Declared Dead

by John Francome

  I saw the logic of their advice. I decided to phone Ralph to warn him about what was happening. It was well past his bedtime, but I guessed he wouldn't be too displeased to hear what was being published. After all, it would have a significant bearing on our hearing before the Jockey Club. Or at least, I hoped so.

  We spent Saturday at Amy's flat watching Pin Money duly justify his position as favourite in the National and that night I went to bed early, intending to travel down in the morning to Wincanton to spend the day with Freddie. Amy and I were having breakfast when James arrived. He didn't look as if he had been to bed all night, being unshaven and generally rumpled. He gratefully accepted Amy's offer of a cup of coffee and then told us he had a treat in store.

  'On Sunday,' said Amy dismissively, 'there's only one treat and that's lying in bed all day surrounded by the newspapers and the colour supplements.'

  'Normally I would agree with you,' he countered, 'but today is special. I have just received a call from Mr George Musgrave, no less, asking me to go round to his office to hear his side of the story. Says he's prepared to blow the gaff on everything and name names, including that of a well-known steward.'

  'Drewe?' I asked excitedly.

  'He wouldn't say. All he wanted was a guarantee that I would print his version in tomorrow's paper.'

  'And will you?' asked Amy.

  'I'm not the editor. All I said was, I thought there was a very good chance of it appearing. I can't actually see how we can turn it down, because someone else will do it otherwise. I've agreed to be around there in Paddington in twenty minutes and wondered whether you fancy coming along.'

  'What, both of us?' I asked. 'What about my low profile?"

  'Yes, both of you. It's only fair you come, Victoria, since all this is your doing in the first place and I wondered whether you, Amy, might do the necessary legal bits if he's prepared to swear an affidavit.'

  'I'd love to, but you can't swear them on a Sunday.'

  'Typical. At least you could witness his signature on a piece of paper: that would impress the editor.'

  'I'd be honoured. Only do you think it's safe?'

  'Who knows? I can't seriously imagine Musgrave attacking us, can you? He's got enough problems already and…'

  'If he killed Edward, why should he hesitate now?' I interrupted anxiously.

  'Because it's all become too public. For all we know, Victoria, he may confess to Edward's murder and then Tom is in the clear. Had you thought about that?'

  I hadn't, and to be honest I very much doubted that Musgrave saw James as an alternative to twenty minutes with a priest and a dozen Hail Marys. Nonetheless, I still wanted to go with him, if only to have the pleasure of seeing the bookmaker squirm and to find out who else was involved in his wrongdoing. I just felt certain it was Drewe.

  * * *

  The door to Musgrave's offices in Paddington was locked. Ringing the bell and a good deal of banging and shouting produced no reaction from within.

  'I just don't understand it,' said James. 'He was most insistent that I was here at ten-thirty and it's now a quarter to eleven.'

  'Maybe he's been held up,' suggested Amy. 'Did he say where he was coming from?'

  'No, but I somehow got the impression he was phoning from here. Let's wait another ten minutes or so just in case he turns up. I hope he hasn't had a change of heart.'

  'Where were you when he phoned?' I asked, out of curiosity.

  'At home. I hadn't been in for very long.'

  'I believe you. You look like you've been out on an all-night bender. How did he find your number?'

  'I didn't think to ask. I suppose he must have phoned the paper last night, or found it in the phone book. There aren't many James Thackerays listed.'

  'Do you think there's a back entrance?' asked Amy, who was clearly getting tired of hanging around.

  'I doubt it,' said James. 'Do you want to go and have a look while I stay here with Victoria?'

  Amy nodded and walked down the street for about twenty yards and then disappeared down an alleyway. She returned a couple of minutes later and signalled us to follow her. The small alley was in fact a cul de sac, used probably for delivering to the buildings on either side. Half way down on the left was a door marked 'George Musgrave. No entry'. Amy turned the handle and the door swung open.

  'Simple, when you know how,' she said, beaming.

