Declared Dead

us. It may be that the battle's only just begun.'

* * *

During the next two weeks, much to my surprise, Edward made no attempt to contact me. I expected him to turn up at the races and accost me or try to follow me home. I couldn't believe he would give up Freddie that easily. When the boy kept asking me where his father was, I told him that Edward had fully recovered and had gone away on holiday. I thought it was the most likely explanation, although when I had telephoned Mrs Parsons on the Monday after the attack, to say that Freddie would be away for a short while, she told me that our bed had been slept in and there was no sign of any of Edward's clothes missing. We agreed that she would take a paid holiday until Freddie and I returned.

Not surprisingly, my riding began to suffer amidst the uncertainty of my position. I found it difficult to regain my usual enthusiasm and managed to get beaten at Stratford on a certainty trained by Tom Radcliffe. Coming to the last I was two lengths ahead of my flagging rival and had only to jump it clear to win. Instead of settling my horse down to take it comfortably in his stride, I gave him a kick in the belly and asked for a long one. The stride I'd seen was a lot longer than I thought and the horse brushed the top of the fence and pecked on landing. I fell off him like a bad seven pound claimer and had to walk back to the jockeys' room through a jeering crowd of irate punters.

Fortunately, Tom was sympathetic, but we both knew that I was to blame. On the way home he asked me about Edward. I hadn't told him about our fight or, for that matter, that I had walked out. I was still anxious not to involve him at this stage if I could help it, fearing what he might do if angered.

'Do you know that I saw your husband on the Saturday night after the Gold Cup?'

'No. Whose idea was that?'

'Mine. I know I promised not to get involved but I couldn't go on letting him behave like that towards you. He's a bully and there's only one thing that kind of person understands.'

'Where did you meet him?'

'I phoned him up on the Friday evening and asked him to come for a drink at the Crown and Anchor on the Marlborough Road. I thought I'd choose a pub where no one was likely to recognise either of us.'

'And so?'

'It all turned rather nasty. I won't bore you with the details. I must have drunk too much as I woke up in the early hours of the morning in the car park with a splitting headache.'

'Is that all that happened, Tom?' I asked anxiously, although fearing to probe too far.

'All you need to know. I wish you'd reconsider your decision, Victoria.'

'Just be patient, please, that's all I ask.'

* * *

Another week went by and there was still no sign of Edward; I began to wonder whether I should report him missing to the police. I decided against it for the time being. I couldn't really pretend to be the caring wife; in fact I wouldn't have minded at all if his disappearance became permanent. It was just the uncertainty that was beginning to unnerve me.

Everything changed on the Friday, when I received a phone call at Ralph's from Amy Frost. I had kept her informed about everything that had happened and her advice had been to stay put and do nothing. Apparently, if Edward could be shown to have deserted me, it could in time be grounds for a divorce and would be very important in the question of custody. She didn't waste time with any niceties. 'Have you seen today's Sportsman, page seven?' I had to admit I hadn't. Amy loved horse racing and gambling and must have been the only solicitor in London who started her day by reading the racing paper cover to cover. 'Well, you'd better go and get a copy. I'll hang on.' I walked over and picked up the paper off the kitchen table, found the right page and returned to the phone: 'Fire away. What am I meant to be looking for?'

'Just below tomorrow's racecards. Look at the notice headed 'Official Scratching'.'

I found what she was referring to and read it. It couldn't have been more succinct. 'Official Scratching. All Engagements. Mr Pryde (dead).'

'Amy, do you think this is some kind of a joke?'

'I don't know. Is there a horse called Mr Pryde?'

'Not that I'm aware of,' I replied. 'But who the hell would want to put this in, unless…'

'Unless,' interjected Amy, 'somebody wanted to deliver a very tasteless message.'

'To declare Edward dead, you mean?'

'Exactly.'

* * *

I ended the conversation with a promise to be in touch if there were any further developments. The announcement in the paper could just be a mischievous trick and I wondered how the Sportsman had been duped into carrying it. I made a mental note to ask James Thackeray when I next saw him, because apart from working on the paper, he was an enthusiastic amateur rider. I also realised that the time had come for me to report Edward missing. After all, the last person to have had any contact with him was Tom Radcliffe, and that was almost three weeks previously. I thought about it for a while, and decided that if something had happened to him, it would look pretty strange if his wife had kept quiet in the meantime.

I had been booked to ride a horse in the opening race at Hereford, an unreliable no-hoper who regarded each fence as a launching pad to send his jockey into orbit. If still in one piece, I resolved to drive over to Newbury police station later on in the afternoon, and then go on to the cottage and collect some more clothes.

I survived the race and reached the police station just after three-thirty. The officer on duty could not have been more charming and sympathetic. He suggested that a constable should come over to the cottage in a couple of hours' time to take down further details and collect a photograph of Edward for circulation. I couldn't very well refuse, and he reassured me that, apparently, disappearing spouses were not at all uncommon and advised me not to become over-concerned. It was arranged that the make, model and number of Edward's car and other details of his description would be logged on the police computer and circulated round the country.

Feeling that I had at least done something positive, I plucked up the courage to return to the cottage. It was cold and strangely forbidding and I found difficulty in believing that for six years this place had been the family home, and that Freddie had spent the whole of his short life here. It was like reading an old love letter when the affection once felt is at best an unreal and distant memory.

The cottage was much as I had left it that Friday and that alone created a sinister, depressing atmosphere. To keep myself occupied, I lit the fire and sat down to watch the television and catch up with the racing results until the police arrived. I was still uncertain just how much to tell them about the relationship between Edward and myself. I had no doubt they would pursue that line of questioning, as to the outsider matrimonial discord was the most likely explanation for his disappearance.

I decided to be economical with the truth. I could see no advantage in coming clean about my involvement in Edward's attempts to clear his gambling debts and, equally, I could see no virtue in exposing him as a blackmailer. It was hardly in Freddie's interest to have his father's evil personality revealed to the public glare, and anyway I had no independent evidence to support it. Nor, I reasoned, would it be fair to name Edward's 'investors' as he called them. Indeed, even if I did, how did I know the authorities would believe me? It would take a pretty brave or foolhardy policeman to go and ask Lord Pryde if he had been paying out hush money to his son! I resolved to play the role of the concerned wife.

At six o'clock the door bell rang. A uniformed police constable was accompanied by a man of striking good looks, over six feet tall and dressed in a surprisingly well-cut dark grey suit. All in all, he looked a class above the popular image of his profession. I put him in his mid to late thirties and made a note to be extra careful in what I said, for fear that, in the time honoured phrase, it might one day be used in evidence, and even worse, against me. Inspector Wilkinson introduced himself and asked if they could come in. There was no milk in the refrigerator, but five minutes later we were all seated by the fire drinking black coffee, the young constable poised knowingly and