Дик Фрэнсис - Decider

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘Testing a theory.’

‘Is it a riddle, Dad?’ Neil asked.

‘Sort of. But don’t ask, it hasn’t an answer.’

Roger parked the jeep at the end of the office building, where it would be ready if he needed to drive round the course. The boys paired off, Neil with Christopher, Edward and Alan together, with a rallying point near the office door for after the first, third and fifth races.

People were coming: a bus-load of Tote operators, the St John’s Ambulance people, the squad of policemen for traffic control and the general prevention of fights in the betting rings, the bookies with their soap boxes and chalk boards, the gate-men, the racecard sellers; and then the jockeys, the sponsors of the races, the Stewards, the trainers, the Strattons and, finally, the racegoers with all bets still to lose.

I stood near the main entrance, watching the faces, seeing on almost all of them the holiday pleasure we’d aimed for. Even the TV crew, invited by Oliver, seemed visibly impressed, cameras whirring outside the big top and within.

Mark drove the Daimler right up to the gate into the paddock so that Marjorie wouldn’t have to walk from the car park. She saw me standing not far away, and beckoned as one seldom refused.

Without comment she watched me limp, with the stick, to her side.

‘Flags,’ she said dubiously.

‘Watch the faces.’

She was sold, as I’d thought she would be, by the smiles, the chatter, the hum of excitement. A fairground it might be, but something to talk about, something to give Stratton Park races a more positive face than a bomb-blasted grandstand.

She said, ‘The Colonel promised us lunch ...’

I showed her the way to the Strattons’ own dining room, where she was greeted by the same butler and waitresses who always served her at the races, and obviously she felt instantly at home. She looked around carefully at everything, at the table the caterers had brought and laid with linen and silver, and up at the shimmering tent-ceiling with its soft oblique lighting and hidden air-vents.

‘Conrad told me,’ she said slowly. ‘He said... a miracle. A miracle is saving us. He didn’t say it was beautiful .’ She stopped suddenly, swallowing, unable to go on.

‘There’s champagne for you, I think,’ I said, and her butler was already bringing her a glass on a salver and pulling out a chair for her to sit down — a collapsible plastic-seated chair at base, covered now, as were ten round the table, with flowery material tied with neat bows.

Since pleasing Marjorie herself would mean the success of the whole enterprise, nothing we could think of that would make her comfortable had been left undone.

She sat primly, sipping. After a while she said, ‘Sit down, Lee. That is, if you can.’

I sat beside her, able by now to do it without openly wincing.

Lee . No longer Mr Morris. Progress.

‘Mrs Binsham...’

‘You can call me Marjorie... if you like.’

My great old girl, I thought, feeling enormous relief. ‘I’m honoured,’ I said.

She nodded, agreeing with my assessment.

‘Two days ago,’ she said, ‘my family treated you shamefully. I can hardly speak of it. Then you do this for us.’ She gestured to the room. ‘ Why did you do it?’

After a pause I said, ‘Probably you know why. You’re probably the only person who does know.’

She thought. ‘My brother,’ she said, ‘once showed me a letter you wrote to him, after Madeline died. You said his money had paid for your education. You thanked him. You did all this for him , didn’t you? To repay him?’

‘I’ suppose so.’

‘Yes. Well. He would be pleased.’

She put down her glass, opened her handbag, took out a small white handkerchief and gently blew her nose, ‘I miss him,’ she said. She sniffed a little, put the handkerchief away and made an effort towards gaiety.

‘Well, now,’ she said. ‘Flags. Happy faces. A lovely sunny spring day. Even those horrid people at the gate seem to have gone home.’

‘Ah,’ I said, ‘I’ve something to show you.’

I took Harold Quest’s confession from my pocket and, handing it over, explained about Henry and the out-of-character hamburger.

She searched for spectacles and read the page, soon putting a hand over her heart as if to still it.

‘Keith,’ she said, looking up. ‘That’s Keith’s car.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you give a copy of this to the police?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s a copy too, incidentally. The original is in the safe in the Colonel’s office.’ I paused and went on. ‘I don’t think I can find out how much money Keith owes, or to whom, but I did think this might do for you as a lever instead.’

She gave me a long inspection.

‘You understand me.’ She sounded not pleased, nor displeased, but surprised, and accepting.

‘It took me a while.’

A small smile. ‘You met me last Wednesday.’

A long five days, I thought.

A woman appeared in the entrance to the dining room, with a younger woman hidden behind her.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘I was told I could find Lee Morris in here.’

I stood up in my unsprightly fashion.

‘I’m Lee Morris,’ I said.

She was plump, large-bosomed, friendly-looking, about sixty, with large blue eyes and short greyish-blonde curly hair. She wore layers of blue and beige clothes with brown low-heeled shoes, and had an untidy multicoloured silk square scarf tied in a bunched knot round her neck. Under her arm she carried a large brown handbag with its gold shoulder-chain dangling down, and there was altogether about her an air of being at home with herself: no mental insecurity or awkwardness.

Her gaze casually slid past me and fell on Marjorie, and there was a moment of extraordinary stillness, of suspension, in both women. Their eyes held the same wideness, their mouths the same open-lipped wonder. I thought in a flash of enlightenment that each knew the identity of the other, even though they showed no overt recognition nor made any attempt at polite speech.

‘I want to talk to you,’ the newcomer said to me, removing her gaze from Marjorie but continuing to be tinglingly aware of her presence. ‘Not here, if you don’t mind.’

I said to Marjorie, ‘Will you excuse me?’

She could have said no. If she’d wanted to, she would have done. She cast an enigmatic glance at the newcomer, thought things over, and gave me a positive ‘Yes. Go and talk.’

The newcomer backed out into the central aisle of the big top, with me following.

‘I’m Perdita Faulds,’ the newcomer said, once outside. ‘And this,’ she added, stepping to her right and fully revealing her companion, ‘is my daughter, Penelope.’

It was like being hit twice very fast with a hammer; no time to take in the first bit of news before being stunned by the second.

Penelope Faulds was tall, slender, fair-haired, long-necked and almost the double of Amanda: the young Amanda I’d fallen in love with, the nineteen-year-old marvellous girl with grey smiling eyes going laughingly to her immature marriage.

I was no longer nineteen. I felt as breathless, however, as if I still were. I said, ‘How do you do,’ and it sounded ridiculous.

‘Is there a bar in here?’ Mrs Faulds asked, looking round. ‘Someone outside told me there was.’

‘Er... yes,’ I said. ‘Over here.’

I took her into one of the largest ‘rooms’ in the big top, the members’ bar, where a few early customers were sitting at small tables with sandwiches and drinks.

Perdita Faulds took easy charge. ‘Was it champagne that Mrs Binsham was drinking? I think we should have some.’