A Dying Fall

Book 17: Murder Room

by Henry Wade

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Charles Rathlyn has everything - a benefactress, a rich wife and a comfortable country life. But while riding to hounds one day he takes a terrible spill, and, on reviving, finds himself looking into a pair of beautiful brown eyes. He knows he has fallen once again . . . in love. But are his fall and those soft brown eyes linked to another fall - the fatal plunge his wife, Kate takes over the banister to the parquet floor below, supposedly while sleepwalking? Did she fall or was she pushed? Kate Rathlyn's death begins an investigation into blackmail and murder among the sporting set.

Release date: May 14, 2016

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 241

Sample

A FINE FEBRUARY drizzle was drifting across the course as the numbers went up for the 1952 Royal Cup. Disappointing, because the day had begun fine and this might spoil
visibility, blurring one’s race-glasses and even veiling the far side of the course.

Still, the business of the moment was in the paddock, and to this were trooping now the hundreds of members and their friends for whom the Shankesbury ‘Royal’ was surpassed in
importance and popularity only by the Grand National and the Cheltenham Gold Cup. Soldiers would perhaps have put their Grand Military next to the National, at any rate before the wars, but there
were plenty of them here, among members, owners and riders, and even in the humbler enclosures and round the course itself.

Altogether this looked like being the best meeting since the war, and certainly there had been no greater crowd on Royal Cup day. The brightness of the early morning might have helped to this,
but there was no doubt that a brighter and more hopeful spirit was in the air now that Winston was back in power again. Many people who had ‘given it all up’, or were on the verge of
doing so, now felt that life might be worth living, after all; who knew, perhaps ‘Rab’ might make a bold plunge and knock a bob off income tax—if not this year, then surely next.
Anyhow, there were people here today who had not been racing—not regularly, at any rate—for a long time.

Vouchers for the enclosure had been hard to come by, for those who had drifted out of touch or had left it to a late decision. The unlucky ones were consoling themselves either in Tattersalls or
round the course, not altogether sorry at saving the extra guineas, and sure of a good view and lots of first-class sport. But in the paddock now were the regulars, the faithful supporters of
racing under National Hunt rules, bent upon having a look at the runners before deciding whether to stick to their fancy or to ‘have a little something on something else’—as a
saver.

The owners were beginning to dribble in twos and threes into the parade ring, men and women, young and old, rich and . . . not so rich as they hoped they looked—the men mostly in bowler
hats and wide-skirted overcoats or macintoshes, the women in every variety of turn-out, from well-worn tweeds to fur coat and high-heeled shoes; only a handful of them, compared to the men, but
numbers seemed to be increasing year by year. Noticeable among them—in Persian lamb, too smart hat and too small shoes—was Mrs. Waygold, owner of the favourite, Ballnaceach; and round
her were a little group of men attracted by the glamour of expected success, by her by no means negligible charms, or by her reputation for riches and generosity. Mrs. Waygold’s own
attention, however, was on her horse, which had just come into the ring—a big, upstanding bay with powerful quarters and flat, sloping shoulders that looked well up to the task of carrying
him and his rider at speed round the stiff three and a half miles of this great race.

Many eyes were upon Ballnaceach, as he walked sedately beside his stable-lad round the ring; he would start at something like three to one—short odds in a steeplechase with many runners of
real quality—and he was carrying a lot of public money. But there were other well-backed horses, too, and among these was a beautifully made grey mare, No. 15, Silver Eagle, owned by Captain
Charles Rathlyn, which was to be ridden today by Dan Maston, one of the boldest and most successful jockeys riding under N.H. Rules. This fact alone would have attracted public money, but Silver
Eagle had her own good merits and had youth in her favour; she had not yet won a big race, but was generally thought to have been unlucky at Hurst Park earlier in the season.

Whatever public favour she had earned, however, the mare was carrying today what to her owner seemed his whole life. Charles Rathlyn, forty years old now, had held a regular commission in the
1st/27th Lancers, which had been ‘converted’ into armoured cars before 1939. He was a born horseman, with a passion for race-riding, and in the thirties had been left a useful little
fortune by an uncle, Pegram Rathlyn, who declared that Charles was the only young Rathlyn who knew how to use money. The young soldier had just begun to ‘use’ it, with good, or at any
rate pleasant, effect, when Hitler’s invasion of Poland put an end to all that.

