by Dick Francis
“You’ll love her.”
“We’ll never meet.”
“I’ll see you do.”
Ken himself, I told her, would emerge with his reputation in most part restored.
“There will be people,” I said, “who might say he should have realized sooner why the horses were dying during operations. I can’t judge that, not being a vet. But it looks like being all right in general. The partners all met and decided to carry on at once and sort out the legal details later, and the practice is renamed McClure Quincy Amhurst, which should steady the critics.”
“Wonderful!”
“And Mum,” I said, “your Kenny . . .”
“Yes?”
“I found out why he died.”
There was a silence on the line, then she said, “Tell me,” and I told her the theories, and that Josephine believed them and was comforted.
“Are your theories right?”
“Yes, I think so.”
A little pause. A voice gentle on a breath, “Thanks, darling.”
I smiled. “Do you want a daughter-in-law?” I asked.
“Yes! You know I do.”
“Her name is Annabel,” I said.