10

There had been no reply from Richard’s flat. The delay till the morning wouldn’t make her apology more convincing. It would look as if she had thought it out and planned what to say. The advantage of true spontaneity was lost. Where had he gone – to friends, to gamble – to a woman? She felt an ugly pang of jealousy. Pride had made him leave, and pride had made her let him go instead of resolving the misunderstanding.

And she knew without any doubt that she loved him enough to face anything; even if Graham’s warning were the truth, then what he most needed was her love and help. She went into the drawing room, and after dinner Mrs Jennings brought her coffee.

‘I’ve put a little brandy on the tray,’ she said. ‘There’s nothing like it if you’re feeling a bit tired. You can see that bloodstain there, Madam, just by the armchair. It was lucky Mr Schriber didn’t cut himself badly; broken glass is such a nasty thing –’

There was a small mark on the yellow carpet; it was difficult to see how he could have cut himself if he had knocked over the glass.

‘How did he do it? Was he picking up the pieces?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Mrs Jennings said. ‘He told me the glass just shattered in his hand. Funny thing really; I suppose there must have been a crack in it.’

Isabel didn’t answer. The incident was unimportant, yet it worried her. He must have put considerable pressure on the heavy whisky glass to break it, even if there was a flaw in the glass. She had noticed the dressing on his palm when they were together that afternoon. He had laughed, saying he’d nicked himself. The glass had burst in his hand.… There was a suggestion of unnatural force that was disturbing. What had been in his mind to make him grip and grip, without realizing?

‘I’ll unpack your things,’ the housekeeper said. ‘Don’t you bother tonight. I’m not in any hurry.’

Isabel sipped the brandy and lit a cigarette. There was an odd atmosphere in the house, which she felt sure was being created by her own disquiet of mind. Richard seemed very close to her; she couldn’t get the picture of him into focus because it kept blurring.

There was something about him which didn’t equate; an inner rage – she stubbed out the cigarette quickly, alarmed by the accuracy of the description. There had always been a quality of enigma about him; even in their most intimate relationship there was a sense that part of him was hidden. And that was what she had felt, without being clear enough to isolate it. Rage; a force concealed and controlled within him. And if Andrew Graham called him dangerous, it was because of this. Isabel shivered; the fire had burnt low and the room was unnaturally still.

Mrs Jennings had forgotten to draw the curtains. She had a feeling of being watched; silly and irrational, but strong enough to make her get up and cover the windows. She looked at her watch; it was getting late, and sitting alone, letting her imagination run away with her was quite atypical. If she didn’t take hold of herself she would begin to be frightened of staying in the house when Mrs Jennings had gone. Which she must have done by now. Isabel opened the drawing room door. The hall was dimly lit by picture lights; her voice echoed as she called out.

‘Mrs Jennings? Are you upstairs?’

There was a pause; then the housekeeper appeared at the top of the staircase.

‘Yes, Madam. I’ve just turned down your bed. I’ll turn the lights off for you.’

She came down, and Isabel walked towards her. ‘Good night,’ she said. ‘It’s raining hard – listen to it! Have you got a coat?’

‘Yes, thank you. Breakfast upstairs tomorrow? Nine o’clock. Good night then.’

Isabel went up the stairs to her bedroom. Here the curtains were drawn, the cover taken off the four-poster bed and a nightdress laid out. The two bedside lights were on; she closed the door and felt suddenly secure. Only then did she admit that she had been cold with fear as she sat in the room downstairs. It was entirely her own fault. The darkness and the hiss of rain outside had exaggerated the feeling of loneliness. And the ridiculous sensation that there was someone outside watching her.… She was tired and overwrought, the victim of her own nerves. If she went on imagining such things she couldn’t live alone at Coolbridge. She undressed, slipped the silk nightdress over her head, and sat on the edge of the bed. She found herself looking at the door. There was no key. She could have asked the housekeeper to stay; she could ring down to the lodge at that moment and say she felt nervous and would Mr Jennings mind if his wife came back and stayed the night – but it was inconsiderate and hysterical. She got into bed, chiding herself.

Then she switched out the light.

He had seen her quite clearly through the window; the big room was well lit and there were no net curtains. She was sitting on the sofa, drinking coffee. He was crouched under a tree, his body glistening with the rain, the heavy spanner in his left hand; the cotton gloves were sticking to him.

He waited quietly, watching as she smoked a cigarette, finished her coffee. When she got up he flattened against the tree trunk; the light was behind her as she came to the window. Her silhouette was totally black, with the yellow and white room behind her. Then the curtains slid across, shutting her out of view.

He saw her appear at the second and third window, and pull the curtains until there was no light, except a few cracks where the material didn’t quite meet.

