A theoretical argument. Who cares? Trueblood turned the camera off toward the right. Wonderful! Fists were flying! The master appeared now to be acting as referee. Oh, good! Someone in the group actually pushed him! Shouting! The rest of the hunt had dismounted now-their steeds making for the spot where their fellow horses were nibbling the frosty grass.
Hearing raised voices at his back, Trueblood turned around to get a look at the civilians, who appeared to be sheering off and scattering. Diane and Melrose were waving him toward the car.
“I got it all! Did you see it? The melee?”
“What melee in particular?” asked Melrose as he got in the car. “There seemed to be so many melees. But that bit was interesting, wasn’t it, about some of these groups’ advertising themselves as charities when they were really moneymaking concerns?”
“A documentary!” said Trueblood, starting the car. “I’m entering it for the BAFTA awards.”
Diane stabbed a cigarette into her black holder. “They’re so tiresome, aren’t they, these do-gooders, these protesters?” She sighed and turned so that Melrose could light the cigarette. Then she said, “It’s all a bit of a shambles, isn’t it?”
“Causes,” said Melrose. “There’s something really off-putting about causes.”
Trueblood nodded. “There’s something absolutely absurd about this marching and meeting and arguing and brawling.”
“If things start going wrong,” said Diane, “I agree with that writer-what’s his name? Raymond… Hammett? No, Dash something-”
“Dashiell Chandler?” offered Melrose. “Or it could be Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett? Anyway, you agree with what one of the three said. What was that?”
“Bring in a man with a gun.”
TWELVE
Mauricle had thought about her disappearance until Maurice had thought about her disappearance until thought seemed to liquefy and then evaporate, as if his brain could take only so much. He was sitting at Arthur Ryder’s big desk in the library, moving the leather swivel chair a half circle one way, a half circle the other. In his hand was the silver-framed photo of Nell, posed beside Samarkand. It was taken just before she disappeared. Fifteen years old. Was she as carefree as she looked in this picture? Was he?
He did not know his grandfather had entered the room until he spoke: “Maurice.”
“Oh, hi, Granddad.” Maurice set the silver frame back on his grandfather’s desk.
“You never stop, do you, son?” Arthur’s voice was as quiet as moths beating against a blind and his expression just as futile.
To Maurice, his grandfather sounded very tired. He said so. “You should slow down.”
Arthur Ryder slumped into the big leather chair beside his desk and gave a short laugh. “Maurice, if I slowed down any more I’d be in a coma.”
“Oh, sure. Right.”
“It’s all this whittling.” Arthur smiled and put his pocket-knife on the desk along with the small piece of wood he’d been working on.
Maurice picked it up, turned it. “What is it?” “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. That’s what I aim for.”
Maurice ran his thumb over the side. “But it’s such a good nothing. The design is good.”
Arthur laughed more heartily than he had before. “Maurice, I swear you’re the only sixteen-year-old diplomat I know.” Then Arthur thought, truly bloody kind, Maurice is. But kindness has a price; it makes a person thin skinned, empathy does.
“It’s just nerves,” said Arthur, inclining his head toward the bit of wood. “Just a nervous habit.” Not quite true. It gave him something to look at other than the eyes of the person he was talking to. He found it difficult to look people in the eyes. Not Maurice, of course, and not Vernon. But others. It’s like cats, isn’t it? If they look you in the eyes and blink, doesn’t it mean they trust you? Arthur did very little blinking; he just whittled away, blew the sawdust and tiny bits off the knife and the wood.
The phone rang and he picked it up, listened and said to Maurice, “Give me that stud book; it’s on that first shelf. Thanks.” Arthur flipped to the last page on which were written names and dates, and said, “If it’s just the one time, you can have On Your Mark,… that’s a hundred thousand, one-twenty-five if you want a guaranteed foal… No. Samarkand? Of course not, Colin. He needs a rest.” Arthur chuckled. “Maybe you and I don’t, but then we didn’t spend ten years of our lives in the winner’s circle, did we?… No, I don’t mean you’d get On Your Mark for just the one time; of course you can try two or three times. Like taking your coffee back for a refill… Hell, Colin, of course it’s a lot of money; you talk as if you’d never done this before. I know it’s a lot of money, you also know On Your Mark won the 2000, the St. Leger, the Derby and a lot of other races here and in France.” This was said without a trace of rancor. After a few more exchanges, Arthur rang off.
“Colin Biers would have all of the stallions in my stables lined up for a crack at his mare to make sure he got another Honorbound.” He leaned his head against the back of the chair and studied the ceiling. “I wonder what it would take to make another one.” Arthur thought of that wondrous horse who not only had won every high-stakes race he’d been entered in, but who also had one of the mildest temperaments imaginable. Everyone loved Honorbound. The horse stood at Cavalier Farm, whose trainer, Keegan, would complain loudly to Charlie Davison that Truitt (who owned Cavalier) was making money hand over fist from Honorbound’s seasons. “Works the horse to bloody death, the bastard” is what Keegan had said to Arthur many times. He was getting two hundred thousand per season and selling seasons to more than eighty or ninety applicants. The man was raking in millions. “The greedy bastard,” said Keegan. “One of the greatest Thoroughbreds to run the course and that bastard has him mating with eighty mares a season. That horse,” said Keegan, “could tell me anything I wanted to know about handling him right. Maybe he was training me, instead of my training him. He was a regular horse whisperer. All I had to do was keep my ears open.” Keegan had kept asking Arthur Ryder to talk to Truitt, get him to see reason, to cut back on Honorbound’s seasons.
“You did,” said Maurice. “How?”
“It wasn’t hard; it was simple, really. I told him he’d be flooding the market with Honorbound foals. We’d already seen some of the best, like Lillywhite, and all winners of stakes races, two of them won the Derby. Honorbound’s worth his weight in gold. I expect he’s smart to have that stall fitted out with a smoke detector, a fire detector and that thing that measures a rise in heat. To say nothing of the sprinkler system. Most elaborate I’ve ever seen. The stud fee went up to a quarter million. Vernon has talked about it enough, the money in selling seasons and shares. Reason tells you that the fewer foals, the more valuable each is; the more, the less valuable. It’s supply and demand, that’s all. Money’s the only language Truitt understands.” Arthur smiled. “Vern wanted to do it himself; he loves talking about money.”
“You don’t think Vernon’s like that, do you?”
Arthur laughed. “Oh, God, no.”
“Did Dad ever ride Honorbound?” He knew the answer; he just liked to talk about his father.
“Rode him at Ainslee. Truitt always tried to get Danny away from me, the twerp. Even though Danny was my own son. Truitt and Anderson, two of a kind.”
“What was Dad’s favorite ride?”
Arthur thought for a moment. “I think it depended on the race. Beautiful Dreamer, when he rode him in the 2000. Then Aqueduct in the Grand National. I’ll never forget that race. There’s never been a horse more relentless than Aqueduct. Watching him over those hurdles was like watching lava pour over rocks.”