John Francome - Declared Dead

Having drawn a blank, I headed to Kempton Park and the day's principal race meeting, to see if George Musgrave was to be found taking bets on the rails. It was the first time for as long as I could remember that I had been to a racecourse without having a ride booked and it was a curious sensation wandering round the members' enclosure, rubbing shoulders with the punters and being just another spectator. Of course, jockeys are not allowed to bet, at least officially, and I certainly couldn't afford any approach I might make to Musgrave being misinterpreted.

Weekday meetings draw surprisingly large crowds and the six race card had no shortage of runners to keep them interested. It was an ideal setting for the bookies and I would have been surprised if Musgrave was not on hand to try and relieve the public of their readies. My instinct was right. I watched the first race from the stands, although for most of the eight fences my binoculars were trained on the sleek, immaculately groomed figure of my late husband's bookmaker. Positioned about six down on the rails, he was a tall, thin-faced man with a thick crop of brown hair, and his complexion bore the healthy remnants of a tan, no doubt from a recent cruise in the Caribbean. Appearing confident and assured in his well-cut dark blue cashmere coat he could easily have been mistaken for a stockbroker or merchant banker. The only give-away was the pair of tinted glasses he put on every now and again to look at the prices on the boards of the bookmakers standing in rows behind him. Beside him, also on the other side of the rails, stood his clerk, his head buried in a ledger recording the day's bets. Too smooth by half, was my first impression of Musgrave and I began to work out the right way to approach him. I decided that the best tactic would be to wait and see if he left his position to go and have a drink or whatever and then to follow him in the hope that a suitable opportunity would arise.

In the meantime, I amused myself watching him in action. The third race on the card was a handicap hurdle and it was attracting a good deal of betting. Eamon Brennan was on the 2-1 favourite and judging from the action in the ring, and the odds on offer from the bookies at the top of the rails, the horse was a warm order at that price. Standing only two yards away from Musgrave I heard him lay three separate punters' bets of two and a half thousand to win five thousand and he seemed prepared to take as much as any of the other bookies wished to unload. Either he had nerves of steel or he knew something they didn't. To cap it all, only one minute before the off he started offering 9-4 and was nearly submerged in the flood of takers. Once the race was under way he perched himself on the rail that divides the members from Tattersalls enclosure and fixed his binoculars on Brennan's mount.

You had to hand it to the Irishman, he really knew how to ride – it takes a real artist to lose when the world thinks you're trying like hell to win. Coming with a well-timed run to join the leader going over the last he managed for a moment to take the lead and a roar went up from his backers. Just then his opponent rallied and to all those screaming encouragement in the stands Eamon was pulling out all the stops in an attempt to win, flourishing his whip like a man whose own mortgage depended on it. Of course it didn't, and his heroic efforts just failed in what was called as a photo finish but to the trained eye was going to amount to a short-head defeat. Musgrave put down his binoculars and winked at his clerk. A perfect result for the book and no doubt for Eamon a packet of readies in prospect substantially in excess of the winning percentage he had sacrificed.

George didn't take a lot of interest in the next race and made no attempt to offer competitive odds. He was content to take the occasional bet from his credit customers and once the runners were off, he left his position and walked briskly through the gate that led to the members' entrance and on towards the ground floor bar below the stands. I followed him and waited until he had placed his order, then walked up to the bar beside him and asked the girl serving for a gin and tonic. Musgrave appeared immune to my presence as he went on studying the Stock Market prices in his copy of the Independent. I tapped him on the shoulder and introduced myself:

'Mr Musgrave. Victoria Pryde. I don't think we've met but I believe we've spoken on the phone. You remember, the evening of the Gold Cup.'

If looks could kill, they could have sent there and then for the undertaker.

'I think you've made a mistake,' he replied, folding up his paper and downing his whisky. 'I make a point of not talking to jockeys. It can get you into trouble with the authorities and I have no intention of losing my licence. Now if you'll excuse me, Miss Pryde. I must go and look after my customers for the next race.'

I grabbed him by the arm, although he quickly and firmly removed my hand. I let him have it. 'That sounds very noble, Mr Musgrave. No doubt you told them that Brennan's horse wouldn't win in the last, that Fainthearted wouldn't be allowed to win at Worcester last time out and that I was meant to be on a non-trier at Cheltenham.'

His expression showed I had hit a raw nerve and for a brief moment I thought he was going to strike me. He quickly recovered his composure as the bar filled up with racegoers. He moved even closer to me so that our bodies were almost touching and he couldn't be overheard.

'You'd better watch what you go round saying or I'll have my lawyers onto you.'

He was making a real effort to control his temper and I had no intention of helping him. 'Really? Surely not your lawyers! No doubt you would also ask them to explain to you the consequences of taking bets off course and not paying tax on them. I think they call it fraud. If they want some proof on that score tell them not to hesitate to get in touch with me. It would be such a tragic end to your career as a bookmaker.'

He poked me menacingly in the ribs. 'You're a dead person,' was all he said before striding out of the bar. George Musgrave apparently decided not to bet on the final two races, judging by the empty space which suddenly appeared on the rails. I was left wondering' what his next step would be while having no doubt about mine. I telephoned my mother in Wincanton and asked her to come and collect Freddie. It was time he took a holiday.

I drove on into London and that evening had dinner with Amy. It was a welcome relaxation from my own problems to catch up on the latest developments in her social life and hear about the men who were vying to win her favours. You somehow don't think of lawyers as having sex lives. By all accounts her admirers divided into two groups: barristers who took themselves extremely seriously and regarded it as an outrageous snub to their amour propre when she refused to go to bed with them and journalists who spent the evening disclosing their sources over bottles of champagne and were then too drunk to remember what happened next. I thoroughly enjoyed her company and admired her ability to shake off in her spare time the shackles of her serious and demanding professional life.

I left her flat just before midnight, after endless cups of black coffee, and began the long drive to Ralph's yard in the Cotswolds. Traffic was light, and an hour and half later I was heading away from Cirencester on the last twenty miles of the journey through the countryside. As I drove along I took stock of my investigations to date. Viewed dispassionately, they were long on effort and short on success. I was no wiser as to Corcoran's whereabouts and had succeeded in antagonising Lord Pryde (not altogether unintentionally) and extracting a death threat from George Musgrave. I hadn't yet mustered the courage to confront Sir Arthur Drewe with his extra-curricular activities. It was all very well going round planting mines, and even watching the explosions, but I was no nearer discovering who really had murdered Edward. All I could hope was that his assailant might try the same tactics on me and thereby expose himself. It was a risky and dangerous ploy on my part and that was why I had decided that the time was right to keep Freddie well out of it.