Enquiry

by Dick Francis

  Left the crutches on the floor. Leant against the wall and read.

  Dear Kelly Hughes,

  I have seen in the papers that you have had your licence restored, so perhaps this information will be too late to be of any use to you. I am sending it anyway because the friend who collected it is considerably out of pocket over it, and would be glad if you could reimburse him. I append also his list of expenses.

  As you will see he went to a good deal of trouble over this, though to be fair he also told me that he had enjoyed doing it. I hope it is what you wanted.

  Sincerely,

  Teddy Dewar.

  Great Stag Hotel, Birmingham.

  Clipped behind the letter were several other sheets of varying sizes. The top one was a schematic presentation of names which looked at first glance like an inverted family tree. There were clumps of three or four names inside two-inch circles. The circles led via arrows to other circles below and sometimes beside them, but the eye was led downwards continually until all the arrows had converged to three circles, and then to two, and finally to one. And the single name in the bottom circle was David Oakley.

  Behind the page was an explanatory note.

  ‘I knew one contact, the J. L. Jones underlined in the third row of circles. From him I worked in all directions, checking people who knew of David Oakley. Each clump of people heard about him from one of the people in the next clump. Everyone on the page, I guarantee, has heard either directly or indirectly that Oakley is the man to go to if one is in trouble. I posed as a man in trouble, as you suggested, and nearly all that I talked to either mentioned him of their own accord, or agreed when I brought him up as a possibility.

  I only hope that one at least of these names has some significance for you, as I’m afraid the expenses were rather high. Most of the investigation was conducted in pubs or hotels, and it was sometimes necessary to get the contact tight before he would divulge.’

  Faithfully,

  B. R. S. Timieson.

  The expense list was high enough to make me whistle. I turned back to the circled names, and read them carefully through.

  Looking for one of two.

  One was there.

  Perhaps I should have rejoiced. Perhaps I should have been angry. Instead, I felt sad.

  I doubled the expenses and wrote out a cheque with an accompanying note:

  ‘This is really magnificent. Cannot thank you enough. One of the names has great significance, well worth all your perseverance. My eternal thanks.’

  I wrote also a grateful letter to Teddy Dewar saying the information couldn’t have been better timed, and enclosing the envelope for his friend Timieson.

  As I was sticking on the stamp the telephone rang. I hopped over to it and lifted the receiver.

  George Newtonnards.

  ‘Spent all last evening on the blower. Astronomical phone bill, I’m going to have.’

  ‘Send me the account,’ I said resignedly.

  ‘Better wait to see if I’ve got results,’ he suggested. ‘Got a pencil handy?’

  ‘Just a sec’ I fetched a writing pad and ball point. ‘O.K. Go ahead.’

  Right then. First, here are the chaps I told.’ He dictated five names. ‘The last one, Pelican Jobberson, is the one who holds a fierce grudge against you for that bum steer you gave him, but as it happens he didn’t tell the Stewards or anyone else because he went off to Casablanca the next day for a holiday. Well… here are the people Harry Ingram told…’ He read out three names. ‘And these are the people Herbie Subbing told…’ Four names. ‘These are the people Dimmie Ovens told…’ Five names. ‘And Clobber Mackintosh, he really spread it around…’ Eight names. ‘That’s all they can remember. They wouldn’t swear there was no one else. And of course, all those people they’ve mentioned could have passed the info on to someone else… I mean, things like this spread out in ripples.’

  ‘Thanks anyway,’ I said sincerely. ‘Thank you very much indeed for taking so much trouble.’

  ‘Has it been any help?’

  ‘Oh yes, I think so. I’ll let you know, sometime.’

  ‘And don’t forget. The obvious non winner… give me the wink.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ I promised. ‘If you’ll risk it, after Pelican Jobberson’s experience.’

  ‘He’s got no sense,’ he said. ‘But I have.’

  He rang off, and I studied his list of names. Several were familiar and belonged to well known racing people: the bookmakers’ clients, I supposed. None of the names were the same as those on Timieson’s list of Oakley contacts, but there was something…

  For ten minutes I stood looking at the paper wondering what was hovering around the edge of consciousness, and finally, with a thud, the association clicked.