He didn’t mind about not seeing her. He knew where she was. He came out from the shelter of the tree and the rain lashed his skin. He crept to the grass verge round the side of the house, making his way to the back. There was a door, with glass panels and a large dustbin outside it. The window was in darkness; he could see through the glass that there wasn’t a light anywhere inside. He tried the handle. If it was locked, he could break the panel, put his gloved hand inside and turn the key.… The back door was far enough from the main rooms; she wouldn’t hear any noise. But there was no need to do anything more than turn the handle. The door hadn’t been locked. He opened it carefully and stepped inside.

Isabel had switched her telephone off. Mrs Jennings, checking the fire in the drawing room picked it up. It was her husband.

‘It’s getting late, Em – you coming back soon? I’ll walk up and fetch you if you like; it’s raining cats and dogs.’

‘I’m on my way,’ she said. ‘I’ve got an umbrella, don’t you worry. Put the kettle on in five minutes.’ She put the receiver down, and turned back to pull the iron screen across the dying fire. Then she switched out the table lamps one by one and went to the door; she had already turned off the lights in the hall. She didn’t need them, she knew every inch of the house. She’d left her coat and umbrella on a chair by the front entrance. She wasn’t going to leave by the back and take that much longer to walk through the downpour. She opened the drawing room door and stepped out into the hall. She gave one cry of terror as the dim, nude figure rose up in front of her and the first blows of the spanner fell.

Nigel Foster loved watching television; Sally had cooked them an excellent dinner, accompanied by some of Nigel’s best claret, and Tim and he settled down in the sitting room while she made coffee. Nigel was in a mood of glowing confidence, assisted by the wine and inroads into a bottle of vintage port. Normally they lived quite frugally when they were not entertaining, but the evening was a continued celebration of the Falcon’s victory.

He looked across at Tim and grinned.

‘I don’t want to sound too much like a smug old sod, but I think we’ve got that race in the bag. I can’t wait to see the video tape of the race!’

‘He walked through them,’ Tim said. ‘And he wasn’t asked a single question. I think you do sound like a smug old sod, but I think you’re entitled to!’

Nigel laughed. Sally appeared with the tray of coffee. He got up to take it from her. ‘Come and sit down, darling. I’ll pour it out. Lovely dinner –’ He pecked at her cheek. ‘There’s a damned good programme on the box tonight.’

He said the same thing every evening; it was part of his routine and Tim was quite accustomed to it. He and Sally gossiped while Nigel settled in front of the set. Whatever he was watching, whether it was comedy, documentary or an old film, he was fast asleep within ten minutes. Sally had taken some needlework out of a bag and was sewing peacefully. Both of them prayed that from the hour of eight o’clock onwards, their owners would leave them to enjoy their evening in peace.

‘I meant to tell you,’ Nigel said, ‘I heard on the grapevine last night that Gerry Garvin has told Farrant to take his horses away.’

‘About time – you can’t have owners like Farrant without getting dirty yourself in the end. I wonder where he’ll send Rocket Man?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ Nigel announced. ‘He won’t get within spitting distance of our fellow.’ He got up and switched on the television. ‘Ah, Benny Hill – I like his programmes. Bloody funny.…’

Tim watched his head droop to one side; within a few minutes his breathing was loud and slightly hoarse.

‘It’s so good for him,’ Sally said. ‘He gets terribly strung up, though you’d never think it. He was having a fit all night before the Lupin; couldn’t sleep, bouncing in and out of bed – I nearly go mad with him before a big race. I dread the Derby!’

‘You needn’t,’ Tim said. ‘I think we’re going to win.’

‘It’ll make a big difference to you, won’t it? Nigel told me about that codicil in Charles’s will.’

‘I’ll be set up for good,’ Tim said.

‘We all will,’ she said, bending over the square of tapestry work. ‘It’s three years since we won a Derby. There’s a South American we’re trying to get interested. He’s so disgustingly rich it’s a crime. If we pull this off with the Falcon, he’ll give us a commission for a dozen yearlings next year – just for a start!’

‘It means a hell of a lot to all of us,’ Tim said. He lit a cigarette. The television screen flickered, showing the comeedian’s moon face in close-up. Nigel was still fast asleep.

‘How much does it really mean to Isabel?’ Sally asked him. ‘I can’t make up my mind about it.’

‘I don’t really know myself,’ Tim said. ‘She wanted to carry out Charles’s wishes. I don’t think she would have done it except for that. Now, I rather think she’s got the bug herself. She bought that Monkstown colt entirely on her own, you know. Didn’t ask me, or Nigel. Just made up her own mind.’

‘I’m dying to see it,’ Sally said. ‘Nigel’s mad about it. He’s talking about Epsom next year!’

