by Dick Francis
‘You will certainly not go tomorrow on my account, Alan,’ said Scilla with more resolution than I would have given her credit for. ‘I need you here. I shall do nothing but cry all the time if I don’t have you to talk to, especially in the evenings. I can get through the days, with the children and the house to think about. But the nights…’ And in her suddenly ravaged face I could read all the tearing, savage pain of a loss four days old.
‘I don’t care what anyone says,’ she said through starting tears, ‘I need you here. Please, please, don’t go away.’
‘I’ll stay,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll stay as long as you want me to. But you must promise to tell me when you are ready for me to go.’
She dried her eyes and raised a smile. ‘When I begin to worry about my reputation, you mean? I promise.’
I had driven the better part of three hundred miles besides riding in two races, and I was tired. We went to our beds early, Scilla promising to take her sleeping pills.
But at two o’clock in the morning she opened my bedroom door. I woke at once. She came over and switched on my bedside light, and sat down on my bed.
She looked ridiculously young and defenceless. She was wearing a pale blue knee-length chiffon nightdress which flowed transparently about her slender body and fell like mist over the small round breasts.
I propped myself up on my elbow and ran my fingers through my hair.
‘I can’t sleep,’ she said.
‘Did you take the pills?’ I asked.
But I could answer my own question. Her eyes looked drugged, and in her right mind she would not have come into my room so revealingly undressed.
‘Yes, I took them. They’ve made me a bit groggy, but I’m still awake. I took an extra one.’ Her voice was slurred and dopey. ‘Will you talk for a bit?’ she said. ‘Then perhaps I’ll feel more sleepy. When I’m on my own I just lie and think about Bill… Tell me more about Plumpton… You said you rode another horse… Tell me about it. Please…’
So I sat up in bed and wrapped my eiderdown round her shoulders, and told her about Kate’s birthday present and Uncle George, thinking how often I had told Polly and Henry and William bedside stories to send them to sleep. But after a while I saw she was not listening, and presently the slow heavy tears were falling from her bent head on to her hands.
‘You must think me a terrible fool to cry so much,’ she said, ‘but I just can’t help it.’ She lay down weakly beside me, her head on my pillow. She took hold of my hand and closed her eyes. I looked down at her sweet, pretty face with the tears trickling past her ears into her cloudy dark hair, and gently kissed her forehead. Her body shook with two heavy sobs. I lay down and slid my arm under her neck. She turned towards me and clung to me, holding me fiercely, sobbing slowly with her deep terrible grief.
And at last, gradually, the sleeping pills did their job. She relaxed, breathing audibly, her hand twisted into the jacket of my pyjamas. She was lying half on top of my bedclothes, and the February night was cold. I tugged the sheet and blankets gently from underneath her with my free hand and spread them over her, and pulled the eiderdown up over our shoulders. I switched off the light and lay in the dark, gently cradling her until her breath grew soft and she was soundly asleep.
I smiled to think of Inspector Lodge’s face if he could have seen us. And I reflected that I should not have been content to be so passive a bedfellow had I held Kate in my arms instead.
During the night Scilla twisted uneasily several times, murmuring jumbled words that made no sense, seeming to be calmed each time by my hand stroking her hair. Towards morning she was quiet. I got up, wrapped her in the eiderdown, and carried her back to her own bed. I knew that if she woke in my room, with the drugs worn off, she would be unnecessarily ashamed and upset.
She was still sleeping peacefully when I left her.
A few hours later, after a hurried breakfast, I drove her to Maidenhead to attend the inquest. She slept most of the way and did not refer to what had happened in the night. I was not sure she even remembered.
Lodge must have been waiting for us, for he met us as soon as we went in. He was carrying a sheaf of papers, and looked businesslike and solid. I introduced him to Scilla, and his eyes sharpened appreciatively at the sight of her pale prettiness. But what he said was a surprise.
