Black Diaries

51. Lifesaver

Slowly, my hand under the table drifted towards my knife—or at least, I realized as I touched empty air, the place where I usually kept it. Damn! I had left the thing at the inn!

"Why do I have to come with you?" I asked, cautiously, taking a tighter grip on the salad fork. It was better than nothing.

"You are the veterinarian, aren't you?"

Now that wasn't what I had expected. Policemen usually didn't care whether you cured cuddly animals if you also happened to happily slaughter superfluous humans. They were biased that way.

Frowning, I scrutinized him closer. Now that I was really looking, I noticed he wasn't exactly exhibiting the signs of a cop chasing a serial killler. His eyes weren't gleaming with a wild light, and his fingers weren't twitching in the fantasy of wrapping around a trigger. No, sweat was trickling down his face, and he kept wiping his hands on his pants. He looked more like a cop called up before the commissioner to explain where exactly the petty cash had gone.

"Um...yeah," I responded still cautious. "At least I'm a veterinarian."

"Thank God! I've been looking for a vet for hours! And none of the other stables were willing to lend one, of course, and then I heard a rumor around the track that a veterinarian saved Lady Mitchell's poodle from a heart attack—"

"It was a bone that had gone down the wrong way," I corrected.

"So you're her?"

By this time, I judged it more or less safe to answer. Whatever this man wanted, it was not to clap me in irons and drag me off to the Tower of London.

"Yes, I am. And you are?"

The guy bowed. He actually bowed! "Tom Melville, Miss. Head groom to my Lord Christopher Conrad Alexander Edward Malcom Farleigh, 7th Baron Farleigh."

Thoughtfully, I raised my fork to my mouth and bit off another miniscule piece of salad. "Somehow, I seem to remember that I've heard that name before." I cocked my head at the big man. "You don't look much like a head groom. Wouldn't that get your fancy suit dirty?"

A tired grin flitted over the man's hard face, transforming it for a moment into something almost capable of friendliness. "Indeed it would. But I usually leave my stable clothes behind when there's a chance of meeting a member of the royal family. It's generally considered polite not to smell of slurry in royal company."

"Understandable."

The smile on the man's face suddenly withered, as if he had remembered the petty cash. "Excuse me, Miss, but we have to hurry. I'm sorry for ambushing you like this, Miss, yet I must ask you to come with me right now. On behalf of my Lord, I request you urgently to accompany me to his stables."

"Why?"

"Our best horse, Silver Star has been taken ill and—"

I was up on my feet and moving before he had a chance to finish his sentence. "Why didn't you say so at once?" I demanded. "Silver Star? The horse that won the first race? The magnificent black one with the white streak on his forehead?"

"That's him, Miss. Won the last Golden Cup, the Kentucky Derby, and the Dubai World Cup three years in a row."

"What's wrong with him?"

Tom Melville's face contorted, as if subjected to intense pain. "He's limping. I... I'm afraid he's gone lame."

"Oh God!"

He grabbed my arm. His massive hand was like a scrap metal press around my arm. I was surprised I didn't hear my bones crack.

"Please! You have to help him! No matter what it costs! His Lordship will pay you anything! Anything you ask! Just help Silver Star!"