by Dick Francis
They had been at it for some time. Henry’s pile of poker chips was, as usual, three times as big as anyone else’s.
Polly said, ‘Henry won all the chips a little while ago, so we had to share them out and start all over again.’
Henry grinned. Cards were an open book to him and he couldn’t help reading.
I took ten of Henry’s chips arid sat in with them. Joan dealt. She gave me a pair of fives and I drew another one. Henry discarded and drew two cards only, and looked satisfied.
The others threw in during the first two rounds. Then I boldly advanced two more chips to join the two on the table. ‘Raise you two, Henry,’ I said.
Henry glanced at me to make sure I was looking at him, then made a great show of indecision, drumming his fingers on the table and sighing. Knowing his habit of bluffing, I suspected he had a whopper of a hand and was scheming how to get me to disgorge the largest possible number of chips.
‘Raise you one,’ he said at last.
I was just about to put another two chips firmly out, but I stopped and said, ‘Oh no you don’t, Henry. Not this time,’ and I threw in my hand. I pushed the four chips across to him. ‘This time you get four, and no more.’
‘What did you have, Alan?’ Polly turned my cards over, showing the three fives.
Henry grinned. He made no attempt to stop Polly looking at his cards too. He had a pair of Kings. Just one pair.
‘Got you that time, Alan,’ he said happily.
William and Polly groaned heavily.
We played until I had won back my reputation and a respectable number of Henry’s chips. Then it was the children’s bedtime, and I went up to see Scilla.
She was awake, lying in the dark.
‘Come in, Alan.’
I went over and switched on the bedside light. The first shock was over. She looked calm, peaceful.
‘Hungry?’ I asked. She had not eaten since lunch the day before.
‘Do you know, Alan, I am,’ she said as if surprised.
I went downstairs and with Joan rustled up some supper. I carried the tray up and ate with Scilla. Sitting propped up with pillows, alone in the big bed, she began to tell me about how she had met Bill, the things they had done together, the fun they had had. Her eyes shone with remembered happiness. She talked for a long time, all about Bill, and I did not stop her until her lips began to tremble. Then I told her about Henry and his pair of kings, and she smiled and grew calm again.
I wanted very much to ask her whether Bill had been in any trouble or had been threatened in any way during the last few weeks, but it wasn’t the right time to do it. So I got her to take another of the sedatives the hospital had given me for her, turned off her light, and said good night.
As I undressed in my own room the tiredness hit me. I had been awake for over forty hours, few of which could be called restful. I flopped into bed. It was one of those times when the act of falling asleep is a conscious, delicious luxury.
Half an hour later Joan shook me awake again. She was in her dressing-gown.
‘Alan, wake up for goodness sake. I’ve been knocking on your door for ages.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘You’re wanted on the telephone. Personal call.’ she said.
‘Oh no,’ I groaned. It felt like the middle of the night. I looked at my watch. Eleven o’clock.
I staggered downstairs, eyes bleary with sleep.
‘Hello?’
‘Mr Alan York?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hold on, please.’ Some clicks on the line. I yawned.
‘Mr York? I have a message for you from Inspector Lodge, Maidenhead police. He would like you to come here to the police station tomorrow afternoon, at four o’clock.’
‘I’ll be there,’ I said. I rang off, went back to bed, and slept and slept.
Lodge was waiting for me. He rose, shook hands, pointed to a chair. I sat down. The desk was clear now of everything except a neat, quarto-sized folder placed squarely in front of him. Slightly behind me, at a small table in the corner, sat a constable in uniform, pencil in hand, shorthand notebook at the ready.
‘I have some statements here,’ Lodge tapped the file, ‘which I will tell you about. Then I have some questions to ask.’ He opened the file and took out two sheets of paper clipped together.
‘This is a statement from Mr J. L. Dace, Clerk of the Course of Maidenhead racecourse. In it he says nine of the attendants, the men who stand by to make temporary repairs to the fences during the races, are regularly employed in that capacity. Three of them were new this meeting.’
