bereft. Melrose was thinking. “Tell me: are there any high-stakes races coming up?”
“Yes. There always are. Here, elsewhere. It’s not the purse of these races-although they can pay a lot-it’s the boost they do to the reputation of the stud farm. Any horse that wins the Prix de l’Arc de Triomphe or the American ones such as the Derby or, God willing, the Triple Crown-those races are pure gold when it comes to breeding. But such races are run every year.”
“Would Aqueduct have qualified?”
“Yes, but as I said before, he couldn’t be entered as Aqueduct himself.”
“But he could win registered as Bozo the Clown.” Melrose paused. “Have you considered that someone wanted Nell dead? That she had enemies?”
“Leon Stone considered it.”
“An idea you jettisoned?”
Vernon nodded. “In that case stealing the horse was simply a smoke screen? Something like that?”
“Something like that, yes. What runs counter to that idea is that they’ve never found her body. The thoroughness of police when it comes to searches like that is legendary. The woods behind the house would literally have not a leaf unturned. Still, it’s a theory in the running. Did someone gain from her death?”
“But no death has been reported. So what would be gained?”
“Something in the future? Anyway, if Ryder is having financial troubles, I expect he wouldn’t be leaving a fortune to anyone.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. In terms of liquid assets, he hasn’t a great deal. In terms of assets, period, he’s got a lot. He’s just not using the potential. He could, of course, sell the farm and realize a big profit. Anderson’s been wanting to buy him out for years. But it would be far more valuable to keep Ryder Stud and simply syndicate the horses. And increase the breeding shares. Samarkand has sired a number of foals who’ve gone on to win in the six figures. In other words, Arthur could be making enough to pay Danny’s gambling debts several times over. What he’s resisting most is syndication. With a horse, for instance, like Criminal Type, say he sold off twenty shares-keeping another dozen for himself-at, say, fifty thousand a share, which would be low for that horse. There’s a cool million just for the shares sold on one horse. He’s got several that good or better. And that’s not counting the shares in breeding rights. I’ve been trying to talk him into this for years, but here’s where profit loses out to sentiment.” Vernon smiled.
“Somehow in his mind, he sees Criminal Type cut up into twenty pieces? Literally?”
Vernon was now eating his beans and toast, which must be stone-cold by now, with enthusiasm. “Exactly. Arthur can bring himself to selling breeding rights only by selling very few. Less than any other owner around. Can you imagine the profit from a horse like Criminal Type, whose progeny thus far have already won stakes races to the tune of eight or nine million? Ten colts, averaging, say, half a million apiece? And that’s only up to
“A horse such as Aqueduct would be worth a fortune, then, theoretically?”
The waitress was hovering, pouring a small waterfall of hot coffee into their cups. Melrose noticed a paler circle of skin where a wedding band had once been and wondered why she’d taken it off.
Vernon shook his head. “As I said, no one else could run him or breed him under the Aqueduct name.” Vernon drew a crumpled pack of cigarettes from an inner pocket, together with a lighter. It could easily have been traded for a share in Aqueduct. It was platinum. As Melrose took a cigarette and leaned over so Vernon could light it, he wondered just how much money the man had.
“Do Little Chefs have a no-smoking section?”
“It’s not this one, wherever it is,” Vernon said.
TWENTY-TWO
“Back to square one,” said Melrose early the next morning as he sat in Jury’s hospital room. “Abducted. Horse hijacked. Square one.” “Considering you actually witnessed this woman whom nobody knows talking to someone in the Grave Maurice, I’d hardly say we’re back to square one. You might be the only person who has a line on her. You said she was talking about Nell Ryder?”
Melrose nodded. “Now, of course, I’m sorry I didn’t listen more closely.”
“Hindsight. Even so, we’ve learned a fair amount about how things were and are with members of the Ryder family, that the jockey didn’t get along with them, especially with his father; that Arthur had borne with him to the limits of his ability, probably because his son’s one virtue was that Dan Ryder could ride a horse into hell and both come back unsinged.”
Melrose noticed again the sheet drawn up to Jury’s neck and his look of supreme self-satisfaction. On his bedside table, occupying a position beneath
Jury reached for it. “Aqueduct’s stall was down at the far end. The girl was with him. It was dark, the only illumination coming from dim lights at either end. She may or may not have seen whoever was there. But that doesn’t make any difference if he thought she saw him. Arthur Ryder told you the stall was always locked, that Davison did that last thing before he left?”
“That’s right.”
“And the lock wasn’t forced, so the person must have had a key. Either that or someone left the door unlocked.”
“You mean someone in the family?”
“Or in the employ of the family.”
Melrose didn’t like to think this. “I think that’s an assumption.”
“Maybe, but I’m holed up here. I can only go by what I’m told.”
There was that self-satisfied little smile again. Jury was now staring placidly at the ceiling. Wiggins, more and more. “How he got to the house is anybody’s guess. Could have walked, could have been dropped off-which would mean more than one person was involved in all this…”
“If he got there that way, he could have retraced his steps with the girl, probably a gun at her head-”
“He was either prevented from doing that or he took the course of action he’d planned all along: get the girl, get the horse. And don’t forget, Nell Ryder was-is-supposed to be an excellent horsewoman.”
“But none of this explains her twenty-month absence.”
Jury was looking at the police report. “It would if she’s dead, and she probably is.”
Melrose’s heart gave a lurch. He didn’t want to hear that from Jury; Jury was too often right. But then he hadn’t actually talked to these people, except for Dr. Ryder.
“The one I haven’t heard anything much about is Maurice.” As if awakening to the question, he asked, “Why is that?”
“You’re right; there’s been little if anything said of him. I don’t know why. The boy’s name rarely comes up. I think his grandfather is very fond of him. I spoke to him-Maurice-the night the woman was found on the track.”
“His mother left him cold and his father’s dead-that strikes me as warranting a mention. And where is the mother?”
“I don’t know.”
