by Dick Francis
I said without emphasis, “The film company discussed with Howard Tyler the changes they wished made to certain elements of the published book. I did not myself arrange them. I was engaged after the main changes had been agreed. Still, I think they were necessary and that they'll make a strong and entertaining motion picture, even though I understand your reservations.”
“Disapproval, then. But as your own name is nowhere used, and as the film is fiction, not many will connect you to it.”
“Don't be ridiculous. We are the laughing stock of Newmarket.”
“I don't think so,” I said. “It was all so long ago. But I would like to ask you a question, and I do hope you will help with the answer, as it might soften for you your understandable outrage. Did your sister Sonia lead the strong fantasy life that Howard gave her in the book? Was she a dreamy young woman in real life?”
While the older woman hesitated, Alison said, “I've never met her husband and I don't remember her much at all. I was only fourteen.”
“Sixteen,” her mother corrected sharply.
Alison darted a barb of irritation at her mother, who looked faintly complacent. An uneasy mother-daughter friction existed, I saw, that was only half-stifled by good manners. Alison, odd though it seemed for one of her disposition, was woman enough to want me to believe her younger.
“Dreams?” I prompted.
“My sister,” Audrey Visborough pronounced repressively, “tended to fall for any man in breeches. She would drool over men she could never have. Very silly. I daresay I mentioned it to Howard when he first came here. Jackson Wells looked good in breeches and of course he was flattered when Sonia made eyes at him. It was no basis for a marriage.”
I said, “Er ...” without opinion.
“I at least prevented my daughter from making the same mistake.”
Alison, the unmarried daughter, flashed her a glance full of old and bitter resentment.
I cleared my throat diplomatically and asked, “Do you by any chance have a photograph of your sister?”
“I don't think so.”
“Not even from when you were both young?”
Audrey said severely, “Sonia was a late and unexpected child, born when I was already grown. She was pleasant enough to begin with, I suppose. I didn't see much of her. Then I married Rupert, and really... ! Sonia's behaviour became insupportable. She wouldn't listen to me.”
“But ... when she died in that way ...?” I left the question open, ready for any response.
Audrey shuddered a little. “Horrible,” she said, but the word and the shudder were automatic, the emotion dead from age.
“Do you have any idea why she died?” I asked.
“We have said over and over again that we do not.”
“And,” Alison added in the same manner, “it is disgraceful that you and your film should be intruding on our lives.”
Audrey nodded vigorously: mother and daughter were agreed on that, at least.
I asked Alison, “For Howard's sake, then, will you write the short note of explanation to the film company?”
With asperity she countered, “You don't care about Howard. You just care about yourself.”
With patience I spoke the truth. “Howard writes a good screenplay. His name is on the film. If he is worried about being sued by the film company he will not do himself justice in scenes which still need expanding. He admires you, Miss Visborough. Give him a chance to do his best work.”
She blinked, rose to her sturdy feet, and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Her mother gave a cough of implacable distrust and said, “May I ask why you want a photograph of my sister?”
“It would help because then I could be sure the actress who plays her in the film will not look like her. If your sister had red hair, for instance, we could get the actress a black wig.”
Every response seemed to be squeezed out of her against her will. She said, however, “My sister had naturally mousey-brown hair. She disliked it and dyed it any colour she could think of. My husband had a fierce disagreement with her once when she came here with a green crewcut.”
I managed not to smile. “Upsetting,” I said.
“I do not care what you say about Sonia,” she went on, “but I mind very much that you are denigrating my husband's achievements. Ga-ga! He was never ga-ga. He was a man of sense and wisdom, with a spotless reputation.”
And I had no need to wonder what he'd looked like, as there were photographs of Rupert Visborough at various ages in silver frames on almost every surface in the room. He'd been handsome, upright and humourless: no twinkle in any of the eyes. I thought with a small twinge of guilt that I was going to make of Gibber something Visborough had never been; a charging bull travelling out of control to self-destruction.
The sitting-room door opened to reveal, not Alison returning, but an unprepossessing man in hacking jacket and jodhpurs who entered as if thoroughly at home, crossing to a tray holding glasses and a single bottle of whisky. He poured from bottle to glass and took a swig before looking me over and waiting for an introduction.
“Roddy,” Audrey Visborough said from conditioned social reflex, “this man is Thomas Lyon, who is making that wretched film.”
Roddy Visborough had his glass to his face so that I couldn't see his expression, but his body stiffened in annoyance. He was, I thought, the dressage rider from the show-jumping paddock: a man of medium height, neither fat nor thin, uncharismatic, with scanty grey-brown hair, going bald.
He lowered the glass to chest level and offensively said, “Bugger off.” He said it phonetically, as bugger orf.
Audrey Visborough made not the slightest protest. She remarked, merely, “Mr Lyon is leaving shortly.”
Her son sank the rest of his undiluted drink and poured a second. “What are you doing here?” he said. “You're upsetting my mother.”
I answered, “I came to help straighten things out for Howard Tyler.”