Although no longer a horse-soldier, Charles had enjoyed his armoured-car scraps with the Germans in that hectic May of 1940, but his luck ended on the quay at Dunkirk, where his leg had been
smashed by a bomb. He got back to England, but spent many months in hospital; the bone would not set for a long time, and when it did the knee was nearly stiff. There followed a spell of home
service at a cavalry training depot, but his C.O. did not like him, and he spent the rest of the war switching from one dull job to another, finishing up as a temporary major, second-in-command of
a prisoners-of-war camp.

Discharged unfit, with a small disability pension, Charles found that he could no longer race. He could ride, but his stiff knee made him clumsy and unbalanced; he tried hunting, but he could
not ‘go’ as he used to, and that to a thruster by nature is misery. His income, too, was greatly reduced by taxation; he had enough for comfort and one modest luxury, so he decided to
concentrate on a small string of steeplechasers. He had no luck, however, and for three years had been going steadily downhill, almost to the point of selling his string and buying a farm. Then one
lucky, or skilful, buy gave him fresh hope: Silver Eagle, bought as a three-year-old with no public reputation, suddenly developed into a first-rate chaser. Charles and his trainer, Fred Dartle,
kept as quiet as possible about her—her failure at Hurst Park had helped them in that—so that she would start today, with a fine chance of winning, at a very fair price, and carrying,
besides a good deal of ‘cavalry’ money, the whole, or nearly the whole, of Charles Rathlyn’s remaining capital. It was almost literally a case of ‘victory or Wormwood
Scrubs’. Which, as the saying goes, is where we came in.

Dan Maston needed no last-minute instructions. He had ridden Silver Eagle in every race she had run in Charles’s colours, and knew exactly what she could do and how to get the best out of
her. Charles gave the little man a leg up, patted his knee and said:

“You’re carrying my last button, Dan.”

Maston nodded, touched his cap, and then joined the string of horses making their way out on to the course—a way quiet or lively, according to their respective temperaments. The roar of
the crowd rose to a new pitch as they appeared, but it made no impression on Charles’s accustomed ears; he detached himself from Dartle and the other owners and made his way to the furthest,
topmost corner of that section of the Members’ stand which is reserved for owners. By nature Charles Rathlyn was a gregarious, sociable type, fond of good company and popular with his fellow
men—with women too, except those who were disappointed to find that this eligible bachelor took less personal interest in them than in horses. But now he wanted to be alone—as alone as
it was possible to be among thirty thousand people. Too much depended on this race; the strain, even for so hard-boiled a fighter as Charles Rathlyn, was terrific.

He was joined almost at once by his old brother officer and life-long friend, Gerald Fanthony, who had been feeling the book and executing one or two last-minute commissions. George had a
half-interest in a moderate animal running in the last race, so he qualified for an owner’s badge.

“She’ll start at about sixes, I think, old man. Dropped a couple of points in the last half-hour; somebody knows something.”

Charles nodded. Most of his money had gone on some time ago, and at much longer odds. He knew he would have been wiser to leave it at that, but when an unexpected dividend had been paid he had
not been able to resist the temptation to invest that, too, on this desperate gamble.

“I got a couple of hundred on at eights. Best I could do. A bit for myself too. I’m backing her on your judgment, you know, old man. I don’t know all that much about the mare
myself. I was out of the country when she ran last at Hurst Park; what happened? Did she fall?”

Charles shook his head. “No; she was knocked into coming to the last but one—unbalanced; she couldn’t get going again in time.”

“Oh, that was it. Well, I hope you’re right about her; she’s carrying a lot of soldier money.”

Again Charles nodded, but did not speak. His glasses were at his eyes now, bearing upon the bright patch of colour at the start. The rain had providentially stopped in the last few minutes, so
that individual colours could be clearly distinguished. There was never any difficulty in picking out Mrs. Waygold’s dazzling pale blue, white and gold—unless and until they became
besmirched by mud. Charles’s own sombre green and black—the nearest he could get to his Eton house-colours—were another matter, but Silver Eagle was the only grey in this race,
and there should be no difficulty in following her.

The shouting had died down now and all eyes that could see were turned upon the wavering line of horses. The start of a long race under National Hunt rules is a very different thing from that of
a six-furlong sprint on the flat, but nevertheless it is the starter’s duty to see that each runner has a fair chance. Trained to the last minute for this race, some of the horses were almost
literally on their toes—restless, quick-tempered, whisking round just as the line seemed steady, and in one regrettable case even lashing out and narrowly missing a jockey’s leg. To
Charles Rathlyn and others, owners and backers, for whom the result of the race was a serious matter, the delay seemed endless, but at last the tape flew up, the white flag fell and the twenty
horses sprang forward as if released by a catapult.

