Free Longshot by Dick Francis Page A

anything that could seem like doubt or anxiety, and paused again a step or two away from the horse.
    “There’s a good fella,” Tremayne said to him, and to me in the same tone, “If you can put the rope over his head, do it.”
    I took the last two paces and without stopping walked alongside the horse on the far side from Tremayne so that the horse’s head came as if naturally into and through the dangling loop. Tremayne moved his hand with the horse cubes away from the black muzzle just long enough for the rope to pass, and then still without abruptness I pulled the slack through the bowline until the noose was snug but not tight around the horse’s neck.
    “Good,” Tremayne said. “Give me the rope. I’ll walk him down to my yard. Can you drive the tractor?”
    “Yes.”
    “Wait until I’m out of sight at the bottom. We don’t want him bolting from fright. I couldn’t hold him if he did.”
    “Right.”
    Tremayne fished a few more cubes out of his pocket and offered them as before but tugged gently on the rope at the same time. Almost as if making up his mind, as if settling for food and captivity, the great creature moved off with him peacefully, and the two of them trailed down to the dark strip of wood chips and plodded towards home.
    Food and warmth, I thought. Maybe I had a lot in common with that horse. What had I settled for, but a form of captivity?
    I shrugged. What was done was done, as Tremayne would say. I went down to the tractor and in due course drove it back and parked it where it had been before we started out.
    In the now sunlit kitchen Tremayne was standing by the table, talking crossly into a telephone.
    “You’d have thought someone would have noticed by now that they’re missing a horse!” He listened a bit, then said, “Well, I’ve one here that’s surplus to requirements, so let me know.” He put the receiver down with destructive force. “No one’s told the police, would you believe it?”
    He took off his coat, scarf and cap and hung them on a single peg, revealing a big diamond-patterned golfing sweater over a boldly checked open-necked shirt. The same eye-clutter as in the family room; same taste.
    “Coffee?” he said, going towards the Aga. “You won’t mind getting your own breakfast, will you? Look around, take anything you want.” He slid the heavy kettle onto the hot plate and went along to a refrigerator which disgorged sliced bread, a tub of yellowish spread and a pot of marmalade. “Toast?” he said, putting two slices in a wire mesh holder which he slid under the second hot plate lid of the cooker. “There’s cornflakes, if you’d rather. Or cook an egg.”
    Toast would be fine, I said, and found myself delegated to making sure it didn’t burn while he put through two more phone calls, both fairly incomprehensible to my ears.
    “Plates,” he said, pointing to a cupboard, and I found those and mugs also and, in a drawer, knives, forks and spoons. “Hang your jacket in the cloakroom, next door.”
    He went on talking; positive, decisive. I hung my jacket, made the coffee and more toast. He put the receiver down with another crash and went out into the hall.
    “Dee-Dee,” he shouted. “Coffee.”
    He came back and sat down to eat, waving to me to join him, which I did, and presently in the doorway appeared a slight brown-haired woman who wore jeans and a huge gray sweater reaching to her knees.
    “Dee-Dee,” Tremayne said around a mouthful of toast, “this is John Kendall, my writer.” To me he added, “Dee-Dee’s my secretary.”
    I stood up politely and she told me unsmilingly to sit down. My first impression of her as she went across to the Aga to make her own coffee was that she was like a cat, ultra soft-footed, fluid in movement and totally self-contained.
    Tremayne watched me watching her and smiled with amusement. “You’ll get used to Dee-Dee,” he said. “I couldn’t manage without her.”
    She took the compliment without