Dick Francis - Enquiry

‘Yes,’ I said.

I went home on Tuesday afternoon in an ambulance with a pair of crutches and instructions to spend most of my time horizontal.

Poppy was still sick. Tony followed my slow progress up the stairs apologising that she couldn’t manage to have me stay, the kids were exhausting her to distraction.

‘I’m fine on my own.’

He saw me into the bedroom, where I lay down in my clothes on top of the bedspread, as per instructions. Then he made for the whisky and refreshed himself after my labours.

‘Do you want anything? I’ll fetch you some food, later.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Could you bring the telephone in here?’

He brought it in and plugged the lead into the socket beside my bed.

‘O.K.?’

‘Fine,’ I said.

‘That’s it, then.’ He tossed off his drink quickly and made for the door, showing far more haste than usual and edging away from me as though embarrassed.

‘Is anything wrong?’ I said.

He jumped. ‘No. Absolutely nothing. Got to get the kids their tea before evening stables. See you later, pal. With the odd crust’ He smiled sketchily and disappeared.

I shrugged. Whatever it was that was wrong, he would tell me in time, if he wanted to.

I picked up the telephone and dialled the number of the local garage. Its best mechanic answered.

‘Mr Hughes... I heard... Your beautiful car.’ He commiserated genuinely for half a minute.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Look, Derek, is there any way that exhaust gas could get into the car through the heater?’

He was affronted. ‘Not the way I looked after it. Certainly not.’

‘I apparently breathed in great dollops of carbon monoxide,’ I said.

‘Not through the heater... I can’t understand it.’ He paused, thinking. ‘They take special care not to let that happen, see? At the design stage. You could only get exhaust gas through the heater if there was a loose or worn gasket on the exhaust manifold and a crack or break in the heater tubing and a tube connecting the two together, and you can take it from me, Mr Hughes, there was nothing at all like that on your car. Maintained perfect, it is.’

‘The heater does sometimes smell of exhaust. If you remember, I did mention it, some time ago.’

‘I give the whole system a thorough check then, too. There wasn’t a thing wrong. Only thing I could think of was the exhaust might have eddied forward from the back of the car when you slowed down, sort of, and got whirled in through the fresh air intake, the one down beside the heater.’

‘Could you possibly go and look at my car? At what’s left of it...?’

‘There’s a good bit to do here,’ he said dubiously.

‘The police have given me the name of the garage where it is now. Apparently all the bits have to stay there until the insurance people have seen them. But you know the car... it would be easier for you to spot anything different with it from when you last serviced it. Could you go?’

‘D’you mean,’ he paused. ‘You don’t mean... there might be something... well... wrong with it?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But I’d like to find out.’

‘It would cost you,’ he said warningly. ‘It would be working hours.’

‘Never mind. If you can go, it will be worth it.’

‘Hang on, then.’ He departed to consult. Came back. ‘Yes, all right. The Guvnor says I can go first thing in the morning.

‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘Call me when you get back.’

‘It couldn’t have been a gasket,’ he said suddenly.

‘Why not?’

‘You’d have heard it. Very noisy. Unless you had the radio on?’

‘No.’

‘You’d have heard a blown gasket,’ he said positively. ‘But there again, if the exhaust was being somehow fed straight into the heater... perhaps not. The heater would damp the noise, same as a silencer... but I don’t see how it could have happened. Well... all I can do is take a look.’

I would have liked to have gone with him. I put down the receiver and looked gloomily at my right leg. The neat plaster casing stretched from well up my thigh down to the base of my toes, which were currently invisible inside a white hospital theatre sock. A pair of Tony’s slacks, though too long by six inches, had slid up easily enough over the plaster, decently hiding it, and as far as looks went, things were passable.

I sighed. The plaster was a bore. They’d designed it somehow so that I found sitting in a chair uncomfortable. Standing and lying down where both better. It wasn’t going to stay on a minute longer than I could help, either. The muscles inside it were doing themselves no good in immobility. They would be getting flabby, unfit, wasting away. It would be just too ironic if I got my licence back and was too feeble to ride.

Tony came back at eight with half a chicken. He didn’t want to stay, not even for a drink.

‘Can you manage?’ he said.

‘Sure. No trouble.’

‘Your leg doesn’t hurt, does it?’

‘Not a flicker,’ I said. ‘Can’t feel a thing.’

‘That’s all right then.’ He was relieved: wouldn’t look at me squarely: went away.

Next morning, Roberta Cranfield came.

‘Kelly?’ she called. ‘Are you in?’

‘In the bedroom.’

She walked across the sitting-room and stopped in the door-way. Wearing the black and white striped fur coat, hanging open. Underneath it, black pants and a stagnant pond coloured sweater.

‘Hullo,’ she said. ‘I’ve brought you some food. Shall I put it in the kitchen?’

‘That’s pretty good of you.’

She looked me over. I was lying, dressed, on top of the bedspread, reading the morning paper. ‘You look comfortable enough.’

‘I am. Just bored. Er... not now you’ve come, of course.’

‘Of course,’ she agreed. ‘Shall I make some coffee?’

‘Yes, do.’

She brought it back in mugs, shed her fur, and sat loose limbed in my bedroom armchair.

‘You look a bit better today,’ she observed.

‘Can you get that blood off your dress?’

She shrugged. ‘I chucked it at the cleaners. They’re trying.’

‘I’m sorry about that...’

‘Think nothing of it.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘I rang the hospital on Saturday. They said you were O.K.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Why on earth did you stop on the railway?’

‘I didn’t know it was the railway, until too late.’

‘But how did you get there, anyway, with the gates down?’

‘The gates weren’t down.’

‘They were when we came along,’ she said. ‘There were all those lights and people shouting and screaming and we got out of the car to see what it was all about, and someone said the train had hit a car... and then I saw you, lying spark out with your face all covered in blood, about ten feet up the line. Nasty. Very nasty. It was, really.’

‘I’m sorry... I’d had a couple of lungfuls of carbon monoxide. What you might call diminished responsibility.’

She grinned. ‘You’re some moron.’

The gates must have shut after I’d stopped on the line. I hadn’t heard them or seen them. I must, I supposed, have been more affected by the gas than I remembered.

‘I called you Rosalind,’ I said apologetically.

‘I know.’ She made a face. ‘Did you think I was her?’

‘No... It just came out. I meant to say Roberta.’

She unrolled herself from the chair, took a few steps, and stood looking at Rosalind’s picture. ‘She’d have been glad... knowing she still came first with you after all this time.’

The telephone rang sharply beside me and interrupted my surprise. I picked up the receiver.

‘Is that Kelly Hughes?’ The voice was cultivated, authoritative, loaded indefinably with power. ‘This is Wykeham Ferth speaking. I read about your accident in the papers... a report this morning says you are now home. I hope... you are well?’