Dick Francis's Gamble by Felix Francis Page B

bit like making Usain Bolt run the Olympic 100 meters in Wellington boots to even up the chances of the others. However, in the Cheltenham Gold Cup, other than a slight reduction for female horses, all the participants carried the same weight, and the winner was the true champion.
    I had only ridden in it once, on a rank outsider that’d had no chance, but I could still recall the tension that had existed in the jockeys’ Changing Room beforehand. The Gold Cup was not just another race, it was history in the making, and one’s performance mattered even if, as in my case, I had pulled up my horse long before the finish.
    Away to my left, at the far end of the straight, the fifteen horses for the first race were called into line by the starter. “They’re off,” sounded the public-address, and they were running.
    Two miles of fast-paced hurdle racing with the clatter-clatter from hooves striking the wooden obstacles clearly audible to those of us in the grandstands. The horses first swept up the straight towards us, then turned left-handed to start another complete circuit of the track, ever increasing in speed. Three horses jumped the final hurdle side by side, and a flurry of jockeys’ legs, arms and whips encouraged their mounts up the hill to the finish.
    â€œFirst, number three, Fallen Leaf,” sounded the public-address system.
    Mark Vickers, the other jockey in the race to be the champion, had just extended his lead over Billy Searle from one to two.
    And Martin Gifford, the gossip, had trained the winner in spite of his expressed lack of faith in its ability. I wondered if he had simply been trying to keep his horse’s starting price high by recommending that other people should not bet on it. I looked down at my race program and decided to invest a small sum on Yellow Digger in the third race: the other runner Martin had told me would have no chance.
    I turned to go back to the Weighing Room, looking down at my feet to negotiate the grandstand steps.
    â€œHello, Nicholas.”
    I looked up. “Hello, Mr. Roberts,” I said in surprise. “I didn’t realize you were a racing man.”
    â€œOh yes,” he said. “Always have been. In fact, my brother and I have horses in training. And I often used to watch you ride. You were a good jockey. You could have been one of the greats.” He pursed his lips and shook his head.
    â€œThank you,” I said.
    Mr. Roberts—or, to use his full title, Colonel The Honourable Jolyon Westrop Roberts, MC, OBE, younger son of the Earl of Balscott—was a client. To be precise, he was a client of Gregory Black’s, but I had met him fairly frequently in the offices at Lombard Street. Whereas many clients are happy to leave us to get on with looking after their money, Jolyon Roberts was one of those known to have a hands-on approach to his investments.
    â€œAre you on your day off?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” I replied with a laugh. “I’m seeing one of my clients after racing, you know, the jockey Billy Searle.”
    He nodded, then paused. “I don’t suppose . . .” He paused again. “. . . No, it doesn’t matter.”
    â€œCan I help you in some way?” I asked.
    â€œNo, it’s all right,” he said. “I’ll leave it.”
    â€œLeave what?” I asked.
    â€œOh, nothing,” he said. “Nothing for you to worry about. It’s fine. I’m sure it’s fine.”
    â€œWhat is fine?” I asked with persistence. “Is it something to do with the firm?”
    â€œNo, it’s nothing,” he said. “Forget I even mentioned it.”
    â€œBut you didn’t mention anything.”
    â€œOh, right,” he said with a laugh. “So I didn’t.”
    â€œAre you sure there is nothing I can help you with?” I asked again.
    â€œYes, I’m sure,” he said. “Thank you.”
    I stood there on the