Enquiry

by Dick Francis

  His lips tightened. ‘You’re being uncommonly tactful all of a sudden.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He looked at me steadily. A tall thin man with high cheekbones, strong black hair, hot fiery eyes. A man whose force of character reached out and hit you, so that you’d never forget meeting him. The best ally in the whole ’chasing set up, if I could only reach him.

  ‘I cannot give you my reasons for attending,’ he said with some reproof.

  ‘Then you had some… reservations… about how the Enquiry would be conducted?’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ he protested. But he had meant it.

  ‘Lord Gowery chose Andrew Tring to sit with him at the hearing, and Andrew Tring wants a very big concession from him just now. And he chose Lord Plimbome as the third Steward, and Lord Plimbome continually fell asleep.’

  ‘Do you realise what you’re saying?’ He was truly shocked.

  ‘I want to know how Lord Gowery acquired all that evidence against us. I want to know why the Stewards’ Secretaries sent for the wrong film. I want to know why Lord Gowery was so biased, so deaf to our denials, so determined to warn us off.’

  ‘That’s slanderous…’

  ‘I want you to ask him,’ I finished flatly.

  He simply stared.

  I said, ‘He might tell you. He might just possibly tell you. But he’d never in a million years tell me.’

  ‘Hughes… You surely don’t expect…’

  ‘That wasn’t a straight trial, and he knows it. I’m just asking you to tackle him with it, to see if he will explain.’

  ‘You are talking about a much respected man,’ he said coldly.

  ‘Yes, sir. He’s a baron, a rich man, a Steward of long standing. I know all that.’

  ‘And you still maintain…?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His hot eyes brooded. ‘He’ll have you in Court for this.’

  ‘Only if I’m wrong.’

  ‘I can’t possibly do it,’ he said, with decision.

  ‘And please, if you have one, use a tape recorder.’

  ‘I told you…’

  ‘Yes, sir, I know you did.’

  He got up from the table, paused as if about to say something, changed his mind, and as I stood up also, turned abruptly and walked sharply away. When he had gone I found that my hands were trembling, and I followed him slowly out of the supper room feeling a battered wreck.

  I had either resurrected our licences or driven the nails into them, and only time would tell which.

  Bobbie said, ‘Have a drink, my dear fellow. You look as though you’ve been clobbered by a steam roller.’

  I took a mouthful of champagne and thanked him, and watched Roberta swing her body to a compelling rhythm with someone else. The ringlets bounced against her neck. I wondered without disparagement how long it had taken her to pin them on.

  ‘Not the best of evenings for you, old pal,’ Bobbie observed.

  ‘You never know.’

  He raised his eyebrows, drawling down his nose, ‘Mission accomplished?’

  ‘A fuse lit, rather.’

  He lifted his glass. ‘To a successful detonation.’

  ‘You are most kind,’ I said formally.

  The music changed gear and Roberta’s partner brought her back to the table.

  I stood up. ‘I came to say goodbye,’ I said. ‘I’ll be going now.’

  ‘Oh not yet,” she exclaimed. ‘The worst is over. No one’s staring any more. Have some fun.’

  ‘Dance with the dear girl,’ Bobbie said, and Roberta put out a long arm and pulled mine, and so I went and danced with her.

  ‘Lord Gowery didn’t eat you then?’

  ‘He’s scrunching the bones at this minute.’

  ‘Kelly! If you’ve done any damage…’

  ‘No omelets without smashing eggs, love.’

  The chin went up. I grinned. She brought it down again. Getting quite human, Miss Cranfield.

  After a while the hot rhythm changed to a slow smooch, and couples around us went into clinches. Bodies to bodies, heads to heads, eyes shut, swaying in the dimming light. Roberta eyed them coolly and prickled when I put my arms up to gather her in. She danced very straight, with four inches of air between us. Not human enough.

  We ambled around in that frigid fashion through three separate wodges of glutinous music. She didn’t come any closer, and I did nothing to persuade her, but equally she seemed to be in no hurry to break it up. Composed, cool, off-puttingly gracious, she looked as flawless in the small hours as she had when I’d arrived.