‘I’d like to apologise,’ he began, ‘for the rather unpleasant suggestions which have been put to you and Mr York about each other.’ He turned to me. ‘We are now satisfied that you were in no way responsible for Major Davidson’s death.’
‘That’s big of you,’ I said lightly, but I was glad to hear it.
Lodge went on, ‘You can say what you like to the Coroner about the wire, of course, but I’d better warn you that he won’t be too enthusiastic. He hates anything fancy, and you’ve no evidence. Don’t worry if you don’t agree with his verdict—I think it’s sure to be accidental death—because inquests can always be reopened, if need be.’
In view of this I was not disturbed when the coroner, a heavily-moustached man of fifty, listened keenly enough to my account of Bill’s fall, but dealt a little brusquely with my wire theory. Lodge testified that he had accompanied me to the racecourse to look for the wire I had reported, but that there had been none there.
The man who had been riding directly behind me when Bill fell was also called. He was an amateur rider who lived in Yorkshire, and he’d had to come a long way. He said, with an apologetic glance for me, that he had seen nothing suspicious at the fence, and that in his opinion it was a normal fall. Unexpected may be, but not mysterious. He radiated common sense.
Had Mr York, the Coroner enquired in a doubtful voice, mentioned the possible existence of wire to anyone at all on the day of the race? Mr York had not.
The Coroner, summing up medical, police, and all other evidence, found that Major Davidson had died of injuries resulting from his horse having fallen in a steeplechase. He was not convinced, he said, that the fall was anything but an accident.
Owing to a mistake about the time, the local paper had failed to send a representative to the inquest, and from lack of detailed reporting the proceedings rated only small paragraphs in the evening and morning papers. The word ‘wire’ was not mentioned. This omission did not worry me one way or the other, but Scilla was relieved. She said she could not yet stand questions from inquisitive friends, let alone reporters.
Bill’s funeral was held quietly in the village on Friday morning, attended only by his family and close friends. Bearing one corner of his coffin on my shoulder and bidding my private good-byes, I knew for sure that I would not be satisfied until his death was avenged. I didn’t know how it was to be done, and, strangely enough, I didn’t feel any urgency about it. But in time, I promised him, in time, I’ll do it.
Scilla’s sister had come to the funeral and was to stay with her for two or three days; so, missing lunch out of deference to the light weight I was committed to ride at on the following day, I drove up to London to spend some long overdue hours in the office, arranging the details of insurance and customs duty on a series of shipments of copper.
The office staff were experts. My job was to discuss with Hughes, my second in command, the day-to-day affairs of the company, to make decisions and agree to plans made by Hughes, and to sign my name to endless documents and letters. It seldom took me more than three days a week. On Sunday it was my weekly task to write to my father. I had a feeling he skipped the filial introduction and the accounts of my racing, and fastened his sharp brain only on my report of the week’s trade and my assessment of the future.
Those Sunday reports had been part of my life for ten years. School homework could wait, my father used to say. It was more important for me to know every detail about the kingdom I was to inherit; and to this end he made me study continually the papers he brought home from his office. By the time I left school I could appraise at a glance the significance of fluctuations in the world prices of raw mate
rials, even if I had no idea when Charles I was beheaded.
On Friday evening I waited impatiently for Kate to join me for dinner. Unwrapped from the heavy overcoat and woolly boots she had worn at Plumpton, she was more ravishing than ever. She wore a glowing red dress, simple and devastating, and her dark hair fell smoothly to her shoulders. She seemed to be alight from within with her own brand of effervescence. The evening was fun and, to me at least, entirely satisfactory. We ate, we danced, we talked.
While we swayed lazily round the floor to some dreamy slow-tempo music Kate introduced the only solemn note of the evening.
‘I saw a bit about your friend’s inquest in this morning’s paper,’ she said.
I brushed my lips against her hair. It smelted sweet. ‘Accidental death,’ I murmured vaguely. ‘I don’t think.’
‘Hm?’ Kate looked up.
