Free The Last Horseman by David Gilman

your pocket, you mean. Evidence in a case I’m defending goes missing. A mistrial here or there. All to make the way clear for you to do whatever scheme you’re wallowing in.’
    ‘Listen, Radcliffe, the world is what you make of it. The English Queen is coming to these very shores in April, and I’ve got the contract for building the pier at Kingston for the royal yacht. I’m making a small fortune out of the Office of Public Works. I’m a man of influence and I pay people for information. Scraps turn into banquets, Radcliffe. You get to hear things in your line of work. Just a snippet here and there.’
    ‘I’m not for sale, Kingsley. Now if you’ll excuse me, my son’s riding this morning.’
    ‘I could give your boy this race. I could buy off every one of those adventuring bastards. He would win and you would have my horse.’
    As if on cue, the horse snuffled Radcliffe’s hand. Radcliffe ran his hand along the silky black cheek and down on to the muscled shoulder. There was no denying the strength and beauty of the horse that towered above both men.
    Radcliffe patted it one more time. ‘You have nothing I want,’ he said.
    ‘Oh, you want him – it’s just that you’re not prepared to pay the asking price. It’s a pity. I thought we could do business. It would have benefited us both. But there it is. No harm in my offering, Radcliffe.’
    ‘And none, I hope, in my refusing.’
    ‘Agh. Honourable men.’ Kingsley laughed. ‘Jesus, what a pain in the arse you are. Still... someone has to be. Right, let’s be off and see who’s going to take my hundred guineas today.’
    *
    Traces of intermittent rain whipped across the low hills, making the couple of dozen horsemen steady their mounts as bookmakers shouted their odds over the wind. The chilled weather would never stop money changing hands as rich and poor vied to gamble. Horse racing was the great leveller. Those from the poverty-stricken areas would never use a racquet on the Rathgar courts, or clutch the leather of a rugby ball. Those sports were for the wealthy young men who visited the illegal cockfights in the working-class area of Blackpitts. But horseflesh at the gallop was as free as the soot-clogged air they all breathed.
    The riders fussed about their horses, mostly hunters used for pursuing a wily fox or inexhaustible stag. A snaffle tweak here, a stirrup length pulled and checked. Saddles were rocked back and forth. Last-minute fidgeting before the riders hoisted themselves into the leather. Most wore shirt and jodhpurs; the sweat of exertion would soon cling anything heavier to their skin. Belmont was on the far side of the riders, relaxed, smoking a cheroot, his horse nibbling the cropped grass. Captain Taylor and Lieutenant Marsh shared a silver flask with him. None of them sought out the black man standing with the boy.
    ‘You wearing an undershirt like I told you?’ Pierce asked Edward, who shivered as he held the reins. The boy nodded. The New Year weather added to his nerves.
    ‘I’m not really cold. Well, a little.’
    ‘It’s not for the cold. Someone lays a whip across your back, and they will, you want to take the sting out of it.’
    ‘Where is he?’ Edward asked.
    ‘He’ll be here,’ Pierce answered as Edward scanned the crowd for his father. ‘Edward, if you don’t want to ride, that’s OK. You understand? There’s no shame in changing your mind. Hell, wish I’d have done so plenty of times.’
    ‘I’m not scared, Ben. I want it to start. That’s all. Where is he?’
    Edward grinned as his father pushed his way through the riders and horses.
    ‘I knew you’d come, Father.’
    ‘I said I would, didn’t I? But I had business to attend to. You ready?’
    ‘Yes,’ Edward said, and nodded enthusiastically. Radcliffe glanced at Pierce, who gave an almost imperceptible shrug. Who knew if the lad could stay the course?
    Pierce gave the boy a hoist into the saddle. The riders were making their way to the start