Free To the Hilt by Dick Francis

attack. I don’t like to bitch, but I want my money.”
    “You’ll get it,” I promised. “But he wants me to take the horse away from here, so that it doesn’t get sucked in and sold prematurely.”
    She frowned. “I can’t let you take it.”
    “Well... yes you can.”
    I stretched down the table to reach the folder I’d brought with me and handed her one of the certified copies of the power of attorney, explaining that it gave me authority to do as I thought best regarding Ivan’s property, which one way or another definitely included Golden Malt.
    She read the whole thing solemnly and at the end said merely, “All right. What do you want to do?”
    “To ride the horse away from here tomorrow morning, when the town and the Downs are alive with horses going in all directions.”
    She stared. “Firstly,” she said, “he’s not an easy ride.”
    “And I’d fall off?”
    “You might. And secondly, where would you go?”
    “If I tell you where, you’ll be involved more than maybe you’d want to be.”
    She thought it over. She said, “I don’t see how you can do it without my help. At the very least you need me to tell the grooms not to worry when one of the horses goes missing.”
    “Much easier with your help,” I agreed.
    We drank the coffee, not talking.
    “I like Ivan,” she said finally. “Technically he’s still my stepfather-in-law, same as Vivienne is still my mother-in-law. I see them at the races. We’re on good terms, though she’s never effusive. We send each other Christmas cards.”
    I nodded. I knew.
    “If Ivan wants the horse hidden,” Emily said, “I’ll help you. So where do you plan to go?”
    “I bought a copy of Horse and Hound in Newbury,” I said, taking the magazine out of the folder and opening at the pages of classified advertisements. “There’s a man here, over the Downs from here, saying he looks after hunters at livery and prepares horses for hunters’ chases and point-to-points. I thought about phoning him and asking him to take my hack for a few weeks. For four weeks, in fact, until a day or two before the King Alfred Gold Cup. The horse would have to come back here, wouldn’t he, so he could run with you as trainer?”
    She nodded absently, looking where my finger pointed.
    “I’m not sending Golden Malt to him,” she announced. “That man’s a bully, horses go sour on him, and he thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”
    “Oh.”
    She thought briefly. “I have a friend, a woman, who offers the same service and is a damn sight better.”
    “Is she within riding distance?”
    “About eight miles across the Downs. You’d get lost on the Downs, though.”
    “Er . . . you used to have a map of the tracks and gallops.”
    “Yes, the Ordnance Survey map. But my maps must be seven years old. There are a lot of new roads.”
    “Roads may change, but the tracks are seven thousand years old. They’ll still be there.”
    She laughed and fetched the map from the office, spreading it out on the kitchen table. “Her yard is west of here,” Emily said, pointing. “She’s quite a good way away from Mandown, where most people exercise the Lambourn strings. She’s there, see, outside the village of Foxhill.”
    “I could find that,” I said.
    Emily looked doubtful, but phoned her friend.
    “My yard’s so full,” she said. “Could you take an overflow for me for a week or two? Keep him fit. He’ll be racing later on.... You can? Good.... I’ll send one of my grooms over with him in the morning.... The horse’s name? Oh ... just call him Bobby. Send me the bills. How are your kids?”
    After the chitchat she put down the receiver.
    “There you are,” she said. “One conjuring trick done to order.”
    “You’re brilliant.”
    “Absolutely right. Where are you sleeping?”
    “I’ll find a room in Lamboum.”
    “Not unless you want to advertise your presence. Don’t forget you lived here for six months. People know you. We got married in