‘What about Epsom?’ Her husband had woken up.

‘Nothing, darling,’ Sally said. ‘Go back to sleep.’

‘Sleep? I haven’t been asleep – I was watching the programme. What were you talking about?’

‘Running Isabel’s new colt next year,’ Tim said.

‘Hmm,’ Nigel pushed himself up in the chair. ‘I’m looking forward to that. But I don’t know what’ll happen if she marries Richard Schriber. He hates racing – wouldn’t even come to Longchamp to watch the Falcon. A husband like that could turn her off completely.’

Tim said nothing. Sally Foster looked up. ‘You don’t think she’ll marry him, do you? I know you said they were pretty thick in Dublin but I didn’t know it was that serious.’

‘The newspapers said so,’ Nigel pointed out. ‘You never know. What do you think, Tim? Would she go that far, do you think?’

‘I don’t know,’ Tim said slowly. ‘I bloody well hope not. I think I’ll go to bed,’ he said.

‘Good idea,’ Nigel agreed. ‘We all will. Tomorrow is another day. Come on, Sal – it’s past ten o’clock.’

Tim Ryan didn’t sleep. Pretty thick in Dublin. So even Nigel had noticed it, and he wasn’t a man who concerned himself with people’s private lives. He kept seeing Isabel in tears in the Ritz the night before the race. And her words. ‘I love him. There’s nothing wrong, I’d know if there was.’ An affair was bad enough; he couldn’t bear to think of her in Richard’s bed. But marriage to the man described in that dossier Andrew Graham had shown them – that was unthinkable. But Richard had met her and she had driven away with him. It looked as if she had disregarded Andrew’s warning. And that was his damned fault, Tim thought furiously. He didn’t know why he’d made a mess of that interview but he had. He hadn’t frightened Isabel away; he’d merely added the lethal quality of compassion to her feelings for Richard Schriber. There was nothing about Richard to suggest that he was not exactly what he seemed. Yet cunning was a recognized ingredient of psychopathic disorder. An appearance of perfect normality could be assumed and maintained for years, provided nothing happened to disturb it and set the irrational impulses in motion. And you didn’t grow out of schizoid tendencies; Isabel was wrong. You might subdue them, but they never disappeared. Andrew had talked of danger. His reaction when she left him at the airport and went away in Richard’s car, had certainly been one of hurt and jealousy. But there was an extra element in it, which was growing as he lay awake. He had been worried. Not just jealous, but terribly uneasy, seeing her go off alone with her stepson. She must be with him now; either at Coolbridge or in Richard’s flat. He turned on his light and looked at his watch. It was nearly one o’clock. He gave up trying to sleep; there were few books in the bedroom, and all of them connected with racing. There was a book written about the great steeplechaser Red Rum which was more a work of literature than the life story of a National winner. He lit a cigarette and started to read it. It was an hour later when the telephone in the Fosters’ hall began to ring and ring.

There was a tremendous amount of blood. It had spurted everywhere, on the walls and the floor. He was standing in a pool of it. There was a sickly smell and a sticky wetness on his naked skin. He looked down in the dimness at the body of the woman. She had given just the one cry, high-pitched with terror, and then the first blow had silenced her, followed so quickly by the second and the third. He had struck and struck at her as she staggered in the darkness. He crouched down beside her and found a slack, bloodied arm. There was no pulse. There was no need to switch on the lights, to make sure. The big hall windows were uncurtained. It might attract attention. She was dead. He dropped the spanner on the floor, quite close to her body. It clanged on the stone flags. He turned and padded away towards the kitchen; his feet were wet and sticky. In the kitchen he switched on the lights; the windows faced to the back, no one would see anything. He filled the sink with warm water. It didn’t take him long to wash himself; he filled a bucket with the water and sluiced his body; he washed his hair under the sink tap. Water was running everywhere over the floor, coloured red. He turned off the lights and opened the kitchen door. He stepped out into the rain. He ran back down the drive, keeping in the shadow of the line of trees. The windows of the lodge were still illuminated. He sprinted past, bending double. At the gates he paused; the road was in pitch darkness, sheeted in rain. He was shivering with cold and he still wore the reddened, sopping gloves. He peeled them off, wrung them dry of water, opened the boot of the car and threw them inside. From the recess at the back he brought out a towel. He opened the back door of the car, spread the towel over the seat and got inside. Within five minutes he had dried himself and dressed. He slicked his hair back with a comb, checked himself briefly in the driving mirror, and then doused the inside light. He started the engine and began to back out of the track and onto the main road. He had a feeling of elation, of a destiny fulfilled. What had happened seemed to be inevitable. There could be no guilt where events were predestined. What he had done was justified and he felt only satisfaction. Life was a pattern in which the design only became clear at the end. He had completed a cycle which had begun long ago. He picked up speed and drove on to the main London road. It was exactly a quarter to eleven.

