Enquiry - By Dick Francis Page 0,3

lashes, a well developed straight nose and aggressively perfect teeth. His bone structure was of the type acceptable to the social circle in which he tried to move, but the lines his outlook on life had etched in his skin were a warning to anyone looking for tolerance or generosity. Cranfield was mean-minded by habit and open handed only to those who could lug him upwards. In all his dealings with those he considered his inferiors he left behind a turbulent wake of dislike and resentment. He was charming to his friends, polite in public to his wife, and his three teenage children echoed his delusions of superiority with pitiful faithfulness.

Cranfield had remarked to me some days before the Enquiry that the Oxford Stewards were all good chaps and that two of them had personally apologised to him for having to send the case on to the Disciplinary Committee. I nodded without answering. Cranfield must have known as well as I did that all three of the Oxford Stewards had been elected for social reasons only; that one of them couldn’t read a number board at five paces, that another had inherited his late uncle’s string of racehorses but not his expert knowledge, and that the third had been heard to ask his trainer which his own horse was, during the course of a race. Not one of the three could read a race at anything approaching the standard of a racecourse commentator. Good chaps they might well be, but as judges, frightening.

‘We will show the film of the race,’ Lord Gowery said.

They showed it, projecting from the back of the room on to a screen on the wall behind Cranfield and me. We turned our armchairs round to watch it. The Stipendiary Steward from Oxford, a fat pompous bully, stood by the screen, pointing out Squelch with a long baton.

‘This is the horse in question,’ he said, as the horses lined up for the start. I reflected mildly that if the Stewards knew their job they would have seen the film several times already, and would know which was Squelch without needing to have him pointed out.

The Stipe more or less indicated Squelch all the way round. It was an unremarkable race, run to a well tried pattern: hold back at the start, letting someone else make the pace; ease forwards to fourth place and settle there for two miles or more; move smoothly to the front coming towards the second last fence, and press on home regardless. If the horse liked that sort of race, and if he were good enough, he would win.

Squelch hated to be ridden any other way. Squelch was, on his day, good enough. It just hadn’t been his day.

The film showed Squelch taking the lead coming into the second last fence. He rolled a bit on landing, a sure sign of tiredness. I’d had to pick him up and urge him into the last, and it was obvious on the film. Away from the last, towards the winning post, he’d floundered about beneath me and if I hadn’t been ruthless he’d have slowed to a trot. Cherry Pie, at the finish, came up surprisingly fast and passed him as if he’d been standing still.

The film flicked off abruptly and someone put the lights on again. I thought that the film was conclusive and that that would be the end of it.

‘You didn’t use your whip,’ Lord Gowery said accusingly.

‘No, sir,’ I agreed. ‘Squelch shies away from the whip. He has to be ridden with the hands.’

‘You were making no effort to ride him out.’

‘Indeed I was, sir. He was dead tired, you can see on the film.’

‘All I can see on the film is that you were making absolutely no effort to win. You were sitting there with your arms still, making no effort whatsoever.’

I stared at him. ‘Squelch isn’t an easy horse to ride sir. He’ll always do his best but only if he isn’t upset. He has to be ridden quietly. He stops if he’s hit. He’ll only respond to being squeezed, and to small flicks on the reins, and to his jockey’s voice.’

‘That’s quite right,’ said Cranfield piously. ‘I always give Hughes orders not to treat the horse roughly.’

As if he hadn’t heard a word, Lord Gowery said, ‘Hughes didn’t pick up his whip.’

He looked enquiringly at the two Stewards flanking him, as if to collect their opinions. The one on his left, a youngish man who had ridden as