Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less (27 page)

“It’s a thrill to be here, just to
participate in the race again. Rosalie’s got a great chance. Still, it’s not
winning that matters. It’s taking part.” Stephen flinched. Baron de Coubertin,
who had first made that remark about the 1896 Olympics, must have turned in his
grave.

“The latest betting shows Rosalie joint
favourite, with Her Majesty the Queen’s horse, Highclere. How do you react to
that?”

“I am just as worried about the Duke of
Devonshire’s Crown Princess. Lester Piggott is always hard to beat on the great
occasion. He won the first two races and will be all set for this one, and
Crown Princess is a fine little filly.”

“Is a mile and a half a good distance for
Rosalie?”

“Results this season show it’s definitely
her best distance.”

“What will you do with the £81,240 money?”

“The money is not important, it hasn’t
entered my mind.” It had certainly entered Stephen’s mind.

“Thank you, Mr. Metcalfe, and the best of
luck.
And now over to the latest news on the betting.”

Harvey moved back to his group of admirers
and suggested that they return to watch the race from the balcony just outside
his box.

Stephen was fascinated to be able to observe
Harvey at such close quarters. He had become nervous and even more mendacious
than usual under pressure–not at
all the
icy operator
they had feared him to be. This man was human, susceptible and could be beaten.

They all leant over the rails watching the
horses being put into the stalls. Crown Princess was still giving a little
trouble while all the others waited. The tension was becoming unbearable.

“They’re off,” boomed the loudspeaker.

Twenty-five thousand people raised glasses
to their eyes and Harvey said, “She’s got a good start and she’s well placed.”

He continued to give everybody a running
commentary until the last mile, when he became silent. The others waited also
in silence, intent on the loudspeaker.

“They’re into the straight mile–Minnow leads
the field round the bend–with Buoy and Dankaro, looking relaxed, just tucked in
behind him–followed by Crown Princess, Rosalie and Highclere.

“As they approach the six-furlong marker–Rosalie
and Crown Princess come up on the stand side with Highclere making her effort.

“Five furlongs to go–Minnow still sets the
pace, but is beginning to tire as Crown Princess and Buoy make up ground.

“Half a mile to go–Minnow still just ahead
of Buoy, who has moved up into second place, perhaps making her move too
early.

“Three furlongs from home–they are
quickening up just a little–Minnow sets the pace on the rails–Buoy and Dankaro
about a length behind–followed by Rosalie, Crown Princess and the Queen’s filly
Highclere, all making ground.

“Inside the two-furlong marker–Highclere and
Rosalie move up to challenge Buoy–Crown Princess is right out of it now.

“A furlong to go.”
The commentator’s voice rose in pitch and
volume.

“It’s Joe Mercer riding Highclere who hits
the front, just ahead of Pat Eddery on Rosalie–two hundred yards to go–they’re
neck and neck–one hundred yards to go–it’s anybody’s race and on the line it’s
a photo finish between the gold, purple and scarlet colours of Her Majesty the
Queen and the white and green check colours of the American owner, Harvey
Metcalfe–M. Moussac’s Dankaro was third.”

Harvey stood paralysed, waiting for the
result. Even Stephen felt some sympathy for him. None of Harvey’s guests dared
to speak for fear they would get it wrong.

“The result of the King
George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes.”
Once again the loudspeaker boomed out and silence fell over the whole
course.

“The winner is Number Five, Rosalie.”

The rest of the result was lost in the roar
of the crowd and the bellow of triumph from Harvey. Pursued by his guests, he
raced to the nearest lift, pressed a pound note into the lift girl’s hand and
shouted,

“
Get this thing
moving.”

Only half of his guests managed to jump in
with him. Stephen was one of them. Once they reached the ground floor, the lift
gates opened and Harvey came out like a thoroughbred, past the champagne bar,
through the rear of the Members’ Enclosure into the Winners’ Enclosure, and
flung his arms around the horse’s neck almost unseating the jockey. A few
minutes later he triumphantly led Rosalie to the little post marked “FIRST.”
The crowd thronged around him, offering their congratulations.

The clerk of the course, Captain Beaumont,
was briefing Harvey on the procedure that would be followed when he was
presented.

Lord Abergavenny, the Queen’s representative
at Ascot, accompanied Her Majesty to the Winners’ Enclosure.

“The winner of the King
George VI and Queen Elizabeth Stakes–Mr. Harvey Metcalfe’s Rosalie.”

Harvey was in a dream world–camera bulbs
flashed and film cameras followed him as he walked towards the Queen. He bowed,
received the trophy and the Queen, resplendent in a turquoise silk suit and
matching turban that could only have been designed by Hardy Amies, said a few
words, but Harvey was speechless for the first time in his life. Taking a pace
backwards, he bowed again and returned to his place accompanied by loud
applause.

Back in his box the champagne flowed and
everybody was Harvey’s friend. Stephen realised this was not the moment to try
anything clever. He must bide his time and watch his quarry’s reaction to these
circumstances. He stayed quietly in a corner, letting the excitement subside,
and observed Harvey carefully.

It took another race before Harvey was half
back to normal and Stephen decided the time had come to act. He made as if to
leave.

“Are you going already, Professor?”

“Yes, Mr. Metcalfe. I must get some scripts
marked before tomorrow morning.”

“I always admire the work you boys put in. I
hope you enjoyed yourself?”

Stephen avoided the famous George Bernard
Shaw riposte “I had
to,
there was nothing else to
enjoy.”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Metcalfe.
An amazing achievement.
You must be a very proud man.”

“Well, I guess so. It’s been a long time
coming, but it all seems worth it now. Rod, it’s too bad you can’t stay a
little longer and join my party at Claridge’s tonight.”