The first fence at Shankesbury is a particularly awkward one as first fences go, having a marked drop; in the excitement of the start it is not every jockey who can get his horse collected and
balanced in time to avoid a peck on landing, so that, with a large field almost in line, there is apt to be ‘skittles’ grief. Maston knew this well enough, and used his mare’s
exceptional turn of speed to get a length in front and avoid any chance of being knocked into. The big Ballnaceach—inevitably ‘Ballycatch’ to crowd and bookmakers—had no
such speed, but he was a magnificent fencer, and it took more than a slight bump to upset him. As it happened, all but two got over safely, and before the second fence the field had spread out so
that each rider could pick his place and take his own line.

On the stand all eyes were now glued to glasses—all that had glasses. All, that is, except Gerald Fanthony. He was only pretending to look through his at the moment; he was watching his
friend. The deep lines of anxiety on Charles Rathlyn’s face told their story only too clearly; Gerald knew that this was a desperate matter, and he was thoroughly unhappy about it. Silver
Eagle was an excellent mare, fast and stout-hearted, but her fencing was not immaculate, and her record of successes did not entitle her to carry a man’s whole future. Gerald had heard that
story of ‘knocked into’ before now, and he was never greatly impressed by it. It was the common excuse of the unsuccessful jockey, and though Dan Maston was anything but an
excuse-maker, he might have wanted to ease his employer’s disappointment. Still, the money was on now, and there was nothing to do but watch and pray—which Gerald was never ashamed of
doing, even about a horse-race.

By the time he had reached this conclusion and really started to look through his glasses, the field had reached the far side of the course on the first time round. Three horses were out in
front—Larkaway, the second favourite, Hunter’s Holler, and a horse he could not identify. Five or six lengths behind came Silver Eagle, just clear of Ballnaceach, followed by a bunch of
eight others; three or four were tailed off, and the rest had fallen. Ballnaceach was jumping beautifully, seeming to gain a length over every fence, and then running smoothly on with the long,
effortless stride that took so little out of him, heavily weighted though he was. Silver Eagle was doing all right too—definitely ‘there’, though not in the same class as
Ballnaceach as a classic fencer. As the two approached the formidable open ditch Gerald thought that Maston was pushing the mare a bit, perhaps trying to hurry the bay out of his stride.

“Ahh!” There was a gasp all round the course as the grey brushed through the top of the big fence, sending a cloud of gorse flying. She did not come down, but the effort to recover
balance took something out of her, and Ballnaceach, jumping perfectly, was now a clear length ahead as they approached the stand and began to draw up on the leaders. Larkaway was still running
on strongly, but Hunter’s Holler and the other leader—now identified as Champerton—were beginning to tire; it was now evident that, barring accidents, there were only three horses
in the race. Ballnaceach’s jockey was still pushing him up to the leaders.

“Too soon! He’ll tire him!” Gerald heard his friend mutter.

He did not speak himself; he thought that the race was going exactly as Mrs. Waygold would wish it to go. The Book evidently thought so too. Isolated cries reached the top of the stand:

“Even money Ballycatch. I’ll lay even money Ballycatch. Four to one bar one. Here, five to one bar one.”

Charles did not speak again, but his face was flushed, and behind his glasses his eyes were sparkling with excitement. He knew that Leddy was pressing the top-weight too soon; it was
exactly what he had hoped; Leddy was afraid of Larkaway and had forgotten all about Silver Eagle. But—barring that blunder at the open ditch—the race was going exactly as he, Charles,
had planned it with his trainer and Dan Maston; the mare was still fresh, and her lighter weight and superb turn of speed would take her to the front after they turned for home from the far
side.

“Ahh!” Another gasp as Champerton toppled over. Hunter’s Holler was dropping back now; Ballnaceach passed him; after the next fence Silver Eagle passed him too. The bay was
drawing up to Larkaway, and the grey mare was within three lengths of the bay. Leddy had not looked behind him; his eyes were concentrated on Larkaway, when they were not on the fence ahead.

Four fences out Larkaway was beaten; Ballnaceach passed him on landing and still strode resolutely on, but he, too, was beginning to flag now and Leddy was riding him. Suddenly the bookmakers
and the crowd realised what was happening.