“Oh, him.” Roddy Visborough smiled superciliously. “Seems keen on Alison. I can't think what he sees in her.”
His mother made no comment.
I thought that what Howard saw in Alison was a staunch woman who took a realistic but none too happy view of the world. There had been unlikelier alliances.
Alison herself returned with a white envelope which she held out for me to take. I thanked her: she nodded unenthusiastically and turned to her brother, asking, “How did the lesson go?”
“The child's stupid.”
“We need her custom.”
“I do not need your criticism.”
Alison looked as if this level of brotherly love was customary. To me, rather to my surprise, she explained, “We prepare horses and riders for eventing and show jumping. We keep horses and ponies here at livery.”
“I see.”
“I don't live here,” Roddy said with a sort of throttled grudge. “I have a cottage down the road. I only work here.”
“He's the show jumper,” Alison said, as if I should have heard of him. “I employ him to teach.”
“Ah,” I said vaguely.
“This house is mine,” Alison said. “Daddy left our family home to me in his will. Mummy, of course, is now my guest.”
I looked carefully at Alison's face. Under the no-nonsense exterior she let me see a buried but definite glimmer of mischief, of extreme satisfaction, of perhaps the sweetest revenge for a lifetime of snubs.
CHAPTER TEN
Next morning I awoke with a groan, every muscle stiffly lecturing me on the folly of proving points. I winced down towards my car but was stopped in the lobby by Nash, O'Hara and Moncrieff, who seemed to have been holding a conference.
O'Hara didn't say good morning, he said, “You're goddam crazy, you know that.”
I turned disillusioned eyes on Moncrieff, who said, “Yeah, well, nothing's off the record, you're always saying so yourself.”
Nash said, “Midnight last night, when you'd gone to bed
, Moncrieff played us the video.”
I pinched sleepy eyes between finger and thumb and asked O'Hara if he'd faxed Alison's letter to Hollywood, as he'd intended.
He nodded. “If Howard stays in line, he's off the hook.”
“Good.” I paused. “OK. Today, then. It's not raining. We can shoot the race as planned. We can only do it once, so anyone loading fogged film or getting his f-stops wrong will be blindfolded for the firing squad. Moncrieff, I'll sincerely kill you if your crews bugger it up.”
O'Hara said, “Did you phone that TV guy, Greg Compass, yesterday?”
I thought back and nodded. “From Huntingdon. I couldn't reach him.”
“He sent a message. The reception desk says you didn't call down for it.”
He handed me a piece of paper on which a phone number was written, and a time, 9 a.m.
By nine o'clock, each of us travelling in his own car with driver, we had long reached Huntingdon racecourse. Greg, as good as his message, answered immediately I phoned.
I said, “I wanted to thank you for Saturday.”
“No sweat. I gather you're still running things.”
“Sort of.” I explained about the Huntingdon scenes and invited him to come and drape his familiar figure in shot, if he cared to.
“Today, tomorrow or Thursday. Any or all.”
“Too busy,” he said.
“Never mind, then.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll be with you tomorrow.” He laughed and clicked off, and I wondered if it would cost me another row of seats.
I drove round the track with Moncrieff to check the positions of the cameras and, in places, lights. Apart from our own two usual crews, we had rented three more cameras on dollies and planted two others, unmanned, in the fences for close action. Moncrieff himself would be on the camera truck, driving round ahead of the horses, filming them from head on. The last of the rented equipment was high on the stands from where it would follow the action from start to winning post. As always with scenes that could only be shot once, there would be glitches, but enough, I fervently hoped, would be usable.
Ed having briefed the jockeys to wait for me, I found them gathered in the jockeys' changing room, kitted as for an ordinary race. Fourteen of them. Every single one.
“Morning,” I said, matter of factly.
No one referred to the day before. I said, “I know Ed's given you the gen but we'll just go over it once more. From your point of view, it will be a race like most others. Two miles over fences. You'll circle around at the starting gate, and the starter will call you into line. The starter is an actor. He's been well rehearsed, but if he makes a balls of it, don't stop and go back. Just keep on racing.” I paused. “Same as usual, there's a groundsman and an ambulanceman at every fence. The groundsmen and the ambulancemen are the real thing. The ambulance is real. So is the doctor. So is the vet. All the spectators out on the course and at the fences will be professional extras. All the crowds on the stands will be townspeople. OK so far?”
They nodded.
“Our fourteen horses are all fairly fit but, as you know, they were chosen for a safe jumping record and bought cheaply. They won't break any sound barriers, and the three of them that raced yesterday may not stay the course today. If you want to you can draw lots in a minute to see who gets which horse; one to fourteen on the number cloths.”
The faces were businesslike. They agreed to draw lots.
“This race won't work,” I said, “unless you yourselves make it good. You want to be able to show the video of it all to your families, let alone see it in the cinema. You'll all get a CD or video tape later.”
“Who's got to win?” one of them asked.
“Didn't Ed tell you?”
They shook their heads.
