Declared Dead

The first concerned Corcoran. I was still determined to locate him, and apart from travelling over to Ireland and physically combing the countryside, I decided the best approach was to make an appeal to his wallet or that of someone who now knew where he was. Accordingly I read over to James the following notice for inclusion in the next seven issues of the Sportsman:

MICHAEL CORCORAN

Formerly employed in Tom Radcliffe's yard at Wantage and now believed to be working or seeking employment in stables in Ireland. Would the above or anyone knowing of his whereabouts contact Amy Frost at Messrs Arthurs, solicitors, Lincoln's Inn, London. Substantial reward payable. All replies treated in strictest confidence.

I didn't know what I meant by substantial, or for that matter where I was going to find the money to pay even a modest reward. I hoped I could deal with that particular problem as and when the occasion arose. James said he would make sure the notice would be given a prominent position in the classified section of the paper.

The second favour concerned Musgrave. When I encountered him at Kempton Park, I had accused him of being behind Brennan's efforts to stop me winning at Worcester. I was convinced that he had been responsible for Fainthearted drifting out in the betting – knowing I wouldn't win allowed him to offer generous odds – and once again I was hoping that James's contacts in the betting world would help me find out if I was right. He agreed on one condition.

'What's that?' I asked good-humouredly, expecting another request for an exclusive interview.

'I think it's time you let me in on this one, Victoria. My keen nose for scandal smells a juicy tale of corruption and skulduggery and I want to be in on it. What precisely is the low-down on Musgrave?'

I didn't bother to argue. Even if Musgrave had nothing to do with Edward's death, I was certain to obtain a more sympathetic hearing at the Jockey Club on my appeal if I could prove a direct link between Brennan's riding and the odds offered by a crooked bookmaker. I told James about my suspicions over the running of the Worcester race and how I was certain that Brennan and Musgrave were in each other's pockets. Brennan's performance at Kempton the day before had only confirmed my theory. James was cock-a-hoop at the prospect of a scandal.

'I like this a lot,' he announced as soon as I had finished. 'I can see it already splashed across the front page of the Sportsman:

'TOP JOCKEY AND BOOKIE IN BETS PROBE.'

Yes, this could be very good indeed.'

'Hold on. Don't forget yours truly. I want you to make it clear that I was the innocent party at Worcester and that Ralph was utterly blameless. That's even more important than clearing me.'

'I won't let you down. I'll get cracking straight away, checking out all the races over the past six months when Brennan has been riding the likely favourite. Whenever it's drifted in the market and then been beaten, we'll find out if Musgrave was responsible for the odds going out.'

'It's not just horses ridden by Brennan, don't forget. At Worcester he was on one of the less fancied runners, and devoted his energies to stopping me winning on the favourite.'

'And Musgrave offered generous odds on your horse?'

'Got it in one.'

'That means rather more work to do. I suppose I'll have to look into every race in which Brennan has been riding to see if anything untoward happened. That's a pretty major task and it's going to take some time, I'm afraid.' James was sounding a little less ecstatic.

'You can do it,' I urged him. 'Why not start with yesterday's race at Kempton and work backwards? At least it's still fresh in everybody's mind.'

'I agree. I'll try and persuade the editor to order the videos of that race and yours at Worcester, although it won't be easy. He's so tight he makes Jack Benny seem generous.'

'Jack who?'

'Forget it. I'd better crack on with the work. Promise you'll keep in touch and I'll let you know as soon as I've got anything. Bye – and Victoria, take care.'

Having finished with James, I wrote to Sir Arthur Drewe. Penning a letter to the steward who has reported you to Portman Square takes a fair amount of courage and to give me inspiration I took out the incriminating photograph of the noble baronet from its hiding place in my wardrobe. It did the trick.

Dear Sir Arthur,

I have just cleared out my late husband's possessions and in doing so found a touching photograph of you giving the benefit of your racing knowledge to a lucky permit holder. I had forgotten how striking your racing colours are and didn't realise that you knew how to ride so well. I wondered whether you and your wife would like the original back for your album or if you would prefer I disposed of it in any manner I saw fit. No doubt the racing press would welcome its inclusion in their picture library for the day when you are appointed senior steward. Assuring you of my best intentions at all times,

Victoria Pryde.

I addressed the envelope to Sir Arthur at his estate in Gloucestershire and gleefully stuck on a first class stamp. I would have given anything to see the old boy's face as he read that over breakfast.

There wasn't much else I could do with myself for the rest of the day, except catch up with the form books and, most importantly of all, telephone my mother and talk to Freddie. He always enjoyed staying with his grandmother and she for her part loved having him. I could tell from his cheerful voice that I wasn't missed and he was quite content to ride around the farm on the pony which my mother kept for that very purpose. I was extremely glad that he was no longer at Ralph's. Up until yesterday I had never given any serious thought to potential danger to myself, let alone to Freddie. Musgrave's threat had changed all that and last night's events had vindicated my decision to send the boy away. There now had to be a real risk that whoever wanted me dead would try again.

Arming myself against another attack was one of my first priorities, but to be honest I had no idea where to begin. Eau de cologne had done the trick the other night although it was hardly likely to be as effective a second time. I considered buying a gun, but even if I managed to obtain one I was a rotten shot and would be more likely to injure myself than anybody else. A knife was a more practical possibility yet even then I wasn't confident of being dextrous enough to wield it properly. In the end I settled on the idea of a container with a suitably toxic substance that I could throw or spray into an attacker's face and I made a note to ask Amy for a suitable suggestion when we next talked. As a lawyer who had acted for all sorts of hardened criminals she was bound to know about that kind of thing. I spent the rest of the day and Saturday sleeping and recuperating and on Sunday felt well enough to drive over to my mother's house to see Freddie. As far as I know, nobody followed me there or back.

On Monday the doctor called again – personally I would have been just as happy with the vet – and after a lot of umming and aahing, punctuated by the occasional prodding of my back with his cold hands, he declared that nothing was broken and the bruising would soon go down. As far as he was concerned, I was fit to walk around the place and as from Friday could ride again. Ralph was delighted and made me promise to take things easy all week and return to race riding the following Monday. Reluctantly I agreed. I could do nothing until James Thackeray came up with the further information on Musgrave, or there was a positive response to the notice in the Sportsman about Corcoran. Amy had telephoned on Sunday and agreed to contact me as soon as she received any serious response. She didn't pretend to be hopeful, Monday's silence suggested she might be right.

Tuesday morning started badly with a letter from Tom. I had had no contact with him since his arrest, as his lawyers had advised him against communicating with me. As a likely, albeit reluctant, witness for the prosecution I was deemed one of the enemy. Happily it now seemed that he had decided to ignore his lawyer's advice and, recognising the handwriting on the envelope, I eagerly tore it open. The letter, headed Brixton Prison, made sad reading.

My dear Victoria,

How are you? You have been constantly in my thoughts since this whole ghastly business began. I like to tell myself that it is all a bad dream and that I will wake up in the morning in Wantage and leap out of bed to ride out. This ceil is damp and cramped, and I'd swap it for a horse-box any day. Victoria, you know I didn't kill Edward. There were times when I wanted him dead but that's a far cry from actual murder. I've heard from my brief (that's what they call your barrister in here) that Jamie Brown told the police about our conversation that day after