  One of the men Herbie Subbing had told was the brother-in-law of the person I had found among the Oakley contacts.

  I thought for a while, and then opened the newspaper and studied the programme for the day’s racing, which was at Reading. Then I telephoned to Lord Ferth at his London house, and reached him via a plummy voiced manservant.

  ‘Well, Kelly…?’ There was something left of Wednesday’s relationship. Not all, but something.

  ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘Are you going to Reading races?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘I haven’t yet had any official notice of my licence being restored… Will it be all right for me to turn up there? I would particularly like to talk to you.’

  ‘I’ll make sure you have no difficulty, if it’s important.’ There was a faint question in his tone, which I answered.

  ‘I know,’ I said, ‘Who engineered things.’

  ‘Ah… Yes. Then come. Unless the journey would be too uncomfortable for you? I could, you know, come on to Corrie after the races. I have no engagements tonight.’

  ‘You’re very thoughtful. But I think our engineer will be at the races too… or at least there’s a very good chance of it.’

  ‘As you like,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll look out for you.’

  Tony had two runners at the meeting and I could ask him to take me. But there was also Roberta… she was coming over, probably, and she too might take me. I smiled wryly to myself. She might take me anywhere. Roberta Cranfield. Of all people.

  As if by telephathy the telephone rang, and it was Roberta herself on the other end. She sounded breathless and worried.

  ‘Kelly! I can’t come just yet. In fact…’ The words came in a rush. ‘Can you come over here?’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Well… I don’t really know if anything’s the matter… seriously, that is. But Grace Roxford has turned up here.’

  ‘Dear Grace?’

  ‘Yes… look, Kelly, she’s just sitting in her car outside the house sort of glaring at it. Honestly, she looks a bit mad. We don’t know quite what to do. Mother wants to call the police, but, I mean, one can’t.… Supposing the poor woman has come to apologise or something, and is just screwing herself up?’

  ‘She’s still sitting in the car?’

  ‘Yes. I can see her from here. Can you come? I mean… Mother’s useless and you know how dear Grace feels about me… She looks pretty odd, Kelly.’ Definite alarm in her voice.

  ‘Where’s your father?’

  ‘Out on the gallops with Breadwinner. He won’t be back for about an hour.’

  ‘All right then. I’ll get Tony or someone to drive me over. As soon as I can.’

  ‘That’s great,’ she said with relief. ‘I’ll try and stall her till you come.’

  It would take half an hour to get there. More, probably. By then dear Grace might not still be sitting in her car…

  I dialled three nine one.

  ‘Tony,’ I said urgently. ‘Can you drop everything instantly and drive me to Cranfield’s? Grace Roxford has turned up there and I don’t like the sound of it.’

  ‘I’ve got to go to Reading,’ he protested.

  ‘You can go on from Cranfield’s
when we’ve sorted Grace out… and anyway, I want to go to Reading too, to talk to Lord Ferth. So be a pal, Tony. Please.’

  ‘Oh all right. If you want it that much. Give me five minutes.’

  He took ten. I spent some of them telephoning to Jack Roxford. He was surprised I should be calling him.

  ‘Look, Jack,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry to be upsetting you like this, but have you any idea where your wife has gone?’

  ‘Grace?’ More surprise, but also anxiety. ‘Down to the village, she said.’

  The village in question was roughly forty miles from Cranfield’s house.

  ‘She must have gone some time ago,’ I said.

  ‘I suppose so… what’s all this about?’ The worry was sharp in his voice.

  ‘Roberta Cranfield has just telephoned to say that your wife is outside their house, just sitting in her car.’

  ‘Oh God,’ he said. ‘She can’t be.’

  ‘I’m afraid she is.’

  ‘Oh no…’ he wailed. ‘She seemed better this morning… quite her old self… it seemed safe to let her go and do the shopping… she’s been so upset, you see… and then you and Dexter got your licences back… it’s affected her… it’s all been so awful for her.’

  ‘I’m just going over there to see if I can help,’ I said. ‘But… can you come down and collect her?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll start at once. Oh poor dear Grace… Take care of her, till I come,’

  ‘Yes,’ I said reassuringly, and disconnected.

