The Silver Falcon Read Online Free PDF Page B

paling fence, with a small well-kept garden. The staff quarters were a modern, brick-built building, backing on to the two-year-old fillies’ yard, which was sheltered on three sides to protect the more delicate female stock.
    Tim opened the door as she got out. He came towards her, and she knew that he had heard the news. He held out his hand and took both of hers.
    â€˜Andy telephoned,’ he said. ‘I’m terribly sorry. He was a grand man. Come inside.’
    â€˜No,’ Isabel said. ‘I’d like to see the Falcon first. It’ll help me, Tim.’
    â€˜If you say so, of course. We’ll walk round. Do you want me to get Grogan?’
    She shook her head. Grogan was a talkative, tough professional; she had never got on to close terms with him or his wife.
    â€˜No, I’d rather see him with you,’ she said. They walked down towards the rectangular yard where the horses’ boxes stood. It was a clear evening, but chill with the approach of winter. The unmistakable odour of horseflesh was stronger than usual. As soon as they approached the first line of boxes a Security guard approached them; he held a German Shepherd dog on a chain leash. When he saw Ryan and Isabel he saluted and went back to his post.
    Ever since a neighbour had lost three valuable two-year-olds, every stud and private stable had its nightwatchman, some of them armed or with guard dogs. The three colts had been found with their front tendons cut, and had to be destroyed. It was never proved, but there was a rumour that their trainer had resisted pressure to pull an odds-on favourite in a five-furlong race at Saratoga. The bookmaking syndicate had taken their revenge. As Charles told Isabel, soon after she arrived there were aspects of racing which had nothing to do with sport.
    Tim Ryan stopped at a big box situated at the end of the line, close to the covered school, where the horses were exercised in bad weather. He switched on the outside light, unlatched the top door and Isabel came up beside him. The horse was resting. He stood in one corner, near the bulging haynet, his off hind leg at rest; when the light came on he turned his head and looked at them. His ears had gone flat back.
    â€˜I’ll go in first,’ Ryan said. ‘You don’t come in till I’ve got hold of him.’
    The colt watched him come across the straw; there was a malevolent look in the big bold eye. Ryan was talking to him; he had a way with horses, especially with the more difficult ones, and he was a genius with fillies. Even the most temperamental responded to him. He slipped a head collar over the colt’s neck and buckled it on. He hooked his fingers in the strap, and called to Isabel.
    â€˜Come on in; mind you don’t get too near his quarters. He’s been a real bastard today. I’ll tie him up and then strip him off for you.’ He attached the head collar to a piece of twine, which was fastened in turn to a chain hooked into a ring in the wall. It was just strong enough to let the animal know he was tethered, but a sudden backward jerk would break it without damage to the horse’s neck muscles. Isabel stood some feet away, near to the colt’s head. Ryan, still murmuring and patting his neck, unbuckled the surcingle that held his rugs in place, and slipped them off.
    â€˜There,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t he look great?’
    The dark, iron-grey coat was gleaming with health, and the loins and quarters were broad and tight with muscle. He stood all of sixteen-two hands high, his mane and tail were black. He had a proud head set on a magnificent full neck. Isabel stood watching him in silence. The living result of Charles Schriber’s years of careful planning, a horse bred with one specific prize in mind. The most prestigious of them all. The Epsom Derby.
    He had explained it all to her one night, tracing the cross breeding to the great Derby winner Hyperion and Nearco on the