The next day the papers were full of the news. THE CHALK PIT MURDER screamed one headline; BODY IN THE BOOT another; and even The Times had TOP JUDGE'S SON IN MURDER RIDDLE. I sometimes wondered just how many top judges there were. The Sportsman, true to form, had its own angle on the story: TRAINER'S ARREST RUINS TITLE CHANCES it proclaimed, referring to Tom's attempt to become the season's leading trainer. That particular piece of genius had all the hallmarks of James Thackeray and I decided to give him a call later in the morning. I suspected I would need an ally in the press, particularly the racing one, and there was quite a lot of information he could find out for me.
To start with, I needed to know the name of the bookmaker who had laid Cartwheel so disastrously at Cheltenham, and also how the Sportsman had come to carry the announcement that Mr Pryde was dead. Whoever had put that notice in was either a murderer or a soothsayer, and I knew that Tom Radcliffe was neither.
That morning, Tom was remanded in custody at Newbury Magistrates' Court and, according to Amy, the committal hearing was due to take place the following week. Pressure from on high meant that the trial would probably be heard within a couple of months. I felt angry and impotent but realised that neither emotion would be of much use to Tom in his present predicament.
Accepting Amy's advice, I spent the week at Ralph Elgar's refusing to take any calls. That didn't stop a journalist from one of the tabloids calling at the house and slipping through the letter box a grubby piece of paper on which was scribbled an offer for the exclusive rights to my life story. He had even spelt my surname wrongly. When I didn't reply, it was taken as a signal that the money wasn't enough and – an increased offer soon followed. Fifty thousand pounds, provided I gave full intimate details of my sex life and posed topless! Both letters ended up in the fire.
It was just as well I had decided not to ride for a week, as not one trainer had called wanting my services. Ralph told me bluntly that the gossip on the racetrack was that I'd been having an affair with Tom, and that when Edward refused to give me a divorce, I'd encouraged Tom to murder him. So the wrong person was on trial. Even Ralph was shaken when I admitted that Tom had been my lover. Suddenly it seemed everyone had at least one fond memory of Edward Pryde, whereas I was being written off as too ambitious for my own good. It was at times like these that wives rein in their husbands and no one could afford to be heard, at least in public, to adopt a forgiving attitude towards adultery. After all, that sort of thing could so easily become an epidemic.
I left it to Amy to keep me in touch with the latest developments in the police enquiries. I nurtured the forlorn hope that something at least might come of their questioning of the names in the diary, enough to establish that I wasn't lying and that other people had a motive for wanting Edward dead.
Unfortunately it only took a couple of days before I was relieved of that illusion. According to Amy's information, the police tried to interview Michael Corcoran in Tom's yard but to no avail. It appeared that he had failed to return to the lads' hostel after a day off and had not been heard of since. No one seemed unduly perturbed, as it was fairly common for stable lads to up and leave without any notice and my initial reaction was that Edward's death had given Corcoran the chance to start his life afresh. I can't say I blamed him really.
They had also approached Sir Arthur Drewe and Lord Pryde. According to Amy's source at Scotland Yard, they had both blown a fuse on being questioned, and Pryde had threatened to have Wilkinson kicked out of the force if he persisted in such an offensive and outrageous line of enquiry. Hardly surprising when you think about it: the death of a blackmailer must be a great relief to his victims.
Finally, they had carried out a cursory check on the records of all the major bookmakers, which had revealed only a handful of bets in the name of Edward Pryde. For some reason they had chosen to overlook the fact that, if I was to be believed, he was avoiding off-course betting tax and in such circumstances you would hardly expect the bookmaker concerned to record the wagers in an official ledger.
It was now apparent that I was the only person, other than his lawyers, who was prepared to work for Tom's acquittal and even then I was in the invidious position of being a potential witness for the prosecution. The problem was knowing where to begin. It was no use confronting the individuals named in Edward's diary, as in the absence of any material proof to the contrary they would just deny any knowledge or involvement. What's more, if one of them really was the killer I would be exposing myself to danger and I certainly had no desire to be a member of the honourable company of dead heroes. All this meant I had to tread carefully and cautiously and the only consolation was that I had plenty of time on my hands to do it.
Being a jockey was clearly going to be a part-time occupation for the forseeable future; the ground was beginning to firm up and Ralph had roughed-off most of his horses for the season and spare rides seemed to be few and far between. The only runners he had that week were a couple at Worcester on the Thursday and by happy coincidence one of them was Fainthearted, the horse I had pulled on Edward's orders on that very first occasion all those months ago. I could not waste this opportunity to redeem myself and to justify Ralph's continued support and I therefore decided to defer my sleuthing until after the day's racing was over.
