'Members of the jury, are you agreed on your verdict?' asked the Associate, solemnly.
'We are,' answered the Foreman.
'Do you find the defendant guilty, or not guilty?'
'Guilty,' came the firm, almost defiant response.
For a brief moment I felt nothing as the realisation of what I'd just heard sank in. I looked across the court at Tom and as our eyes met I burst into tears. He was white with shock and looked totally bewildered. I suddenly felt very sick and faint and struggled to keep control of myself as Snipe began to speak. He wasn't content just to commit Tom to imprisonment with a recommendation that he serve at least twenty years; he insisted on adding a few well-chosen sanctimonious words of reprobation:
'Tom Radcliffe, you have been found guilty, and rightly so in my view, of the murder of Edward Pryde. You have by your gross and callous act deprived a fine man of the rest of his natural life, and a young boy of the joy of knowing his father. This grotesque act of violence was born out of your betrayal of the Christian values which our society holds dear. Having coveted and seduced the wife of another man, you then proceeded to take his life when you could not have your own way and marry her. May God forgive you.'
As the police officers symbolically closed in on him in the dock, Tom twisted round and shook his head at me in disbelief. My first instinct was to get up and rush towards him, to tell him not to abandon hope. Alert as ever, Amy restrained me while Tom kept trying to say something across the court.
'What is it?' I asked Amy, unable to understand or read his lips.
She put her arm around me. 'Simply that he loves you.'
As I left the court in tears, a pack of journalists descended on me, asking for my comments. All I could say was that I still believed in Tom's innocence and that I would spare no expense or time in trying to bring the true culprit or culprits to justice.
Amy drove me back that evening to Ralph's yard. Neither of us could believe what had happened and only the references to the verdict on the radio news brought home the cold inescapable truth. We both realised that we would not help Tom by sitting at home and wailing; some form of battle plan was needed. Tom's lawyers were going to lodge an appeal and that would probably not be heard for three to four months. In the meantime, we were going to alert the police to Corcoran's disappearance and try and persuade Inspector Wilkinson that there was a possible link between it and Edward's death. Judging by past performance, there wasn't much room for optimism. No doubt Inspector Wilkinson was busy congratulating himself on a job well done and further enquiries would only delay his letter of commendation from the Lord Chief Justice.
Ralph had gone away for a week's holiday and his house was deserted. Amy was reluctant to let me stay in my cottage on my own, but I insisted. Now that Tom had been convicted, maybe my life was no longer in danger, and anyway I couldn't have round the clock protection. I had to try and live normally from now on. I intended to spend the summer holidays with my mother and then, at the end of August, when I had completely recovered from my injuries, return to Lambourn and put the cottage on the market. Amy refused to drive off until she had checked that there was nobody in the house. She opened all the doors to the bedrooms and looked inside and pronounced me safe.
By eleven o'clock I was ready to go to bed. I laboriously climbed the stairs and went along to my bedroom. The door was open and I closed it behind me before walking over to the chest of drawers beside my bed to take out a clean nightdress. I undressed and turned to go to the bathroom. It was then I saw it. Pinned by a knife against the back of the door was Edward's yellow racing jacket, the knife's blade smeared with blood. I was more angry than frightened and walked over and removed the knife. Stuck to the tip of the blade was a cutting from the
The damage I'd done my right leg by driving meant that I was confined to bed for the next three weeks and at least that gave me a welcome opportunity to see my son, and a sense of security against whoever out there was stalking me. I valued every moment of Freddie's company; with Edward's parents threatening to take him away, I felt that I was under notice of execution. Any thought I may have had that Tom's conviction would mark the end of the attacks on my life had now been dispelled, and I determined to get myself some concrete protection. There was a maniac at large and I was very much on his hit list.
I used the period of my confinement to regain my strength and determination. Tom was allowed to receive letters in prison and I wrote to him regularly, urging him not to give up hope. Unfortunately, I didn't have much concrete news to offer him.
Despite all her efforts, Amy had made no headway in finding out what had happened to Corcoran. The staff at the hotel were unable to be specific about when he had last been seen and the police were unenthusiastic to the point of lethargy in their attempts to trace his movements. As far as they were concerned, the file on the Edward Pryde case was firmly closed. Corcoran, it seemed, had disappeared back into the shadows from which he had so briefly emerged, taking with him Tom's best chance of an acquittal.
It was Amy's idea that we should go and confront Brennan. Attack, she reasoned, was the best form of defence, and as my solicitor she could always volunteer to show him Corcoran's statement and ask him to comment on it. The worst he could do was kick us out of his house. After my experiences on the race track, I didn't share her confidence in his good nature, and finally reconciled myself to getting hold of some sort of firearm, however illegal. It proved easier than I expected. A quiet word with James Thackeray and one of his numerous 'contacts' produced a small revolver – no questions asked. James had been sufficiently shaken by my story of the blood-stained knife to overcome any qualms about aiding and abetting my attempt to protect myself. We didn't tell Amy.
I managed to find out that the Irishman had recently moved to a village just outside Newbury and was living there with his girlfriend. There was very little National Hunt racing on and he was spending his mornings schooling horses for one or two local trainers. We decided to call in unannounced early one Tuesday evening.
To say Brennan was displeased to see us was an understatement. He tried to slam the door in our faces, but I managed to wedge my walking stick inside and with great reluctance he agreed to let us come in. It is a curious sensation, facing a man whom you suspect to be a murderer. But the gun in my handbag was very reassuring. Brennan, belligerent as ever, went straight on the attack himself:
'What the hell do you mean, coming to my home uninvited?' His girlfriend now appeared from the kitchen and she was treated to a mouthful of abuse as the jockey waved her away.
'We won't be long,' said Amy. 'We want you to read this, please.' She thrust Corcoran's statement into his hands. The Irishman took it reluctantly and turned his back on us as he read it. It seemed to take him forever. When he had finished he walked into the kitchen and returned, smirking and clutching a newspaper cutting.
'So your Mr Corcoran says he saw me that evening at the pub and I was following your late husband?'
'That's right. What were you doing that night then, Brennan?'
He laughed. 'Have a look at this, my darlings.' He shoved the cutting at me. It was a photograph of Brennan and a number of other jockeys in dinner jackets, captioned 'Top jockeys celebrate at Racing Club dinner in aid of charity'.
'Do you see the date?'
It was the night that Edward had disappeared.
'Nothing personal, but if you ask me, this fellow Corcoran has taken you for a bigger ride than any horse has ever done, and that's saying something.'