Lodge laid down this statement, and took out the next.
‘This is a statement from George Watkins, one of the regular attendants. He says they draw lots among themselves to decide which fence each of them shall stand by. There are two at some fences. On Friday they drew lots as usual, but on Saturday one of the new men volunteered to go down to the farthest fence. None of them likes having to go right down there, Watkins says, because it is too far to walk back between races to “have a bit” on a horse. So they were glad enough to let the stranger take that fence, and they drew lots for the rest.’
‘What did this attendant look like?’ I asked.
‘You saw him yourself,’ said Lodge.
‘No, not really,’ I said. ‘All he was to me was a man. I didn’t look at him. There’s at least one attendant at every fence. I wouldn’t know any of them again.’
‘Watkins says he thinks he’d know the man again, but he can’t describe him. Ordinary, he says. Not tall, not short. Middle-aged, he thinks. Wore a cap, old grey suit, loose mackintosh.’
‘They all do,’ I said gloomily.
Lodge said, ‘He gave his name as Thomas Cook. Said he was out of work, had a job to go to next week and was filling in time. Very plausible, nothing odd about him at all, Watkins says. He spoke like a Londoner though, not with a Berkshire accent.’
Lodge laid the paper down, and took out another.
‘This is a statement from John Russell of the St John Ambulance Brigade. He says he was standing beside the first fence in the straight watching the horses go round the bottom of the course. Because of the mist he says he could see only three fences: the one he was standing beside, the next fence up the straight, and the farthest fence, where Major Davidson fell. The fence before that, which was opposite him on the far side of the course, was an indistinct blur.
‘He saw Major Davidson race out of the mist after he had jumped that fence. Then he saw him fall at the next. Major Davidson did not reappear, though his horse got up and galloped off riderless. Russell began to walk towards the fence where he had seen Major Davidson fall; then when you, Mr York, passed him looking over your shoulder, he began to run. He found Major Davidson lying on the ground.’
‘Did he see the wire?’ I asked eagerly.
‘No. I asked him if he had seen anything at all unusual. I didn’t mention wire specifically. He said there was nothing.’
‘Didn’t he see the attendant roll up the wire while he was running towards him?’
‘I asked him if he could see either Major Davidson or the attendant as he ran towards them. He says that owing to the sharp bend and the rails round it he could not see them until he was quite close. I gather he ran round the course instead of cutting across the corner through the long rough grass because it was too wet.’
‘I see,’ I said despondently. ‘And what was the attendant doing when he got there?’
‘Standing beside Major Davidson looking down at him. He says the attendant looked frightened. This surprised Russell, because although he was knocked out Major Davidson did not appear to him to be badly injured. He waved his white flag, the next First-Aid man saw it and waved his, and the message was thus relayed through the fog all the way up the course to the ambulance.’
‘What did the attendant do then?’
‘Nothing particular. He stayed beside the fence after the ambulance had taken Major Davidson aw
ay, and Russell says he was there until the abandonment of the last race was announced.’
Clutching at straws, I said, ‘Did he go back with the other attendants and collect his pay?’
Lodge looked at me with interest. ‘No,’ he said, ‘he didn’t.’
He took out another paper.
‘This is a statement from Peter Smith, head travelling lad for the Gregory stables, where Admiral is trained. He says that after Admiral got loose at Maidenhead he tried to jump a blackthorn hedge. He stuck in it and was caught beside it, scared and bleeding. There are cuts and scratches all over the horse’s shoulders, chest and forelegs.’ He looked up. ‘If the wire left any mark on him at all, it is impossible to distinguish it now.’
‘You have been thorough,’ I said, ‘and quick.’
‘Yes. We were lucky, for once, to find everyone we wanted without delay.’
There was only one paper left. Lodge picked it up, spoke slowly.
