James was on the ropes this time. 'I wish you weren't so damned ingenious! It might just work. My problem is that I'm meant to be going up there to cover the meeting, too.'
'Play hookey, watch a couple of the races on the box and phone in your copy as if you were there.'
'Hold on a moment, you don't know my editor. The last chap who did that is selling racecards at Uttoxeter. I'll take the unusual step of telling him the truth.'
'The whole truth? Is that wise just yet?'
'Well, not the whole truth. I'll say I'm working on one of the greatest racing scandals of the year and am pledged to secrecy, and if I don't do it, our rival will. There's nothing like the threat of competition. We all live for exclusives.'
'Wonderful. We're agreed. You find out where Musgrave's head office is in London and on Friday we'll pay them a surprise visit.'
'Victoria, this worries me, you know.'
'Call yourself a punter?'
There was one other piece of information which I also hoped to glean from Friday's visit. According to Edward, Musgrave had never recorded the off-course bets he had struck with him. That had been done to avoid paying betting tax and was quite simply a fraud on the Revenue. The only proof of those bets I had in my possession was the written demand from Musgrave, along with the other incriminating documents I had found in the butt of Edward's gun.
If, as I hoped, the records contained no mention of any bets struck by Edward, I could establish that Musgrave had been cheating and therefore had a motive for wanting Edward dead; that Edward had tried to make me pull Cartwheel in the Gold Cup in part settlement of his gambling debts and when I had failed to go along with the plan, Edward had paid with his life. I had so far kept the secret of Edward's gambling debts from James, and decided that I would give him the final piece of the jigsaw only if and when our visit had been successful.
I couldn't wait for Friday to arrive, and apart from having a single ride at Plumpton on the Wednesday, kept a deliberately low profile. I knew that I still had to take some action about Sir Arthur Drewe and was torn between a showdown and finding a way to put indirect pressure on him. I no longer suspected him of murdering Edward – Musgrave and Corcoran were now far more likely candidates – but I did want him to admit to the police that he was being blackmailed. If the prosecution at the trial had to concede that the deceased had several major enemies, that could throw enough doubt in the jury's mind at least to secure an acquittal. At the moment all they would have was my word for it, backed up by apparently meaningless entries in a diary that I couldn't even produce. Amy had already warned me that there was every chance that if I tried to raise the question in court, the judge could well rule the evidence irrelevant and therefore inadmissible. Indeed, if the prosecution took the view I was a liability, they might not even call me as a witness!
I met James at a pub in Paddington, just round the corner from Musgrave's head office. Since our phone call, he had made a few discreet enquiries, in other words, bought someone a couple of rounds of drinks, and had found out that Musgrave's credit business was definitely run from the same address. There was therefore every chance of all the records being available for inspection. I resisted the temptation to have a stiff whisky, as it always made me go a little pink in the face and feel light-headed. Today more than ever I needed my wits about me if I was going to pass myself off successfully. I felt as nervous as I had done before the Gold Cup. James was pretending to be full of confidence, although I noticed he disappeared to the loo three times in the space of twenty minutes.
At two-thirty we synchronised our watches and marched over the road. In his white shirt, pale blue tie and dark suit, James looked every inch a Revenue man. I also felt the part in a cheap grey skirt and navy jacket which I had bought that morning in C & A. I was wearing my hair up and had further altered my appearance by putting on a pair of plain glass spectacles which James had bought for me from the antiques market in Covent Garden. The big question now was whether Musgrave's lackeys would be fooled.
To my surprise, they hardly registered a protest when we entered. The manager was politeness itself when we explained that we were from the Customs and Excise and were carrying out a spot check on their records on behalf of the district office. As a result, we needed to see all the books and credit ledgers for the last six months.
'You boys usually call beforehand to give us some notice. If I'd known you were coming, I'd have cleared the desk in the governor's office,' he remarked with seeming lack of interest.
'There it is,' said James. 'We've got a new governor, you see, and he's very keen on these random checks. I suspect it'll wear off when he finds out it doesn't produce any results. Where would you like us to work, then?'
He led us towards what I guessed would be Musgrave's office through a room about twenty feet square, in which at least six men were taking phone calls from clients placing bets on the day's greyhound and horse racing. The most up-to-date information and satellite screens were banked against the walls and judging by the activity, there was no shortage of clients trying to get their money on.
The manager, a morose slightly-built individual in his late fifties, saw that I was fascinated by the goings-on.
'Surprised we're so busy, I suppose?'
I grinned nervously.
'It's the Aintree meeting,' he continued. 'Tomorrow's the National and I can't pretend I'm looking forward to it. Like a mad house in here, it'll be.'
'The Grand National, you mean? How exciting, with all those big fences!' I exclaimed, feigning innocence. Once we were seated behind Musgrave's desk, James asked again for all the records and ledgers for the last six months' betting both on and off course. The manager wearily asked if we wanted him to stay and James politely declined.
'I'll call you if I have any problems,' James added.
As soon as the door was closed, James produced from his pocket a list of the races which he thought had been fixed. The first entry confirmed our suspicions – a race at Chepstow in December, where Musgrave had taken over fifteen thousand pounds of bets on the favourite at prices starting at 6-4 and going out to 5-2. The more money he took, the longer the odds he offered. The same approach could be seen on five other occasions and when it came to the Gold Cup, James whistled in disbelief at the size and number of wagers Musgrave had taken. The only difference was that on this occasion the wrong horse, Cartwheel, had won, and James calculated his losses to be over three hundred and fifty thousand pounds. All the big bookmakers had used him to lay off the bets that they themselves had taken on the same horse at a shorter price and the result was that he had taken a hammering.
I stood guard in front of the door as James photographed all the incriminating entries. He was on the last one when there was a knock on the door and the manager asked if he could come in.
'Hold on,' James shouted as he hid his camera. I moved away to the side and opened the door.
'I'm sorry to disturb you, but I've just had Mr Musgrave on the line from Aintree. He's not best pleased that you've arrived without giving him notice and wants to take it up with Head Office after racing. He's asked me if you would leave your names and those of your superiors.'
I looked imploringly at James who, for the first time that I had known him, was lost for words. His lips were moving, yet no sound was coming out.
'Of course,' I said, taking the initiative. 'I'm sorry Mr Musgrave has taken exception but we're just doing our job. He's nothing to hide, I hope.'
The manager visibly paled. 'Oh no, nothing of the sort. It's just that…'