by Dick Francis
If you look closely at the photographs you will see that they are not of the same horse. Alike but not identical.
I am sure that the Jockey Club would be interested in this difference. I will ring you shortly, however, with an alternative suggestion.
Yours sincerely,
George Millace
I read it through about six times, not because I didn’t take it in the first time, but simply as an interval for assimilation and thought.
There were some practical observations to be made, which were that the letter bore no heading and no date and no handwritten signature. There was an assumption to be drawn that the other four pale gray geometric patterns would also turn out to be letters; and that what I had found was George’s idiosyncratic filing system.
Beyond those flat thoughts lay a sort of chaos: a feeling of looking into a pit. If I enlarged and read the other letters, I could find that I knew things which would make “waiting to see what happens” impossible. I might feel, as I did in the case of the gray-smudge lovers, that doing nothing was weak and wrong. If I learned all George’s secrets, I would have to accept the moral burden of deciding what to do about them . . . and of doing it.
To postpone the decision I went upstairs to the sitting room and looked through the form books to find out in which year Amber Globe had won at Fontwell on August 12th; it had been four years previously.
I looked up Amber Globe’s career from start to finish, and what it amounted to on average was three or four poorer showings followed by an easy win at high odds, this pattern being repeated twice a season for four years. Amber Globe’s last win had been the one on August 12th, and from then on he had run in no more races at all.
A supplementary search showed that the trainer of Amber Globe did not appear in the list of trainers for any subsequent years, and had probably gone out of business. There was no way of checking from those particular books whether “Dear Mr. Morton” had subsequently owned or run any more horses, although such facts would be stored in central official racing records.
Dear Mr. Morton and his trainer had been running two horses under the name of Amber Globe, switching in the good one for the big gambles, letting the poor one lengthen the odds. I wondered if George had noticed the pattern and gone deliberately to take his photographs; or whether he had taken the photographs merely in the course of work, and then had noticed the difference in the horses. There was no way of knowing or even guessing, as I hadn’t found the two photographs in question.
I looked out of the window at the Downs for a while, and wandered around a bit fingering things and doing nothing much, waiting for the arrival of a comfortable certainty that knowledge did not involve responsibility. I waited in vain. I knew that it did. The knowledge was downstairs, and I would have to acquire it. I had come too far to want to stop.
Unsettled, fearful, but with a feeling of inevitability, I went down to the darkroom and printed the other four negatives one by one, and read the resulting letters in the kitchen. With all five in the drier I sat for ages staring into space, thinking disjointed thoughts.
George had been busy. The sly malice of George’s mind spoke out as clearly as if I could hear his voice. George’s ominous letters must have induced fear and despondency in colossal proportions.
The second of them said:
Dear Bonnington Ford,
I am sure you will be interested in the enclosed series of photographs, which, as you will see, are a record of you entertaining in your training stables on Sunday afternoons a person who has been “warned off.” I don’t suppose I need to remind you that the racing authorities would object strongly to this continuous association, even to the extent of reviewing your license to train.
I could of course send copies of these photographs to the Jockey Club. I will ring you shortly, however, with an alternative suggestion.
Yours sincerely,
George Millace
Bonnington Ford was a third-rate trainer who by general consensus was as honest and trustworthy as a pickpocket at Aintree, and he trained in a hollow in the Downs at a spot where any passing motorist could glance down into his yard. It would have been no trouble at all for George Millace, if he had wanted to, to sit in his car at that spot and take telephoto pictures at his leisure.
Again I hadn’t found the photographs in question, so there was nothing I could do about that particular letter, even if I had wanted to. George hadn’t even mentioned the name of the disqualified person. I was let off any worrying choice.
The last three letters were a different matter, one in which the dilemma sharply raised its head: where did duty lie, and how much could one opt out.
Of these three letters the first said:
Dear Elgin Yaxley,
I am sure you will be interested in the enclosed photograph. As you will see, it clearly contradicts a statement you recently made on oath at a certain trial.
I am sure that the Jockey Club would be interested to see it, and also the police, the judge, and the insurance company. I could send all of them copies simultaneously.
I will ring you shortly, however, with an alternative suggestion.
Yours sincerely,
George Millace
The one next to it on the film roll would have driven the nails right in. It said:
Dear Elgin Yaxley,
I am happily able to tell you that since I wrote to you yesterday there have been further developments.
Yesterday I also visited the farmer upon whose farm you boarded your unfortunate steeplechasers, and I showed him in confidence a copy of the photograph, which I sent to you. I suggested that there might be a full further enquiry, during which his own share in the tragedy might be investigated.
He felt able to respond to my promise of silence with the pleasing information that your five good horses were not after all dead. The five horses which died had been bought especially and cheaply by him (your farmer friend) from a local auction, and it was these which were shot by Terence O’Tree at the appointed time and place. Terence O’Tree was not told of the substitution.