  ‘I’m glad you were here,’ I said.

  She moved her head in surprise. ‘It hasn’t been exactly the best Jockeys’ Fund dance of my life… but I’m glad I came.’

  ‘Next year this will be all over, and everyone will have forgotten.’

  ‘I’ll dance with you again next year,’ she said.

  ‘It’s a pact.’

  She smiled, and just for a second a stray beam of light shimmered on some expression in her eyes which I didn’t understand.

  She was aware of it. She turned her head away, and then detached herself altogether, and gestured that she wanted to go back to the table. I delivered her to Bobbie, and she sat down immediately and began powdering a non-shiny nose.

  ‘Good night,’ I said to Bobbie. ‘And thank you.’

  ‘My dear fellow. Any time.’

  ‘Good night, Roberta.’

  She looked up. Nothing in the eyes. Her voice was collected. ‘Good night. Kelly.’

  I lowered myself into the low slung burnt orange car in the park and drove away thinking about her. Roberta Cranfield. Not my idea of a cuddly bed mate. Too cold, too controlled, too proud. And it didn’t go with that copper hair, all that rigidity. Or maybe she was only rigid to me because I was a farm labourer’s son. Only that, and only a jockey… and her father had taught her that jockeys were the lower classes dear and don’t get your fingers dirty…

  Kelly, I said to myself, you’ve a fair sized chip on your shoulder, old son. Maybe she does think like that, but why should it bother you? And even if she does, she spent most of the evening with you… although she was really quite careful not to touch you too much. Well… maybe that was because so many people were watching… and maybe it was simply that she didn’t like the thought of it.

  I was on the short cut home that led round the south of Reading, streaking down deserted back roads, going fast for no reason except that speed had become a habit. This car was easily the best I’d ever had, the only one I had felt proud of. Mechanically a masterpiece and with looks to match. Even thirty thousand miles in the past year hadn’t dulled the pleasure I got from driving it. Its only fault was that like so many other sports cars it had a totally inefficient heater, which in spite of coaxing and overhauls stubbornly refused to do more than demist the windscreen and raise my toes one degree above frostbite. If kicked, it retaliated with a smell of exhaust.

  I had gone to the dance without a coat, and the night was frosty. I shivered and switched on the heater to maximum. As usual, damn all.

  There was a radio in the car, which I seldom listened to, and a spare crash helmet, and my five pound racing saddle which I’d been going to take to Wetherby Races.

  Depression flooded back. Fierce though the evening had been, in many ways I had forgotten for a while the dreariness of being banned. It could be a long slog now, after what I had said to the Lords Gowery and Ferth. A very long slog indeed. Cranfield wouldn’t like the gamble. I wasn’t too sure that I could face telling him, if it didn’t come off.

  Lord Ferth… would he or wouldn’t he? He’d be torn between loyalty to an equal and a concept of justice. I didn’t know him well enough to be sure which would win. And maybe anyway he would shut everything I’d said clean out of his mind, as too far-fetched and preposterous to bother about.

  Bobbie had been great, I thought. I wondered who he was. Maybe one day I’d ask Roberta.

&
nbsp; Mrs Roxford… poor dear Grace. What a life Jack must lead… Hope he liked vodka…

  I took an unexpectedly sharp bend far too fast. The wheels screeched when I wrenched the nose round and the car went weaving and skidding for a hundred yards before I had it in control again. I put my foot gingerly back on the accelerator and still had in my mind’s eye the solid trunks of the row of trees I had just missed by centimetres.

  God, I thought, how could I be so careless. It rocked me. I was a careful driver, even if fast, and I’d never had an accident. I could feel myself sweating. It was something to sweat about.

  How stupid I was, thinking about the dance, not concentrating on driving, and going too fast for these small roads. I rubbed my forehead, which felt tense and tight, and kept my speed down to forty.

  Roberta had looked beautiful… keep your mind on the road Kelly, for God’s sake… Usually I drove semi-automatically, without having to concentrate every yard of the way. I found myself going slower still, because both my reactions and my thoughts were growing sluggish. I’d drunk a total of about half a glass of champagne all evening, so it couldn’t be that.