‘I’ll tell you about it one day, when I know the whole story,’ I said, enjoying the taut line of her neck as she tilted her face up to mine. It was strange, I thought, that it was possible to feel two strong emotions at once. Pleasure in surrendering to the seduction of the music with a dancing Kate balanced in my arms, and a tugging sympathy for Scilla trying to come to terms with her loneliness eighty miles away in the windy Cotswold hills.
‘Tell me now,’ said Kate with interest. ‘If it wasn’t accidental death, what was it?’
I hesitated. I didn’t want too much reality pushing the evening’s magic sideways.
‘Come on, come on,’ she urged, smiling. ‘You can’t stop there. I’ll die of suspense.’
So I told her about the wire. It shocked her enough to stop her dancing, and we stood flat-footed in the middle of the floor with the other couples flowing round and bumping into us.
‘Dear heavens,’ she said, ‘how… how wicked.’
She wanted me to explain why the inquest verdict had been what it was, and after I had told her that with the wire gone there was no evidence of anything else, she said, ‘I can’t bear to think of anyone getting away with so disgusting a trick.’
‘Nor can I,’ I said, ‘and they won’t, I promise you, if I can help it.’
‘That’s good,’ she said seriously. She began to sway again to the music, and I took her in my arms and we drifted back into the dance. We didn’t mention Bill again.
It seemed to me for long periods that evening as if my feet were not in proper contact with the floor, and the most extraordinary tremors constantly shook my knees. Kate seemed to notice nothing: she was friendly, funny, brimming over with gaiety, and utterly unsentimental.
When at length I helped her into the chauffeur-driven car which Uncle George had sent up from Sussex to take her home, I had discovered how painful it is to love. I was excited, keyed up. And also anxious; for I was sure that she did not feel as intensely about me as I about her.
I already knew I wanted to marry Kate. The thought that she might not have me was a bitter one.
The next day I went to Kempton Park races. Outside the weighing room I ran into Dane. We talked about the going, the weather, Pete’s latest plans for us, and the horses. Usual jockey stuff. Then Dane said, ‘You took Kate out last night?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘The River Club,’ I said. ‘Where did you take her?’
‘Didn’t she tell you?’ asked Dane.
‘She said to ask you.’
‘River Club,’ said Dane.
‘Damn it,’ I said. But I had to laugh.
‘Honours even,’ said Dane.
‘Did she ask you down to stay with Uncle George?’ I asked suspiciously.
‘I’m going today, after the races,’ said Dane, smiling. ‘And you?’
‘Next Saturday,’ I said gloomily. ‘You know, Dane, she’s teasing us abominably.’
‘I can stand it,’ said Dane. He tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Don’t look so miserable, it may never happen.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ I sighed. He laughed and went into the weighing room.
It was an uneventful afternoon. I rode my big black mare in a novice ‘chase and Dane beat me by two lengths. At the end of the day we walked out to the car park together.
‘How is Mrs Davidson bearing up?’ Dane asked.
‘Fairly well, considering the bottom has dropped out of her world.’
‘Jockeys’ wives’ nightmare come true.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘It makes you pause a bit, before you ask a girl to put up with that sort of constant worry,’ said Dane, thoughtfully.
‘Kate?’ I asked. He looked round sharply and grinned.
‘I suppose so. Do you mind?’
‘Yes,’ I said, keeping my voice light. ‘I mind very much.’
We came to his car first, and he put his race glasses and hat on the seat. His suitcase was in the back.
‘So long, mate,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep you posted.’
I watched him drive off, answered his wave. I seldom felt envious of anybody, but at that moment I envied Dane sorely.
I climbed into the Lotus and pointed its low blue nose towards home.
It was on the road through Maidenhead Thicket that I saw the horse-box. It was parked in a lay-by on the near side, with tools scattered on the ground round it and the bonnet up. It was facing me as I approached, as if it had broken down on its way into Maidenhead. A man was walking a horse up and down in front of it.
The driver, standing by the bonnet scratching his head, saw me coming and gestured to me to stop. I pulled up beside him. He walked round to talk to me through the window, a middle-aged man, unremarkable, wearing a leather jacket.