“Here, three to one Silver Eagle; two to one Silver Eagle; even money the field!”

There was hope in the cries; a victory for Ballnaceach would be a blow for the Book. Silver Eagle, though well backed, did not carry really big money and would hurt nobody.

“Even money Silver Eagle! Even money!”

The mare was closing up fast now; between the last two fences they raced side by side, both jockeys sitting still and concentrating all their thoughts, their experience, their skill on that last
vital jump. Leddy knew that the young mare would have the legs of Ballnaceach in the run in; it was the jump that would give him his last chance. Three strides out he pushed his horse hard, gaining
half a length as he came to his take-off, playing just the game that Maston had tried to play at the open ditch. Maston knew all about it now and did his utmost to steady Silver Eagle, but the mare
was young, inexperienced, her blood was up; she jumped with Ballnaceach, jumped too big, pecked on landing and was nearly down. A superb effort by horse and rider kept them on their feet, but by
the time they were going again Ballnaceach was three lengths clear.

The crowd was roaring now, roaring with excitement, the backers of Ballnaceach roaring with joy. The sound of it reached the ears of the two jockeys, each concentrating the whole of his
conscious being upon the last tremendous struggle which would carry one or the other to victory.

For the first time in their joint racing careers Dan Maston took the whip to the mare. He was riding her now for all he was worth, and Silver Eagle responded with everything she had. Over that
last gruelling uphill furlong she slowly began to overhaul Ballnaceach, crept up to his quarters . . . then, fifty yards from home, she faltered; Maston instantly dropped his hands, leaving
Ballnaceach to sail past the post an easy winner by nearly two lengths.

On the top of the stand Charles Rathlyn slowly lowered his race-glasses. His face was deathly white, an expressionless mask. He stared straight in front of him across the
course, seeing nothing, deaf to all sound. Only a tiny muscle twitching at the angle of his set jaw showed the intensity of his feelings.

By his side Gerald Fanthony stood, dumb and miserable. He knew that this must be a crushing blow for his friend; he did not quite believe in the exactness of the ‘my last button’
statement—that was something commonly said, in one form or another, by men who had put more than they could afford on a horse. Still, he had little doubt that Charles was really hard hit.

Charles himself had no doubt at all. For a year or more he, with the help of his trainer, Fred Dartle, had played for this one stake, building up the mare—and the ‘background’
too—for this race, the Shankesbury Royal Cup. Charles did not know whether Dartle had backed the mare himself; it was a question he never asked and one on which the trainer kept his own
counsel; but Charles himself, little by little, starting as soon as the book opened and spreading little ‘packets’ as widely and quietly as possible, had invested on Silver Eagle every
penny that he could lay his hands on. It was only in the last few days that the mare’s price had noticeably shortened; Charles had got most of his money on at really generous odds, and he had
stood to win a small fortune—enough to keep him and his modest string going for a comfortable number of years ahead. Now all that was gone. How, even, he was going to live, on little more
than his tiny disability pension, Charles had not attempted to consider; all his mind was concentrated on the dreadful thought that for him racing was over. He had faced the loss of race-riding
bravely enough; it was the price a fighting soldier must be prepared to pay; but to feel that he could never again even own a horse—and horses to him were more precious than pearls or
women—was a deadly, shattering blow.

Gerald touched his friend on the elbow.

“Come and have a drink, old man,” he said gruffly.

Charles nodded. Together they walked down to the bar and had a couple of stiff whiskies. Charles was not a heavy drinker and the spirit had an instant effect upon him, restoring some sense of
proportion.

“Come and have a look at the mare,” he said. “I ought to have come straight down and had a word with Dan; he rode a grand race.”

They found the mare being rugged up, Dartle watching and lending an occasional hand, no expression on his lean, tight-lipped face. Maston had already gone off to change his jacket for another
race.

“No luck, Fred,” said Charles, as cheerfully as he could manage. “No fault of yours; she was trained to the minute.”

“Thank you, sir. It was just a bit of bad luck, I think; she was too game. I don’t blame Maston.”

“Oh, no; it was just one of those things.”

For a time their attention was given to boxing the mare—she was travelling by road. Then, when the heavy ramp was up, Charles Rathlyn turned to his trainer.

“You must look out for a buyer, Fred—for her and the others.”

For a moment the trainer’s imperturbability was . . .