  I was simply going to sleep.

  I stopped the car, got out, and stamped about to wake myself up. People who went to sleep at the wheels of sports cars on the way home from dances were not a good risk.

  Too many sleepless nights, grinding over my sorry state. Insulting the lions seemed to have released the worst of that. I felt I could now fall unconscious for a month.

  I considered sleeping there and then, in the car. But the car was cold and couldn’t be heated. I would drive on, I decided, and stop for good if I felt really dozy again. The fresh air had done the trick; I was wide awake and irritated with myself.

  The beam of my headlights on the cats’ eyes down the empty road was soon hypnotic. I switched on the radio to see if that would hold my attention, but it was all soft and sweet late night music. Lullaby. I switched if off.

  Pity I didn’t smoke. That would have helped.

  It was a star clear night with a bright full moon. Ice crystals sparkled like diamond dust on the grass verges, now that I’d left the wooded part behind. Beautiful but unwelcome, because a hard frost would mean no racing tomorrow at Sandown… With a jerk I realised that that didn’t matter to me any more.

  I glanced at the speedometer. Forty. It seemed very fast. I slowed down still further to thirty-five, and nodded owlishly to myself. Any one would be safe at thirty-five.

  The tightness across my forehead slowly developed into a headache. Never mind, only an hour to home, then sleep… sleep… sleep…

  It’s no good, I thought fuzzily. I’ll have to stop and black out for a bit, even if I do wake up freezing, or I’ll black out without stopping first, and that will be that.

  The next layby, or something like that…

  I began looking, forgot what I was looking for, took my foot still further off the accelerator and reckoned that thirty miles an hour was quite safe. Maybe twenty-five… would be better.

  A little further on there were some sudden bumps in the road surface and my foot slipped of the accelerator altogether. The engine stalled. Car stopped.

  Oh well, I thought. That settles it. Ought to move over to the side though. Couldn’t see the side. Very odd.

  The headache was pressing on my temples, and now that the engine had stopped I could hear a faint ringing in my ears.

  Never mind. Never mind. Best to go to sleep. Leave the lights on… no one came along that road much… not at two in the morning… but have to leave the lights on just in case.

  Ought to pull in to the side.

  Ought to…

  Too much trouble. Couldn’t move my arms properly, anyway, so couldn’t possibly do it.

  Deep deep in my head a tiny instinct switched itself to emergency.

  Something was wrong. Something was indistinctly but appallingly wrong.

  Sleep. Must sleep.

  Get out, the flickering instinct said. Get out of the car.

  Ridiculous.

  Get out of the car.

  Unwillingly, because it was such an effort, I struggled weakly with the handle. The door swung open. I put one leg out and tried to pull myself up, and was swept by a wave of dizziness. My head was throbbing. This wasn’t… it couldn’t be… just ordinary sleep.

  Get out of the car…

  My arms and legs belonged to someone else. They had me on my feet… I was standing up… didn’t remember how I got there. But I was out.

  Out.

  Now what?

  I took three tottering steps towards the back of the car and leant against the rear wing. Funny, I thought, the moonlight wasn’t so bright any more.

  The earth was trembling.

  Stupid. Quite stupid. The earth didn’t tremble.

  Trembling. And the air was wailing. And the moon was falling on me. Come down from the sky and rushing towards me…

  Not the moon. A great roaring wailing monster with a blinding moon eye. A monster making the earth tremble. A monster racing to gobble me up, huge and dark and faster than the wind and unimaginably terrifying…

  I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

  The one thirty mail express from Paddington to Plymouth ploughed into my sturdy little car and carried its crumpled remains half a mile down the track.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I didn’t know what had happened. Didn’t understand. There was a tremendous noise of tearing metal and a hundred mile an hour whirl of ninety ton diesel engine one inch away from me, and a thudding catapulting scrunch which lifted me up like a rag doll and toppled me somersaulting through the air in a kaleidoscopic black arc.

