Enquiry - By Dick Francis Page 0,60

a large Manila envelope out of the briefcase and put it on the bed. ‘You’ll understand how he fell on it with relief.’

‘Things being as they were,’ I agreed. He walked across the sitting-room to the way out, stopping by the chest to put on his coat.

‘Can Cranfield tell his owners to shovel their horses back?’ I said. ‘The sooner the better, you see, if they’re to come back in time for Cheltenham.’

‘Give me until tomorrow morning. There are several other people who must know first.’

‘All right’

He held out his hand. I transferred the right crutch to the left, and shook it.

He said, ‘Perhaps one day soon… when this is over… you will dine with me?’

‘I’d like to,’ I said.

‘Good.’ He picked up his bowler and his briefcase, swept a last considering glance round my flat, nodded to me as if finalising a decision, and quietly went away.

I telephoned to the orthopod who regularly patched me up after falls.

‘I want this plaster off.’

He went into a long spiel of which the gist was two or three more weeks.

‘Monday,’ I said.

‘I’ll give you up.’

‘Tuesday I start getting it off with a chisel.’

I always slept in shirt-and-shorts pyjamas, which had come in very handy in the present circs. Bedtime that day I struggled into a lime green and white checked lot I had bought in an off moment at Liverpool the year before with my mind more on the imminent Grand National than on what they would do to my yellow complexion at six on a winter’s morning.

Tony had gloomily brought me some casseroled beef and had stayed to celebrate when I told him I wouldn’t have to leave. I was out of whisky again in consequence.

When he’d gone I went to bed and read the pages which had sent me to limbo. And they were, indeed, convincing. Neatly typed, well set out, written in authoritative language. Not at first, second, or even third sight the product of malevolence. Emotionless. Cool. Damaging.

‘Charles Richard West is prepared to testify that during the course of the race, and in particular at a spot six furlongs from the winning post on the second circuit, he heard Hughes say that he (Hughes) was about to ease his horse so that it should be in no subsequent position to win. Hughes’ precise words were, “O.K. Brakes on, chaps”.’

The four other sheets were equally brief, equally to the point. One said that through an intermediary Dexter Cranfield had backed Cherry Pie with Newtonnards. The second pointed out that an investigation of past form would show that on several other occasions Cranfield’s second string had beaten his favourite. The third suggested watching the discrepancies in Hughes’ riding in the Lemonfizz and in the last race at Reading… and there it was in black and white, ‘the last race at Reading.’ Gowery hadn’t questioned it or checked; had simply sent for the last race at Reading. If he had shown it privately to Plimborne and Tring only, and not to me as well, no one might ever have realised it was the wrong race. This deliberate piece of misleading had in fact gone astray, but only just. And the rest hadn’t. Page four stated categorically that Cranfield had bribed Hughes not to win, and photographic evidence to prove it was hereby attached.

There was also a short covering note of explanation.

‘These few facts have come to my notice. They should clearly be laid before the appropriate authorities, and I am therefore sending them to you, sir, as Steward in command of the forthcoming Enquiry.’

The typewriting itself was unremarkable, the paper medium quality quarto. The paper clip holding the sheets together was sold by the hundred million, and the buff envelope in which they’d been sent cost a penny or two in any stationer’s in the country.

There were two copies only of the photograph. On the back, no identifications.

I slid them all back into the envelope, and put it in the drawer of the table beside my bed. Switched out the light. Lay thinking of riding races again with a swelling feeling of relief and excitement. Wondered how poor old Gowery was making out, going fifteen rounds with his conscience. Thought of Archie and his mortgage… Kessel having to admit he’d been wrong… Roberta stepping off her dignity… the blackmailer biting his nails in apprehension… sweet dreams every one… slid into the first easy sleep since the Enquiry.

I woke with a jolt, knowing I’d heard a sound which had no business to