Tim and Nigel Foster drove down to Coolbridge. Isabel, fully dressed and with the local doctor beside her, was sitting in her room upstairs; she was very white and there was a glazed look on her face. She had been given a strong sedative, the doctor explained. Luckily the solid construction of the house had prevented her hearing the murder and coming down to investigate.

It was Mrs Jennings’s husband, alarmed when she failed to come home, who went into the house through the open back door and discovered his wife’s body. The first thing Mrs Schriber knew of the tragedy was when the police came up and woke her. She was suffering from shock, and the police had given permission for her to leave the house. She had answered their questions, and the sooner she could be got away and into a hotel where she could go to sleep, the better. The doctor looked sick and shaken himself as he talked to the two men. He had seen Mrs Jennings’s body. ‘A maniac,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen such a sight – the place is like a slaughterhouse. Only a maniac would have gone on and on.…’ He had turned away and lit a cigarette; his hands were trembling.

Nigel drove her to Lambourn; she hardly spoke in the car. Tim Ryan stayed behind to talk to the detective inspector who had been called in to take charge of the case. He had wrapped Isabel up in a fur coat, supported her down the back stairs and quickly through the staff quarters and out through the kitchen. The kitchen was full of police. There was water all over the floor by the sink; a small pool had collected in an indentation at the base, and in the bright fluorescent lighting it had a pinkish tinge. Ryan put her into Nigel’s car and held her hands. They were freezing and limp.

‘It’s all right,’ he said, slowly and distinctly, repeating it. ‘It’s all right, Isabel. You’re going home with Nigel. He and Sally will look after you. I’ll be down later. You’re not to worry any more. You’ve had a bad shock. You’ll be all right now.’

She had looked at him, and answered slowly, forcing out the words.

‘Mrs Jennings … I fell asleep. He’s given me something – I’m so deadened, I can’t feel anything.’

‘Just as well,’ Nigel answered. ‘I’m getting you home and into bed. I’ll wait for you, Tim.’ He had whispered through the driving window to Ryan before he drove away.

‘Christ Almighty. If he’d disturbed them instead of the housekeeper …’

‘Get her home,’ Ryan said. ‘I’ll sort everything out with the police and get down as soon as I can. She should never, never have stayed in that house alone!’

‘Thought Richard would have been with her,’ Nigel muttered.

‘So did I,’ Ryan said. He went back into the house and Nigel drove down the drive towards the lodge and the gates. It was no longer raining; he could see the house in his driving mirror, blazing with lights like a beacon in the darkness. He had seen enough action in the war to be immune to horror, but the scene in the hall at Coolbridge would remain in his mind for the rest of his life. The most horrible and vivid memory was of a trail of imprints on the polished stone floor of a naked, bloody foot. He shuddered, glancing at the silent woman beside him. She was leaning against the head-rest, and her eyes were closed.

By the mercy of God she had gone to bed before the intruder broke in. The distraught husband of the murdered woman had repeated over and over again that his wife normally came home an hour earlier. Just that evening she had chosen to stay late.…

Nigel put his foot down as soon as he had left the narrow country lanes and drove towards Lambourn at top speed.

The headlines were staring at Andrew Graham.

‘Murder at Millionairess’s Rented Mansion. Housekeeper Beaten to Death.’ He was sitting up in his hotel bedroom with a tray of coffee and the papers. He gave a gasping exclamation of shock. The housekeeper had disturbed an intruder and had been brutally battered to death, while the wealthy racehorse owner and widow of the American multi-millionaire Charles Schriber, slept upstairs, unaware of the horror taking place on the ground floor. Andrew put the paper down. He reached for the telephone and called through to MacNeil’s room. His voice was muffled and hoarse with shock.

‘It’s Graham. Have you seen the papers –’

‘Yeah,’ the detective’s voice sounded metallic. ‘Attempted robbery is what it says. Pretty brutal murder.’

‘I’ve got to talk to you,’ Andrew said. ‘Come up to my room. It says Isabel’s staying with her trainer. I’m going to put a call through at once!’

MacNeil was sitting by his bed, fully dressed. He picked a cigarette out of a packet with one hand, cradled the telephone under his chin while he lit it. ‘I’ll be right up,’ he said.

