Decider - By Dick Francis Page 0,91

guy not ridden by demons?’

‘Me, do you mean?’ He was surprised.

‘Yes.’

‘No girls really want me.’

‘Have you asked any?’

‘I’ve slept with some, but they all seem to have their sights on huge old Stratton Hays, and they tell me how great it would be for parties there, and one even talked about our daughter’s coming-out ball…’

‘And it frightens you?’

‘They want to marry a house.’

‘When I go home,’ I said, ‘you can come and stay, and I’ll see you meet people who’ve never heard of Stratton Hays, and don’t know about your father’s title or your own millions, and you can be Bill Darlington, or whatever name you like, and see how you go.’

‘Are you serious?

‘Yes, I am.’ I thought for a moment and said, ‘What will happen in your family when Marjorie dies?’

‘I don’t think about it.’

‘You should be married by then. You’ll be the head of the family one day, and the others should take that for granted, and respect you and your wife, and look ahead to a good well-rooted future.’

‘God,’ he protested, ‘you don’t ask much!’

‘You’re the best of the Strattons,’ I said.

He swallowed; reddened; fell silent. He drove between the gateposts of his parents’ ugly striped house and parked, and we walked round to the rear as before.

The back door was unlocked. We went past the plumbing and through into the black-and-white-floored hall, and Dart shouted out loudly, ‘Mrs Chinchee? Mrs Chinchee!’

A small middle-aged woman in a pink overall appeared at the top of a long flight of stairs saying, ‘Mr Dart, I’m up here.’

‘Mrs Chinchee,’ Dart called up to her, ‘this friend and I will be in the house for a while, but just carry on with the cleaning.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

Dart turned away and Mrs Chinchee retreated towards her upstairs tasks, any awkward curiosity well neutralised.

‘Right,’ Dart said. ‘Now what? I’m not going off to that meeting. You might need me here.’

‘OK,’ I said, vaguely relieved. ‘Now you go out to your car, and if either of your parents should come back sooner than we expect from the meeting, you put your palm on the horn and you give five or six urgent blasts to warn me.’

‘You mean… I’m just a look-out?’

‘If your parents come back, blow the horn, then tell them you’ve lent me the phone, or the bathroom, or something.’

‘I don’t like it,’ he frowned. ‘Suppose they find you looking at the plans?’

‘You didn’t mind before. You encouraged me, in fact.’

He sighed. ‘Yes, I did. I didn’t know you so well, then, or care. Look, don’t be too long.’

‘No.’

Still hesitantly he turned away and went back towards the rear door, and I went on into Conrad’s private room where horse pictures crowded the walls and endless shiny bric-à-brac suggested a magpie disposition. Miniature silver horses, antique gold coins on a tray, a tiny gold hunting scene; every surface held treasures.

Without wasting time, I skirted the large cluttered desk and attended to the illegal act of picking someone else’s lock, the keyhole fortunately living up to the promise of easy access. The small flat tool I’d brought with me slid obligingly past the ward that guarded the simple works and moved the tongue back from the socket. For picking simple locks, any flat filed-down narrow version of an ordinary key will do the job; the simpler, the better.

The panelled door, so like the walls, pushed easily open, revealing a cupboard large enough to walk into. Leaving the walking stick lying on the desk I limped into the cupboard and pressed a light switch I found there, activating an overhead bulb in a simple shade.

Inside, the walls were lined throughout by shelves, on which stood endless boxes, all of different sizes, colours and shapes, and all unhelpfully unlabelled.

The drawings for the proposed new stands were in clear view, the large folder that Conrad and Wilson Yarrow had taken to Roger’s office standing on the floor, leaning against one of the shelf-walls. Untying the pink tape bow that held the folder shut, I took out the drawings, laying them flat, outside, on Conrad’s desk.

They were, I had to confess, a sort of window-dressing in case Dart came to find me, as the drawings were those I had already seen, without any additions.

The chief object of my risky enterprise had been to try to find the packet that Perdita had said William, Lord Stratton, third baron, had intended to entrust to Conrad, fourth baron; the packet containing enough dirt on Keith to keep him controlled. If