Comeback by Dick Francis Page A

as usual behind us.
    Each of Ken’s keys had a colored tag with a stick-on label, identifying its purpose in the general scheme of things. Ken clanked like an old-time jailer.
    Outside, we were still under a wide roof which covered a good-sized area in front of a row of four new-looking boxes stretching away to the left. All the box doors stood open, as I’d seen before, the patients having left.
    “That’s about it,” Ken said, looking around. “We unload the sick animals just here and usually take them straight into reception. There’s often not much time to lose.”
    “Nearly always horses?” I asked.
    He nodded. “Occasionally cattle. Depends on the value of the beast, whether the expense is justified. But yes, mostly horses. This is hunting country, so we get horses staked and also we get barbed wire injuries. If we can’t sew them up satisfactorily in their home stable we bring them here. Abdominal wounds, that sort of thing. Again, it depends on love, really.”
    Reflecting, I asked, “How many horses are there in your area?”
    “Can’t tell exactly. Between us we’re the regular vets of, say, half a dozen or more racing stables, five riding schools, a bunch of pony clubs, countless hunting people, showing people, eventers, and people who just keep a couple of hacks about the place ... oh, and a retirement home for old steeplechasers. There are a whole lot of horses in Gloucestershire.”
    “A whole lot of love,” I commented.
    Ken actually smiled. “It keeps us going, no doubt of it.” The smile faded. “Up to now.”
    “Law of averages,” I said. “You’ll go months now without another death.”
    “No.”
    I listened to the hopelessness and also the fear, and wondered if either of those emotions sprung from facts he hadn’t told me.
    “There won’t be anyone out here in the boxes,” he said.
    “We may as well look.”
    He shrugged and we walked along the row and found it indeed deserted, including the small feed and tack rooms at the end. Everywhere was noticeably swept and clean, even allowing for the fire.
    “That’s it, then,” Ken said, turning back.
    He closed and bolted the empty boxes as we passed them and, at the end, made not for the door into the treatment areas but to another set back to the left of it, which led, I discovered, into the offshoot of the black-tiled passage. From there, through uncurtained windows, one could look out to where the fire engine had been. A long line of pegs on the wall opposite the windows held an anorak or two, a couple of cloth caps and a horse’s head collar. Pairs of green wellies stood on the floor beneath, with a row of indoor shoes on a shelf above.
    Ken wiped his own shoes carefully on a mat and waited while I did the same, then opened yet another door, at which point we were only a few steps and a couple of turns away from where we’d started. Ken took the gowns back to the changing room and returned to comment on the silence everywhere in a building usually full of bustle.
    I agreed that we could relax on the score of ill-intentioned intruders for the moment and rather regretted having offered an all-night service. Cold was a problem I hadn’t given much thought to, and although it was by then nearing three o’clock, it would presumably get colder still before dawn.
    “How about us borrowing those anoraks?” I suggested, “and wrapping ourselves in blankets.”
    “Yes, we could,” he began to say, but was forestalled by the same muffled noise as in the restaurant, the chirp of his telephone on his belt.
    He looked at me blankly for a second, but pulled out the phone and flipped it open.
    “Hewett and Partners,” he said. “Yes ... Ken speaking.”
    I wouldn’t have thought he could grow much paler, but he did. The shakes returned as badly as ever.
    “Yes,” he said. “Well ... I’ll come straightaway.”
    He clipped the phone back onto his belt with fumbling fingers and tried with three or four deep breaths to get