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Let it not be Ellis。
Whoever it was； he had to be stopped： and I would stop him； if I could。
I shaved in the car （a Mercedes）； clasping the battery…driven razor in the battery…driven hand； and I covered the eighty miles to south…west Berkshire in a time down the paratively empty M4 that had the speedometer needle quivering where it had seldom been before。 The radar speed traps slept。 Just as well。
It was a lovely high June morning； fine and fresh。 I curled through the gates of be Bassett Manor； cruised to a stop in the drive and at six…thirty walked into a house where open doors led to movement； loud voices and a general gnashing of teeth。
The woman who'd phoned rushed over when she saw me； her hands flapping in the air； her whole demeanour in an out…of…control state of fluster。
'Sid Halley？ Thank God。 Punch some sense into this lot。'
This lot consisted of two uniformed policemen and a crowd of what later proved to be family members； neighbours； ramblers and half a dozen dogs。
'Where's the colt？' I asked。 'And where's his foot？'
'Out in the field。 The vet's there。 I told him what you wanted but he's an opinionated Scot。 God knows if he'll wait； he's a cantankerous old devil。 He '
'Show me where；' I said abruptly； cutting into the flow。
She blinked。 'What？ Oh； yes。 This way。'
She set off fast； leading me through big…house； unevenly painted hinterland passages reminiscent of those of Aynsford； of those of any house built with servants in mind。 We passed a gun…room； flower…room and mud…room （ranks of green wellies） and emerged at last through a rear door into a yard inhabited by dustbins。 From there； through a green wooden garden door； she led the way fast down a hedge…bordered grass path and through a metal…railing gate at the far end of it。 I'd begun to think we were off to limbo when suddenly； there before us； was a lane full of vehicles and about ten people leaning on paddock fencing。
My guide was tall； thin； fluttery； at a guess about fifty； dressed in old cord trousers and a drab olive sweater。 Her greying hair flopped； unbrushed； over a high forehead。 She had been； and still was； beyond caring how she looked； but I had a powerful impression that she was a woman to whom looks mattered little anyway。
She was deferred to。 The men leaning on the paddock rails straightened and all but touched their forelocks； 'Morning； Mrs Bracken。'
She nodded automatically and ushered me through the wide metal gate that one of the men swung open for her。
Inside the field； at a distance of perhaps thirty paces； stood two more men； also a masculine…looking woman and a passive colt with three feet。 All； except the colt； showed the facial and body language of impatience。
One of the men； tall； white…haired； wearing black…rimmed glasses； took two steps forward to meet us。
'Now； Mrs Bracken； I've done what you asked； but it's past time to put your poor boy out of his misery。 And you'll be Sid Halley； I suppose；' he said； peering down as from a mountain top。 'There's little you can do。' He shook hands briefly as if it were a custom he disapproved of。
He had a strong Scottish accent and the manner of one accustomed to mand。 The man behind him； unremarkably built； self…effacing in manner； remained throughout a silent watcher on the fringe。
I walked over to the colt and found him wearing a head…collar； with a rope halter held familiarly by the woman。 The young horse watched me with calm bright eyes； unafraid。 I stroked my hand down his nose； talking to him quietly。 He moved his head upward against the pressure and down again as if nodding； saying hello。 I let him whiffle his black lips across my knuckles。 I stroked his neck and patted him。 His skin was dry： no pain； no fear； no distress。
'Is he drugged？' I asked。
'I'd have to run a blood test；' the Scotsman said。
'Which you are doing； of course？'
'Of course。'
One could tell from the faces of the other man and the woman that no blood test had so far been considered。
I moved round the colt's head and squatted down for a close look at his off…fore； running my hand down the back of his leg； feeling only a soft area of no resistance where normally there would be the tough bowstring tautness of the leg's main tendon。 Pathetically； the fetlock was tidy； not bleeding。 I bent up the colt's knee and looked at the severed end。 It had been done neatly； sliced through； unsplintered ends of bone showing white； the skin cleanly cut as if a practised chef had used a disjointing knife。
The colt jerked his knee； freeing himself from my grasp。
I stood up。
'Well？' the Scotsman challenged。
'Where's his foot？'
'Over yon； out of sight behind the water trough。' He paused； then as I turned away from him； suddenly added； 'It wasn't found there。 I put it there； out of sight。 It was they ramblers that came to it first。'
'Ramblers？'
'Aye。'
Mrs Bracken； who had joined us； explained。 'One Saturday every year in June； all the local rambling clubs turn out in force to walk the footpaths in this part of the country； to keep them legally open for the public。'
'If they'd stay on the footpaths；' the Scot said forbiddingly； 'they be within their rights。'
Mrs Bracken agreed。 'They bring their children and their dogs and their picnics； and act as if they own the place。'
'But。。。 what on earth time did they find your colt's foot？'
'They set off soon after dawn；' Mrs Bracken observed morosely。 'In the middle of June； that's four…thirty in the morning； more or less。 They gather before five o'clock while it is still cool； and set off across my land first； and they were hammering on my door by five…fifteen。 Three of the children were in full…blown hysteria； and a man with a beard and a pony…tail was screaming that he blamed the elite。 What elite？ One of the ramblers phoned the Press and then someone fanatical in animal rights； and a carload of activists arrived with 〃ban horse racing〃 banners。' She rolled her eyes。 'I despair；' she said。 'It's bad enough losing my glorious colt。 These people are turning it into a circus。'
Hold on to the real tragedy at the heart of the farce； I thought briefly； and walked over to the water trough to look at the foot that lay behind it。 There were horse…feed nuts scattered everywhere around。 Without expecting much emotion； I bent and picked the foot up。
I hadn't seen the other severed feet。 I'd actually thought some of the reported reactions excessive。 But the reality of that poor； unexpected； curiously lonely lump of bone； gristle and torn ends of blood vessels； that wasted miracle of anatomical elegance； moved me close to the fury and grief of all the owners。
There was a shoe on the hoof； the sort of small light shoe fitted to youngsters to protect their fore feet out in the field。 There were ten small nails tacking the shoe to the hoof。 The presence of the shoe brought its own powerful message： civilisation had offered care to the colt's foot； barbarity had hacked it off。
I'd loved horses always： it was hard to explain the intimacy that grew between horses and those who tended or rode them。 Horses lived in a parallel world； spoke a parallel language； w