It was the first sunny day of Spring and as Ralph and I drove to the course together we discussed the riding instructions for both the races in which he had runners. Ralph was his usual chatty self, doing his best to keep my mind off the whole business. It was clear that he was very keen on Fainthearted's chances in the first and he reiterated that I was to hold him up for a late run and if possible only hit the front just before the winning post. As an ex flat horse, Fainthearted had the intelligence to pull up as soon as he was ahead and from a jockey's point of view there was nothing more sickening than hitting the front too soon, apparently full of running, and then finding yourself coming to a standstill as if the race was over. This time Ralph wanted no mistakes and, unusually for him, he kept on repeating how he wanted the horse ridden. I just sat back and listened. Judging from his uneasy manner and disregard for the other traffic on the road I was pretty sure that he was going for a major touch and with Fainthearted carrying only ten stone four on his back there was every reason for feeling confident.
Having narrowly missed at least two collisions I was very glad when we arrived unscathed at the course. As we walked into the members' enclosure I noticed several people point at me and then turn away as we drew closer. Even the man on the gate appeared surprised to see me, as if I should be wearing widow's weeds and not racing silks. I hated being the object of such attention and for once was relieved to be the only woman jockey riding that day. As soon as Ralph had gone off to check that the horses had arrived safely at the racecourse's stables, I hurried over to enjoy the solitude of the lady jockeys' changing room. Not for us the luxury of having a valet to help us dress like our male counterparts. With the race only twenty-five minutes away, I started to undress and put on the brown and pink colours of Fainthearted's owner, glancing in the mirror to check that I was presentable. I was surprised at how suddenly I seemed to have aged. My skin had lost its glow; my eyes looked dull and soulless and I thought I could see the first grey hairs in my blonde, bobbed hair. Sighing, I picked up the saddle and went over to the weighing room to weigh out. Ralph's travelling head lad was waiting to take it from me.
'This is an absolute certainty,' he said as I handed it over. He then looked me straight in the eye: 'Try not to make a cock up at the last hurdle this time.' He didn't give me time to answer, just turned and went off to the saddling boxes. As I stood there wondering whether he knew what had happened last time, a couple of jockeys came up and said how sorry they were about what had happened to Edward.
'I know we take the piss out of you quite a lot, but seriously, if there's anything you want, just give us a shout.'
It's amazing how just a few words can lift you and I felt much better.
I returned to the changing room to collect the rest of my gear and stood for a few minutes, lost in thought, looking out onto the River Severn. I could see two crews of young oarsmen straining away in enthusiastic rivalry and at that moment I envied them the pleasure of true amateurism. A tap on the door from one of the racecourse officials brought me sharply back to reality. It meant I had four minutes to get ready. I tied on my cap, pulled my goggles over it and picked up my gloves and whip. Then, taking a couple of deep breaths, I wished myself luck and skipped down the wooden steps and on towards the weighing room. This was it and I had never felt so nervous.
As I walked along, several punters sidled up to me and asked if I thought we would win. I just smiled, said nothing and muttered to myself that we better had. I joined up with the other jockeys, gaily joking amongst themselves, and finally entered the paddock where I could see Fainthearted being led around by the lad. The good weather meant that none of the horses were wearing sheets or rugs and Fainthearted's neck was already gleaming with sweat. I pulled my half-fingered gloves on in readiness for a battle with a pair of slippery reins, knowing that if I lost it he would run away with me to the start and almost certainly cart me during the race itself.
The paddock was packed with excited and ever hopeful owners and trainers, some of whom were more on their toes than their animals were. The Topley Hurdle had attracted the maximum field of twenty-eight runners although I reckoned there were only four in with a real chance. One of those was to be ridden by Eamon Brennan and I made a mental note to stay well clear of him during the race. I soon spotted Ralph in the corner, chatting with the owners, and walked over. I had barely time to reach them and say hello before the bell rang for the jockeys to get mounted.
'I don't need to tell you how to ride him,' said Ralph. He could say that again! 'Just remember to take him down to the start last and be certain you've got him well and truly settled before you put him into the race.' I nodded and turned to make my way through the throng to where Fainthearted was pulling his lad round in a very small circle.
