by Dick Francis
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 required.
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 showed Storm Cone probably a short head in front, but that particular camera was positioned a few yards short of the finishing line and couldn’t be relied on for last-second decisions.
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 al
so 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 go down to the start for the Cloister Handicap Hurdle. His own beautiful Lilyglit moved fluidly, packed with power. Jasper’s jumbled feelings tore him apart. However could he have doubted his horse would win? However could he have been ready to let him win dishonestly? Jasper wanted to believe that his telephone call to Vernon Arkwright hadn’t happened. He tried to convince himself that Arkwright wouldn’t be able to do anything anyway to impede Storm Cone. Not Storm Cone or any other horse. Lilyglit would win without help… he had to win to pay the debts… but the weights favoured Storm Cone… and if Moggie Reilly couldn’t be bought, he had to be stopped…
Jasper’s thoughts pendulumed from self-loathing to self-justification, from belief in Lilyglit to a vision of poverty. He’d never in his life earned even a bus fare – he rarely went on a bus – and he’d had no training in anything. How could he provide for a wife and four children? And how deep ran his belief in his own honour when at the first test it had crumbled? When his first solution to financial heartbreak had been to bribe a jockey?
On the multiple silent screens the Cloister runners lined up and set off, with Lilyglit fast away and setting the pace as usual.
Nothing bad would happen, Jasper told himself. Lilyglit would stay in front all the way. He watched the close-up of his favourite crossing the winning line first time round, and saw him set off round the top bend, only his rump-end clearly showing.
The television camera operator, focusing on Lilyglit, missed Vernon Arkwright’s swerve towards Storm Cone but, with a wild swing of his lens caught the moment when Moggie Reilly, unbalanced, flew out of his saddle. Mostly hidden though he was by white rails, by Storm Cone himself, and by other horses, Moggie Reilly, in his scarlet and orange silks, could be glimpsed struggling, and finally with help, winning his fight against gravity. The banks of screens showed him jumping the next flight of hurdles without control of reins or stirrups and then, immediate story over, swung back to the leader, to Lilyglit, now far and by many lengths established in the lead.
Jasper’s whole body went cold with sweat. His mind refused to accept what his eyes had seen. He couldn’t… he couldn’t have offered to pay to have Moggie Reilly put in danger of hideous injury… it was impossible.
And Moggie Reilly was still there, on his horse, without his feet in the stirrups, but still trying to make up lost ground, still trying to catch the five or six runners ahead, but with no hope of winning.
Vernon Arkwright had dropped back out of television sight, his task accomplished. The screens all switched to Lilyglit galloping alone, uncatchable now and stretching with long sweeping strides towards the last hurdle.
I’ve won, Jasper thought, and felt little joy in it.
Lilyglit fell.
Lilyglit lay inert on the green turf.
The television picture switched to the finish. Storm Cone’s violent colours flashed there inconclusively, and after a moment the focus was back on Lilyglit, still unmoving, looking dead.
Jasper Billington Innes all but fainted in the shop
Somewhere in the depth of the store a control button, pressed, changed the racing programme to a children’s tea-time frolic. Three walls full of identical cartoon characters wobbled about simultaneously, uttering unheard squeaks and platitudes. They drew in a laughing audience (which the racing had not) but the thump-thump deafening background music drummed on and on.
Jasper walked dizzily out of the store and on jerky uncoordinated legs made his way back towards the multi-storey park where he’d left his car when he’d decided where to go to watch the Cloister.
He unlocked the car door and in mental agony sat in the driver’s seat listing again his dreadful woes.
Lilyglit – he couldn’t bear it – was dead. Dead, uninsured, worth nothing: and he was now heavily in debt to Percy Driffield for his last desperate bet.
Vernon Arkwright, hauled before the stewards, would testify that Jasper had bribed him to put Moggie Reilly’s life in danger.
Jasper realised that he might himself be warned-off. Might suffer that ultimate disgrace. He was drowning in unpayable debt, and he had lost his wife’s fortune. But it was his inner awareness of dishonour that had most shattered his self-respect.
Not for the first time, he thought of killing himself.
Wendy Billington Innes had dried her tears and stiffened her backbone at the sight of Lilyglit walking safely back unhurt, and a short time later she listened half in relief and half in horror to a trainer-to-owner telephone call from Percy Driffield.
‘You do understand, don’t you?’ he asked, as she fell silent.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said.
‘Tell Jasper that everything about that race is void. Everything. Including his bet.’
‘All right.’
‘A void race shouldn’t detract very much from Lilyglit’s value… and tell Jasper I’ve a buyer for him in my own yard. I frankly don’t want to lose that horse.’
‘I’ll tell him,’ Wendy said, disconnecting, and started again for the third time trying everywhere she could think of to find her husband.
No one had seen him since breakfast. The fear she’d been smothering all day rose sharply and prodded her towards panic.
She knew that Jasper had unbending pride. Below the sweet-natured exterior lived a man of serious honour, and it was this uprightness that had attracted her years ago.
Stemmer Peabody had smashed Jasper’s pride. He would hate ruin as if it were despicable. He might find it too much to bear.
She had twice phoned Jasper’s car, but he hadn’t answered. The car phone service was rigged to speak messages aloud when the ignition was switched on, but her pleas to Jasper to phone her back had gone unanswered. That didn’t mean he hadn’t heard them. She feared he’d ignored them and
wiped them off.
With nowhere else offering the slightest hope she tried his car again.
‘Leave a message…’
She cursed the disembodied voice and spoke from her heart.
‘Jasper, if you can hear me, listen…Listen. Lilyglit is alive, he fell, but he was only winded. He’s unharmed…listen… and Percy Driffield has a buyer. And that whole race was declared void because the judge died before the finish. Nothing that happened in the race counts. Nothing, do you understand? Percy Driffield told me to tell you particularly. All bets are void. So Jasper… my dear, my dear, come home… We’ll get by… I quite like cooking and looking after the children… but we all need you… Come home… please come home…’ She stopped abruptly, feeling that she’d been talking to the empty air, pointlessly.
Jasper, indeed, didn’t hear her. With the car’s ignition still turned off, the message machine remained silent.
Jasper in black humour couldn’t decide how to kill himself. He had no piece of tubing for carbon monoxide. He knew of no cliffs to jump over. He had no knife for his wrists. Dying didn’t seem easy. Never a handyman, he sat uselessly trying to work it out. Meanwhile, he found an old envelope in a door pocket and in total despair but no haste wrote a farewell note.
I am ashamed.
Forgive me.
After that he decided to find a good solid tree somewhere and accelerate head-on into a killing crash.
He slotted the car key into the ignition to start the engine…and the car phone message service spoke Wendy’s words aloud, as if she were there by his side.
Utterly stunned, Jasper Billington Innes played his wife’s message three times.
Gradually he understood that Lilyglit lived, that his bet with Percy Driffield was void, and that neither he nor Vernon Arkwright would be charged with breaking racing law.
