by Dick Francis
There was no such luck with the Komarovs, who were absent from the Friday-night list. That didn’t necessarily mean they hadn’t been at the dinner, just that they were not named.
I typed “Komarov” into my computer. My Google search engine threw up over a million hits. I tried “Pyotr Komarov” and cut it down to about thirty-eight thousand. The one I wanted could be any of them, most of whom were Russians. I asked my machine to look for “Tatiana Komarov.” “Do you mean Tatiana Komarova?” it asked me. I remembered that in Russian and other Slavic languages the female version of a surname ends in a. I tried “Tatiana Komarova.” Another eighteen thousand hits. Pyotr and Tatiana Komarov together produced sixteen thousand. It was like searching for the correct needle in a needle stack when you didn’t even know what the correct one looked like.
One of the hits caught my eye. A certain Pyotr Komarov was listed as the president of the St. Petersburg Polo Club. He must be the one, I thought. Pyotr Komarov and Rolf Schumann must be acquainted through polo.
I searched further, bringing up the Web site for the St. Petersburg Polo Club. I hadn’t expected there to be so many until I realized that most of the results were for St. Petersburg in Florida. The one club I was after was in the burg founded by Tsar Peter the Great in 1703, the original St. Petersburg, the city on Russia’s Baltic coast.
According to the club site, polo in post-Soviet Russia was clearly on the rise. Clubs were apparently springing up like a rash and the new middle class was seemingly keen to emulate its American counterpart by making a trip to a polo match one of the social events of the week. In Russia, they even played polo on snow during the long winter, using an inflatable, football-sized orange ball instead of the traditional white solid-wood one. It was reported that the Snow Polo Cup, sponsored by a major Swiss watchmaker, was the premier event of the St. Petersburg winter season, the place to see and be seen among the most chic of society.
So what? What could polo possibly have to do with the bombing of Newmarket racetrack? I didn’t know for sure that it did, but polo was undeniably a connection between some of the victims of the bomb and someone else who hadn’t been, although they had been expected to be.
12
I had a restless night, again. However, rather than the all-too-familiar nightmare of MaryLou and her missing legs I instead lay awake, trying to get my mind to think of Caroline but always returning to the burning questions: Who poisoned the dinner? And why? Was it really done to try to stop someone being at the races the following day? And, if so, who? Did someone, in fact, try to kill me by fixing the brakes of my car? And, if so, who? And why? And, finally, was it anything to do with the polo connection? Lots of questions but precious few answers.
I had spent most of the previous evening on the Internet. I had learned all sorts of things about polo I hadn’t known, and would probably have been happy never to know. It had been an Olympic sport five times, but not since 1936, when Argentina had won the gold medal. It seemed they were still the major force in world polo, and most of the ponies used still came from South America.
The Hurlingham Polo Association was the governing body of the game in the United Kingdom, even though no matches have, in fact, been played at Hurlingham Club since the polo fields were dug up to provide food for war-torn Londoners in 1939.
I had looked up the rules on their Web site. They ran to fifty pages of closely printed text and were so complicated that it was a surprise to me that anyone understood them at all. I was amused to discover that if the three-and-a-half-inch wooden ball were to split into two unequal parts after being hit by a mallet or trodden on by a pony, a goal could still be scored if the larger part were deemed to have passed between the posts. I could just imagine what a defender might have said if defending the wrong part of the ball. The rules even went so far as to state in writing that the mounted umpires were not allowed to use their cell telephones during play, while the nonmounted referee should avoid distractions like talking to his neighbors or using his phone while watching from the sidelines.
I had also discovered that polo ponies were not actually ponies at all. They were horses. Many were Argentinean Criollo horses, and others were ex-Thoroughbred racehorses that had proved to be not fast enough to be winners on the track. In America, Thoroughbreds were often crossed with quarter horses to produce fast, sure-footed animals capable of quick acceleration and deceleration, and able to make the sharp turns essential for success. But ponies, they certainly were not, averaging over fifteen hands, or five feet, at the withers, rather than the maximum fourteen and a half hands of a true pony.
In spite of a head full of fairly useless information, I came up with no answers to my questions. However, I did find out the final of a tournament was scheduled for that coming Sunday at the Guards Polo Club, near Windsor. Perhaps I would go. Even better, perhaps I would take Caroline.
“ARE YOU CRAZY?” said Caroline when I phoned her. “I haven’t got time to go to a bloody polo match. And you’re meant to be resting. You’re still concussed, remember?”
“It’s only for the afternoon,” I said. “And concussion affects memory.”
“You’re really serious about going, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
“But I know nothing about polo,” she complained.
“So what?” I said. “Neither do I.”
“Then what on earth do you want to go for?” she said.
“Well, you know my mad theory about the bombing and the poisoned dinner?” I said. “I have an itching feeling that it might have something to do with polo. I know it sounds daft and I might be barking up the wrong tree, but I want to go to a polo match and ask a few questions.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” she said. “Of course I’ll come. Shall I wear my deerstalker and bring a magnifying glass?”
“Do I detect a degree of skepticism?” I asked, laughing. “To tell the truth, I’m very doubtful as well. But I have nowhere else to look.”
