Declared Dead

I laughed. 'Just do what you can, please. I'll be here all tomorrow if you call.'

'Blimey, you don't give a man much time! I'm not going racing tomorrow, though, so you may well hear from me. In the meantime, Victoria, keep your pecker up.'

My next call was to Amy and she readily agreed to provide me with the legal low-down on my father-in-law, the Lord Chief Justice. That left just Michael Corcoran. In his case I decided that the best approach would be to visit Tom's yard, which reminded me that I still had a bone to pick with his head lad, Jamie Brown.

The next morning a letter arrived from solicitors acting on behalf of my parents-in-law. Judging by the weight of the notepaper, they had retained a top and no doubt extremely expensive city firm, whose partners' names had more barrels than a brewery. The letter itself made grim reading:

'Dear Madam,

We have been instructed by Lord and Lady Pryde concerning the well-being of their grandchild Frederick Clifford Pryde. We understand that Master Pryde is at present staying with you at the above address.

It is our clients' considered view that, in the light of the recent tragic events involving the death of their son, you are not a fit and proper person to have custody or care and control of the child. The purpose of this letter is to put you on notice that, following the hearing of the trial of Regina v Radcliffe, our clients will apply to the Family Division of the High Court to have their grandson made a ward of court. We hope that you will accept that such an action is in his interest which, as you will no doubt appreciate, is the paramount concern in such a situation.

We respectfully suggest that you show the contents of this letter to your own legal advisers.

Yours faithfully'

It was followed by an unintelligible signature.

With the greatest respect to Lord and Lady Pryde, and for that matter their solicitors, I had absolutely no intention of giving up my own child. Freddie was essentially a happy young boy whose father had been a skunk. I intended to make sure the rest of his life was carefree and secure. From what I knew about Lord and Lady Pryde, fun was in strictly limited supply. Still fuming, I took Freddie out riding and returned shortly before lunch to find a message to call Amy.

She had been as efficient as ever.

'Here you are, a layman's guide to Lord Pryde culled from a variety of sources – including Who's Who, a couple of friends of mine at the Bar, and my father, who it turns out was at school with him. All dad can remember is that he's a diabetic. Ready? Some of this you'll no doubt know.'

I picked up my pen. 'Fire away!'

'Gerald Clifford Pryde, sixty-four this year. Educated at Marlborough and Brasenose College, Oxford, where he won the Coltart Prize for Jurisprudence. Called to the Bar two years later. Member of Lincoln's Inn. Became a Queen's Counsel after enjoying enormous success, particularly in criminal cases, where his grasp of detail and ability to master heavy briefs in fraud trials was legendary. Became Recorder of Bicester and Chancellor of the Four Arches, whatever that is, a year later. Chaired the Government Inquiry into the Rocamadour Takeover, and is a member of the Committee for Legal Reform. Author of A Guideline to Sentencing of Juveniles and Delinquents – that sounds like a bundle of laughs – and The Origins of Latin Maxims. Must remember that one for Christmas! Appointed to the High Court bench eight years ago. Three years later became a Lord Justice. The rest, as they say, is history. Reputation for being a tough sentencer and an arch conservative. Not that popular with Counsel, who reckon that he forgets that he was once a barrister himself and ought to know that it's not always Counsel's fault that things go wrong. Clubs: Garrick and Athenaeum.'

'Remind me about family details.'

'Hold on a sec. Married Eleanor, nee Grime. One son, Edward. Aren't Grimes the cereal people?'

'Yes. She's the one with the money. Keeps a pretty tight hold over her husband, which probably explains that little slip on his part. Interests?'

'Theatre, but they all say that. Bridge, and numismatics.'

'Coin collecting? I never knew that. Probably started when he married old Eleanor. What's his address in London?' I knew that, in addition to their house in Oxford, the Prydes had recently taken the lease on a flat in one of the Inns of Court.

'It's in Lincoln's Inn. You'll have to ask the porter, and even if he tells you, there are bound to be security guards.'

'Don't worry, I'm sure he'll see his daughter-in-law when he hears what it's about.'

'Another secret?'

'No. I've received a letter from his solicitors threatening to make Freddie a ward of court. When I'm ready to see the old man, I'm going to use that as a pretext.'

'And your real reason?'

'There are some things I don't even want to tell my lawyer yet!'

I had no sooner put the phone down than it rang again. The second leg of the double had come up.

'James here. Pen and paper handy?'

I told him to let it flow.

'Well, let's start with Eamon Brennan. It's funny what you discover about these jocks. Born in Kilkenny and ran away from home at the age of fourteen to become a lad in Jim Hogan's yard. Became apprenticed to him two years later and at the ripe old age of seventeen rode his first winner under rules. From then on, never looked back. Champion jockey three times, then lost the job with Hogan after his performance in the Sweeps Hurdle, where it was rumoured he pulled the odds-on favourite. Since then has ridden freelance, until accepting a retainer last year in England with Colin Rhodes. Not renewed this season, apparently by mutual consent. Still based in England but frequently rides over in Ireland. A brilliant horseman who can't lie straight in bed, he's so crooked. Separated from his wife and has one conviction for possessing an offensive weapon. Will that do?'

'And Drewe?'

'Not a very nice man. Educated Eton and Sandhurst. Has a filthy temper and loves fox hunting. Has estates in England and Ireland, that's Southern Ireland – County Limerick to be precise. My chum on the Gloucestershire paper describes him as an upper-class brute who must have overslept the day they handed out brains. Wife's apparently a formidable dragon whose father was an Earl. The family's a pillar of local society – you know, front pew of the church every Sunday and twice on Christmas Day, and he's Master of Foxhounds. Stands as a steward at Worcester, Cheltenham and Fontwell. He's a very keen shot and, oh yes, one final thing; there's a rumour going round that he's going to be appointed Chairman of the Disciplinary Committee of the Jockey Club.'

I wondered whether Edward had picked up that piece of information; it would no doubt have called for an increase in Drewe's premium on his insurance policy. 'His address?'

'In England? Rivers Hall, Upper Wallop, Gloucestershire. Will that do?'

'It's more than I could have hoped for. James, I can't thank you enough.'

'Don't try. Just don't forget that exclusive interview after the trial. I've already written the headline: 'HOW MY LOVER GAVE MY HUSBAND THE BOOT.' Do you like it?'

'It's in very poor taste! I may not exactly be the grieving widow…'

'All right. I'm sorry. Go on. Prove Radcliffe innocent, but remember if you don't I'm still available.'

'James, I'm going to prove Tom's innocent if it is the last thing I do.'

'Well, just make sure it isn't.'

* * *

I don't know why I gave the impression of being so confident. If Sir Arthur or Brennan had killed Edward it was hardly likely to have happened on the spur of the moment. Either could have arranged to meet him on some pretext late that Saturday night, or come to the cottage after he had returned home. The forensic experts couldn't pinpoint with any precision the day, let alone the time, of the murder and all the police had to go on was the fact that nobody had seen Edward alive after he left the pub with Tom. What about Corcoran or Musgrave? Corcoran had disappeared; clearly I had to locate him and find out if he had any information to offer. Unfortunately, if he had killed Edward, which I very much doubted, he was hardly going to advertise his present whereabouts.

Musgrave had to be considered a suspect after those phone calls and Edward's failure to deliver the right result in the Gold Cup. He had lost at least a quarter of a million pounds according to the