Declared Dead

by John Francome

  I strolled on and into the heart of the pit. I didn't expect to find anything as the police had no doubt carried out a thorough search of the area for evidence. It was eerie and depressing and I tried to picture the scene on the night of the murder, Edward's body curled up in the boot as paraffin or petrol was poured over it and then the car set on fire. I wondered whether the murderer or murderers had stood by and watched the blaze or whether they had set off straight away in a waiting car. Out here, miles from anywhere, they had very little chance of being disturbed. A cold and ruthless murder, an act wholly beyond Tom Radcliffe.

  I was beginning to feel nervous hanging around there, so I returned to my car and drove to Oxford in the hope of gaining an audience with my father-in-law. The courts were on vacation and I knew that he was likely to be in his study writing up judgements to be delivered at the beginning of the next legal term. I took the precaution en route of phoning up to see whether Lady Pryde was at home. If she had been I would have aborted my mission for the present. I had no desire to come face to face with that most formidable of battle axes; Doris, the housekeeper, didn't recognise my voice and said that Madam was away until late evening. I had hoped as much, remembering that Friday was usually her bridge afternoon in Abingdon.

  Lord Pryde was positively displeased to see me. I could sense his legal mind evaluating whether he ought to refuse to talk to me and kick me out. In the end it was only the fact that Doris had let me in which embarrassed him into being civil and inviting me into his library. It was a magnificent room, lined with thousands of leather-bound books. At the far end sat a large mahogany desk piled with legal-looking documents. A fire was blazing and he beckoned me to sit down on one of the leather armchairs beside it. It reminded me of my last serious discussion with Edward.

  Lord Pryde looked tired and drawn, although nowhere near as drained emotionally as one would expect from a man who just recently lost his only son. He went straight on the attack, a family characteristic.

  'Victoria, it really is quite wrong of you to come here uninvited. If Eleanor had been here you would have caused her considerable distress, and that's the last thing I want at the moment. As you can imagine, Edward's death has come as a terrible blow… to us both,' he added, apparently as an afterthought. 'I must ask you in any event to be brief. It would be dishonest of me to pretend that you are welcome in this house, and if it's young Freddie you've come to talk about, then you're wasting your time. It's quite clear to us that his interests are best served by being brought up here.' He stood up and started pacing the room, giving me no chance to speak. 'I realise that we are no longer young, but the boy is a Pryde, and quite frankly your involvement with this Radcliffe man makes your continuing custody of the boy quite out of the question. Of course, we would have no objection to your seeing him now and again, say once a month during the school holidays, but it's quite impossible for him to remain with you.'

  I wanted to scratch his narrow, arrogant eyes out, but his spectacles would have got in the way. I went on the verbal attack instead.

  'How very generous of you,' I replied aggressively. 'As it happens, it's not Freddie I've come to talk about, not directly at least. I'll leave that fight to the lawyers, and it will be a fight, I warn you. No, I'm here to talk about this,' I said, triumphantly waving a piece of paper in front of him. 'The letter from a certain Mr Lorenz, which my late beloved husband treasured so much.'

  His complacent air gave way to a vitriolic rage.

  'Where the hell did you get that?' he demanded, walking over towards me.

  'No you don't!' I replied, putting it back inside my handbag. 'Don't worry, Gerald, I'm not a blackmailer. Your secret is dead along with your son. I just want to ensure that justice is now done. You must tell the police what Edward really was, so that they start investigating all those other people who had a real reason for wanting him dead.'

  'Don't be ridiculous! Do you seriously think that a man of my standing can afford to expose himself so that some two-penny-ha'penny racehorse trainer is acquitted of a murder he almost certainly committed in any event? Think of my position. I would have to resign, lose everything I've worked all my life for. How would Eleanor feel? Isn't it enough that she's lost her son? No, Victoria. I've absolutely no intention of doing what you ask. Here, you're going to give me that letter right now!' He shoved me hard and grabbed the handbag. In a second he had opened it and removed the letter. He threw it straight onto the fire without even looking at it. As it burned he held me back from the fire with his right arm.

  'There. Gone is your one and only piece of evidence.'

  'How do you know I haven't made a copy?' I countered.

  'I wouldn't care. Only originals are admissible in court. Now, leave this house and never ever return.'

  I smiled condescendingly at him. 'As you will. Just one last thing. The next time you burn one of my mother's letters, I would prefer you to ask permission.' I didn't wait to see his reaction. Only his overweening arrogance would have let him think I was naive enough to bring actual evidence with me.

  * * *

  I returned to Ralph's house to find a message waiting for me to contact Amy Frost as a matter of urgency.

  Freddie was running around the house with Ralph's dog. It was amazing how well he had taken the news of Edward's death. It was either a consequence of his age or more likely an indication that its true implications had not yet sunk in. When he saw me walk through the door he left the dog and came running up to me. I bent down and picked him up in my arms and we gave each other a big hug.