Your farmer friend also confirmed that when the veterinary surgeon had given your good horses their anti-tetanus jabs and had left after seeing them in good health, you yourself arrived at the farm in a horsebox to supervise their removal.
Your friend understood you would be shipping them out to the Far East, where you already had a buyer.
I enclose a photograph of his signed statement to this effect.
I will ring you shortly with a suggestion.
Yours sincerely,
George Millace
The last of the five prints was different from the others in that its letter was handwritten, not typed, but as it had apparently been written in pencil, it was still of the same pale gray.
It said:
Dear Elgin Yaxley,
I bought the five horses that T. O’Tree shot. You fetched your own horses away in a horsebox, to export them to the East. I am satisfied with what you paid me for this service.
Yours faithfully,
David Parker
I thought of Elgin Yaxley as I had seen him the previous day at Ascot, smirking complacently and believing himself safe.
I thought of right and wrong, and justice. Thought of Elgin Yaxley as the victim of George Millace, and of the insurance company as the victim of Elgin Yaxley. Thought of Terence O’Tree who had gone to jail, and David Parker, who hadn’t.
I couldn’t decide what to do.
After a while I got up stiffly and went back to the darkroom. I put all of the magenta-splashed set of negatives into the contact-printing frame and made a nearly white print: and this time there were not five little oblongs with gray blocks, but fifteen.
With a hollow feeling of horror I switched off all the lights, locked the doors, and walked up the road to my briefing with Harold.
“Pay attention,” Harold said sharply.
“Er . . . yes.”
“What’s the m
atter?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m talking about Coral Key at Kempton on Wednesday, and you’re not listening.”
I dragged my attention back to the matter in hand.
“Coral Key,” I said. “For Victor Briggs.”
“That’s right.”
“Has he said anything . . . about yesterday?”
Harold shook his head. “We had a drink after the race, but if Victor doesn’t want to talk, you can’t get a word out of him, and all he uttered were grunts. But until he tells me you’re off his horses, you’re still on them.”
He gave me a glass and a can of Coke and poured a large whisky for himself.
“I haven’t much for you this week,” he said. “Nothing Monday or Tuesday. Pebble was going to run at Leicester but there’s some heat in his leg . . . There’s just Coral Key on Wednesday, Diamond Buyer and the mare Friday, and two on Saturday, as long as it doesn’t rain. Have you any outside rides lined up?”
“A novice ’chaser at Kempton on Thursday.”
“I hope it can bloody jump.”
I went back to the quiet cottage and made prints from the fifteen magenta-splashed negatives, getting plain white-and-gray results as before, as the blotchy shapes were filtered out along with the blue.
To my relief they were not fifteen threatening letters: only the first two of them finished with the promise of alternative suggestions.
I had expected one on the subject of the lovers, and it was there. It was the second one which left me breathless and weakly laughing in the kitchen: and certainly it put me in a better frame of mind for any revelations to come.
The last thirteen prints, however, turned out to be George’s own notes of where and when he had taken his incriminating pictures, and on what film, and at which exposures, and on what dates he had sent the frightening letters. I guessed he had kept his records in this form because it had turned out to be easy for him, and had seemed safer than leaving such damaging material lying legibly around on paper.
As a backup to the photographs and letters they were fascinating, but they all failed to say what the “alternative suggestions” had been. There was no record of what monies George had extorted, nor of any bank, safe deposit, or hiding place where he could have stashed the proceeds. Even to himself, George on this subject had been reticent.
I went late to bed and couldn’t sleep, and in the morning made some telephone calls.
One to the editor of the Horse and Hound, whom I knew, begging him to include Amanda’s picture in that week’s issue, emphasizing that time was short. He said dubiously that he would print it if I got it to his office that morning, but after that it would be too late.
“I’ll be there,” I said. “Two columns wide, photograph seven centimeters deep, with some wording top and bottom. Say eleven centimeters altogether. On a nice right-hand page near the front where no one can miss it.”
“Philip!” he protested, but then sighed audibly, and I knew he would do it. “That camera of yours . . . If you’ve got any racing pics I might use, bring them along. I’ll have a look anyway. No promises, mind, but a look. It’s people I want, not horses. Portraits. Got any?”
“Well . . . yes.”
“Good. Soon as possible, then. See you.”
I telephoned to Marie Millace for Lord White’s home number, and then I telephoned Old Driven Snow at his home in the Cotswolds.
“You want to see me?” he said. “What about?”
“About George Millace, sir.”
“Photographer? Died recently?”
“Yes, sir. His wife is a friend of Lady White.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, impatiently. “I could see you at Kempton, if you like.”
I asked if I could call on him at his home instead, and although he wasn’t overpoweringly keen, he agreed to my taking half an hour of his time at five o’clock the next day. With slightly sweating palms I replaced the receiver and said “phew” and thought that all I had to do to back out was to ring him again and cancel.
After that I telephoned to Samantha, which was a great deal easier, and asked if I could take her and Clare out to dinner. Her warm voice sounded pleased.
