Enquiry - By Dick Francis Page 0,70

Stopped because I had to.

Mrs Cranfield was there. And Roberta. And Grace Roxford. Mrs Cranfield was standing by the fireplace, hanging on to the shoulder-high mantel as if needing support. Roberta sat upright in an armless wooden chair set out of its usual place in a large clear area of carpet. Behind her and slightly to one side, and with one hand firmly grasping Roberta’s shoulder, stood Grace Roxford.

Grace Roxford held the sort of knife used by fishmongers. Nearly a foot long, razor sharp, with a point like a needle. She was resting the lethal end of it against Roberta’s neck.

‘Kelly!’ Roberta said. Her voice was high and a trifle wavery, but the relief in it was overwhelming. I feared it might be misplaced.

Grace Roxford had a bright colour over her taut cheekbones and a piercing glitter in her eyes. Her body was rigid with tension. The hand holding the knife trembled in uneven spasms. She was as unstable as wet gelignite; but she still knew what she was doing.

‘You went away, Kelly Hughes,’ she said. ‘You went away.’

‘Yes, Grace,’ I agreed. ‘But I came back to talk to Roberta.’

‘You come another step,’ she said, ‘And I’ll cut her throat.’

Mrs Cranfield drew a breath like a sob, but Roberta’s expression didn’t change. Grace had made that threat already. Several times, probably. Especially when Tony and I had arrived at the front door.

She was desperately determined. Neither I nor the Cranfields had room to doubt that she wouldn’t do as she said. And I was twenty feet away from her and a cripple besides.

‘What do you want, Grace?’ I said, as calmly as possible.

‘Want? Want?’ Her eyes flickered. She seemed to be trying to remember what she wanted. Then her rage sharpened on me like twin darts, and her purpose came flooding back.

‘Dexter Cranfield… bloody snob… I’ll see he doesn’t get those horses… I’m going to kill him, see, kill him… then he can’t get them, can he? No… he can’t.’

Again there was no surprise either in Roberta or her mother. Grace had told them already what she’d come for.

‘Grace, killing Mr Cranfield won’t help your husband.’

‘Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.’ She nodded sharply between each yes, and the knife jumped against Roberta’s neck. Roberta shut her eyes for a while and swayed on the chair.

I said, ‘How do you hope to kill him, Grace?’

She laughed. It got out of control at halfway and ended in a maniacal high-pitched giggle. ‘He’ll come here, won’t he? He’ll come here and stand beside me, because he’ll do just what I say, won’t he? Won’t he?’

I looked at the steel blade beside Roberta’s pearly skin and knew that he would indeed do as she said. As I would.

‘And then, see,’ she said, ‘I’ll just stick the knife into him, not into her. See? See?’

‘I see,’ I said.

She nodded extravagantly and her hand shook.

‘And then what?’ I asked.

‘Then what?’ She looked puzzled. She hadn’t got any further than killing Cranfield. Beyond that lay only darkness and confusion. Her vision didn’t extend to consequences.

‘Edwin Byler could send his horses away to someone else,’ I said.

‘No. No. Only Dexter Cranfield. Only him. Telling him he ought to have a more snobbish trainer. Taking him away from us. I’m going to kill him. Then he can’t have those horses.’ The words tumbled out in a vehement monotone, all the more frightening for being clearly automatic. These were thoughts she’d had in her head for a very long time.

‘It would have been all right, of course,’ I said slowly. ‘If Mr Cranfield hadn’t got his licence back.’

‘Yes!’ It was a bitterly angry shriek.

‘I got it back for him,’ I said.

‘They just gave it back. They just gave it back. They shouldn’t have done that. They shouldn’t.’

‘They didn’t just give it back,’ I said. ‘They gave it back because I made them.’

‘You couldn’t…’

‘I told everyone I was going to. And I did.’

‘No. No. No.’

‘Yes.’ I said flatly.

Her expression slowly changed, and highly frightening it was too. I waited while it sank into her disorganised brain that if Byler sent his horses to Cranfield after all it was me alone she had to thank for it. I watched the intention to kill widen to embrace me too. The semi-cautious restraint in her manner towards me was transforming itself into a vicious glare of hate.

I swallowed. I said again, ‘If I hadn’t made the Stewards give Mr Cranfield’s licence back, he would still be warned off.’

Roberta said in horror, ‘No, Kelly. Don’t. Don’t