'And make sure you win!' Ralph called after me, with a distinct edge to his voice. I was beginning to wonder just how much he was having on this time.
The lad was sweating even more than the horse and was evidently relieved to see me arrive.
'I've never known him as strong as this,' he remarked as Ralph's travelling head lad checked the girths and helped me into the saddle. 'I bet you can't hold him today,' he added cheekily. I ignored the jibe and told him to take a right-hand turn to ensure we were the last to go through the iron gate which led out of the paddock and therefore the last to go down. The plan worked a treat and by the time we were out on the course and had turned right to parade in front of the stands, the early runners were already galloping down past us to the start. Fainthearted was dripping with sweat from head to tail and tried to take off after them. The lad just managed to turn him in a circle on the lead rein and then send him off in the right direction. I barely let him out of a trot as we made our way alongside the white iron railings and waited until the horse in front of me was far enough ahead before turning back down the course. With so much at stake I couldn't allow him to waste all his energy at this stage by chasing another runner. Again, the tactic worked and we reached the start without incident. While I was having the girths checked I called out to the starter, himself a former jockey, and explained why I would be lining up at the rear of the field and told him that he wasn't to bother if I was some way behind. He looked at the sweat on Fainthearted and smiled sympathetically.
'Okay, but don't be too far back or I'll end up with a rollicking from the stewards.'
In a couple of minutes he was on his rostrum and telling us to line up. I let everybody else position themselves in front of me and as the starter pulled the lever to release the tape, I turned Fainthearted's head to one side to prevent him sprinting off too quickly. There were a couple of front runners and with such a large field we went at a furious gallop.
I settled Fainthearted towards the rear as we jumped the first two flights before passing in front of the stands and round the long left-hand bend into the back straight. Even though he wasn't running away with me, he still wasn't properly settled and he only really relaxed once we had passed the racecourse stables half way down the far side. Three or four of the runners were already beginning to feel the strain of the fast gallop and were dropping back. By the time we had jumped the last on the far side, we were within striking distance of the leaders and I hadn't yet had to move a muscle. We were going to win, I could just sense it. There were still six furlongs to go, so I tucked him in on the rails and looked up at the field ahead to see who was travelling easiest, as that was the one I would track. Five lengths in front of me I spotted my man. Ben Stevenson was sitting motionless on Dock Brief, waiting for his time to pounce on the leader, and no doubt already counting his percentage of the prize money. As the runners made their way round the bend and into the straight the pace began to quicken and I went to move Fainthearted out from behind a tired horse to go with them. As I did so, Eamon Brennan suddenly appeared from nowhere on my outside, travelling equally well, but instead of going on he took a pull on the reins and proceeded to box me in. The Irishman appeared totally unconcerned about winning the race and as tired horses kept losing ground and taking me backwards with them he just slowed his horse down on my outside. From sitting pretty and planning when to make my move, I was penned in helplessly with the leaders going further away. I'd had enough.
'Let me out, you bastard!' I shouted over at him but he took no notice. Instead he ostentatiously waved his stick backwards and forwards as if trying to keep up, but I could see that his reins were held tight. I had plenty of horse under me but nowhere to go. Fainthearted simply wasn't big enough to barge his way out and I now had to sit and suffer until we straightened up for home and a gap finally appeared. Eventually it did and by then it was me and not the horse who was sweating. I was convinced it was too late. Fainthearted might have a blistering turn of pace but not even he could make up that much ground.
With only half a mile left, he flew the first two hurdles in the straight and he was going so fast that the horses ahead appeared to be galloping backwards. With one good jump, I thought, I might just do it. I threw everything into the last and now he responded, taking off twelve feet in front of the hurdle and landing, running, just as far the other side. He even passed a couple of other horses in mid air. Now there were only three runners ahead and we had four lengths to make up.
The nearest of them began to tire and we moved in to third place, gaining distance with every stride but fighting a losing battle with the finishing post. The three of us passed the line together but there was no need for a photograph. We were beat and Ben Stevenson would collect that percentage after all. As we began pulling up I looked back for Brennan and stopped alongside him.
'What the hell did you do that for?' I demanded angrily.
'Nothing personal,' he replied, turning to gallop back to where the also-rans were unsaddled on the course in front of the parade ring. I made my own way back.
'What were you playing at out there?' screamed the lad as he caught hold of the reins and began leading Fainthearted back to the unsaddling enclosure in front of the weighing room. 'Nijinsky couldn't have won from where you left it.' I tried to explain but he made no attempt to listen. He had done his money and wasn't in the mood for excuses.