“Tonight?” she said.
“Yes.”
“I can’t go. But I’m sure Clare can. She’d like it.”
“Would she?”
“Yes, you silly man. What time?”
I said I would pick her up at about eight, and Samantha said fine and how was the search for Amanda going, and I found myself talking to her as if I’d known her all my life. As indeed, in a way, I had.
I drove to London to the Horse and Hound offices and fixed with the editor to print Amanda’s picture captioned “Where is this stable? Ten pounds for the first person—and particularly for the first child—who can telephone Philip Nore to tell him.”
“Child?” said the editor, raising his eyebrows and adding my telephone number. “Do they read this paper?”
“Their mothers do.”
“Subtle stuff.”
He said, looking through the folder I’d brought of racing faces, that they were starting a series on racing personalities, and he wanted new pictures that hadn’t already appeared all over the place, and he could use some of mine, if I liked.
“Er . . . yes.”
“Usual rates,” he said casually, and I said fine; and only after a pause did I ask him what the usual rates were. Even to ask, it seemed to me, was a step nearer to caring as much for the income as for the photographs themselves. Usual rates were a commitment. Usual rates meant joining the club. I found it disturbing. I accepted them, all the same.
Samantha was out when I went to fetch Clare.
“Come in for a drink first,” Clare said, opening the door wide. “It’s such a lousy evening.”
I stepped in out of the wind and cold rain of late November and we went not downstairs to the kitchen but into the long gently lit ground floor sitting room, which stretched from the front to the back of the house. I looked around, seeing its comfort, but feeling no familiarity.
“Do you remember this room?” Clare said.
I shook my head.
“Where’s the bathroom?” she said.
I answered immediately, “Up the stairs, turn right, blue ba . . .”
She laughed. “Straight from the subconscious.”
“It’s so odd.”
There was a television set in one corner with a program of talking heads, and Clare walked over and switched it off.
“Don’t, if you’re in the middle of watching,” I said.
“It was just another antidrug lecture. All these pontificating so-called experts. How about that drink? What would you like? There is some wine . . .” She held up a bottle of white Burgundy, opened, so we settled on that.
“Some smug little presenter was saying,” she said, pouring into the glasses, “that one in five women take tranquilizers, but only one in ten men. Implying that poor little women are so much less able to deal with life, the feeble little dears.” She handed me a glass. “Makes you laugh.”
“Does it?”
She grinned. “I suppose it never occurs to the doctors who write out the prescriptions that the poor feeble little women sprinkle those tranquilizers all over their husbands’ dinner when he comes home from work.”
I laughed.
“They do,” she said. “The ones with great hulking bastards who knock them about, and the ones who don’t like too much sex . . . they mix the nice tasteless powder into the brute’s meat and potatoes, and lead a quiet life.”
“It’s a great theory.”
“Fact,” she said.
We sat in a couple of pale velvet armchairs sipping the cool wine, she, in a scarlet silk shirt and black trousers, making a bright statement against the soft coloring of the room. A girl given to positive statements. A girl of decision and certainty and mental energy. Not at all like the gentle undemanding girls I occasionally took home.
“I saw you racing on Saturday,” she said. “On television.”
“I didn’t think you were interested.”
“Of course I am, since I saw your photos.” She drank a mouthful. “You do take some frightful risks.”
“Not always like Saturday.” She asked why not, and rather to my surprise, I told her.
“But my goodness,” she said indignantly, “that’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair. Too bad.”
“What a gloomy philosophy.”
“Not really. Take what comes, but hope for the best.”
She shook her head. “Go out looking for the best.” She drank and said, “What happens if you’re really smashed up by one of those falls?”
“You curse.”
“No, you fool. To your life, I mean.”
“Mend as fast as possible and get back in the saddle. While you’re out of it, some other jockey is pinching your rides.”
“Charming,” she said. “And what if it’s too bad to mend?”
“You’ve got a problem. No rides, no income. You start looking at want ads.”
“And what happens if you’re killed?”
“Nothing much,” I said.
“You don’t take it seriously,” she complained.
“Of course not.”
She studied my face. “I’m not used to people who casually risk their lives most days of the week.”
I smiled at her. “The risk is less than you’d think. But if you’re really unlucky, there’s always the Injured Jockeys’ Fund.”
“What’s that?”
“The racing industry’s private charity. It looks after the widows and orphans of dead jockeys and gives succor to badly damaged live ones, and makes sure no one pops off in old age for want of a lump of coal.”
“Can’t be bad.”
We went out a little later and ate in a small restaurant determinedly decorated as a French peasant kitchen with scrubbed board tables, rushes on the floor, and dripping candles stuck in wine bottles. The food turned out to be as bogus as the surroundings, never having seen the light of anyone’s pot au feu. Clare, however, seemed not to mind and we ate microwaved veal in a blanket white sauce, trying not to remember the blanquettes in France, where she too had been frequently, though for holidays, not racing.
