'No it didn't, did it?' I replied dejectedly. 'Brennan really did fix me, you know. What do you think's going to happen?'
'You'll be fined for riding an injudicious race and I'll have to eat a large slice of humble pie in front of the owners. What really concerns me is why he drifted in the betting. It's as if someone knew what was going to happen. You don't think Brennan is in with the bookies do you?'
Before I could reply the door opened and we were called back in. Drewe could hardly conceal his pleasure.
'We've discussed what we've seen and what you've told us and quite frankly we're not satisfied. We're reporting this matter to the disciplinary committee of the Jockey Club at Portman Square and you'll be informed when you have to appear. That's all. Thank you.'
I couldn't believe my ears and nor could Ralph, judging from his stunned expression. We were barely outside the room before he let fly a string of expletives, casting doubt on the parentage of each of the stewards. 'I've got to go and have a very large drink,' he raged. 'This is absolutely disgraceful. This is nothing personal, Victoria, but do you mind if I put Stevenson up in the last instead of you?'
Of course I minded. No one likes being jocked off, even if it was in favour of the champion jockey, and it would inevitably lead to talk of a rift between us. I swallowed my pride. 'No, if you think that's right, Ralph, it's fine by me.' I tried not to let him see how close I was to tears.
'Good. You know how it is with these particular owners. Don't you worry, I'm sure everything will turn out all right at the Jockey Club. I'll meet you in the car park after the last.'
I wished I could share his confidence and I trudged back to the changing room before giving way to my sobs.
I was waiting for Ralph in the car park when I saw Brennan walk towards his brand new BMW. The opportunity to have a word with him was too good to miss and I wanted more than anything to wipe that complacent grin off his face.
'Eamon,' I called out from the passenger seat of Ralph's car as he passed by. 'Can you spare me a moment?'
He was far from pleased to see me and made on towards his own vehicle.
'Hold on!' I shouted, leaping out of the car and running after him. 'You owe me an explanation.'
'Piss off!' he retorted. 'I've nothing to say to you.'
'Thanks very much. It's no good playing the innocent with me, Brennan. My husband told me all about you.'
'He did, did he? Well what a tragedy it is that your husband's now dead and, as you no doubt know, dead men don't tell tales.'
'But living women do. And I've told the police about why and how Edward was blackmailing you.' He stopped trying to open the door of his car and squared up to me menacingly.
'You have, have you? And what have you got by way of proof to support these allegations?'
I ignored the question in the absence of a satisfactory retort. 'I just want to find out who killed my husband and reckon you might be able to help me. Who was the bookmaker who laid Cartwheel to lose at Cheltenham? The same who paid you to fix me today?'
'You're imagining things. I was trying today, just like I always try.' His tongue was so far in his cheek I was surprised he could get the words out. 'Your problem is you'd be better off riding rocking horses and even then I wouldn't back against you falling off.' He turned away and climbed into the driver's seat. I wedged my foot between him and the door.
'Let me make one thing clear,' I said, doing my best to sound calm and rational. 'I didn't know or approve of what my husband was doing to you. What I do know is that Tom Radcliffe is not a murderer and I intend to prove it, and if that means exposing or even implicating you in the process, then so be it. I just wanted you to know.'
Brennan was unimpressed. 'You're not dealing with the stewards, darling. If you go on talking like that you'll be joining your husband, and that kid of yours will be an orphan. And one final thing. How can you be so sure your lover boy didn't do it? How do you know that he wasn't also being blackmailed?' With that he pushed me away from the car so violently that I stumbled and fell. He turned on the engine and, having made one last offensive gesture out of the window, roared out of the car park.
I picked myself up off the ground and walked back to Ralph's car. 'Nothing personal', I said to myself, had now become 'everything personal'. And just to add to my misery, Ralph's other runner won.
Chapter 7
That evening after dinner I sat in my room and worked out a plan of action. Brennan was right when he said that I had no proof that he was being blackmailed, or indeed of the reason why. The first thing I had to do was find out a lot more about the backgrounds of the names in the diary, and also the identity of both Edward's bookmaker and the bookmaker who had dropped a fortune laying Cartwheel at Cheltenham. It was better than evens that they were one and the same person.
Trapped in the Cotswolds I had no means of finding out the latest gossip in the legal and racing worlds and therefore the obvious answer was to enlist the help of those who did. My first call was to James Thackeray. There was an outside chance that he would still be at the
My luck was in and I was put through to the man himself: 'James? It's Victoria Pryde. Still slaving away then?'
'Certainly! We creative geniuses never pause, even for alcohol. I'm glad you called, Victoria, as I've made a few enquiries about those things you asked me last week. There's good news, and bad news, I'm afraid.'
'Tell me the worst.'
'The bad news is that nobody knows how that announcement of your old man's death got in. One of the subs thought he remembered it being phoned through by Weatherbys, but I've phoned them up and they vehemently deny knowing anything about it, got quite shirty with me too. The good news is that we know the name of the bookmaker who did his bo… sorry, nearly said it, lost a packet on the Gold Cup. My man on the rails tells me it was a fellow called George Musgrave; ever heard of him?'
'Never. What do you know about him?'
'Only that he's mean and very successful. Owns a chain of betting shops in West London and has only recently started betting on course. Wears cashmere coats and oozes charm to the punters, although I doubt if he's so genial when he does his money. Never known a bookie who was. Not in their nature, is it?'
'Hardly. Thanks a lot for the help. It was really kind of you. Can I beg another favour?'
'All right, I'm feeling generous today. I've napped three consecutive winners including the winner of your race at Worcester. Sorry, that's probably a bit of a sore subject. What did those brutes have to say to you?'
'That I wasn't trying and all that stuff. You know they've sent me to Portman Square?'
'I've heard. Are you going to be represented? I would if I were you, you know.'
'I hadn't thought about it. You're probably right, although I've got enough problems with lawyers at the moment.'
'Poor you. You're still certain Radcliffe is innocent then?'
'You know I am, and that's why I'm calling. You ready?'
'At your service. I'll do anything for a pretty face. You'll remember to give me first refusal on the serial rights after the trial?'
'You and the rest of Fleet Street! Got a pen handy? Right, could you find out everything you can – you know what I mean, family, clubs, interests, etcetera – about Sir Arthur Drewe and Eamon Brennan?'
'You mean the Drewe who stands as a steward?'
'That's the one.'
'I'll do what I can, although I don't see Eamon Brennan having many interests outside racing. He's the only jockey I know who wears blinkers off course.'