  I made it without mishap down the stairs and found Tony had commandeered Poppy’s estate car for the journey. The back seat lay flat so that I could lie instead of sit, and there were even cushions for my shoulders and head.

  ‘Poppy’s idea,’ Tony said briefly, helping me climb in through the rear door. ‘Great girl.’

  ‘She sure is,’ I said gratefully, hauling in the crutches behind me. ‘Lose no time, now, friend.’

  ‘You sound worried.’ He shut the doors, switched on and drove away with minimum waste of time.

  ‘I am, rather. Grace Roxford is unbalanced.’

  ‘But surely not dangerous?’

  ‘I hope not’

  I must have sounded doubtful because Tony’s foot went heavily down on the accelerator. ‘Hold on to something,’ he said. We rocked round corners. I couldn’t find any good anchorage: had to wedge my useful foot against the rear door and push myself off the swaying walls with my hands.

  ‘O.K.?’ he shouted.

  ‘Uh… yes,’ I said breathlessly.

  ‘Good bit of road just coming up.’ We left all the other traffic at a standstill. ‘Tell me if you see any cops.’

  We saw no cops. Tony covered the eighteen miles through Berkshire in twenty-three minutes. We jerked to a stop outside Cranfield’s house, and the first thing I saw was that there was no one in the small grey Volkswagen standing near the front door.

  Tony opened the back of the car with a crash and unceremoniously tugged me out.

  ‘She’s probably sitting down cosily having a quiet cup of tea,’ he said.

  She wasn’t.

  Tony rang the front door bell and after a lengthy interval Mrs Cranfield herself opened it.

  Not her usual swift wide-opening fling. She looked at us through a nervous six inches.

  ‘Hughes. What are you doing here? Go away.’

  ‘Roberta asked me to come. To see Grace Roxford.’

  ‘Mrs Roxford is no longer here.’ Mrs Cranfield’s voice was as strung up as her behaviour.

  ‘Isn’t that her car?’ I pointed to the Volkswagen.

  ‘No,’ she said sharply.

  ‘Whose is it, then?’

  ‘The gardener’s. Now Hughes, go away at once. Go away.’

  ‘Very well,’ I said, shrugging. And she instantly shut the door.

  ‘Help me back into the car,’ I said to Tony.

  ‘Surely you’re not just going?’

  ‘Don’t argue,’ I said. ‘Get me into the car, drive away out through the gates, then go round and come back in through the stable entrance.’

  ‘That’s better.’ He shuffled me in, threw in the crutches, slammed the door and hustled round to the driving seat.

  ‘Don’t rush so,’ I said. ‘Scratch your head a bit. Look disgusted.’

  ‘You think she’s watching?’ He didn’t start the car: looked at me over his shoulder.

  ‘I think Mrs Cranfield would never this side of doomsday allow her gardener to park outside her front door. Mrs Cranfield was doing her best to ask for help.’

  ‘Which means,’ he added slowly, ‘That Grace Roxford is very dangerous indeed.’

  I nodded with a dry mouth. ‘Drive away, now.’

  He went slowly. Rolled round into the back drive, accelerated along that, and stopped with a jerk beside the stables. Yet again he helped me out.

  ‘There’s a telephone in the small office in the yard,’ I said. ‘Next to the tackroom. Look up in the classified directory and find a local doctor, Tell him to come smartish. Then wait here until Dexter Cranfield comes back with the horses, and stop him going into the house.’

  ‘Kelly, couldn’t you be exaggerating…?’

  ‘I could. Better to be on the safe side, though.’

  ‘I’ll never be able to stop Cranfield.’

  ‘Tell him no one ever believes anything tragic will happen until it has.’

  He looked at me for two seconds, then wheeled away into the yard.

  I peg-legged up the back drive and tried the back door. Open. It would be. For Cranfield to walk easily through it. And to what?

  I went silently along into the main hall, and listened. There was no sound in the house.

  Tried the library first, juggling the crutches to get a good grip on the door handle, sweating lest I should drop one with a crash. Turned the handle, pressed the door quietly inwards.