  'What have you been up to today?' I said as I kissed him on his forehead. As he rushed through a seemingly endless list of things he had done, I pulled my head away and admired him. He was the spitting image of Edward, but had blond hair like my own. Once he finished telling me his various achievements, I put him down and told him to go on playing with the dog while I called Amy. I wondered if she had any news of Tom's committal hearing, which was due to take place in a couple of days' time. By now the prosecution statements would have been served and Tom given full notice of the case against him. Clever Amy had befriended the solicitor acting for Tom and with a bit of luck, she would have been tipped off as to its strengths and weaknesses.

  I caught Amy just as she got in the door.

  'Any news?' I asked anxiously.

  'I'm afraid so and it's not ail good. Hold on a minute while I take my coat off and make myself a little more comfortable.'

  I couldn't believe that she could sound so calm.

  'Shall I fire away?' she asked, a minute or so later. 'They've served the statements on Tom's solicitor and to be honest, although I haven't actually been shown them, they don't seem to make that happy reading.'

  'What do you mean?' I already sounded anxious.

  'As I told you, in the absence of a confession or an eye witness, the police case has to be based on circumstantial evidence. You know what I mean, once they prove the body is Edward's, all the clues have to point to Tom as the murderer.'

  'But what clues?'

  'Hold on a minute, I'm coming to that. Just let me get my notes out. Right. To begin with, the row in the pub was a very acrimonious affair and was overheard by half the saloon bar. Apparently Edward was asking Tom to leave you alone and Tom lost his temper and threatened all sorts of things if Edward didn't treat you better. I gather they very nearly came to blows and both were the worse for drink when they left, just before closing time.'

  'But that doesn't prove anything. Tom doesn't mean it when he makes those kinds of threats.'

  'You know that, Victoria, but the police don't. Can I continue?'

  'I'm sorry.'

  'It's all right. I do understand, but if you let me finish with the evidence we can dissect it afterwards. Next comes the forensic stuff. On the track leading to the chalk pit they've discovered four footprints which match the shoes Tom admits wearing the night he met Edward.'

  'But he's got the same size feet as half the men in Englan
d.'

  'I thought you were going to let me finish! And on those shoes they've found traces of chalk which match that found in the pit. Finally, hidden in a disused stable in his yard under a load of machinery they've found a petrol can which they believe was used to set fire to the car and Edward's body.'

  'I just don't believe it. The chalk on the shoes is probably the same as you will find near those gallops Tom uses and the petrol can proves nothing. There must be a million discarded petrol cans on farms and in stables.'

  'You're probably right but not all their owners have a motive for wanting Edward dead or, for that matter, have petrol stains on the clothing they were wearing the night the victim disappeared.'

  'On his clothing! But how?'

  'Tom says he must have done it when he filled his car up with petrol on the way to the pub.'

  'It's very likely – he's a clumsy bugger.'

  'It's just unfortunate I'm afraid. I'm sorry, Victoria, but you've got to accept that Edward's dead and Tom's going to be on trial for his murder in less than two months' time.'

  I thanked her for her help and asked if she would attend the committal hearing to keep an eye on the proceedings. I would be elsewhere, at Tom's yard trying to locate the present whereabouts of Michael Corcoran and hoping that he might admit to the police that he was being blackmailed. I took out his letter of confession and clenched it tightly in my hand. Ironically, a spot of blackmail of my own was now called for.

  Chapter 8

  I arrived at Tom's yard at ten-thirty, when I reckoned I would find Jamie Brown, the head lad, in the office sorting out the race entries and declarations with Tom's assistant trainer. When the governor falls ill or, much more unusually, is languishing in prison on a murder charge, it becomes the responsibility of the assistant trainer and head lad to run the yard in his absence and to try and keep the winners coming. Tom had a large and on the whole fairly loyal bunch of owners, although they were unlikely to want to let their own financial interests suffer because of their trainer's present difficulties. I had heard that several horses had already been removed from the yard and no doubt many more would follow if the flow of winners dried up.

  Unfortunately a virus had hit the yard at the end of March and since Tom's arrest, a number of the runners had struggled in towards the rear of the field and returned home to their boxes with runny noses. It was beginning to look as though even if, or rather when, Tom was acquitted, he was going to have plenty on his hands rebuilding his professional reputation,

  I found Jamie alone in the office wading unhappily through a pile of entry forms. He was in his late forties, his wrinkled and weather-beaten face bearing testimony to a lifetime spent on the gallops. He loved horses and hated human beings, and his least favoured species was the lesser spotted female jockey. He made no attempt to stand up as I walked into the room and went on working as if I didn't exist. I tried the humble approach.

  'Good morning, Mr Brown. I'm very sorry to disturb you, I really am, but it's very important. It's about Mr Radcliffe.' He still didn't move or look up, preferring to growl from behind the form book he was holding upright in his right hand.