Ralph and the owners were waiting and looking just as upset.
'That was a disaster,' said a crestfallen Ralph, angrily, as I dismounted. 'How could you have left it so late?'
I could feel myself going redder and redder. I explained what had happened but Ralph insisted that I should have pushed Brennan out of the way.
'That's what you're paid for,' interrupted one of the owners.
A few of the punters had come over from the stands and were now shouting their opinion of my riding ability. Nothing speaks with more eloquence than a burnt pocket. Forlorn, I undid the surcingle and girth, pulled the saddle off and gave Fainthearted a sympathetic pat on the head. I only wished he could give evidence for me. Having apologised to the owners I muttered my regrets to Ralph and disappeared up the concrete steps into the weighing room. I just wanted to get to the changing room and beat the wall in anger but even that relief was to be denied me. As I sat on the scales to weigh in, the ominous figure of the stipendiary steward appeared out of the ground like a mushroom. Leaning over the wooden rails that divided the scales from the rest of the room, he informed me in a quiet yet authoritative voice that the stewards wanted to see me straight away. My heart sank. A premature confrontation with Sir Arthur Drewe was all I needed.
'Third, sir,' I called to the Clerk of the Scales, who looked up to check that I was within two pounds of the weight I had gone out at. He dismissed me with a sideways movement of his head and I dumped my saddle, together with my helmet and whip, in the corner by the number cloth deck and walked despondently to the stewards' room. The stipe who had spoken to me only a minute before came out just as I was about to knock on the door.
'Just wait here,' he commanded.
He left the weighing room only to return a couple of minutes later bringing Ralph in his wake. The trainer raised his eyes to the heavens, as if to say what a right mess I had landed us both in, and all I could do was to say again how sorry I was.
'Follow me, please,' said the stipe, opening the door and ushering us inside. The three stewards were seated behind an old wooden desk. In the middle, looking as complacent as ever and a veritable model of self-righteousness, was Sir Arthur, flanked on either side by two much younger men wearing almost identical tweed suits. Having introduced us by name the stipe began the proceedings:
'Mr Elgar, will you please tell the stewards what your riding instructions were?'
Ralph was standing bolt upright, as if on regimental parade, holding his worn trilby behind his back with both hands. He repeated what he had told me in the car and paddock and added that he had never had any cause to complain about my riding before.
'I think she just lost her head and overdid the waiting tactics. Everyone makes a cock-up once in a while.'
I wanted to hug him. You couldn't put a price on loyalty and he had every reason not to stand by me. I had heard plenty of stories of trainers who were not so steadfast in their support of their jockeys in front of the stewards.
Drewe wasn't impressed by such loyalty or plain speaking. He launched into the attack. 'Are you seriously saying that you are pleased with Pryde's riding performance?'
Ralph did not suffer fools gladly and was livid at being asked such a ridiculous question.
'Of course I am not pleased!' he retorted. 'A blind man could see that the horse should have won, but that's racing.'
Drewe wasn't finished yet. 'There's no need to be offensive, Mr Elgar. Can you explain why Fainthearted opened as 6-4 favourite but by the time the race began had drifted out to 7-2?'
Ralph went through the roof. 'If you're suggesting that I'd stop a horse you're mad!'
The stipe intervened.
'Mr Elgar, we're not accusing you of anything. We're just holding an enquiry to establish the facts.' He then turned to me.
'You looked to leave far too much ground for your horse to make up. Could you please tell the stewards why?'
I fixed Sir Arthur straight between the eyes and told him that once I had managed to settle Fainthearted I was perfectly happy with my position until we had approached the final bend. It was then that I had got boxed in. Sir Arthur had no intention of letting me finish.
'So you're telling us you got penned in. That's almost unheard of in a hurdles race.'
'I know, sir, but Brennan was doing it deliberately.' I felt no guilt about blaming the Irishman. He owed me and I had absolutely no intention of earning a suspension on his account.
'You should be very careful before you make allegations like that, my girl,' snapped Sir Arthur. He turned to the stipe.
'Mr Pugh, could we please see the video.'
Mr Pugh signalled to the video operator to begin and told him to start at the last hurdle on the far side. The stewards' secretary, who had been seated all the while in the corner taking notes, rose to switch off the lights and draw the curtains. As the film began Mr Pugh pinpointed with a cane both Fainthearted and Brennan's mount. Unfortunately for me, the incident was at the furthest end of the course and not particularly clear. What could be made out, however, was Brennan using his stick and me sitting as still as a nun at prayer.
