thousand to win five thousand and he seemed prepared to take as much as any of the other bookies wished to unload. Either he had nerves of steel or he knew something they didn't. To cap it all, only one minute before the off he started offering 9-4 and was nearly submerged in the flood of takers. Once the race was under way he perched himself on the rail that divides the members from Tattersalls enclosure and fixed his binoculars on Brennan's mount.
You had to hand it to the Irishman, he really knew how to ride – it takes a real artist to lose when the world thinks you're trying like hell to win. Coming with a well-timed run to join the leader going over the last he managed for a moment to take the lead and a roar went up from his backers. Just then his opponent rallied and to all those screaming encouragement in the stands Eamon was pulling out all the stops in an attempt to win, flourishing his whip like a man whose own mortgage depended on it. Of course it didn't, and his heroic efforts just failed in what was called as a photo finish but to the trained eye was going to amount to a short-head defeat. Musgrave put down his binoculars and winked at his clerk. A perfect result for the book and no doubt for Eamon a packet of readies in prospect substantially in excess of the winning percentage he had sacrificed.
George didn't take a lot of interest in the next race and made no attempt to offer competitive odds. He was content to take the occasional bet from his credit customers and once the runners were off, he left his position and walked briskly through the gate that led to the members' entrance and on towards the ground floor bar below the stands. I followed him and waited until he had placed his order, then walked up to the bar beside him and asked the girl serving for a gin and tonic. Musgrave appeared immune to my presence as he went on studying the Stock Market prices in his copy of the
'Mr Musgrave. Victoria Pryde. I don't think we've met but I believe we've spoken on the phone. You remember, the evening of the Gold Cup.'
If looks could kill, they could have sent there and then for the undertaker.
'I think you've made a mistake,' he replied, folding up his paper and downing his whisky. 'I make a point of not talking to jockeys. It can get you into trouble with the authorities and I have no intention of losing my licence. Now if you'll excuse me, Miss Pryde. I must go and look after my customers for the next race.'
I grabbed him by the arm, although he quickly and firmly removed my hand. I let him have it. 'That sounds very noble, Mr Musgrave. No doubt you told them that Brennan's horse wouldn't win in the last, that Fainthearted wouldn't be allowed to win at Worcester last time out and that I was meant to be on a non-trier at Cheltenham.'
His expression showed I had hit a raw nerve and for a brief moment I thought he was going to strike me. He quickly recovered his composure as the bar filled up with racegoers. He moved even closer to me so that our bodies were almost touching and he couldn't be overheard.
'You'd better watch what you go round saying or I'll have my lawyers onto you.'
He was making a real effort to control his temper and I had no intention of helping him. 'Really? Surely not your lawyers! No doubt you would also ask them to explain to you the consequences of taking bets off course and not paying tax on them. I think they call it fraud. If they want some proof on that score tell them not to hesitate to get in touch with me. It would be such a tragic end to your career as a bookmaker.'
He poked me menacingly in the ribs. 'You're a dead person,' was all he said before striding out of the bar. George Musgrave apparently decided not to bet on the final two races, judging by the empty space which suddenly appeared on the rails. I was left wondering' what his next step would be while having no doubt about mine. I telephoned my mother in Wincanton and asked her to come and collect Freddie. It was time he took a holiday.
I drove on into London and that evening had dinner with Amy. It was a welcome relaxation from my own problems to catch up on the latest developments in her social life and hear about the men who were vying to win her favours. You somehow don't think of lawyers as having sex lives. By all accounts her admirers divided into two groups: barristers who took themselves extremely seriously and regarded it as an outrageous snub to their
I left her flat just before midnight, after endless cups of black coffee, and began the long drive to Ralph's yard in the Cotswolds. Traffic was light, and an hour and half later I was heading away from Cirencester on the last twenty miles of the journey through the countryside. As I drove along I took stock of my investigations to date. Viewed dispassionately, they were long on effort and short on success. I was no wiser as to Corcoran's whereabouts and had succeeded in antagonising Lord Pryde (not altogether unintentionally) and extracting a death threat from George Musgrave. I hadn't yet mustered the courage to confront Sir Arthur Drewe with his extra- curricular activities. It was all very well going round planting mines, and even watching the explosions, but I was no nearer discovering who really had murdered Edward. All I could hope was that his assailant might try the same tactics on me and thereby expose himself. It was a risky and dangerous ploy on my part and that was why I had decided that the time was right to keep Freddie well out of it.
I had no idea how long I had been followed. At first I had assumed that the car about a quarter of a mile behind was just another late traveller returning home and I hadn't paid any further attention. I had been perfectly content to cruise along listening to a Tina Turner tape and pondering my next moves. I would probably not even have noticed the car if I hadn't overshot the turning to Stow on the Wold and had to reverse twenty yards to take it. My pursuer had been far enough behind not to make the same error, but I had no doubt that he was also taken by surprise by my late manoeuvre and his brakes screeched as he jammed them on to make the turning. From then on he kept his distance, accelerating and slowing down to match my own changes of pace. He was somehow always just that one bend behind and each time I thought I had shaken him off, the lights of his car would reappear in my mirror.
I told myself not to panic, that if I drove speedily yet carefully I would reach Ralph's without being caught. I would then hoot my horn as I came up the drive, waking everybody up, but at least scaring the tail away. My only problem was that there were still fifteen miles or so left to go, through winding countryside, and I was also in no doubt that I had the less powerful engine. Combe Hardy was about two miles ahead and I remembered that there was a pub there. It was well after closing time, although there might just be a chance that the landlord was still up. I decided that if there was a light on as I approached, I would take a late turn into the car park, run from the car screaming rape and bang on the door for help. I would probably be taken for a neurotic woman who was imagining things but that was better than being murdered or whatever other fate was being planned for me.
I thought of Freddie and Tom and whether I would ever see them again. I looked in the mirror. He was still there all right. I assumed he was on his own, although without street lighting and any cars coming in the opposite direction to illuminate the road behind, I couldn't be sure. I accelerated as we reached Combe Hardy, hoping to give the impression that I was going to drive straight through. I looked in desperation for a light, any light, in the pub ahead. Alas, like the rest of the village, it was in darkness. I kept my foot on the accelerator and sped on into the night and the long desolate stretch of road across the hills which led to the next village of Charlton Bywater. He now drew even closer, almost flirting with my rear bumper, his headlights blinding me with their glare. All I could do was to move over to the centre of the road to stop him overtaking.
My attention was so consumed with these antics that J nearly hit the oncoming car. Appearing at sixty miles an hour out of the darkness, it swerved to avoid me and then repeated the manoeuvre just in time to avoid colliding with my shadow. For one brief moment, as the car flashed past, its lights caught the face of my would-be assailant, yet all I could make out was the silhouette of the driver crouched low behind the wheel. For a second I lost my concentration and he seized his chance. Forcing his way past, he cut in sharply ahead of me. Instinctively, I swerved to avoid running into him, steering the car off the road and to my horror down the hill to my left. As I somersaulted I tucked my head into my chest as if I had fallen from a horse and was rolling over to avoid the other runners. I held my breath and waited for the end.
I hit the tree just as the engine cut out and came to rest upside down. I couldn't believe it: I was alive. Drops of blood trickled down my face and into my hair, but I didn't care. The important thing was I had survived. I tried