He found Andrew Graham shaving; the buzz of the electric razor hummed for a few minutes before he came out of the bathroom. MacNeil sat on the rumpled bed and read the newspaper. It was not the tabloid which he ordered for himself; it catered for a more select, yet equally sensation-seeking public. The account dwelt on the ferocity of the attack, the miraculous escape of Isabel, and the strange theory, borne out by footprints, that the thief had been barefooted. Robbery was obviously the motive, and the unfortunate housekeeper had disturbed the intruder as he was going through the house. There was a picture, taken from a snapshot, of Coolbridge House, and an inset of Isabel, smiling at Longchamp after the Falcon’s victory. The police were mounting a nationwide hunt for the killer. MacNeil grimaced at the cliché. The attack was described as maniacal in its fury. He re-read that line.

He looked up as Graham came out of the bathroom. The doctor looked tired and grim. ‘I rang through to Foster,’ he said. ‘They wouldn’t let me speak to Isabel. She’s under their own doctor and he says she’s to have complete rest. I guess that’s the best thing.’

He came and stood close to MacNeil, looking down at him.

‘I’ve got to see her,’ he said. ‘However long it takes, I’ve got to talk to her again. Do you believe that was a robbery?’

MacNeil sucked on the end of his cigarette. ‘No,’ he said. He stubbed it out in the metal ashtray by the bedside. ‘I don’t see this as any burglary. This guy went berserk. I don’t think it was a robbery.’

‘Where was Schriber?’ Andrew Graham asked him. ‘Last night – where was he?’

‘I don’t know,’ MacNeil admitted. ‘I only trail him when he’s with her. You didn’t tell me she was back – I thought she was in France.’

He looked up at Andrew Graham.

‘You tell me,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

Graham turned suddenly and sat down; he passed a hand over his face and back over his sparse sandy hair.

‘I think that what I’ve been afraid of all along has finally happened,’ he said. ‘And the terrible thing is, that an innocent woman has been butchered because nobody would listen to me. And so long as they keep on calling this a robbery, nobody will listen to me. I think Richard Schriber broke into that house to kill Isabel. Just as he tried to kill her in Barbados. Somehow, the housekeeper got in the way. That’s what I think. It’s come to the crisis point for him; his father’s death triggered off the first attempt. Now the Derby’s getting close. That’s another flashpoint in his mind. So he goes down there and gets into the house to murder Isabel and make it look like a robbery.’

‘You’re the expert on this kind of thing – you really think he did it?’ MacNeil asked.

‘I do,’ Andrew said. ‘And you can be sure he’ll try again. It follows the pattern; he wants to rob his father of the final triumph and revenge his mother at the same time. He’ll kill Isabel to stop the horse from running, and to punish her for taking his mother’s place. But he’ll protect himself. He’ll try to make it look an accident. He’s cunning, mad cunning, don’t forget that. And he’s just made a very bad mistake. He’ll be extra careful next time. Jesus, what can I do to stop him?’ He covered his face with his hands for a moment.

MacNeil lit a cigarette. He didn’t say anything.

‘He’s living with her,’ Andrew went on. ‘We can’t stop something happening when they’re alone. There’s no way to protect her if she won’t protect herself!’

‘Then you’ll have to try again,’ MacNeil said. ‘She’s safe so long as she stays with the Fosters. He can’t get at her there. Meantime I’ll keep him in sight twenty-four hours a day. How about this guy Ryan?’

‘I think he’ll believe me,’ Andrew said. ‘And that may be her best protection. He can stick close to Schriber; and to her.’

MacNeil nodded. ‘Fine, that way Schriber will be watched around the clock.’

He went out, leaving Andrew Graham alone.

‘He’s gone,’ Patsy Farrant said. She stood in the doorway of the principal guest room in the Hampstead house; Roy Farrant was behind her. The bed was stripped back to the bottom sheet, its covers hurled to the floor. The curtains hadn’t been drawn, and the overhead reading light was still on.

Roy pushed past her into the room.

‘Bloody fool,’ he said. He went in and pressed a switch; the curtains hissed and drew back, flooding the room with bright morning sunlight. He looked haggard, and there was a shrinkage about his face and jowls which hadn’t been there on the morning of the Prix Lupin. Patsy came in after him. It was only two days since the death of Barry Lawrence and he hadn’t sworn at her or lost his temper since.

‘He was in such a state,’ Patsy said. ‘I thought he’d sleep through till lunch. Where do you think he’s gone?’

‘Christ only knows,’ Farrant said. ‘He must have heard about the murder. Maybe he woke up this morning and tried to phone her.’

‘He’s come to you before when he’s been in trouble,’ Patsy said. ‘I think it was very generous of you to take him in last night at that hour, considering how he let you down over …’

‘Shut up,’ Farrant said. ‘Just shut up, and don’t ever mention anything about it. Ever.’

