Declared Dead

'Another secret?'

'No. I've received a letter from his solicitors threatening to make Freddie a ward of court. When I'm ready to see the old man, I'm going to use that as a pretext.'

'And your real reason?'

'There are some things I don't even want to tell my lawyer yet!'

I had no sooner put the phone down than it rang again. The second leg of the double had come up.

'James here. Pen and paper handy?'

I told him to let it flow.

'Well, let's start with Eamon Brennan. It's funny what you discover about these jocks. Born in Kilkenny and ran away from home at the age of fourteen to become a lad in Jim Hogan's yard. Became apprenticed to him two years later and at the ripe old age of seventeen rode his first winner under rules. From then on, never looked back. Champion jockey three times, then lost the job with Hogan after his performance in the Sweeps Hurdle, where it was rumoured he pulled the odds-on favourite. Since then has ridden freelance, until accepting a retainer last year in England with Colin Rhodes. Not renewed this season, apparently by mutual consent. Still based in England but frequently rides over in Ireland. A brilliant horseman who can't lie straight in bed, he's so crooked. Separated from his wife and has one conviction for possessing an offensive weapon. Will that do?'

'And Drewe?'

'Not a very nice man. Educated Eton and Sandhurst. Has a filthy temper and loves fox hunting. Has estates in England and Ireland, that's Southern Ireland – County Limerick to be precise. My chum on the Gloucestershire paper describes him as an upper-class brute who must have overslept the day they handed out brains. Wife's apparently a formidable dragon whose father was an Earl. The family's a pillar of local society – you know, front pew of the church every Sunday and twice on Christmas Day, and he's Master of Foxhounds. Stands as a steward at Worcester, Cheltenham and Fontwell. He's a very keen shot and, oh yes, one final thing; there's a rumour going round that he's going to be appointed Chairman of the Disciplinary Committee of the Jockey Club.'

I wondered whether Edward had picked up that piece of information; it would no doubt have called for an increase in Drewe's premium on his insurance policy. 'His address?'

'In England? Rivers Hall, Upper Wallop, Gloucestershire. Will that do?'

'It's more than I could have hoped for. James, I can't thank you enough.'

'Don't try. Just don't forget that exclusive interview after the trial. I've already written the headline: "HOW MY LOVER GAVE MY HUSBAND THE BOOT." Do you like it?'

'It's in very poor taste! I may not exactly be the grieving widow…'

'All right. I'm sorry. Go on. Prove Radcliffe innocent, but remember if you don't I'm still available.'

'James, I'm going to prove Tom's innocent if it is the last thing I do.'

'Well, just make sure it isn't.'

* * *

I don't know why I gave the impression of being so confident. If Sir Arthur or Brennan had killed Edward it was hardly likely to have happened on the spur of the moment. Either could have arranged to meet him on some pretext late that Saturday night, or come to the cottage after he had returned home. The forensic experts couldn't pinpoint with any precision the day, let alone the time, of the murder and all the police had to go on was the fact that nobody had seen Edward alive after he left the pub with Tom. What about Corcoran or Musgrave? Corcoran had disappeared; clearly I had to locate him and find out if he had any information to offer. Unfortunately, if he had killed Edward, which I very much doubted, he was hardly going to advertise his present whereabouts.

Musgrave had to be considered a suspect after those phone calls and Edward's failure to deliver the right result in the Gold Cup. He had lost at least a quarter of a million pounds according to the Sportsman and that was on the course alone. If he had laid generous odds in his betting shops the deficit could be considerably greater. Edward's murder might well satisfy his instinct for revenge, yet I somehow doubted if he would have done the dirty work himself. According to recent newspaper reports, the going rate for a contract killer was five thousand pounds; that would certainly explain the professional nature of the crime. To a hardened East End villain, a human barbecue probably had the same clinical attraction as a concrete overcoat. It was only the blood stains on the bronze that had enabled the police to make a positive identification of Edward and nobody could have foreseen that bit of bad luck. I cursed myself. If I had only cleaned the bronze they could never have charged Tom and he'd be a free man instead of languishing in some grotty jail.

There was one person whom I had automatically discounted from my list of suspects: my father-in-law. Fathers don't kill sons, I reasoned, except no doubt in Greek mythology. I realised that Lord Pryde had a good motive: fear that his son's demands might increase now that he had become Lord Chief Justice, but I couldn't see why, if he had paid up for so long, he suddenly wouldn't be prepared to go on doing so.

I was still determined to go and face him. I didn't see why I should be told that I was unfit to bring up a child when he himself had stood by and condoned his own son's criminal activities. I also had a strong desire for revenge, to make him wriggle at the knowledge that I had inherited his guilty secret. Ever since our marriage, Lady Pryde had treated me like a second-class citizen; she had not let pass any opportunity to stress her family's social superiority. There was no doubt that Edward was better bred than me, yet even Northern Dancer has sired the occasional dud.

Not knowing where to begin, I decided to start at the end, at the scene of the crime. Before driving out to Melksham I went over to the cottage to collect the mail and generally give it a look over. I was interested to see if the police had disturbed or removed anything during their search. If they had, there was, alas, no longer any Mrs Parsons to clean up. She had felt it only decent to hand in her notice after the discovery of Edward's body.

To my astonishment the place was a complete shambles. Tables were upturned, books strewn all over the floor and the contents of the drawers had been hurled around the sitting and dining rooms. It was the same story upstairs. I couldn't believe the police could have behaved like this and immediately rang Inspector Wilkinson to complain. He was as surprised as I was.

'Mrs Pryde,' he said, this time putting on his most reassuring voice, 'I can guarantee that has nothing to do with us. Last week we undertook a careful and orderly search of your premises and in fact removed certain material, but only because we felt it to be relevant to our enquiries. I can assure you that my officers left the premises in the same good order that they found them. I know because I was there to supervise them. It looks like somebody else has paid you an unauthorised visit. Have you been staying there at all recently?'

I told him that Freddie and I were still living with friends.

'I'm afraid,' he went on, 'that this kind of thing does happen. We live in a sick society and there are a few nasty individuals around who take advantage of other people's misfortune to do a bit of petty thieving. Do you know if anything's missing?'

'Not that I've noticed so far.'

'I'll send a couple of men over straight away.'

'All right. Can you leave it for a short while? Let me just go through everything first and see what's gone.'

'If you insist, but please don't go putting your fingerprints everywhere, Mrs Pryde.'

Whoever had burgled the place had clearly not been a petty thief. The television and video were untouched, as was the silver cutlery, a family heirloom in the drawer of the sideboard. What had occurred was a systematic, although judging by the chaos, increasingly frenzied, search and there was nothing to indicate if it had been successful or not. Who, why and what, I wondered? I thought back to that Friday when Freddie discovered the diary and Edward's smug expression as he bragged about his investors. He had boasted of how he had kept a photocopy of the incriminating letter which his father had received from Lorenz. Perhaps that wasn't the only piece of evidence in his possession. With Edward dead, could it be that one of the investors had now come to reclaim the proof of his own indiscretion? I decided it was worth a fresh look around the cottage just in case the searcher had left empty-handed. There was no need to look in the obvious places, as the intruder had done that already.