  We climbed up a narrow flight of steps and at the top opened the door that led into a corridor. We walked along it for a few yards until we came to another door, which in turn led into the big square room through which James and I had passed during our recent visit en route to Musgrave's own office. It was strangely, almost disturbingly, quiet without the sound of the phones ringing and the commentary from the racecourse service. The televisions were off and there was not a sound or sight of human life.

  'Mr Musgrave, are you there?' James shouted out. Unless he was hiding under a desk it was a waste of breath.

  'How about his own office?' I asked, feeling extremely uneasy and trying to put a quick end to this particular adventure.

  'Where is it?' asked Amy, who appeared far more relaxed than James – or me for that matter. It may have been the effect of his hangover but I noticed a distinct lack of the self-assurance he had shown at the start of our visit to these premises.

  'Over there,' I replied, pointing to the other corner of the room.

  Amy led the way through the desks and for some reason stopped in front of the door and knocked. 'Are you there, Mr Musgrave?' she asked boldly.

  There was no reply and looking towards me for approval, she turned the handle and pushed the door open.

  * * *

  People used to queue to watch hangings, yet the sight of George Musgrave dangling from the ceiling made me want to throw up. He had used his tie as a noose and attached it to the old ventilator above his desk. I was surprised that it had taken his weight. Judging by the chair lying on the floor, he must have climbed up on the desk, using the chair as a step, and then kicked it away from under himself. While James leaned out of the window catching some fresh air and making a series of unattractive retching noises, Amy and I just stood and stared in disbelief at the limp and pendulous corpse, its face congested and purple.

  'He's killed himself,' said Amy, with that lawyer's gift for stating the obvious. 'We'd better call the police. Come on, James, pull yourself together and dial 999.'

  'Do you think we should cut him down?' I asked. 'It looks so undignified.'

  'I think we should leave that to the police,' answered Amy. 'You never know, they might want to check it for fingerprints and things.'

  'Fingerprints? You don't think…?'

  'No, of course not. It's just it never pays to interfere. Leave it to the professionals. Come on, James, are you going to call them or shall I?'

  The intrepid journalist came reluctantly over from the window, looking distinctly green and under the weather. He dialled the number and asked for both the police and an ambulance, an act which inexplicably had an immediate restorative effect on his demeanour. Suddenly shock and revulsion gave way to the investigative instinct and he produced his notebook from the inside pocket of his coat.

  'Right, let's make a note of these details before the Old Bill arrives. Height, five foot eleven, say, although it's difficult to be precise from this angle; shoes best quality leather soles.'

  'James, that's a bit insensitive!' I said.

  'Sorry, it's just the view. Dark grey flannel suit, nicely cut, brown hair, neck disjointed and eyes bulging. What colour would you say they were, Victoria?'

  'Do you have no sense of decency or respect?' I replied.

  He shook his head. 'It depends on the circumstances. Musgrave was a crook; he's been caught. He's taken the easy way out. He wanted me round here so I could have the dubious privilege of being the first on the scene. No doubt he wanted to make me feel guilty. As I'm here, I might as well make the most of it. It'll make great copy in tomorrow'
s paper.'

  I couldn't be bothered to argue. 'I think they're bluey green.'

  'Do you think the records are still here?' James asked, looking round the office.

  'Unless he's burnt or removed them. I hope he hasn't, as they're what I need to prove the link with Edward.'

  'I don't think you should try and find them now,' said Amy. 'The police will be here in a minute and we're going to have a bit of explaining to do as it is, without being caught snooping around amongst the dead man's papers.'

  James didn't try to argue and we decided to wait in the big room next door for the police to arrive. As we left the office, James turned round and went to glance through the papers on the desk. It was a curious and macabre spectacle – the animated, inquisitive figure of James, and dangling above him the lifeless body of Musgrave.

  We duly gave our statements to the police and watched the ambulance men remove the bookmaker, covered by a white sheet, on a stretcher. As they carried him out I felt neither sadness nor relief, only an uneasy feeling that one more avenue of escape for Tom had now been closed.

