Dick Francis's Refusal Read Online Free Page A

at him. He was nearly six feet tall, still with a shock of black hair, and his back was as ramrod straight as it had been when he’d entered Dartmouth as an officer cadet some sixty-five years previously.
    He was waiting for me in the drawing room, wearing his favorite burgundy-colored, velvet-and-silk smoking jacket. He was standing in front of the fire, with two tumblers already filled with generous fingers of his best Scotch.
    â€œI thought you might need it,” he said, handing me one.
    â€œWhy did you think that?”
    â€œIt’s been a long time since you came here on your own, without either Marina or Saskia.” He took a sip of the amber spirit. “And I know you well, Sid, very well. Now, what’s the problem?”
    Indeed, he did know me well.
    Charles’s place at Aynsford had always been my sanctuary, my bolt-hole. A place to run to when things weren’t going well or when I needed advice from a wise counselor. Such as now.
    â€œSir Richard Stewart,” I said.
    â€œA-ha!” he said, throwing his head back with a laugh. “I wondered if that was it. He spoke to me about you last week.”
    â€œYes, he told me.”
    â€œI presume, therefore, that he also told you of his theory that someone is fixing races.”
    â€œIndeed, he did,” I said. “Do you believe him?”
    Charles lowered himself into a deep, chintz-covered armchair.
    â€œI believe that he believes it,” Charles said.
    â€œI don’t doubt that,” I replied, taking the armchair opposite. “But according to Sir Richard, Peter Medicos thinks he’s delusional.”
    â€œI have known Richard Stewart for over twenty years and I’ve never once thought of him as delusional.”
    â€œBut we’re all getting older,” I said, “and age does funny things.”
    â€œSo what do
you
think?” Charles asked. “You can’t simply agree with Peter Medicos or you wouldn’t be here.”
    â€œI’ve had a look at Sir Richard’s list of races and I agree that the Tote returns on them might appear suspicious, but he has no evidence, or even any idea, of how the results could have been manipulated. He’s either wrong about that or there’s a huge conspiracy going on.”
    â€œConspiracy by whom?” Charles asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “But it must include the jockeys.”
    â€œAre you going to find out?”
    â€œNo,” I said decisively, “I’m not. I’ve given all that up.”
    â€œThen why are you here?”
    Perhaps he knew me too well.
    I sat in silence for a moment and took a mouthful of my whisky.
    â€œJust suppose he’s right,” I said. “I feel I can’t do nothing. I told him about an hour ago that I thought he must be mistaken, but I could hear real anger in his voice, as well as a touch of fear. And I have huge respect for Sir Richard.”
    â€œWhy don’t you have a quiet word with Peter Medicos? Then you’ll have heard his opinions directly rather than relying simply on what Richard told you he’d said.”
    â€œNow, why didn’t I think of that?” I said, laughing. “I’ll call him in the morning.”
    We finished our drinks in relaxed companionship, discussing recent racing news and results.
    He saw me out through the glassed-in porch.
    â€œWhy aren’t you a
Sir
?” I asked. “I would have thought that all admirals were knighted.”
    â€œI was only a rear admiral,” Charles said. “Not high enough.”
    â€œDo rear admirals stay in the rear, then?”
    â€œAbsolutely.” He smiled broadly. “Back in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, a rear admiral was the commander of the fleet reserve, those squadrons kept in the rear until they were needed. But, nowadays, all admirals sit in offices rather than in ships. The last admiral to command at sea was Sandy Woodward