‘This is the report of the post mortem on Major Davidson. Cause of death was multiple internal injuries. Liver and spleen were both ruptured.’
He sat back in his chair and looked at his hands.
‘Now, Mr York, I have been directed to ask you some questions which…’ his dark eyes came up to mine suddenly, ‘…which I do not think you will like. Just answer them.’ His half smile was friendly.
‘Fire away,’ I said.
‘Are you in love with Mrs Davidson?’
I sat up straight, surprised.
‘No,’ I said.
‘But you live with her?’
‘I live with the whole family,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘I have no home in England. When I first got to know Bill Davidson he asked me to his house for a week-end. I liked it there, and I suppose they liked me. Anyway, they asked me often. Gradually the week-ends got longer and longer, until Bill and Scilla suggested I should make their house my headquarters. I spend a night or two every week in London.’
‘How long have you lived at the Davidsons’?’ asked Lodge.
‘About seven months.’
‘Were your relations with Major Davidson friendly?’
‘Yes, very.’
‘And with Mrs Davidson?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you do not love her?’
‘I am extremely fond of her. As an elder sister,’ I said, sitting tight on my anger. ‘She is ten years older than I am.’
Lodge’s expression said quite plainly that age had nothing to do with it. I was aware, just then, that the constable in the corner was writing down my replies.
I relaxed. I said, tranquilly, ‘She was very much in love with her husband, and he with her.’
Lodge’s mouth twitched at the corners. He looked, of all things, amused. Then he began again.
‘I understand,’ he said, ‘that Major Davidson was the leading amateur steeplechase jockey in this country?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you yourself finished second to him, a year ago, after your first season’s racing in England?’
I stared at him. I said, ‘For someone who hardly knew steeple-chasing existed twenty-four hours ago, you’ve wasted no time.’
‘Were you second to Major Davidson on the amateur riders’ list last year? And were you not likely to be second to him again? Is it not also likely that now, in his absence, you will head the list?’
‘Yes, yes, and I hope so.’ I said. The accusation was as plain as could be, but I was not going to rush unasked into protestations of my innocence. I waited. If he wanted the suggestion made that I had sought to injure or kill Bill in order to acquire either his wife or his racing prestige, or both, Lodge would have to make it himself.
But he didn’t. A full minute ticked by, during which I sat still. Finally Lodge grinned.
‘Well, I think that’s all, then, Mr York. The information you gave us yesterday and your answers today will be typed together as one statement, and I shall be glad if you will read and sign it.’
The policeman with the notebook stood up and walked into the outer office. Lodge said, ‘The coroner’s inquest on Major Davidson is to be held on Thursday. You will be needed as a witness; and Mrs Davidson, too, for evidence of identification. We’ll be getting in touch with her.’
He asked me questions about steeplechasing, ordinary conversational questions, until the statement was ready. I read it carefully and signed it. It was accurate and perfectly fair. I could imagine these pages joining the others in Lodge’s tidy file. How fat would it grow before he found the accidental murderer of Bill Davidson?
If he ever did.
He stood up and held out his hand, and I shook it. I liked him. I wondered who had ‘directed’ him to find out if I might have arranged the crime I had myself reported.
THREE
I rode at Plumpton two days later.
The police had been very discreet in their enquiries, and Sir Creswell also, for there was no speculation in the weighing room about Bill’s death. The grapevine was silent.
I plunged into the bustle of a normal racing day, the minor frustration of a lot of jockeys changing in a smallish space, the unprintable jokes, the laughter, the cluster of cold half-undressed men round the red-hot coke stove.
Clem gave me my clean breeches, some pants, a thin fawn under-jersey, a fresh white stock for my neck, and a pair of nylon stockings. I stripped and put on the racing things. On top of the nylon stockings (laddered, as always) my soft, light, close fitting racing boots slid on easily. Clem handed me my racing colours, the thick woollen sweater of coffee and cream checks, and the brown satin cap. He tied my stock for me. I pulled on the jersey, and slid the cap on to my crash helmet, ready to put on later.