  Chapter 13

  I left Amy at her flat and drove down to Wincanton, badly shaken by Musgrave's death. I was conscious that I had been neglecting Freddie over the past weeks and no doubt if the Prydes or their lawyers were to discover he was staying with my mother, it would be paraded in court as a further example of my inadequacy as a parent.

  Freddie was delighted to see me and I spent the rest of the day with my little boy, catching up on his news and doing my best to kick a football in the garden. I had kept him away from school since his father died and was determined that as soon as Tom's trial was over, he should return. If the law permitted it, I would sell the cottage, which was now owned by him, and buy another home in the Cotswolds or somewhere like that. Starting life afresh was going to be a daunting prospect and I hoped that at some stage Tom might be able to help me enjoy it and fill the role of a father to my son.

  I stayed the night and left at the crack of dawn to return to Ralph's yard to find the governor in none too good a mood. The phone had been ringing nonstop with journalists wanting to find out just how much I knew of Musgrave's activities and trying to suggest a possible link between the bookmaker's suicide and Edward's murder.

  Not surprisingly, perhaps, Ralph himself had a lot of questions to ask, beginning with why I hadn't told him about the pressure put on me to throw the Gold Cup and whether that was the only occasion when I had been asked to pull one of his horses. While he recognised that Musgrave's exposure would help our case in front of the Jockey Club, he scarcely wanted to retain a jockey who might be bent. I decided that the best thing to do was to come clean and tell him the whole story, starting with the very first race at Worcester when, on Edward's instructions, I had pulled Fainthearted. He listened intently for nigh on half an hour, during which I recounted the threats and assaults to which Edward had subjected me. Finally I explained why I had changed my mind about the Gold Cup. From his impassive expression it was impossible to tell whether he had any sympathy or not, and as I spoke I had to accept that my racing career might be on the point of collapse. When I had finished, assuring him as I did that I really had tried to win on Fainthearted on that second occasion at Worcester, he rose from his armchair without saying a word and went over to the drinks cabinet and poured two large whiskies. He thrust one into my hand. I thought to myself, this is it, the big heave-ho. I couldn't blame him really. I had cheated him and then enjoyed his hospitality when my own fortunes had taken a turn for the worse. Breach of trust was what they called it in the courts.

  To my astonishment, Ralph cheerily raised his glass and simply said, 'Well, here's to us and the future.'

  I was momentarily too shocked to react and then, clinking my glass against his, all I could say was 'Thank you,' before throwing my arms around him. He reciprocated by giving me a paternal hug and pat on the back and promptly changed the subject to his favourite topic, the horses in the yard.

  'I've decided to run Admiralty Registrar on Tuesday at Sandown. I thought you'd be pleased.'

  That last comment was Ralph's idea of a joke. He had bought the horse out of a field on a farm in Tipperary three years ago and this was his first season as a novice chaser. Admiralty Registrar undoubtedly had ability, only it wasn't allied to the slightest respect for the fences he had to jump. He had run four times, winning on the second occasion with me up and carting me twice and the champion jockey once. His owners were fanatical enthusiasts of National Hunt racing and wouldn't have a word said against their 'little chap' (all sixteen hands of him!), who in fact would have been more aptly described as a juvenile delinquent. Sandown was their favourite course and since they paid the bills they were entitled to call the tune as to which track he raced on. Tuesday's race now had every chance of being a painful experience.