“It's got to be a bona fide race. Whoever wins, those are the colours we'll put on the actor who's playing the jockey in close-up. This actor looks OK sitting on a horse and he can trot at a pinch. Sorry, but it's he who'll be led into the unsaddling enclosure in the winner's colours. But... er ... to make up for it, the one of you who wins this race will get a percentage same as usual. When you pull up, come off the course through the usual gate. All the also-rans can unsaddle in the usual place. There'll be some extras there acting as owners and trainers. The lads will take the horses. Just behave as normal. The first four will be led off towards the winner's enclosure. Any questions?”
“What if we fall?” It was Blue who asked.
“Why did you all turn up?”
Some laughed and some swore. No tension any more.
“Have fun,” I said.
One asked, “And where will you be?”
I said with audible regret, “I’ll be watching from the ground.” I paused. “If you can possibly avoid it, don't give us any flagrant grounds for an enquiry. There's no enquiry in the script. Try not to cross. OK?”
I went outdoors through the deserted weighing-room that on a real race day would have been crowded with officials and trainers, and I watched for a moment the helpful people of Huntingdon arrive in droves, all dressed in racegoing clothes and carrying, in impressive numbers, binoculars. Ed, I saw, had done a fine job.
One of the film personnel came up to me and handed me an envelope, saying it was urgent. I thanked him perfunctorily, and he'd gone before I'd opened the message.
I unfolded the inside sheet of contents, and read the words:
Stop making this film or you will die by the knife today.
Oh, delightful.
It looked like a computer printout on anonymous white office paper.
O'Hara appeared, wanting to discuss a detail or two, and asked what was the matter. “Why are you frozen?”
I gave him the missive. “I've had death threats before,” I pointed out.
“Those were after the movie had been distributed. But we have to take this seriously.” He flicked the page with a fingernail. “What are we going to do about it?”
“What do you suggest?”
“If you leave the set,” O'Hara said plainly, “the movie automatically goes into recess. It would give us all time to find this bozo and slap him behind bars.”
“We can't stop the filming,” I said. “After the Drumbeat article and the knife on the Heath ... one more panic and the moguls will take complete fright and yank the whole movie for ever.”
O'Hara suspected it was true, but worriedly said, “This letter doesn't just say you'll die, it says you'll die today.”
“Thomas, you're no good to us dead.”
“What strikes me,” I said, half-smiling at his pragmatism, “is that whoever sent this note doesn't actually want to kill me, he wants to stop the film without being driven to drastic action. If he - or, I suppose, she -meant to stop the film by killing me, why not just do it? Why the preliminary melodrama? We'll ignore it and press on.”
“I’ll at least get you a bodyguard, like Nash.”
Nash, that day, had not one but two bodyguards in attendance but, as I reminded O'Hara, both of these bodyguards were well known to us.
“If you bring in a stranger, you're risking what you're trying to avoid,” I said. “In classic cases, it's the bodyguards themselves that kill the victim.” I tried a lie that I hoped would be true, and said, “I don't think I'm in much danger, so just forget it.”
“Difficult.” He was mildly relieved, all the same, by my decision.
“Keep the paper,” I told him, “and keep the envelope.” I gave it to him. “And let's get on with the film.”
“I still don't like it.”
Nor did I, much; but delivering a death threat took little organisation or courage, and delivering a death by knife took both.
The knife intended for Nash had been incompetently dropped. Cling to that. Forget - for Christ's sake forget - the intestines spilling out of Dorothea.
“Who gave you the letter?” O'Hara asked.
“One of the grips. I've seen him around but I don't know his
name.”
There was never time to know the names of the between sixty and a hundred people working on a film on location. I hadn't learned even the names of the horses, neither their registered names, nor the names the lads called them, nor their invented names for the film. I didn't know the jockeys' names, nor those of the bit-part actors. It was faces I remembered, horses' faces, jockeys' faces, actors' faces from way back: my memory had always been chiefly visual.
I did forget for a while about the death threat: too much else to do.
As always with scenes involving two or three hundred people, the race took forever to set up. I spent ages on the walkie-talkie checking the status of each far-flung section but, at last, towards noon, everything seemed to be ready. The lads brought the horses from the stables and the jockeys mounted their balloted numbers and cantered down to the start.
I decided to ride on the camera truck with Moncrieff, to be nearer the action: and to guard my back, I cravenly and privately acknowledged.
Ed, equipped with loudspeaker, alerted the Huntingdon multitude to put on raceday faces and cheer the finish. The commentary, we had explained, would be missing; we had to record it separately and afterwards. Nevertheless, Ed urged, cheer whoever won.
Eventually it was he who shouted, “Action”, the command reverberating through the stands, and I, with raised pulse, who found myself begging unknown deities for perfection.
There were flaws, of course. One of the rented cameras jammed, and one of the two planted in fences got kicked to oblivion by a horse, but the race started tidily, and it was joyously clear from the first that my quasi-colleagues were playing fair.
They had seen me on the truck, when it was positioned for the start, seen me sitting on the edge of the roof of the cab, to get the best of views. They'd waved, in a way, I thought, to reassure me, and I'd waved back; and they did indeed ride their hearts out all the way round.
