I saw the logic of their advice. I decided to phone Ralph to warn him about what was happening. It was well past his bedtime, but I guessed he wouldn't be too displeased to hear what was being published. After all, it would have a significant bearing on our hearing before the Jockey Club. Or at least, I hoped so.
We spent Saturday at Amy's flat watching Pin Money duly justify his position as favourite in the National and that night I went to bed early, intending to travel down in the morning to Wincanton to spend the day with Freddie. Amy and I were having breakfast when James arrived. He didn't look as if he had been to bed all night, being unshaven and generally rumpled. He gratefully accepted Amy's offer of a cup of coffee and then told us he had a treat in store.
'On Sunday,' said Amy dismissively, 'there's only one treat and that's lying in bed all day surrounded by the newspapers and the colour supplements.'
'Normally I would agree with you,' he countered, 'but today is special. I have just received a call from Mr George Musgrave, no less, asking me to go round to his office to hear his side of the story. Says he's prepared to blow the gaff on everything and name names, including that of a well-known steward.'
'Drewe?' I asked excitedly.
'He wouldn't say. All he wanted was a guarantee that I would print his version in tomorrow's paper.'
'And will you?' asked Amy.
'I'm not the editor. All I said was, I thought there was a very good chance of it appearing. I can't actually see how we can turn it down, because someone else will do it otherwise. I've agreed to be around there in Paddington in twenty minutes and wondered whether you fancy coming along.'
'What, both of us?' I asked. 'What about my low profile?'
'Yes, both of you. It's only fair you come, Victoria, since all this is your doing in the first place and I wondered whether you, Amy, might do the necessary legal bits if he's prepared to swear an affidavit.'
'I'd love to, but you can't swear them on a Sunday.'
'Typical. At least you could witness his signature on a piece of paper: that would impress the editor.'
'I'd be honoured. Only do you think it's safe?'
'Who knows? I can't seriously imagine Musgrave attacking us, can you? He's got enough problems already and…'
'If he killed Edward, why should he hesitate now?' I interrupted anxiously.
'Because it's all become too public. For all we know, Victoria, he may confess to Edward's murder and then Tom is in the clear. Had you thought about that?'
I hadn't, and to be honest I very much doubted that Musgrave saw James as an alternative to twenty minutes with a priest and a dozen Hail Marys. Nonetheless, I still wanted to go with him, if only to have the pleasure of seeing the bookmaker squirm and to find out who else was involved in his wrongdoing. I just felt certain it was Drewe.
The door to Musgrave's offices in Paddington was locked. Ringing the bell and a good deal of banging and shouting produced no reaction from within.
'I just don't understand it,' said James. 'He was most insistent that I was here at ten-thirty and it's now a quarter to eleven.'
'Maybe he's been held up,' suggested Amy. 'Did he say where he was coming from?'
'No, but I somehow got the impression he was phoning from here. Let's wait another ten minutes or so just in case he turns up. I hope he hasn't had a change of heart.'
'Where were you when he phoned?' I asked, out of curiosity.
'At home. I hadn't been in for very long.'
'I believe you. You look like you've been out on an all-night bender. How did he find your number?'
'I didn't think to ask. I suppose he must have phoned the paper last night, or found it in the phone book. There aren't many James Thackerays listed.'
'Do you think there's a back entrance?' asked Amy, who was clearly getting tired of hanging around.
'I doubt it,' said James. 'Do you want to go and have a look while I stay here with Victoria?'
Amy nodded and walked down the street for about twenty yards and then disappeared down an alleyway. She returned a couple of minutes later and signalled us to follow her. The small alley was in fact a cul de sac, used probably for delivering to the buildings on either side. Half way down on the left was a door marked 'George Musgrave. No entry'. Amy turned the handle and the door swung open.
'Simple, when you know how,' she said, beaming.
We climbed up a narrow flight of steps and at the top opened the door that led into a corridor. We walked along it for a few yards until we came to another door, which in turn led into the big square room through which James and I had passed during our recent visit en route to Musgrave's own office. It was strangely, almost disturbingly, quiet without the sound of the phones ringing and the commentary from the racecourse service. The televisions were off and there was not a sound or sight of human life.
'Mr Musgrave, are you there?' James shouted out. Unless he was hiding under a desk it was a waste of breath.
'How about his own office?' I asked, feeling extremely uneasy and trying to put a quick end to this particular adventure.
'Where is it?' asked Amy, who appeared far more relaxed than James – or me for that matter. It may have been the effect of his hangover but I noticed a distinct lack of the self-assurance he had shown at the start of our visit to these premises.
'Over there,' I replied, pointing to the other corner of the room.
Amy led the way through the desks and for some reason stopped in front of the door and knocked. 'Are you there, Mr Musgrave?' she asked boldly.
There was no reply and looking towards me for approval, she turned the handle and pushed the door open.
People used to queue to watch hangings, yet the sight of George Musgrave dangling from the ceiling made me want to throw up. He had used his tie as a noose and attached it to the old ventilator above his desk. I was surprised that it had taken his weight. Judging by the chair lying on the floor, he must have climbed up on the desk, using the chair as a step, and then kicked it away from under himself. While James leaned out of the window catching some fresh air and making a series of unattractive retching noises, Amy and I just stood and stared in disbelief at the limp and pendulous corpse, its face congested and purple.
'He's killed himself,' said Amy, with that lawyer's gift for stating the obvious. 'We'd better call the police. Come on, James, pull yourself together and dial 999.'
'Do you think we should cut him down?' I asked. 'It looks so undignified.'
'I think we should leave that to the police,' answered Amy. 'You never know, they might want to check it for fingerprints and things.'
'Fingerprints? You don't think…?'
'No, of course not. It's just it never pays to interfere. Leave it to the professionals. Come on, James, are you going to call them or shall I?'
The intrepid journalist came reluctantly over from the window, looking distinctly green and under the weather. He dialled the number and asked for both the police and an ambulance, an act which inexplicably had an immediate restorative effect on his demeanour. Suddenly shock and revulsion gave way to the investigative instinct and he produced his notebook from the inside pocket of his coat.
'Right, let's make a note of these details before the Old Bill arrives. Height, five foot eleven, say, although it's difficult to be precise from this angle; shoes best quality leather soles.'
'James, that's a bit insensitive!' I said.
'Sorry, it's just the view. Dark grey flannel suit, nicely cut, brown hair, neck disjointed and eyes bulging. What colour would you say they were, Victoria?'
