wouldn’t listen to or believe Tobias Tollright. I’ll never be able to trust my own judgment again.”
I said, intending to console, “The same thing happens to firms every year.”
He nodded heavily. “They say the greater the trust the safer the opportunity. But Norman ... how could he . . . ?”
His pain was more personal than financial, the treachery and rejection harder to bear than the actual loss, and it was the heartlessness of that personal treachery that he couldn’t endure.
“I wish,” he said with feeling, “that you would take over and run the brewery. I’ve always known you could do it. I hoped when you married that efficient and attractive young woman that you would change your mind and come to me. So suitable. You could live in Lambourn in her training stables and manage the brewery in Wantage, only seven miles away. Perfect. A life most young men would jump at. But no, you have to be different. You have to go off and live on your own, and paint. ” His voice wasn’t exactly contemptuous, but he found my compulsion wholly incomprehensible. “Your dear mother seems to understand you. She says you can’t keep mountain mist in a cage.”
“I’m sorry,” I said inadequately. I could see the sense of the life path he’d offered. I didn’t know why I couldn’t take it. I did know it would result in meltdown.
I changed the subject and said I’d asked Margaret Morden to get the creditors if possible to keep the Cheltenham race alive; to get them to realize that the seventeenth running of the King Alfred Gold Cup would underpin public faith in the brewery and boost the sales that would generate the income that alone would save the day.
Ivan smiled. “The Devil would like you on his side.”
“But it’s true.”
“Truth can subvert,” he said. “I wish you were my son.”
That silenced me completely. He looked as though he was surprised he had said it, but he let it stand. A silence grew.
In the end I said tentatively, “Golden Malt ... ?”
“My horse.” His gaze sharpened on my face. “Did you hide it?”
“Did you mean me to?”
“Of course I did. I hoped you would. But ...”
“But,” I finished when he stopped, “ you are a member of the Jockey Club and can’t afford to be in the wrong, and the creditors may want to count Golden Malt an asset and sell him. And yes, I did steal him out of Emily’s yard but any sleuth worth his salt could find him, and if he has to vanish for more than a week I’ll have to move him.”
“Where is he?”
“If you don’t know, you can’t tell.”
“Who does know, besides you?”
“At present, Emily. If I move him, it will be to shield her.” I paused. “Do you have any proof that you personally own him? Bill of sale?”
“No. I bought him as a foal for cash to help out a needy friend. He paid no tax on the gain.”
“Tut.”
“You can’t see that six years down the road your good turn will bite you.”
The telephone buzzed at his elbow, and he made a gesture asking me to answer it for him. I said, “Hello?” and found Tobias Tollright at the other end.
“Is that you, Al?” he asked. “This is Tobe.” Fluster and insecurity in his voice.
“Hi, Tobe. What’s up?”
“I’ve had this man on the phone who says Sir Ivan has revoked your powers of attorney.”
“What man?”
“Someone called Oliver Grantchester. A lawyer. He says he’s in charge of Sir Ivan’s affairs.”
“He certified all the copies of the power of attorney,” I said. “What’s wrong with them?”
“He says they were a mistake. Apparently Patsy Benchmark got Sir Ivan to say so.”
“Hold on,” I said, “while I talk to my stepfather.” I rested the receiver on the table and explained the situation to Ivan. He picked up the receiver and said, “Mr. Tollright, what is your opinion of my stepson’s business sense?”
He smiled through the reply, then said, “I stand by every word I signed.” He listened, then went on,
I said, intending to console, “The same thing happens to firms every year.”
He nodded heavily. “They say the greater the trust the safer the opportunity. But Norman ... how could he . . . ?”
His pain was more personal than financial, the treachery and rejection harder to bear than the actual loss, and it was the heartlessness of that personal treachery that he couldn’t endure.
“I wish,” he said with feeling, “that you would take over and run the brewery. I’ve always known you could do it. I hoped when you married that efficient and attractive young woman that you would change your mind and come to me. So suitable. You could live in Lambourn in her training stables and manage the brewery in Wantage, only seven miles away. Perfect. A life most young men would jump at. But no, you have to be different. You have to go off and live on your own, and paint. ” His voice wasn’t exactly contemptuous, but he found my compulsion wholly incomprehensible. “Your dear mother seems to understand you. She says you can’t keep mountain mist in a cage.”
“I’m sorry,” I said inadequately. I could see the sense of the life path he’d offered. I didn’t know why I couldn’t take it. I did know it would result in meltdown.
I changed the subject and said I’d asked Margaret Morden to get the creditors if possible to keep the Cheltenham race alive; to get them to realize that the seventeenth running of the King Alfred Gold Cup would underpin public faith in the brewery and boost the sales that would generate the income that alone would save the day.
Ivan smiled. “The Devil would like you on his side.”
“But it’s true.”
“Truth can subvert,” he said. “I wish you were my son.”
That silenced me completely. He looked as though he was surprised he had said it, but he let it stand. A silence grew.
In the end I said tentatively, “Golden Malt ... ?”
“My horse.” His gaze sharpened on my face. “Did you hide it?”
“Did you mean me to?”
“Of course I did. I hoped you would. But ...”
“But,” I finished when he stopped, “ you are a member of the Jockey Club and can’t afford to be in the wrong, and the creditors may want to count Golden Malt an asset and sell him. And yes, I did steal him out of Emily’s yard but any sleuth worth his salt could find him, and if he has to vanish for more than a week I’ll have to move him.”
“Where is he?”
“If you don’t know, you can’t tell.”
“Who does know, besides you?”
“At present, Emily. If I move him, it will be to shield her.” I paused. “Do you have any proof that you personally own him? Bill of sale?”
“No. I bought him as a foal for cash to help out a needy friend. He paid no tax on the gain.”
“Tut.”
“You can’t see that six years down the road your good turn will bite you.”
The telephone buzzed at his elbow, and he made a gesture asking me to answer it for him. I said, “Hello?” and found Tobias Tollright at the other end.
“Is that you, Al?” he asked. “This is Tobe.” Fluster and insecurity in his voice.
“Hi, Tobe. What’s up?”
“I’ve had this man on the phone who says Sir Ivan has revoked your powers of attorney.”
“What man?”
“Someone called Oliver Grantchester. A lawyer. He says he’s in charge of Sir Ivan’s affairs.”
“He certified all the copies of the power of attorney,” I said. “What’s wrong with them?”
“He says they were a mistake. Apparently Patsy Benchmark got Sir Ivan to say so.”
“Hold on,” I said, “while I talk to my stepfather.” I rested the receiver on the table and explained the situation to Ivan. He picked up the receiver and said, “Mr. Tollright, what is your opinion of my stepson’s business sense?”
He smiled through the reply, then said, “I stand by every word I signed.” He listened, then went on,
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