Declared Dead

Chapter 7

That evening after dinner I sat in my room and worked out a plan of action. Brennan was right when he said that I had no proof that he was being blackmailed, or indeed of the reason why. The first thing I had to do was find out a lot more about the backgrounds of the names in the diary, and also the identity of both Edward's bookmaker and the bookmaker who had dropped a fortune laying Cartwheel at Cheltenham. It was better than evens that they were one and the same person.

Trapped in the Cotswolds I had no means of finding out the latest gossip in the legal and racing worlds and therefore the obvious answer was to enlist the help of those who did. My first call was to James Thackeray. There was an outside chance that he would still be at the Sportsman's offices, putting his copy to bed and creating those dreadful headlines. I sneaked down to Ralph's office and used the phone.

My luck was in and I was put through to the man himself: 'James? It's Victoria Pryde. Still slaving away then?'

'Certainly! We creative geniuses never pause, even for alcohol. I'm glad you called, Victoria, as I've made a few enquiries about those things you asked me last week. There's good news, and bad news, I'm afraid.'

'Tell me the worst.'

'The bad news is that nobody knows how that announcement of your old man's death got in. One of the subs thought he remembered it being phoned through by Weatherbys, but I've phoned them up and they vehemently deny knowing anything about it, got quite shirty with me too. The good news is that we know the name of the bookmaker who did his bo… sorry, nearly said it, lost a packet on the Gold Cup. My man on the rails tells me it was a fellow called George Musgrave; ever heard of him?'

'Never. What do you know about him?'

'Only that he's mean and very successful. Owns a chain of betting shops in West London and has only recently started betting on course. Wears cashmere coats and oozes charm to the punters, although I doubt if he's so genial when he does his money. Never known a bookie who was. Not in their nature, is it?'

'Hardly. Thanks a lot for the help. It was really kind of you. Can I beg another favour?'

'All right, I'm feeling generous today. I've napped three consecutive winners including the winner of your race at Worcester. Sorry, that's probably a bit of a sore subject. What did those brutes have to say to you?'

'That I wasn't trying and all that stuff. You know they've sent me to Portman Square?'

'I've heard. Are you going to be represented? I would if I were you, you know.'

'I hadn't thought about it. You're probably right, although I've got enough problems with lawyers at the moment.'

'Poor you. You're still certain Radcliffe is innocent then?'

'You know I am, and that's why I'm calling. You ready?'

'At your service. I'll do anything for a pretty face. You'll remember to give me first refusal on the serial rights after the trial?'

'You and the rest of Fleet Street! Got a pen handy? Right, could you find out everything you can – you know what I mean, family, clubs, interests, etcetera – about Sir Arthur Drewe and Eamon Brennan?'

'You mean the Drewe who stands as a steward?'

'That's the one.'

'I'll do what I can, although I don't see Eamon Brennan having many interests outside racing. He's the only jockey I know who wears blinkers off course.'

I laughed. 'Just do what you can, please. I'll be here all tomorrow if you call.'

'Blimey, you don't give a man much time! I'm not going racing tomorrow, though, so you may well hear from me. In the meantime, Victoria, keep your pecker up.'

My next call was to Amy and she readily agreed to provide me with the legal low-down on my father-in-law, the Lord Chief Justice. That left just Michael Corcoran. In his case I decided that the best approach would be to visit Tom's yard, which reminded me that I still had a bone to pick with his head lad, Jamie Brown.

The next morning a letter arrived from solicitors acting on behalf of my parents-in-law. Judging by the weight of the notepaper, they had retained a top and no doubt extremely expensive city firm, whose partners' names had more barrels than a brewery. The letter itself made grim reading:

'Dear Madam,

We have been instructed by Lord and Lady Pryde concerning the well-being of their grandchild Frederick Clifford Pryde. We understand that Master Pryde is at present staying with you at the above address.

It is our clients' considered view that, in the light of the recent tragic events involving the death of their son, you are not a fit and proper person to have custody or care and control of the child. The purpose of this letter is to put you on notice that, following the hearing of the trial of Regina v Radcliffe, our clients will apply to the Family Division of the High Court to have their grandson made a ward of court. We hope that you will accept that such an action is in his interest which, as you will no doubt appreciate, is the paramount concern in such a situation.

We respectfully suggest that you show the contents of this letter to your own legal advisers.

Yours faithfully'

It was followed by an unintelligible signature.

With the greatest respect to Lord and Lady Pryde, and for that matter their solicitors, I had absolutely no intention of giving up my own child. Freddie was essentially a happy young boy whose father had been a skunk. I intended to make sure the rest of his life was carefree and secure. From what I knew about Lord and Lady Pryde, fun was in strictly limited supply. Still fuming, I took Freddie out riding and returned shortly before lunch to find a message to call Amy.

She had been as efficient as ever.

'Here you are, a layman's guide to Lord Pryde culled from a variety of sources – including Who's Who, a couple of friends of mine at the Bar, and my father, who it turns out was at school with him. All dad can remember is that he's a diabetic. Ready? Some of this you'll no doubt know.'

I picked up my pen. 'Fire away!'

'Gerald Clifford Pryde, sixty-four this year. Educated at Marlborough and Brasenose College, Oxford, where he won the Coltart Prize for Jurisprudence. Called to the Bar two years later. Member of Lincoln's Inn. Became a Queen's Counsel after enjoying enormous success, particularly in criminal cases, where his grasp of detail and ability to master heavy briefs in fraud trials was legendary. Became Recorder of Bicester and Chancellor of the Four Arches, whatever that is, a year later. Chaired the Government Inquiry into the Rocamadour Takeover, and is a member of the Committee for Legal Reform. Author of A Guideline to Sentencing of Juveniles and Delinquents – that sounds like a bundle of laughs – and The Origins of Latin Maxims. Must remember that one for Christmas! Appointed to the High Court bench eight years ago. Three years later became a Lord Justice. The rest, as they say, is history. Reputation for being a tough sentencer and an arch conservative. Not that popular with Counsel, who reckon that he forgets that he was once a barrister himself and ought to know that it's not always Counsel's fault that things go wrong. Clubs: Garrick and Athenaeum.'

'Remind me about family details.'

'Hold on a sec. Married Eleanor, nee Grime. One son, Edward. Aren't Grimes the cereal people?'

'Yes. She's the one with the money. Keeps a pretty tight hold over her husband, which probably explains that little slip on his part. Interests?'

'Theatre, but they all say that. Bridge, and numismatics.'

'Coin collecting? I never knew that. Probably started when he married old Eleanor. What's his address in London?' I knew that, in addition to their house in Oxford, the Prydes had recently taken the lease on a flat in one of the Inns of Court.

'It's in Lincoln's Inn. You'll have to ask the porter, and even if he tells you, there are bound to be security guards.'

'Don't worry, I'm sure he'll see his daughter-in-law when he hears what it's about.'