Dead Heat - By Dick Francis & Felix Francis Page 0,52

brown, not quite blonde, and was tied, as before, in a pony tail.

A waiter came over and asked if we had decided. We looked at the menus.

‘What is pied de cochon?’ Caroline asked.

‘Literally,’ I said, ‘it means foot of pig. Pig’s trotter. It’s very tasty.’

She turned up her lovely nose. ‘I’ll have the lobster ravioli and then the lamb, I think. What’s a morel?’

‘A morel,’ I said, ‘is an edible fungus, like a mushroom.’

‘Fine, I’ll have the lamb with the morel sauce.’ I was reminded of that previous mushroom sauce, the one that had probably made her ill. I decided not to mention it.

‘And I’ll have the pied de cochon and the sea bass.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said the waiter.

‘What would you like to drink?’ I asked.

‘I’d prefer red,’ she said, ‘but you’re having fish.’

‘Red is fine by me.’ I ordered a moderately priced Médoc, at least, it was moderate for this wine list but, at this price, would have been by far the most expensive bottle available at the Hay Net. I would have to get used to London prices.

‘So what made me ill?’ she asked, getting sharply to the point. ‘And how did you get my phone number? And how come you know so much about me?’

‘Tell me,’ I said, ignoring her questions. ‘How come you were playing in a string quartet at Newmarket racecourse when you normally play for the RPO?’

‘I play with the RPO, not for them,’ she corrected swiftly. ‘It’s a very important distinction.’

It reminded me of my father, who always hated people saying that he had fallen off when he maintained that the horse had fallen and he had simply gone down with it. That distinction had been very important to him too.

‘So why the string quartet?’

‘Friends from college,’ she said. ‘The four of us paid for our tuition by playing together in the evenings and at weekends. We did all sorts of functions from weddings to funerals. It was good training. Two of us are now pros, while one of the others teaches. Jane, that’s the fourth, is now a full-time mum in Newmarket. It was her idea to get us all together last week. We still do it when we can but, sadly, it’s less and less these days as we all have other commitments. But it’s fun. Except last week, of course. That wasn’t fun – not afterwards anyway.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’m really sorry about that. But, if it makes you feel any better, I was dreadfully ill as well.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Serves you right.’

‘That’s not very sympathetic.’

She laughed. ‘Why should I be sympathetic to the infamous Newmarket poisoner?’

‘Ah, but I’m not,’ I said.

‘Then who is?’

‘That,’ I said seriously, ‘is the million-dollar question.’

I am sure that Bernard Sims would not have approved, but I told her everything I knew about the poisoning, which, after all, wasn’t that much.

Our starters arrived halfway through my description of the dire effects of phytohaemagglutinin on the human digestive system, and I was sure that Caroline looked closely at her ravioli as if to spot any misplaced kidney beans.

Thankfully, my pig’s trotter didn’t actually look as if it would walk round my plate and it was absolutely delicious. I did so love my food but, because it was also my business, there was a degree of eccentricity about my appreciation of other chefs’ creations. Call it professional arrogance or whatever, but I perversely enjoyed eating food that I knew I could have prepared better myself. Conversely, I felt somewhat inferior when I tasted something that I knew was beyond me, and this meal was. The pied de cochon with its poached quail’s egg, ham knuckle and hollandaise sauce would send me back to my kitchen with increased determination to do better in the future.

‘So who do you think did it?’ asked Caroline at last, laying down her fork.

‘I think the more important question is why did they do it,’ I said.

‘And?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘That’s what I have spent most of the past week trying to figure out. At first I thought it must be someone trying to ruin me and my restaurant, but I can’t think who. There aren’t that many restaurants near Newmarket and none that seem to be going bust because of me.’

‘How about your own staff?’ she asked.

‘I’ve thought of that,’ I said. ‘But what would they hope to gain?’

‘Maybe they want your job.’

‘But I own the restaurant,’ I said. ‘If they put me out of business, there won’t be any jobs