Dick Francis - Crossfire

I sat on my bed for quite a while, looking at the note and wondering if "in time" meant before the "accident" occurred and if "the stuff " had anything to do with my mother's tax papers.

I looked carefully at it once again. Now, I was no handwriting expert, but this message to Stella Beecher looked, to my eyes, to have been written in the same style, and to be on the same type of paper, as the blackmail note that I had found on my mother's desk.

On Thursday evening, at seven forty-five, I carried a bottle of fairly reasonable red wine around from Kauri House to the Hall in Lambourn for a kitchen supper with Isabella and her guests. I was looking forwards to a change in both venue and company.

As I had expected, the supper was not quite as casual as Isabella had made out. Far from being in jeans, she herself was wearing a tight black dress that showed off her alluring curves to their best advantage. I was pleased with myself that I had decided to put on a jacket and tie, but there again, I'd worn a jacket and tie for dinner in officers' messes for years, especially on a weekday. Dressing for dinner, even for a kitchen supper, was like a comfort blanket. For all its preoccupation with killing the enemy, the British Army was still very formal in its manners.

"Tom," she squealed, opening the front door wide and taking my offered bottle. "How lovely. Come and meet the others."

I followed her from the hallway towards the kitchen, and the noise. The room was already pretty full of guests. Isabella grabbed my arm and pulled me into the throng, where everyone seemed to be talking at once.

"Ewen," she shouted to a fair-haired man about forty years old. "Ewen," she shouted again, grabbing hold of his sleeve. "I want you to meet Tom. Tom, this is Ewen Yorke. Ewen, Tom."

We shook hands.

"Tom Forsyth," I said.

"Ah," he said in a dramatic manner, throwing an arm wide and nearly knocking over someone's glass behind him. "Jackson, we have a spy in our midst."

"A spy?" Isabella said.

"Yes," Ewen said. "A damn spy from Kauri Stables. Come to steal our secrets about Saturday."

"Ah," I said. "You must mean about Newark Hall in the Game Spirit." His mouth opened. "You've got no chance with Scientific running."

"There you are," he boomed. "What did I tell you? He's a bloody spy. Fetch the firing squad." He laughed heartily at his own joke, and we all joined in. Little did he know.

"Where is this spy?" said a tall man, pushing his way past people towards me.

"Tom," said Isabella. "This is my husband, Jackson Warren."

"Good to meet you," I said, shaking his offered hand and hoping he couldn't see the envy in my eyes, envy that he had managed to snare my beautiful Isabella.

Jackson Warren certainly didn't give the impression of someone suffering from prostate cancer. I knew that he was sixty-one years old because I'd looked him up on the Internet, but his lack of any gray hair seemed to belie the fact. Rather unkindly, I wondered if he dyed it, or perhaps just being married to a much younger woman had helped keep him youthful.

"So, are you spying on us, or on Ewen?" he asked jovially, with an infectious booming laugh.

"Both," I said jokily, but I had partially misjudged the moment.

"Not for the Sunday papers, I hope," he said, changing his mood instantly from amusement to disdain. "Though, I suppose, one more bastard won't make any difference." He laughed once more, but this time, the amusement didn't reach his eyes and there was an unsettling seriousness about his face.

"Come on, darling," said Isabella, sensing his unease. "Relax. Tom's not a spy. In fact, he's a hero."

I gave her a stern look as if to say, "No, please don't," but the message didn't get through.

"A hero?" said Ewen.

Isabella was about to reply when I cut her off sharply.

"Isabella exaggerates," I said quickly. "I'm in the army, that's all. And I've been in Afghanistan."

"Really," said an attractive woman in a low-cut dress who was standing next to Ewen. "Was it very hot?"

"No, not really," I said. "It's very hot in the summer, but it's damn cold in the winter, especially at night." Trust a Brit, I thought, to talk about the weather.

"Did you see any action?" Ewen asked.

"A fair bit," I said. "But I was only there for a couple of months this last time."

"So you've been before?" Ewen said.

"I've been in the army since I was seventeen," I said. "I've been most places."

"Were you in Iraq?" the woman asked with intensity.

"Yes. In Basra. And also in Bosnia and Kosovo. The modern army keeps you busy." I laughed.

"How exciting," she said.

"It can be," I agreed. "But only in short bursts. Mostly it's very boring." Time, I thought, to change the subject. "So, Ewen," I said, "how many horses do you train?"

"There you are," he said expansively. "I told you he was a spy."

We all laughed.

The attractive woman next to Ewen turned out to be his wife, Julie, and I found myself sitting next to her at supper at one of two large round tables set up in the extensive Lambourn Hall kitchen.

On the other side, on my left, was a Mrs. Toleron, a rather dull gray-haired woman who didn't stop telling me about how successful her "wonderful" husband had been in business. She had even introduced herself as Mrs. Martin Toleron, as if I would recognize her spouse's name.

"You must have heard of him," she exclaimed, amazed that I hadn't. "He was head of Toleron Plastics until we sold out a few months ago. It was all in the papers at the time, and on the television."

I didn't tell her that a few months ago I had been fighting for my life in a Birmingham hospital and, at the time, the business news hadn't been very high on my agenda.

"We were the biggest plastic-drainpipe manufacturer in Europe."

"Really," I said, trying to keep myself from yawning.

"Yes," she said, incorrectly sensing some interest on my part. "We made white, gray or black drainpipe in continuous lengths. Mile after mile of it."

"Thank goodness for rain," I said, but she didn't get the joke.

As soon as I was able, and without appearing too rude, I managed to stem the tide of plastic drainpipe from my left, turning more eagerly towards Julie on my right.

"So, how many horses does Ewen train?" I asked her, as we tucked in to lasagna and garlic bread. "He never did tell me."

"About sixty," she said. "But it's getting more all the time. We're no longer really big enough at home, so we are looking to buy the Webster place."

"Webster place?" I asked.

"You must know, on the hill off the Wantage Road. Old Larry Webster used to train there, but he dropped down dead a couple of years ago now. It's been on the market for months and months. Price is too high, I reckon, and it needs a lot doing to it. Ewen's dead keen to open another yard, but I'd rather stay the size we are." She sighed. "Ewen says we're too small, but the truth is, he's not very good at saying no to new owners." She smiled wearily.

"He's lucky in the current economic climate to have the option," I said.

"I know," she agreed. "Lots of trainers are having troubles. I hear it all the time from their wives at the races."

"Do you go racing a lot?" I asked.

"Not as much as I once did," she said. "Ewen is always so busy these days that I never see him like I used to, either at the races or at home."

She sighed again. Clearly, success had not brought happiness, at least not for Mrs. Yorke.

"But enough about me. Tell me about you." She turned in her chair to give me her full attention, and a much better view of her ample cleavage. Ewen should spend more time with her, I thought, both at home and at the races, or he might soon find her straying.

"Not much to tell," I said.

"Now, come on. You must have lots of stories."