  'Haven't you caused enough trouble already, Miss? Do the police know that you're here, snooping around?'

  'No, why should they? There's no law against it, unless you mean I'm not allowed to talk to you because of that statement you've given them.'

  That succeeded in upsetting him. He shoved aside the entry forms, put down his book and glowered at me. 'Look here, all I told the police is what I heard in the yard that morning the day after the Gold Cup. I never thought I would get the governor into trouble, 'cos if I had I would've kept quiet. It was what you said I thought would interest them.'

  'Mr Brown, I didn't kill my husband. Nor did Tom Radcliffe. But at the moment nobody seems to care about the truth. Do you know where I can contact Michael Corcoran?'

  'Corcoran? Don't know and frankly don't care. I can't see how he could help you. He walked out of here without so much as a by your leave, after all we'd done for him.' Jamie Brown shook his head as if despairing of the whole of the human race.

  'Did he tell anyone where he was going?'

  Brown gave me a contemptuous look. 'You don't know so much about racing, do you? Stable lads come and go, it's not as if they were well paid. For all I know at this very moment he could be working for some other trainer who hasn't got round to registering him.'

  'Come on, Mr Brown, have you really no idea? Surely he told some of the other lads where he was going or what his plans were?'

  He shook his head. 'I don't interest myself in stable gossip. As far as I'm concerned he didn't turn up on Monday morning to do his two and that was his lot. I'm hard pressed enough as it is.'

  'Would you mind if I had a chat with one or two of the lads to see if they know anything?'

  'Yes I would. I don't want you going round asking questions, upsetting my staff. He'll turn up somewhere, they always do.' He returned to his entries, making it clear he regarded the interview as over. I could see I would make no further progress and wandered back into the yard in the hope of finding a lad or girl who might be able to help me. There was no one in sight so I decided to say hello to Mrs Drummond.

  I nervously rang the bell to the house in anticipation of one her more frosty receptions. To my surprise, she welcomed me with open arms and invited me in for coffee. Knowing her affection for Tom, I decided to take her into my confidence and tell her about Edward's blackmailing and how Corcoran was one of his victims. Then and there she offered to phone his parents in Ireland to see if they had any news. After a little difficulty getting through, she eventually spoke to Corcoran's mother. Mrs Corcoran had not heard from her son for two months, but that in itself was not unusual. She explained that he wasn't much of a writer and every now and again would phone home, normally when one of his half dozen brothers or sisters had a birthday. She promised to let Mrs Drummond know as soon as she heard anything.

  The call over, Mrs Drummond offered to pursue her own enquiries among the lads in the yard and we arranged that she would telephone either me or Amy at work in London as soon as she heard or discovered anything. Frankly I wasn't optimistic and was beginning to suspect that Corcoran had no wish to have his present whereabouts discovered.

  Having drawn a blank, I headed to Kempton Park and the day's principal race meeting, to see if George Musgrave was to be found taking bets on the rails. It was the first time for as long as I could remember that I had been to a racecourse without having a ride booked and it was a curious sensation wandering round the members' enclosure, rubbing shoulders with the punters and being just another spectator. Of course, jockeys are not allowed to bet, at least officially, and I certainly couldn't afford any approach I might make to Musgrave being misinterpreted.

  Weekday meetings draw surprisingly large crowds and the six race card had no shortage of runners to keep them interested. It was an ideal setting for the bookies and I would have been surprised if Musgrave was not on hand to try and relieve the public of their readies. My instinct was right. I watched the first race from the stands, although for most of the eight fences my binoculars were trained on the sleek, immaculately groomed figure of my late husband's bookmaker. Positioned about six down on the rails, he was a tall, thin-faced man with a thick crop of brown hair, and his complexion bore the healthy remnants of a tan, no doubt from a recent cruise in the Caribbean. Appearing confident and assured in his well-cut dark blue cashmere coat he could easily have been mistaken for a stockbroker or merchant banker. The only give-away was the pair of tinted glasses he put on every now and again to look at the prices on the boards of the bookmakers standing in rows behind him. Beside him, also on the other side of the rails, stood his clerk, his head buried in a ledger recording the day's bets. Too smooth by half, was my first impression of Musgrave and I began to work out the right way to approach him. I decided that the best tactic would be to wait and see if he left his position to go and have a
drink or whatever and then to follow him in the hope that a suitable opportunity would arise.

  In the meantime, I amused myself watching him in action. The third race on the card was a handicap hurdle and it was attracting a good deal of betting. Eamon Brennan was on the 2-1 favourite and judging from the action in the ring, and the odds on offer from the bookies at the top of the rails, the horse was a warm order at that price. Standing only two yards away from Musgrave I heard him lay three separate punters' bets of two and a half 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.