I plonked myself down in Edward's favourite chair by the fire and surveyed the room. Behind the pictures or inside the photograph frames would be too simple. I also discounted the grandfather clock in the corner. The stuffed owl on the table by the window looked more promising. I was convinced it was winking at me. 'That's it!' I said aloud, congratulating myself on my powers of detection.
Edward had always hated that bird. I had picked it up one day in a junk shop for a fiver and brought it home in great triumph. He had taken one look and kindly said it reminded him of my mother. I rushed over and took it out of its glass box. There was no sign of the skin being broken, although I could well imagine the pleasure he would have taken in stuffing documents up its backside. I ran to the kitchen and took a knife from the drawer, now certain that I had discovered his cache. Asking my mother for forgiveness, I unceremoniously tore open the old bird's chest and back and stuck my hands inside, but all I got was stuffing, a sentiment echoed by the look of disdain in the owl's eyes. Feeling a complete idiot, I returned the mutilated creature to its former resting place.
As I did so, I caught sight of a photograph of Edward on the mantelpiece, taken when he was out shooting on his uncle's estate. The gun held proudly in his right hand was his most treasured possession. His father had brought him up on the saying, 'You should lend your wife before your gun', and that was exactly how Edward felt about it. He was endlessly cleaning and oiling it; I had once even caught him taking it to pieces. I remembered how angry he had been at the time. I ran upstairs to the spare room and looked under the wardrobe. The brown oblong case with his initials on it was still there. I pulled it out only to find that the lock had already been forced, although as far I could tell nothing had been removed. I looked down both barrels to no avail, and then studied the butt. Five minutes later I had removed the four screws which fixed the end-plate to the stock of the gun. I removed the plate and extracted its unorthodox contents. Replacing the screws, I returned the gun to its case and went downstairs with my discovery: a small bundle tied with a red ribbon. I slipped it off, my fingers trembling in anticipation. I was not disappointed.
There were four items: the first was a handwritten letter addressed to Gerald Pryde Q.C. from Peter Lorenz, in which he referred to an enclosure of a cheque for ten thousand pounds 'as per our agreement'; the second was a single sheet of scruffy paper, undated, containing a signed confession by Michael Corcoran that he had stolen the wages from Tom Radcliffe. No wonder Edward was so confident of his abiding loyalty. The third was a handwritten demand from George Musgrave for the settlement of one hundred thousand pounds' worth of losing wagers, each one carefully itemised on the rear. Presumably Edward thought he could use Musgrave's admission of illegal bookmaking as a bartering weapon. But the last enclosure was the most thrilling: it was a colour photograph with remarkable definition, considering its unusual subject matter. I couldn't resist a smile. Sir Arthur Drewe was dressed in his own racing silks and riding what looked like a very strong finish. The only problem was that his mount was a buxom brunette called Annabel Strong. She held a permit to train horses owned by herself and members of her family. I had no idea that Sir Arthur was her retained jockey.
I wondered how on earth Edward had obtained the photograph. All in all a very exciting find; my only disappointment was the absence of anything positive on Brennan. I suppose he would hardly have been foolish enough to commit the existence of a cash retainer to writing.
I waited for the police to arrive and then headed for Melksham and the chalk pit. Motoring across the rolling Wiltshire Downs it was hard to believe that my journey had such a ghoulish purpose. The old chalk pit had been abandoned over twenty years previously and apart from the occasional courting couple or gang of hell's angels on their motor bikes, it was a lonely and desolate spot. When I had worked on the Newbury paper 1 had once written a piece on the pit as part of a series on our neglected countryside. My editor had described it as a load of sentimental bilge, full of clichйs and tired metaphors. Now the pit had earned itself a place in history and would no doubt become a tourist attraction in the not too distant future.
I turned off the B216 and drove along a narrow single-track road. After three miles I parked the car on the side of the road and walked the fifty yards or so back to the old track which led up to the pit. It was clear from the tyre marks that there had been plenty of recent traffic. Today, however, it was deserted again. Ten minutes later I reached the top of the pit itself, and below me I could see an area about twenty feet square which had been roped off. It could be reached by the worn drive that the lorries once used to collect the chalk. I walked down and inspected the site where no doubt the car had been found. There were scorch marks on the ground, but apart from that there was nothing to indicate that it had been the scene of such a gruesome crime.
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.'