  * * *

  Admiralty Registrar's owners were brimming with enthusiasm in the paddock, and going down to the start, their 'little chap' was as docile as I could remember him. Maybe all those weeks of schooling were at last going to pay dividends. For the first mile and a half he jumped like the proverbial stag and as we rounded the right-handed bend to gallop down the far side of the course, I started to believe we even had a chance of winning. He met the first of the three quick railway fences spot on and I patted him on the neck by way of encouragement. It obviously went to his head. Six strides from the second, I knew we were all wrong. I had either to take a pull on the reins and make him shorten his stride or give him a kick in the belly and hope that he found the energy to quicken his pace and put in a big jump. If I chose the first, bang went our chance of winning, so I opted for the second. It was a mistake. Admiralty Registrar was willing in mind but his weary body couldn't respond to his brain's command. Too late, he tried to save himself coming down right in the middle of the fence. We both turned a complete somersault and as we hit the ground, as if in tandem, I felt a shattering pain in my left hip and thigh. I tried instinctively to roll across to the sanctuary of the nearby rail, yet the mere attempt made me scream in agony. All I could do was lie on my buckled left leg with my right leg outstretched and throw my hands around my head in a protective reflex. I was vaguely aware of following horses racing past but the excruciating pain in my thigh monopolised my senses until there was a searing crack somewhere in my right leg.

  A few minutes or so later – it seemed like an eternity – I was lifted into the course ambulance. I know they were doing their best, but it seemed to find every bump and rut as it proceeded at a stately pace across the centre of the course. The crew had strapped my legs in an inflatable splint and given me a pain-killing injection, yet every slight disturbance to the wagon's suspension was transmitted directly to the grating bones in my legs. The St John's ambulance man tried to comfort me but I just felt sick and out of it.

  Arriving at the hospital, I was shipped onto a trolley and by comparison with the earlier drive the journey down the corridors was a glide. Even being pulled across and onto a hand X-ray couch was not too distracting, although the fear of having my poor bones reground made me tremble and feel close to tears. Then came the questions, the interminable questions:

  Yes, I've had an anaesthetic before… broken collar bone, twice, and arm once. No, no serious illnesses but I'm Rhesus negative, discovered during pregnancy. Next of kin? I hesitated on that one, having been about to say Edward. I gave my mother's address. Yes, I'm sure I've had nothing to eat or drink since 11 am. Do I have to sign my name?

  They then cut away my riding boots and I begged the nurse not to try and take them off. She responded by giving me another injection in my backside and within an instant I felt myself slipping away. How delicious it was not to be in pain any more; suddenly I didn't mind my mouth being so dry.

  Soon we were off again, gliding down another corridor and into a smoothly plastered room where for some reason they were playing piped music. Yes, I thought I recognised the tune: 'Let it be.' A man in blue py
jamas with a green mask around his neck appeared by my side, smiling reassuringly: 'Just a little prick in the back of your hand,' he murmured as I looked up at him in complete submission. 'Come on Victoria,' he said, 'give me a cough.' I woke several times and asked Amy whether I was going to have an operation. Finally I emerged from my slumber and surveyed my surroundings. I was on my own in a badly painted room and everywhere around me were vases full of flowers and baskets of fruit covered in cellophane. The sight of a drip pumping somebody else's blood into my left forearm frightened and startled me. My god, I wonder if they've checked it for Aids? Hadn't anyone told them I had banked some of my own blood in a London clinic in case I ever had an accident? My legs. Gingerly lifting my head from the pillow, I tried to take m the scene and the full extent of the damage to my body. My left thigh was enormous and discoloured with a long white dressing applied to the side. My right leg was encased in white plaster of Paris from the foot to above the knee. Why did I feel so tired? I fell back onto the pillow and drifted into sleep again.

  'Mr Maddox is here to see you,' announced the neatly pressed sister. Mr Maddox, a powerfully built bearded man of about forty, introduced himself as the bone surgeon responsible for the battlefield that had now replaced my previously shapely lower limbs. He had a certain rugged charm, but I had done my share of swooning in the back of the racecourse ambulance.

  'That was a pretty nasty fall, ma'am.' The southern American drawl took me by surprise. I had thought the transatlantic brain drain was one way.

  'I'm fine,' I muttered, knowing full well I was anything but.

  Maddox responded with an understanding wink and started to explain the nature of my injuries. The impact of my fall had been so great that my left femur had snapped in the middle and the consequent muscle spasm had caused the two pieces to cross over in the well-known pirate flag design. The swelling of my thigh was due to several pints of my blood being pumped into the surrounding muscles and that was why somebody else's was now being used to top me up.