‘All right.’ Her shoulders lifted under the expensive satin dressing gown. His rebuke was comparatively mild. She had no idea he had felt so deeply about Barry Lawrence. To Patsy he was just another crooked jockey that was mixed up with Roy, and their association had gone on a long time. Lawrence’s death had really upset him. And when Richard Schriber had turned up drunk the night before, he had simply taken him upstairs and put him to bed without a word. He was a funny man; she would never, ever understand him, however hard she tried. She went over to the bed and stopped.

‘Oh hell,’ she said, forgetting herself. ‘He’s bloodied my sheet – look at that!’ Roy turned and glanced down; there was an ugly stain on the crumpled top sheet. He looked at her briefly, and his face was blank. ‘Buy a new one,’ he said. ‘I’ll ring his flat – maybe he’s gone there. Bloody fool,’ he said again, lower this time, talking to himself. ‘I’d have gone with him.’

He went out of the bedroom, leaving Patsy fingering the sheet with the bloodstain. He had been astounded to find Richard Schriber on his doorstep at two in the morning. They hadn’t seen or spoken to each other since the story about his proposed marriage had appeared in Partridge’s gossip column. Farrant had sworn never to forgive him, to pay him back one day no matter how long it took. And he had meant it. If Barry Lawrence hadn’t been lying in a French mortuary, he would have kicked Richard Schriber in the groin and left him lying there. But something had happened to Roy since Lawrence’s body was brought back from the racecourse. Something he couldn’t understand in himself. Ruthless, ambitious, tough, with one man’s death on his conscience, he had suddenly weakened when Barry was killed.

There was a curious affinity between them, an emotional tie which had its origins and its strength in the shared guilt of that first crooked alliance which had ended in the victim’s suicide. Roy could and did argue in the beginning that he hadn’t known how desperate the Italian Lambarzini’s financial situation was; it looked to him like a rich man’s gamble which he could well afford to lose. But sharing the guilt had helped them both. They buried it and built on it further, with a multitude of dubious deals, culminating in the final disaster at Long-champ. Now, suddenly, the steel in Farrant cracked. He had paid the price and the price was too high. When an old friend turned up and needed help, he didn’t think about revenge. He was glad of the chance to take him in. He didn’t know it, but it was a subconscious longing to make amends.

He had seen the report of the murder at Isabel’s house, and gone upstairs with Patsy to wake Richard and tell him. He would have welcomed the chance to drive him down there, help in any way he could. But Richard had gone. Almost too drunk to stand the night before, with the look of desperation about him that Roy had seen only when alcohol had totally disarmed him, Richard was in no fit state to be alone. He had homed in on his former friend, acting from blind instinct. Roy understood this, and accepted it. And Patsy had been intuitive enough for once not to argue with him. Even his constant irritation with her had suffered a diminution. He kept seeing Barry, smoking his big cigars, sipping champagne, in every corner of the house.

Sally Foster was doing the accounts; she was better at figures than Nigel, who had given up trying to make up the bills years ago, because he considered it a waste of time. Sally didn’t argue with him: she merely took over the financial side of the business without any fuss. She had a bright little sitting room with files and a telephone on the desk with an outside line. Difficult owners were often switched through there when her husband didn’t want to talk to them. Sally combined charm with brevity; the most persistent talkers found themselves cut short without a feeling of dissatisfaction.

She hadn’t slept much the previous night. It was three in the morning before Nigel returned with Isabel; Sally had their spare room ready, with the electric blanket on and some hot milk and brandy in a flask. She was very good at looking after people, and she took charge of Isabel, putting her to bed. She gave her the milk and settled her down to sleep. She looked dazed and sick; Sally knew a lot about the effects of shock, and she came back and woke up her own doctor to explain the situation and ask him to make Isabel his first call in the morning. His diagnosis had been what she expected; complete rest for twenty-four hours. It was very lucky, from what he had read in the papers, that his patient hadn’t seen the body of the housekeeper. The press was making a meal of the bloodstained horror in the manor house; the word maniac was being widely used to describe the attacker. One of the more sensational tabloids screamed about the barefoot slayer.

Sally, practical and unimaginative, couldn’t begin to visualize the scene. She felt very sorry for Isabel Schriber, and fought off all press enquiries ruthlessly. When her daily woman reported that there were newspapermen in the yard asking for Nigel, she marched out stony-faced, to meet them and with the authority that came from being an upper-class English woman whose father was a General, told them to clear off before she called the police. The gates into the yard were locked, and she stamped back angrily into the house. She felt for a moment that it was just too damned unfair on Nigel, with a horse being readied for the Derby, to have this dirty mess thrown at him. Owners, she thought furiously; always some bloody trouble with them – and immediately she was sorry, thinking of Isabel that morning, white-faced and hollow-cheeked, sitting up in bed. Sally was a genuinely kind person, but her first love and primary consideration was for her husband.