  The library was uninhabited. A large clock on the mantel ticked loudly. Out of time with my heart.

  I left the door open. Went slowly, silently, towards the small sitting-room beside the front door. Again the meticulously careful drill with the handle. If they’d seen me come, they would most probably be in this room.

  The door swung inwards. Well oiled. No creaks. I saw the worn chintz covers on the armchairs, the elderly rugs, the debris of living, scattered newspapers, a pair of spectacles on some letters, a headscarf and a flower basket. No people.

  On the other side of the hall there were the double doors into the large formal drawing-room, and at the back, beyond the staircase, the doors to the dining-room and to Dexter Cranfield’s own study, where he kept his racing books and did all his paper work.

  I swung across to the study, and opened the door. It was quiet in there. Dust slowly gravitated. Nothing else moved.

  That left only the two large rooms downstairs, and the whole of upstairs. I looked at the long broad flight uneasily. Wished it were an escalator.

  The dining-room was empty. I shifted back through the hall to the double doors of the drawing-room. Went through the crutch routine with more difficulty, because if I were going in there I would need both doors open, and to open both doors took both hands. I managed it in the end by hooking both crutches over my left arm like walking sticks, and standing on one leg.

  The doors parted and I pushed them wide. The quarter acre of drawing-room contained chairs of gold brocade upholstery, a pale cream Chinese carpet and long soft blue curtains. A delicate, elegant, class-conscious room designed for Cranfield’s glossiest aspirations.

  Everything in there was motionless. A tableau.

  I hitched the crutches into place, and walked forward. Stopped after a very few paces. Stopped because I had to.

  Mrs Cranfield was there. And Roberta. And Grace Roxford. Mrs Cranfield was standing by the fireplace, hanging on to the shoulder-high mantel as if needing support. Roberta sat upright in an armless wooden chair set out of its usual place in a large clear area of
carpet. Behind her and slightly to one side, and with one hand firmly grasping Roberta’s shoulder, stood Grace Roxford.

  Grace Roxford held the sort of knife used by fishmongers. Nearly a foot long, razor sharp, with a point like a needle. She was resting the lethal end of it against Roberta’s neck.

  ‘Kelly!’ Roberta said. Her voice was high and a trifle wavery, but the relief in it was overwhelming. I feared it might be misplaced.

  Grace Roxford had a bright colour over her taut cheekbones and a piercing glitter in her eyes. Her body was rigid with tension. The hand holding the knife trembled in uneven spasms. She was as unstable as wet gelignite; but she still knew what she was doing.

  ‘You went away, Kelly Hughes,’ she said. ‘You went away.’

  ‘Yes, Grace,’ I agreed. ‘But I came back to talk to Roberta.’

  ‘You come another step,’ she said, ‘And I’ll cut her throat.’

  Mrs Cranfield drew a breath like a sob, but Roberta’s expression didn’t change. Grace had made that threat already. Several times, probably. Especially when Tony and I had arrived at the front door.

  She was desperately determined. Neither I nor the Cranfields had room to doubt that she wouldn’t do as she said. And I was twenty feet away from her and a cripple besides.

  ‘What do you want, Grace?’ I said, as calmly as possible.

  ‘Want? Want?’ Her eyes flickered. She seemed to be trying to remember what she wanted. Then her rage sharpened on me like twin darts, and her purpose came flooding back.

  ‘Dexter Cranfield… bloody snob… I’ll see he doesn’t get those horses… I’m going to kill him, see, kill him… then he can’t get them, can he? No… he can’t.’

  Again there was no surprise either in Roberta or her mother. Grace had told them already what she’d come for.

  ‘Grace, killing Mr Cranfield won’t help your husband.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.’ She nodded sharply between each yes, and the knife jumped against Roberta’s neck. Roberta shut her eyes for a while and swayed on the chair.

  I said, ‘How do you hope to kill him, Grace?’

  She laughed. It got out of control at halfway and ended in a maniacal high-pitched giggle. ‘He’ll come here, won’t he? He’ll come here and stand beside me, because he’ll do just what I say, won’t he? Won’t he?’