“So what do I wear?” Caroline asked.
“Tweed suit and green wellies,” I said.
“I don’t have a tweed suit,” she said.
“Good,” I said. “Something fairly smart and warm. The forecast is not great for Sunday.”
“Do I need a hat?” she said.
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“You’re no bloody good,” she said. “I thought you knew about the horsy world.”
“Racing,” I said, “not polo.”
“Same thing. Both messing about on horses.”
She had lots to learn.
I SPENT most of Saturday kicking my heels around the cottage and studying the hands of my watch as they swept ever so slowly around and around, wishing they would hurry up so I could be on my way to Fulham. On my way to Caroline.
But the day wasn’t a complete waste. During the morning, I called Margaret Jacobs at the saddlery shop. She wasn’t very friendly.
“What do you want?” she demanded in a rather cross tone.
“What’s wrong, Margaret?” I said.
“You made Patrick and me so ill after that dinner,” she said. “I thought we were dying.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “If it is any consolation, I was desperately ill as well. And I didn’t make everyone ill on purpose.”
“No, I suppose not.” She mellowed, but only a bit. “But it said in the paper that your restaurant was closed for decontamination. There must have been something wrong for them to do that. And we’d been eating there only the week before too.”
“There’s nothing wrong with the restaurant,” I told her. “We have been inspected by the Food Standards Agency and given a clean bill of health. There never was anything wrong with it.”
“There must have been,” she said. “Otherwise, why were we so ill?”
I decided not to tell her about the kidney beans and my belief that someone had poisoned the dinner on purpose. Instead, I changed direction.
“Margaret,” I
said, “I know that you and Patrick were invited to the lunch given by Delafield Industries on 2,000 Guineas day. Was your illness the reason why you didn’t go?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “I was really looking forward to that day, but we had both been up all night.”
“I suppose, in the end, it was good that you didn’t go,” I said.
“Why?” she asked.
“Don’t you know?” I said. “The box where the bomb went off at the races was the box where that lunch was held. All those people who died were the Delafield staff and their guests.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line.
“Margaret,” I said, “are you still there?”
“I didn’t realize it had been that box that had been bombed,” she said, sounding very shocked. “My God. We could have been killed.”
“But you weren’t,” I said, trying to be reassuring.
“I was so cross we couldn’t go,” she said. “In fact, I still wanted to in spite of feeling so lousy. It was Patrick who insisted we shouldn’t and we had a huge row about it.” She paused. “Those poor people.”
“Yes,” I said. “I was there. I cooked the lunch.”
“Did you?” she said, somewhat surprised. “If I’d known that, I might not have been so keen.”
“Oh thanks,” I said.
“Sorry,” she said. But she didn’t add that she didn’t mean it.
“Margaret,” I said, “the Hay Net restaurant is perfectly safe, I promise you.”
“Mmm,” she replied, not sounding as if she believed it.
“Come to dinner as my guest, and bring Patrick.”
“Maybe,” she said. And maybe not, I thought. The saddlery business run by Patrick and Margaret Jacobs supplied equine equipment to the majority of the stables in the town, and I needed them not to spread their suspicions about my food. It was very easy to get a bad reputation, whether deserved or not, and a bad reputation was very hard to get rid of.
“Think about it,” I said. “And feel free to bring a couple of guests with you.” How much would I have to offer, I wondered, before she agreed?
“When?” she asked. I had her hooked.
“Anytime you like,” I said, reeling her in. “How about next weekend?”
“Saturday?” she said.
“No problem,” I said. “I’ll book you in for four. At eight o’clock?”
“OK,” she said with a little trepidation in her voice. “Thank you.” The catch was landed. But it didn’t move me any further along in my search for answers.
LIFE WITHOUT a car was becoming a real bore. The invention of the internal combustion engine has proved to be the greatest provider of personal freedom that man has ever known, but it has become a freedom we tend to take for granted. The most recent provider of my own personal freedom was still sitting in a mangled heap at the back of the towing garage, and I severely missed its convenience for quick simple journeys, journeys that were now neither quick nor simple.
I called the NewTax taxi number, which I now knew by heart, and booked myself a ride to Cambridge station to catch the five o’clock train to London. I threw a few things into an overnight bag and waited impatiently for the taxi to arrive. Why, I wondered, did I feel like a naughty schoolboy skipping lessons?
Almost as an afterthought, I put my passport in my bag just in case. I told myself I was being foolish, but so what? Hadn’t Shakespeare said in As You Like It something about not having loved unless one could remember having run off on some folly or other? Was I falling in love? Yes, I think I probably was.
KING’S CROSS station was full of disappointed soccer supporters waiting for the train back north after their team’s defeat in the Cup Final. The mood was somber, and not a little aggressive. Hard as I tried, it was impossible for me not to be smiling broadly with excitement at the prospect of spending two nights with Caroline. Consequently, I received some unwelcome attention from a group of half a dozen red-soccer-shirted young men who were all rather the worse for drink.
“What are you smiling at?” demanded one of them, pushing his face close to mine and giving me a generous sample of his alcoholic breath.