‘Do you know anything about engines, sir?’ he asked.
‘Not as much as you, I should think,’ I said, smiling. He had grease on his hands. If a horse-box driver couldn’t find the fault in his own motor, it would be a long job for whoever did. ‘I’ll take you back into Maidenhead, though, if you like. There’s bound to be someone there who can help you.’
‘That’s extremely kind of you sir,’ he said, civilly. ‘Thank you very much. But—er—I’m in a bit of a difficulty.’ He looked into the car and saw my binoculars on the seat beside me. His face lightened up. ‘You don’t possibly know anything about horses, sir?’
‘A bit, yes,’ I said.
‘Well, it’s like this, sir. I’ve got these two horses going to the London docks. They’re being exported. Well, that one’s all right.’ He pointed to the horse walking up and down. ‘But the other one, he don’t seem so good. Sweating hard, he’s been, the last hour or so, and biting at his stomach. He keeps trying to lie down. Looks ill. The lad’s in there with him now, and he’s proper worried, I can tell you.’
‘It sounds as though it might be colic,’ I said. ‘If it is, he ought to be walking round, too. It’s the only way to get him better. It’s essential to keep them on the move when they’ve got colic’
The driver looked troubled. ‘It’s a lot to ask, sir,’ he said, tentatively, ‘but would you have a look at him? Motors are my fancy, not horses, except to back ’em. And these lads are not too bright. I don’t want a rocket from the boss for not looking after things properly.’
‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’ll have a look. But I’m not a vet, you know, by a long way.’
He smiled in a relieved fashion. ‘Thank you, sir. Anyway, you’ll know if I’ve got to get a vet at once or not, I should think.’
I parked the car in the lay-by behind the horse-box. The door at the back of the horse-box opened and a hand, the stable lad’s, I supposed, reached out to help me up. He took me by the wrist.
He didn’t leave go.
There were three men waiting for me inside the horse-box. And no horse, sick or otherwise. After a flurried ten seconds during which my eyes were still unused to the dim light, I ended up standing with my back to the end post of one of the partition walls.
The horse-box was divided into three stalls with two partit
ion walls between them, and there was a space across the whole width of the box at the back, usually occupied by lads travelling with their horses.
Two of the men held my arms. They stood one each side of the partition and slightly behind me, and they had an uncomfortable leverage on my shoulders. The post of the partition was padded with matting, as it always is in racehorse boxes, to save the horses hurting themselves while they travel. The matting tickled my neck.
The driver stepped up into the box and shut the door. His manner, still incredibly deferential, held a hint of triumph. It was entitled to. He had set a neat trap.
‘Very sorry to have to do this, sir,’ he said politely. It was macabre.
‘If it’s money you want,’ I said, ‘you’re going to be unlucky. I don’t bet much and I didn’t have a good day at the races today. I’m afraid you’ve gone to a lot of trouble for a measly eight quid.’
‘We don’t want your money, sir,’ he said. ‘Though as you’re offering it we might as well take it, at that.’ And still smiling pleasantly he put his hand inside my jacket and took my wallet out of the inside pocket.
I kicked his shin as hard as I could, but was hampered because of my position against the post. As soon as they felt me move the two men behind me jerked my arms painfully backwards.
‘I shouldn’t do that, sir, if I was you,’ said the friendly driver, rubbing his leg. He opened my wallet and took out the money, which he folded carefully and stowed inside his leather coat. He peered at the other things in the wallet, then stepped towards me, and put it back in my pocket. He was smiling faintly.
I stood still.
‘That’s better,’ he said, approvingly.
‘What’s all this about?’ I asked. I had some idea that they intended to ransom me to my distant millionaire parent. Along the lines of ‘Cable us ten thousand pounds or we post your son back to you in small pieces.’ That would mean that they knew all along who I was, and had not just stopped any random motorist in a likely-looking car to rob him.
‘Surely you know, sir?’ said the driver.