She picked up the shrilling telephone for the umpteenth time, and it was Richard Schriber.

‘Oh, thank God it’s you,’ she said. ‘I’ve been going mad, fobbing off the bloody press all morning. Yes. She’s here, with us. Nigel went down and got her last night. What a ghastly thing to happen!’

‘I’m at Coolbridge,’ he said. ‘I phoned her this morning and got the police. I drove here. They wouldn’t let me in at first till I proved who I was; then they told me she was staying with you.’ His voice sounded unsteady. ‘I’ll come straight down.’

‘She’s not supposed to see anyone,’ Sally said. ‘Doctor Graham phoned and I wouldn’t let him come. Richard – are you there? Hullo – oh, good. I thought we’d been cut off – Is it very bad down there – the papers have been too horrible.…’

‘It’s unbelievable,’ he said. ‘Nothing’s been touched; they’re going through the house, photographing and looking for fingerprints. God Almighty, when I think what might have happened – I’ll be with you as soon as I can. Tell her I’m coming. Is she very shaken?’

‘Yes, rather,’ Sally Foster said. ‘I think she’ll be perfectly all right by tomorrow. It’ll do her good to see you. We’ll give you some lunch.’ She had no sooner hung up than the phone went again.

It was a reporter from a large provincial newspaper. Sally cut right through his conversation. ‘No comment. Sorry.’ She put the telephone down. After a moment’s thought, she took it off the cradle. Nigel had done his morning telephoning; owners wanting to natter about their horses would just have to wait till the evening.

She went in to see if Isabel was awake, and to tell her Richard was on his way. Personally she didn’t dislike Richard; he wasn’t in the least like his father, and to her that was a recommendation. She had never got on with Charles Schriber; Nigel had liked him and spoke of him as a good sportsman and a great authority on bloodstock, which was true. But it went with an autocratic, ruthless personality which aroused Sally’s antagonism. She wasn’t impressed by his charm, and she was always on the defensive with him, guarding her husband’s interests. She had hidden her feelings, because as a trainer’s wife, she was bound to entertain his owners and keep the social ball in the air. It was easy with Isabel, whom she thought very nice, and if she had moved on to her stepson, that was really none of their business. She sat on the bed, a cup of coffee in her hand. Isabel looked less pale.

‘I’m so sorry about this, Sally,’ she said. ‘I’m quite able to get up. I know how busy you are here, and I told the doctor I should go to a hotel.’

‘Certainly not –’ Sally patted her hand. ‘You’ve had a very nasty experience, and the rest will do you good. You’re staying with us till the end of the week and that’s decided. Nigel would be terribly hurt if you moved out and so would I. After all, we’ve got your horse to think about, and that’ll take your mind off things. So no more arguments, please!’

‘All right,’ Isabel said. She felt a continuous tremor in her limbs, too slight to be noticed, but evidence that she was far less recovered than she tried to pretend. The room was warm and comfortable and the practical approach of Sally Foster encouraged her to relax and let her nervous system settle.

And Richard was coming. That, more than anything, had helped her fight off the sickened, shivering reaction to the night before. If she allowed herself to think of Mrs Jennings she began to cry. If she remembered, against her will, that nightmare moment when her bedroom door burst open and she woke to see the figures of police come crowding in, then the tremor in her body became uncontrollable.

‘You’re not supposed to have visitors,’ Sally was saying, ‘but I didn’t think that would apply to him. Your friend Andrew Graham wanted to speak to you, but I fobbed him off till tomorrow.’

Isabel looked up quickly. ‘Thanks, Sally. I don’t want to talk to him. Oh, I shall be so glad to see Richard!’

‘He sounded very upset,’ Sally said. ‘He’s certainly fond of you –’

‘Yes,’ Isabel said quietly. ‘I know he is.’

Sally Foster glanced at her. ‘I thought it was going to be Tim,’ she said.

‘I’m afraid Tim thought so too,’ she answered. ‘Where is he – out with Nigel?’

‘They’ll both be in for a drink before lunch; he’ll be in to see you then. And you’re staying where you are – no nonsense about getting up today! We can come in and drink round your bedside.’

When Richard came into the room neither of them spoke. He came and took her in his arms and held her for some moments. She felt his hand stroking her hair, and she found herself crying and crying, as the pent-up shock was finally released. He sat on the bed and let her exhaust herself, murmuring quietly to her, soothing her gently till it was over and she was calm.

‘It’s all right, darling,’ he said, repeating Tim’s words of the night before. ‘It’s out now, and you don’t have to talk about it again. Just say you forgive me for being such a selfish bloody fool and leaving you alone. Just say that, please.’