“Nothing,” I said rather timidly.
“You can bloody well sod off, then,” he said, slightly slurring his words. I could read in his eyes the thought processes going on behind them in his intoxicated brain. He was obviously the leader of the troupe, and I could see that the others were watching his every move. I sensed that he was weighing his options, and the simple choice of moving away and leaving me be would mean, in his eyes, a loss of face among his followers. It might have been funny if it hadn’t been so frightening. His eyes widened, as I saw his irrational reasoning come to the conclusion that physical violence was his only viable course of action.
So slow were his reactions that I saw his haymaker of a right hook coming from a very long way back and I was simply able to sway backwards out of his reach. There was a slight expression of surprise on his face as his fist sailed harmlessly past the end of my nose with an inch or two to spare. The momentum of his plump, flailing arm proceeded to throw him off balance and he went down heavily onto the station concourse. Time, I thought, to make a swift exit. I turned and ran.
A very scary few minutes ensued, with me haring through the station with the remaining pack in pursuit. Fortunately, most of them were not only carrying an excess of beer in their bellies but also some substantial extra pounds around their waists and they were no match for my adrenaline-fueled flight. However, two of them were remarkably nimble in spite of these handicaps, and more than once I felt their fingers on my coat. On one occasion, I swung my overnight bag at one of them and was rewarded with an audible grunt.
I tore out of the station and leaped over the pedestrian barrier into the traffic on the Euston Road, dodging buses, cars and taxis as I sprinted for my life. Fortunately for me, a combination of good sense and the timely intervention of a passing police car meant that the chasing pair did not follow me as I weaved across the four lanes and jogged rapidly westwards along the pavement, breathing heavily.
I slowed down and laughed out loud in relief. I received a few strange looks from people I passed, but, thankfully, this time there was nothing more sinister than amusement in their eyes. I felt on top of the world, and I literally skipped along the pavement as I searched the oncoming vehicles for a vacant cab to take me to Fulham.
CAROLINE LIVED in what she described as a lower-ground-floor apartment. Tamworth Street, like many residential streets in west London, was bordered on each side by rows of stucco-fronted terraced town houses built in the 1920s and ’30s to house an increasing urban population. Whereas they had originally all been single-family homes, many had since been subdivided into flats as the pressure for accommodation increased further in the latter part of the twentieth century. All along the road the lower-ground-floor flats had been created out of the original “below stairs” areas, where the servants had once tended to the family living above. Access to Caroline’s abode was not through the house’s front door but by way of the old staff entrance, via a gate in the iron railing and down eight or so steps to a small concrete yard below street level.
She opened her door with what appeared to be a squeal of delight and threw her arms round my neck, planting a long, welcoming kiss on my lips. If she was having any second thoughts about our relationship, she had a funny way of showing it.
Her flat ran through the house from front to back and had access to a small exterior space at the rear, just big enough for a table and a few chairs.
“I get the morning sun during the summer,” she said. “It’s a lovely little garden. It was the reason I had to have the flat.”
How was it, I thought, that human beings were happy to live so close together in this urban jungle that a table and chair on a six-foot-square concrete slab constituted a garden to delight in? I was happier with the wide-open spaces of Newmarket Heath, but I knew that I would soon have t
o move and join the throng in this conurbation if I was to fulfill Mark’s ambition.
The flat itself was modern and minimalist in style, with plenty of bare wooden floors, and chrome barstools in the white-fronted kitchen. She had two bedrooms, but the smaller of them had been converted into a practice room, with a chair and music stand in the center and piles of sheet music around the walls.
“Don’t the neighbors object?” I asked.
“No,” she replied rather firmly. “I don’t play late at night or before nine in the morning, and no one has complained. In fact, the lady upstairs has said how much she loves to listen.”
“Will you play for me?” I asked.
“What, now?”
“Yes.”
“No,” she said. “I’m not playing for you until you’ve cooked for me.”
“That’s not fair. I would have cooked for you during the week if my car hadn’t crashed.”
“Excuses, excuses,” she said, laughing.
“What’s in your fridge?” I asked her. “I’ll cook for you now.”
“No you won’t,” she said. “We’re going down the pub. I’ve had to bribe the barman to hold us a table.”
Going down the pub with Caroline on a Saturday night was everything I had hoped it would be. The pub in question was The Atlas, around the corner in Seagrave Road, and it was packed. Even though she had somehow managed to make a reservation, this was unquestionably a pub and not a restaurant like the Hay Net, our bleached wooden table being underneath the window of the bar. Caroline sat on an upright wooden chair that reminded me of those at my school, while I fought my way through the crowd at the bar to choose a bottle of Chianti Classico from the blackboard and chalk wine lists that were proudly displayed above the mirror-backed serving area.
The food was good and also imaginative. Caroline chose grilled whole sea bass with couscous salad, while I plumped for the Cumberland sausages and garlic mashed potatoes. I wondered about the garlic, and so, obviously, did Caroline. She used her fork to pinch some of my potato. I caught her eye as she was putting it in her mouth. For a moment, we glanced deeper, into the inner soul, and then laughed as we both understood, unspoken, the reason why.