plus plus. “Number 4-in the engine room.”

“Well done,” I said, meaning it. “Are you trying for the Olympics next?”

“No. Not for me. I was good, but not that good. It’s time to retire gracefully and get my life back. These last few weeks I’ve really enjoyed not having to be on the river every morning at dawn and in all weather. Now I’m just working hard for my finals.”

“And then what?” I asked. “Politics?”

“That’s the plan,” he said. “A special adviser and political researcher for the party, at least for a while. Then Parliament.”

Then the world, I thought.

“Commons or Lords?” I asked.

“Commons,” he said with a laugh. “The power house. There’s no place left in the Lords for the likes of us, not anymore. And I wouldn’t want it even if there was.”

Ben himself was a walking power house, and his enthusiasm was infectious. I was sure he’d go far.

“Good luck,” I said to him. “I personally can’t think of anything worse than being a politician. Everyone I know seems to hate them.”

“No, they don’t,” he said sharply. “All they hate is that it’s other people who are the politicians when they want the power for themselves.”

I wasn’t going to argue with him and not least because I had a feeling I would lose and lose badly. If Ben told me the grass was blue and the sky was green, I’d probably believe him. Except that, this particular evening, the sky wasn’t green or blue, it was dark gray.

Claudia and I took our drinks out onto the private balcony, and I briefly turned on my phone to check my voice mail. There was a new message from Chief Inspector Tomlinson.

“The meeting is fixed for tomorrow morning, Thursday,” his voice said. “Eleven a.m., at the Paddington Green Police Station.”

Not back in their holding cells, I hoped. I’d had my fill of those.

From our vantage point on the box balcony, Claudia and I looked down at the few brave souls rushing around in the rain beneath us.

“It’s such a shame,” Claudia said. “The weather makes or breaks an event like this. Everyone gets so wet.”

“It’s worse for the jockeys,” I said. “They’ll not just get wet, they’ll get completely covered in mud kicked up from the horses ahead of them. On days like this, being a front-runner is the only sensible option. At least you can then see where you’re going and where the fences are. However, the downside is that if your horse falls, the rest trample over you as you lie on the ground.”

“At least they’re getting paid,” she said.

“Not tonight, they’re not. All the races are for amateur riders only.”

“Then they’re mad,” she said.

I laughed. “Not at all. For some of them, tonight is the best evening of their whole year. They’ve been working hard all winter to qualify their horses for this one meeting, and a bit of dampness isn’t going to spoil their party.”

“Well,” said Claudia, “I’d definitely want a big fee to ride in this rain.”

Not me, I thought. I’d happily do it for nothing. In fact, I’d pay to be able to join them, and handsomely.

“Amateur jockeys do it just for the love of the sport,” I said. “Indeed, the very word amateur comes from the Latin word amator, meaning ‘lover.’”

“You’re my amator,” she said quietly, turning towards me and cuddling up with her arms inside my coat.

“Not now, darling,” I said. “And not here. I’m working, remember?”

“Shame,” she said, letting me go. “Your job is so boring.”

That seemed to be the unanimous conclusion.

Claudia and I braved the damp conditions to go down to the Weighing Room and the parade ring after the second race. We went to support Jan, who had a runner in the third.

“Not much chance, I’m afraid,” she said as we sheltered under the terrace roof and she emerged from the Weighing Room with a small saddle over her arm. “The horse is fine, but the owner insists his son should ride it and he’s only eighteen. He’s still just a boy, and this mare needs to be held up to the last. She gets lazy if she’s in front too soon.”

“But I was only eighteen when I rode my first winner for you,” I reminded her.

“Yes,” she replied. “But you were good, very good. This boy is barely average.” She rushed off towards the saddling boxes to prepare the horse.

Claudia and I stayed under the cover in front of the Weighing Room and, presently, Jan’s mare came into the parade ring, closely followed by her and the horse’s owner.

I scanned my soggy race program to see who it was and instead noticed that one of the other runners in the race was owned by our host, Viscount Shenington. I looked around the parade ring and spotted him and some of his other guests huddling under large golf umbrellas at the far end. They were talking to the horse’s trainer, the gossip Martin Gifford.

The jockeys were called from the Changing Room, and the eager mob streamed out onto the grass, their brightly colored silks in stark contrast to the gathering gloom of the day.

Claudia and I decided to stay down near the Weighing Room for the race rather than to go back up to the grandstand box. We could watch all the action on the big-screen television and we wouldn’t have to get wet coming down again if Jan’s horse won. And also, I thought, I didn’t really want to have to talk to Martin Gifford, who would surely go up to the box with his owner to watch their horse run.

But, on that score, I was sadly wrong.

Martin Gifford came to stand on the Weighing Room terrace right next to me to watch the race on the television.