But, short of resorting to the Trent method of intimidating the jury into returning a ‘not guilty’ verdict, I still couldn’t see what I could do to get Mitchell off the charge.
What exactly was Julian Trent’s connection with racing, and with a murdered jockey? Was the man who had been to see both Josef Hughes and George Barnett actually Julian Trent’s father or was it somebody else? It was time to find out.
Eleanor was at the restaurant in Berkeley Square before me. She was seated on a stool at the bar facing away from me. I could see her back. I had been looking forward to this evening all day, so why did I now have cold feet? Why, all of a sudden, did I experience the urge to run away? Why did I feel so afraid? I had just faced up to Julian Trent, so why should I have any fears of Eleanor?
She turned round on the stool, saw me at the door, smiled and waved. I waved back. What, I asked myself, was I really afraid of here? It was a question I couldn’t even begin to answer.
Over dinner, Eleanor and I discussed everything except ourselves, and specifically our relationship. I asked her about the equine symposium and she seemed to be surprised at how useful it was being.
‘I’ve learned a lot,’ she said over our starters. ‘Some of the new treatments have potential for us in Lambourn, especially in the treatment of ligaments and tendons. There are some wonderful things being done with artificial replacements. Some horses that in the past would have been retired due to tendon trouble will soon be able to continue racing.’
‘Bionic horses,’ I said flippantly. ‘The six-million-dollar horse.’
‘No. Much much more than that,’ she said, laughing. ‘Peninsula was syndicated to stud for ten times that.’
‘Wow,’ I said. ‘And to think he was foaled by a first-time vet.’
‘Quite a responsibility,’ she agreed. ‘But, of course, they didn’t know then how good he’d turn out to be.’
‘I wish I had a copy of that photograph,’ I said.
‘The one of Millie with Peninsula as a foal?’ Eleanor said.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It was taken from Scot Barlow’s house the day he was murdered.’
‘You really think it’s important?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But the murderer must have thought it was important enough to remove from its frame and take away with him.’
‘How do you know it was the murderer who took it?’ she asked.
‘I don’t for sure,’ I said. ‘But whoever did take it also took care to wipe the frame clean. There were no fingerprints on it.’
‘I remember that photograph so well,’ Eleanor said. ‘Millie showed it to everyone. She kept it on the mantelpiece in her room and she was always polishing the frame.’
‘Describe it,’ I said.
‘It was just a photo,’ she said. ‘Millie was kneeling on the straw with the foal’s head in her lap. The mare was standing behind them but you couldn’t really see her properly. You could only see her hind quarters.’
‘Wasn’t there someone else in it as well?’ I asked.
‘There was the stud groom standing behind Millie. I think he was cleaning the mare after foaling, you know.’
I couldn’t see how it was so important.
‘And you don’t know who took the picture?’ I asked her.
‘No idea,’ she said.
‘Wasn’t Peninsula foaled at the Radcliffe place?’ I said.
‘They have lots of foals born there,’ Eleanor said. ‘They’ve made quite a business out of it. But we have less to do with them than we used to.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘They’ve got so big that they now have a resident vet. They don’t use the hospital practice any more unless one of their horses needs surgery.’
Our main courses arrived and we ate in silence for a few minutes.
‘Tell me what the doctor told you,’ Eleanor said between mouthfuls of sea bass.
‘I’ve got to wear this damned body shell for another six weeks at least,’ I said, ‘and it’s very uncomfortable.’
The restaurant had kindly given us a booth table and I was able to sit half sideways and lean back against the wall whenever it began to hurt too much.
‘But at least that cast is off your leg,’ she said.
‘Thank goodness,’ I said. I had been trying to bend my knee ever since the hospital circular saw had sliced through the last inch of the cast and set my leg free. So far I had only managed about twenty to thirty degrees, but that was a huge improvement over dead straight.
Main course finally gave way to coffee, with a Baileys on the rocks for her and a glass of port for me.
‘I asked the surgeon when I could ride again,’ I said, watching her face carefully to spot any reaction.
‘And?’
‘He said that my bones would be fully healed and as good as new in about three months, but he wasn’t so sure about my brain.’
‘What about your brain?’ she asked.
‘He said it couldn’t take too many bangs like that.’
‘Seems all right to me,’ she said, smiling at me broadly with her mouth slightly open and all her perfect top teeth showing. The sparkle in her lovely blue eyes was there again, the same sparkle I had noticed at the equine hospital at our first meeting.
I sat opposite her and smiled back. But then suddenly I looked away, almost in embarrassment.
‘Tell me about her,’ she said.
‘About who?’ I asked. But I knew who she meant before she replied.
‘Angela.’
‘There’s not much to tell really,’ I said, trying to deflect her direct approach. ‘Why do you want to know?’
She sat silently for a while, looking up at the ceiling as if making a decision. The jury was out deliberating.
Finally, she looked down again at my face and answered softly, ‘I need to know what I’m up against.’
I looked down at the table and cupped my mouth and nose in my hands. I breathed out heavily once or twice, feeling the hot air on my skin. Eleanor just sat quietly, leaning forward slightly, with an expectant expression on her face.
‘We met while I was doing the Bar Vocational Course, that’s the course you study to become a barrister,’ I said. ‘Angela was a second-year student at King’s reading clinical psychology. We were both guests at the same party and we just clicked. Right there and then.
‘We got married six months after that first meeting, in spite of her parents’ disapproval. They wanted her to wait until after she had finished her degree but we were so keen to marry straight away. There was a huge row and they never really forgave us. Silly really, but it seemed to matter so much to us back then. Now her mother blames me for her death.’
Eleanor reached forward across the table and took my hand.
‘We were so blissfully happy together for five years. She wanted to have a baby as soon as we were married but I talked her into waiting until she had qualified, but then we discovered that having a child was not as straight forward as we thought. We tried for ages without success, but a scan then showed that her tubes were blocked so we had to try for in vitro, you know, test-tube baby and all that. And that worked absolutely straight away. It was brilliant. And we were both so pleased that she was carrying a boy.’
I stopped. Tears welled in my eyes for Angela and our unborn son.
‘She was eight months pregnant when she died.’ I had to stop again and take a few deep breaths. Eleanor went on holding my hand and saying nothing.
‘It was a pulmonary embolism,’ I said. ‘I found her lying on the floor. The doctors said it would have been very sudden.’ I sighed loudly. ‘That was more than seven years ago now. Sometimes it seems like yesterday.’ I let go of Eleanor’s hand and held the cotton table napkin up to my face. It was as much as I could do not to sob.
We sat there together in silence for what felt like ages until a waiter came over and asked us if we wanted some more coffee.
‘Thanks,’ I said, back in control. He poured the hot black liquid into our cups and then left us alone again.