  My head crashed against a concrete post. The rest of my body felt mangled beyond repair. There were rainbows in my brain, blue, purple, flaming pink, with diamond bright pin stars. Interesting while it lasted. Didn’t last very long. Dissolved into an embracing inferno in which colours got lost in pain.

  Up the line the train had screeched to a stop. Lights and voices were coming back that way.

  The earth was cold, hard, and damp. A warm stream ran down my face. I knew it was blood. Didn’t care much. Couldn’t think properly, either. And didn’t really want to.

  More lights. Lots of lights. Lots of people. Voices.

  A voice I knew.

  ‘Roberta, my dear girl, don’t look.’

  ‘It’s Kelly!’ she said. Shock. Wicked, unforgettable shock. ‘It’s Kelly.’ The second time, despair.

  ‘Come away, my dear girl.’

  She didn’t go. She was kneeling beside me. I could smell her scent, and feel her hand on my hair. I was lying on my side, face down. After a while I could see a segment of honey silk dress. There was blood on it.

  I said, ‘You’re ruining… your dress.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  It helped somehow to have her there. I was grateful that she had stayed. I wanted to tell her that. I tried… and meant… to say ‘Roberta’. What in fact I said was…‘Rosalind’.

  ‘Oh Kelly…’ Her voice held a mixture of pity and distress.

  I thought groggily that she would go away, now that I’d made such a silly mistake, but she stayed, saying small things like, ‘You’ll be all right soon,’ and sometimes not talking at all, but just being there. I didn’t know why I wanted her to stay. I remembered that I didn’t even like the girl.

  All the people who arrive after accidents duly arrived. Police with blue flashing lights. Ambulance waking the neighbourhood with its siren. Bobbie took Roberta away, telling her there was no more she could do. The ambulance men scooped me unceremoniously on to a stretcher and if I thought them rough it was only because every movement brought a scream up as far as my teeth and heaven knows whether any of them got any further.

  By the time I reached the hospital the mists had cleared. I knew what had happened to my car. I knew that I wasn’t dying. I knew that Bobbie and Roberta had taken the back roads detour like I had, and
had reached the level crossing not long after me.

  What I didn’t understand was how I had come to stop on the railway. That crossing had drop-down-fringe gates, and they hadn’t been shut.

  A young dark haired doctor with tired dark-ringed eyes came to look at me, talking to the ambulance men.

  ‘He’d just come from a dance,’ they said. “The police want a blood test.’

  ‘Drunk?’ said the doctor.

  The ambulance men shrugged. They thought it possible.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t drink. At least…’

  They didn’t pay much attention. The young doctor stooped over my lower half, feeling the damage with slender gentle fingers. ‘That hurts? Yes.’ He parted my hair, looking at my head. ‘Nothing much up there. More blood than damage.’ He stood back. ‘We’ll get your pelvis x-rayed. And that leg. Can’t tell what’s what until after that.’

  A nurse tried to take my shoes off. I said very loudly, ‘Don’t.’

  She jumped. The doctor signed to her to stop. ‘We’ll do it under an anaesthetic. Just leave him for now.’

  She came instead and wiped my forehead.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  The doctor took my pulse. ‘Why ever did you stop on a level crossing?’ he said conversationally. ‘Silly thing to do.’

  ‘I felt… sleepy. Had a headache.’ It didn’t sound very sensible.

  ‘Had a bit to drink?’

  ‘Almost nothing.’

  ‘At a dance?’ He sounded sceptical.

  ‘Really,’ I said weakly. ‘I didn’t.’

  He put my hand down. I was still wearing my dinner jacket, though someone had taken off my tie. There were bright scarlet blotches down my white shirt and an unmendable tear down the right side of my black trousers.

  I shut my eyes. Didn’t do much good. The screaming pain showed no signs of giving up. It had localised into my right side from armpit to toes, with repercussions up and down my spine. I’d broken a good many bones racing, but this was much worse. Much. It was impossible.

  ‘It won’t be long now,’ the doctor said comfortingly. ‘We’ll have you under.’

  ‘The train didn’t hit me,’ I said. ‘I got out of the car… I was leaning against the back of it… the train hit the car… not me.’