Dick Francis - Wild Horses

‘They say it’s good for me but I’m growing to hate it. It’s true I can’t eat meat and salad — have you ever endured a hospital salad? — but why not mushroom , or chicken soup? And none of it’s home made, of course.’

She was longing, she said, to go to the nursing home dear Robbie Gill had suggested, and she hoped her daughter-in-law, Janet, would soon return home to Surrey.

‘We don’t like each other,’ Dorothea confessed, sighing. ‘Such a pity.’

‘Mm,’ I agreed. ‘When you’re well, will you go back to your house?’

Tears quivered in her eyes. ‘Paul died there.’

Valentine also, I thought.

‘Thomas... I’ve been remembering things.’ She sounded almost anxious. ‘That night when I was attacked... ’

‘Yes?’ I prompted, as she stopped. ‘What do you remember?’

‘Paul was shouting.’

‘Yes, you told me.’

‘There was another man there.’

I drew the visitor’s chair to beside her bed and sat peacefully holding her hand, not wanting to alarm her and smothering my own urgent thoughts.

I said gently, ‘Do you remember what he looked like?’

‘I didn’t know him. He was there with Paul when I got home from Mona’s house... I’d been watching television with her, you see, but we didn’t like the programme and I went home early... and I went in by the kitchen door as usual and I was so surprised and, well — pleased , of course — to see Paul, but he was so strange , dear, and almost frightened , but he couldn’t have been frightened. Why should he have been frightened?’

‘Perhaps because you’d come home while he and the other man were ransacking your house.’

‘Well, dear, Paul shouted... where was Valentine’s photo album, and I’m sure I said he didn’t have one, he just kept a few old snaps in a chocolate box, the same as I did, but Paul wouldn’t believe me, he kept going on about an album.’

‘So,’ I said, ‘did Valentine ever have an album?’

‘No, dear, I’m sure he didn’t. We were never a great family for photos, not like some people who don’t believe a thing’s happened unless they take snaps of it. Valentine has dozens of pictures of horses, but it was horses, you see, that were his life. Always horses. He never had any children, his Cathy couldn’t , you see. He might have been keener on photos if he’d had children. I keep quite a lot of photos in a box in my bedroom. Photos of us all, long ago. Pictures of Paul... ’

Tears came again, and I didn’t tell her I hadn’t been able to find those pathetically few mementos in her bedroom. I would give her Valentine’s chocolate box instead.

‘Did Paul say why he wanted the photo album?’ I asked.

‘I don’t think so, dear. Everything was happening so fast and the other man was so angry , and shouting too, and Paul said to me — so frightening , dear, but he said. ”Tell him where the album is, he’s got a knife.”’

I asked quietly, ‘Are you sure about that?’

‘I believed it was a dream.’

‘And now?’

‘Well, now... I think he must have said it. I can hear my Paul’s voice... oh, dear... oh, my darling little boy.’

I hugged her while she sobbed.

‘That other man hit me,’ she said, gulping. ‘Hit my head... and Paul was shouting, “Tell him, tell him”... and I saw... he really did have a knife, that man... or at least he was holding something shiny, but it wasn’t a real knife, he had his fingers through it... dirty fingernails... it was horrid... and Paul was shouting, ”Stop it... don’t ... ” and I woke up in the hospital and I didn’t know what had happened, but last night... well, dear, when I was waking up this morning and thinking about Paul, well, I sort of remembered.’

‘Yes,’ I said. I paused, consolidating earlier impressions. ‘Dearest Dorothea,’ I said. ‘I think Paul saved your life.’

‘Oh! Oh!’ She was still crying, but after a while it was from radiant joy, not grinding regret.

‘I think,’ I said, ‘that Paul was so horrified by seeing you attacked with that knife, that he prevented a fatal blow. Robbie Gill thought that the attack on you looked like an interrupted murder. He said that people who inflicted such awful knife wounds were usually in a frenzy, and simply couldn’t stop. I think Paul stopped him.’

‘Oh, Thomas !’

‘But I’m afraid,’ I said regretfully, ‘that it means that Paul knew the man who attacked you, and he didn’t identify him to the police. In fact, Paul pretended he was in Surrey when you were attacked.’

‘Oh, dear.’

‘And,’ I said, ‘Paul tried hard to prevent you from talking to me or to Robbie, or anyone else, until he was sure you remembered nothing about the attack.’

Dorothea’s joy faded somewhat but, underneath, remained.

‘He changed a bit,’ I said. ‘I think at one point he almost told me something, but I don’t know what. I do believe, though, that he was feeling remorse over what had happened to you.’

‘Oh, Thomas, I do hope so.’

‘I’m sure of it,’ I said, more positively than I felt.

She thought things over quietly for a while and then said, ‘Paul would burst out sometimes with opinions as if he couldn’t hold them in any more.’

‘Did he?’

‘He said... I didn’t like to tell you, Thomas, but the other day — when he was here with me — he burst out with, “Why did you ever have to make your film?” He was bitter . He said, “I would never have been attacked if you hadn’t stirred everything up.” Of course I asked what you had stirred up and he said, “It was all in the Drumbeat , but I was to forget what he’d said, only if anything happened to you it would be your own fault.” He said.. I’m really sorry... but he said he would be pleased if you were cut to ribbons like me... It wasn’t like him, really it wasn’t.’

‘I did bolt him out of your house,’ I reminded her. ‘He didn’t like me much for embarrassing him.’

‘No, but... well, something was worrying him, I’m sure of it.’

I stood up and wandered over to the window, looking out aimlessly at the institutionally regular pattern of the windows in the building opposite and the scrubby patch of garden between. Two people in white coats walked slowly along a path, conversing. Extras playing doctors, I thought automatically — and realised I often saw even real life in terms of film.

I turned and asked Dorothea, ‘While you’ve been here in the hospital, did Paul ask you about a photo album?’

‘I don’t think so, dear. Everything gets so muddled, though.’ She paused. ‘He said something about you having taken Valentine’s books away, and I didn’t tell him you hadn’t. I didn’t want to argue, you see, dear. I felt too tired.’

I told her I’d found a photo among Valentine’s possessions — which I had retrieved from her nice young friend, Bill Robinson’ but I couldn’t see that it was worth the damage to her house or to herself.

‘If I show it to you,’ I said, ‘will you tell me who the people are?’

‘Of course, dear, if I can.’

I took ‘The Gang’ photo out of my pocket and put it into her hand.

‘I need my reading glasses,’ she said, peering at it. ‘That red case on the bedside table.’

I gave her her glasses and she looked without much reaction at the picture.

‘Did one of those people attack you?’ I asked.

‘Oh no, none of those. He was much older. All these people are so young. Why!’ she exclaimed, ‘that’s Paul! That one at the end, isn’t that Paul? How young he was! So handsome, then.’ She let the hand holding the photo rest on the sheet. ‘I don’t know any of the others. I wish Paul was here.’