“I should have liked that, Mr. Metcalfe, but
you must join me at my college at Oxford and allow me to show you the
university.”

“That’s
swell
. I
have a couple of days after Ascot and I’ve always wanted to see Oxford, but I
never seem to have had the time.”

“It’s the University Garden Party on
Wednesday. Why don’t you join me for dinner at my college next Tuesday evening
and then we can spend the following day looking at the university and go on to
the Garden Party?” He scribbled a few directions on a card.

“Fantastic. This is turning out to be the
best vacation I have ever had in Europe. How are you getting back to Oxford,
Professor?”

“By train.”

“No, no,” said Harvey. “My Rolls Royce will
take you. It will be back well in time for the last race.”

And before Stephen could protest, the
chauffeur was called for.

“Take Professor Porter back to Oxford and
then return here. Have a good trip, Professor. I’ll look forward to seeing you
next Tuesday night at eight o’clock.
Great meeting you.”

“Thank you for a wonderful day, and
congratulations on your splendid victory.”

Seated in the back of the white Rolls Royce
on his way to Oxford, the car which Adrian had boasted he and he alone would
travel in, Stephen relaxed and smiled to
himself
.
Taking a small notebook from his pocket he made an entry:

“Deduct 98p from expenses, the price of a
single second-class ticket from Ascot to Oxford.”

“
Bradley,” said the senior tutor. “You’re
looking a bit grey these days, dear boy. Is the office of junior dean proving
too much for you?”

Stephen had wondered whether any of the
Senior Common Room would think his hair worthy of comment. Dons are seldom
surprised by anything their colleagues do.

“My father went grey at an early age, Senior
Tutor, and there seems to be no way of defying heredity.”

“Ah well, dear boy, there is the Garden
Party for you to look forward to next week.”

“Oh yes. I’d quite forgotten about that.”

Stephen returned to his rooms, where the
rest of the team
were
assembled for their next
briefing.

“Wednesday is the day of the Encaenia and
the Garden Party. One thing we have learnt about our millionaire friend is that
even if we take him away from his own environment he continues to act as if he
knows everything. But his bluff can be called as long as we remember that we
know what is going to happen next and he doesn’t. Just in the way he did with
us over Discovery Oil, keeping one step ahead the whole time. Now, we will have
a rehearsal today and tomorrow a full dress rehearsal.”

“Time spent on reconnaissance is seldom
wasted,” muttered James. It was about the only sentiment he could recall from
his Army Cadet days at school.

“Haven’t had to spend much time on
reconnaissance for your plan have we?” said Jean Pierre.

Stephen ignored the interruptions. “Now, the
whole process on the day takes about seven hours for me and four hours for you,
including the time spent on makeup, and we will need an extra session of
tuition from James before the day.”

“How often will you need my two sons?” asked
Adrian.

“Only once on the Wednesday. Too many runs
at it will make them stiff and awkward.”

“When do you think Harvey will want to
return to London?” enquired Jean Pierre.

“I rang Guy Salmon to check the Rolls and
they have been instructed to have him back at Claridge’s by seven P.M., so I
assume we have only until five-thirty.”

“Clever,” said Adrian.

“It’s awful,” said Stephen. “I even think
like him now. Right, let’s run through the whole plan once again. We’ll take it
from the red dossier, page sixteen. When I leave All Souls...”

On Sunday and Monday they carried out full
rehearsals. By the Tuesday they knew every route Harvey could take and where he
would be at any given moment of the day from nine-thirty to five-thirty.
Stephen had covered everything. He had little choice. They were only going to
be allowed one crack at this one. Any mistakes like Monte Carlo and there would
be no second chance. The dress rehearsal went to a second.

“I haven’t worn clothes like this since I
was six years old and going to a fancy dress party,” said Jean Pierre. “We are
going to be anything but inconspicuous.”

“There will be red and blue and black all
around you on the day,” said Stephen. “It’s such a circus. No one will look
twice, not even at you, Jean Pierre.”

They were all nervous again waiting for the
curtain to go up. Stephen was glad they were edgy: he had no doubt that they
were lost the moment they relaxed with Harvey Metcalfe.

The Team spent a quiet weekend. Stephen
watched the College Dramatic Society’s annual effort in the gardens, Adrian
took his wife to Glyndebourne and was uncommonly attentive, Jean Pierre read
the latest art book,
Goodbye, Picasso
by David Douglas Duncan, and James took Anne to Tathwell Hall, near Louth in
Lincolnshire, to meet his father, the fifth Earl. Even Anne was nervous that
weekend.

“Harry?”

“Dr. Bradley.”

“I have an American guest dining with me in
my rooms tonight. His name is Harvey Metcalfe. When he arrives, will you bring
him over,
please.
”

“Certainly, sir.”

“And one more thing.
He seems to have mistaken me for Professor
Porter of Trinity College. Don’t correct the mistake, will you? Just humour
him.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Harry retreated into the porter’s lodge
shaking his head sadly. Of course, all academics went dotty in the end, but Dr.
Bradley had been afflicted at an unusually tender age.

Harvey arrived at eight. He was always on
time in England. The head porter guided him through the cloisters and up the
old stone staircase to Stephen’s rooms.

“Mr. Metcalfe, sir.”

“How are you, Professor?”

“I’m well, Mr. Metcalfe. Good of you to be
so punctual.”

“Punctuality is the politeness of princes.”

“I think you will find it is the politeness
of kings, and, in this instance, of Louis XVIII.” For a moment Stephen forgot
that Harvey wasn’t a pupil.

“I’m sure you’re right, Professor.”