As the film played on and showed the runners turning for home, the head-on camera came into use. All it showed was the gap appearing and Fainthearted bursting through. They waited for the film to end, both head and side on, before turning the lights back on and pulling the curtains.
'Have either of you anything to say?' asked Sir Arthur.
'No sir,' we replied in unison.
'All right then. Kindly wait outside.'
The stipe opened the door and we left the room accompanied by the secretary, who was not allowed to be privy to the stewards' deliberations.
'That didn't look too good,' said Ralph gloomily.
'No it didn't, did it?' I replied dejectedly. 'Brennan really did fix me, you know. What do you think's going to happen?'
'You'll be fined for riding an injudicious race and I'll have to eat a large slice of humble pie in front of the owners. What really concerns me is why he drifted in the betting. It's as if someone knew what was going to happen. You don't think Brennan is in with the bookies do you?'
Before I could reply the door opened and we were called back in. Drewe could hardly conceal his pleasure.
'We've discussed what we've seen and what you've told us and quite frankly we're not satisfied. We're reporting this matter to the disciplinary committee of the Jockey Club at Portman Square and you'll be informed when you have to appear. That's all. Thank you.'
I couldn't believe my ears and nor could Ralph, judging from his stunned expression. We were barely outside the room before he let fly a string of expletives, casting doubt on the parentage of each of the stewards. 'I've got to go and have a very large drink,' he raged. 'This is absolutely disgraceful. This is nothing personal, Victoria, but do you mind if I put Stevenson up in the last instead of you?'
Of course I minded. No one likes being jocked off, even if it was in favour of the champion jockey, and it would inevitably lead to talk of a rift between us. I swallowed my pride. 'No, if you think that's right, Ralph, it's fine by me.' I tried not to let him see how close I was to tears.
'Good. You know how it is with these particular owners. Don't you worry, I'm sure everything will turn out all right at the Jockey Club. I'll meet you in the car park after the last.'
I wished I could share his confidence and I trudged back to the changing room before giving way to my sobs.
I was waiting for Ralph in the car park when I saw Brennan walk towards his brand new BMW. The opportunity to have a word with him was too good to miss and I wanted more than anything to wipe that complacent grin off his face.
'Eamon,' I called out from the passenger seat of Ralph's car as he passed by. 'Can you spare me a moment?'
He was far from pleased to see me and made on towards his own vehicle.
'Hold on!' I shouted, leaping out of the car and running after him. 'You owe me an explanation.'
'Piss off!' he retorted. 'I've nothing to say to you.'
'Thanks very much. It's no good playing the innocent with me, Brennan. My husband told me all about you.'
'He did, did he? Well what a tragedy it is that your husband's now dead and, as you no doubt know, dead men don't tell tales.'
'But living women do. And I've told the police about why and how Edward was blackmailing you.' He stopped trying to open the door of his car and squared up to me menacingly.
'You have, have you? And what have you got by way of proof to support these allegations?'
I ignored the question in the absence of a satisfactory retort. 'I just want to find out who killed my husband and reckon you might be able to help me. Who was the bookmaker who laid Cartwheel to lose at Cheltenham? The same who paid you to fix me today?'
'You're imagining things. I was trying today, just like I always try.' His tongue was so far in his cheek I was surprised he could get the words out. 'Your problem is you'd be better off riding rocking horses and even then I wouldn't back against you falling off.' He turned away and climbed into the driver's seat. I wedged my foot between him and the door.
'Let me make one thing clear,' I said, doing my best to sound calm and rational. 'I didn't know or approve of what my husband was doing to you. What I do know is that Tom Radcliffe is not a murderer and I intend to prove it, and if that means exposing or even implicating you in the process, then so be it. I just wanted you to know.'
Brennan was unimpressed. 'You're not dealing with the stewards, darling. If you go on talking like that you'll be joining your husband, and that kid of yours will be an orphan. And one final thing. How can you be so sure your lover boy didn't do it? How do you know that he wasn't also being blackmailed?' With that he pushed me away from the car so violently that I stumbled and fell. He turned on the engine and, having made one last offensive gesture out of the window, roared out of the car park.
I picked myself up off the ground and walked back to Ralph's car. 'Nothing personal', I said to myself, had now become 'everything personal'. And just to add to my misery, Ralph's other runner won.