Clem said, ‘Only the one ride today, sir?’ He pulled two thick rubber bands from his large apron pocket and slipped them over my wrists. They were to anchor the sleeves of my jersey and prevent the wind blowing them up my arms.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘So far, anyway.’ I was always hopeful.
‘Will you be wanting to borrow a light saddle? The weight’s near your limit, I should think.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I’d rather use my own saddle if I can. I’ll get on the trial scales with that first, and see how much overweight I am.’
‘Right you are, sir.’
I went over with Clem, picked up my six pound racing saddle with its girths and stirrup leathers wound round it, and weighed myself with it, my crash helmet perched temporarily and insecurely on the back of my head. The total came to ten stone, nine pounds, which was four pounds more than the handicapper thought my horse deserved.
Clem took back the saddle, and I put my helmet on the bench again.
‘I think I’ll carry the overweight, Clem,’ I said.
‘Right.’ He hurried off to attend to someone else.
I could have got down to the proper weight—just—by using a three pound ‘postage stamp’ saddle and changing into silk colours and ‘paper’ boots. But as I was riding my own horse I could please myself, and he was an angular animal whose ribs would probably have been rubbed raw by too small a saddle.
He, Forlorn Hope, my newest acquisition, was a strongly-built brown gelding only five years old. He looked as though he would develop into a ‘chaser in a year or two, but meanwhile I was riding him in novice hurdle races to give him some sorely needed experience.
His unreliability as a jumper had made Scilla, the evening before, beg me not to ride him at Plumpton, a course full of snares for the unwary.
Unbearably strung up, and facing her loss for the first time without the help of drugs, she was angry and pleading by turns.
‘Don’t, Alan. Not a novice hurdle at Plumpton. You know your wretched Forlorn Hope isn’t safe. You haven’t got to do it, so why do you?’
‘I like it.’
‘There never was a horse more aptly named,’ she said, miserably.
‘He’ll learn,’ I said. ‘But not if I don’t give him the op
portunity.’
‘Put someone else up. Please.’
‘There isn’t any point in my having a horse if I don’t ride it myself. That’s really why I came to England at all, to race. You know that.’
‘You’ll be killed, like Bill.’ She began to cry, helplessly, worn out. I tried to reason with her.
‘No, I won’t. If Bill had been killed in a motor crash you wouldn’t expect me to stop driving a car. Steeplechasing’s just as safe and unsafe as motoring.’ I paused, but she went on crying. ‘There are thousands more people killed on the roads than on the race-track,’ I said.
At this outrageous statement she recovered enough to point out acidly the difference in the number of people engaged in the two pursuits.
‘Very few people are killed by steeplechasing,’ I tried again.
‘Bill was…’
‘Only about one a year, out of hundreds,’ I went on.
‘Bill was the second since Christmas.’
‘Yes.’ I looked at her warily. There were still tears in her eyes.
‘Scilla, was Bill in any sort of trouble recently?’
‘Why ever do you ask?’ She was astounded by my question.
‘Was he?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Not worried about anything?’ I persisted.
‘No. Did he seem worried to you?’
‘No,’ I said. It was quite true. Until the moment of his fall Bill had been the same as I had always known him, cheerful, poised, reliable. He had had, and enjoyed, a pretty wife, three attractive children, a grey stone manor house, a considerable fortune and the best hunter ’chaser in England. A happy man. And rack my memory as I would, I could not recall the slightest ruffling of the pattern.
‘Then why do you ask?’ said Scilla, again.
I told her as gradually, as gently as I could, that Bill’s fall had not been an ordinary accident. I told her about the wire and about Lodge’s investigations.
She sat like stone, absolutely stunned.
‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘Oh, no. Oh, no.’
As I stood now outside the weighing room at Plumpton I could still see her stricken face. She had raised no more objections to my racing. What I had told her had driven every other thought out of her head.