He was holding both her hands and his head was bent, so that his face was partly hidden from her. His grip was so tight it was painful. She saw a thick dressing round his right palm and over the back of the hand itself. And she remembered the shattered whisky glass.

She freed herself. ‘Your hand is worse,’ she said. She turned it palm upward and there was a stain on the dressing.

‘It keeps on bleeding,’ he said. ‘I was drunk last night; I haven’t been so drunk for years. I woke up in Roy Farrant’s house; I don’t know what I did, but I’ve opened the cut again. I don’t even remember going to Hampstead, or seeing him or anything.’

‘Why did you do that?’ she asked him. He raised his head; his eyes were bloodshot and heavily ringed.

‘Because I thought I’d lost you,’ he said. ‘I thought Graham had won. You pitied me, Isabel, and that meant you believed him.’

‘I love you,’ Isabel said. ‘And that’s all that matters. And I don’t care what Andrew Graham said. I shall never think of it again.’

‘I want to tell you something,’ Richard said slowly. ‘But not now and not here. It’s going to take time. When can you come home with me?’

She put her arms around his neck.

‘In a few days.’

‘Why not tomorrow – you’ll be up by tomorrow. You don’t have to stay here; you can move into my flat.’

‘I can’t,’ Isabel said. ‘The Fosters would be very hurt if I just walked out. I said I’d stay till the end of the week. They’ve been marvellous, Richard. I’ll come with you at the weekend – Sunday.’

He kissed her suddenly, urgently.

‘It’s a long time to wait. Let me talk to Nigel: he won’t mind.’

For a moment she hesitated. She wanted to go with him. But deep inside her there was a residue of fear, left over from that last evening at Coolbridge, when unease had crept over her in the drawing room and the sensation of hidden eyes watching from the darkness had brought her close to panic. Panic that had lasted, and proved to be horribly intuitive. There had been a watcher outside; waiting to break in and steal, prepared to murder if he was disturbed. And no ordinary thief. She knew enough from the police questioning to guess that it was a ferocious crime, and at the back of her mind, hazy with the injection of the tranquillizer she had been given, the word ‘slaughterhouse’ floated in the doctor’s shocked voice, whispering to Tim. Richard’s arms were round her, his mouth was pressing kisses on her lips, her cheeks, the side of her neck, his voice was murmuring to her, urging her to come and stay with him, to let him take care of her.

The fear was growing; the trembling had begun again and the sense of nightmare was creeping back. She was safe with the Fosters, safe in this cheerful bedroom, with Sally and Nigel, and all the bustle of preparation for the Derby. Outside there was menace, danger which she couldn’t see. The arrow that flies by night; the watcher in the trees.

It was a nervous reaction and she told herself so, angrily. But it won. ‘I’m not up to going yet,’ she said. ‘I need the few days here. I’ll come back with you on Sunday.’

He kissed her gently, signifying his agreement.

‘All right, darling. I was just being possessive. I’ll take a room somewhere near. I’ll even put up with the non-stop horse talk, as long as I can see you.’

She felt intense relief. And then disquiet again.

‘Why did you go to Roy Farrant’s – I tried to ring you several times last night. I was so unhappy the way we’d left each other – why did you go to him?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I went out on the town. I went to the Claremont and played backgammon and I lost. Then I went on somewhere else; I can’t remember where. I was just drinking; I didn’t want to think or feel anything, and I suppose I got myself to Roy because I used to go there sometimes. Couple of years ago I was in a bad way and I stayed with him.’

‘Tim says he bribed Barry Lawrence to put the Falcon into the rails at Longchamp,’ she said slowly. ‘I didn’t mention it to you when I got home because we had that stupid misunderstanding and I was too upset – he got that jockey killed – and Tim says he bribed that wretched stable lad to try and maim the Falcon in his box. Did you know he was like that?’

Richard Schriber looked down at her.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t come as a surprise. Racing is a rough and dirty business. But you choose to stay in it, so you mustn’t complain. You want to win the Derby, darling. So does he. So did Charles, and I promise you, he would have done exactly what Roy did and more, if it helped to get him past the post first.’

She didn’t answer because there was a knock at the door and Nigel Foster put his head round. He looked at them both and his face creased into a wide grin. He came round the door, with a bottle of champagne in his hand. Tim and Sally were behind him.

‘We’ve come to see the patient,’ he announced. ‘Sally says we can come in if we’re very quiet and don’t stay long. Your Monkstown colt has just arrived, Isabel. I’ve got us a bottle of Dom Perignon ’64 to celebrate.’

The following day the detective in charge of the murder case drove down to Lambourn to see Isabel. Nigel tried to stop him, but he insisted with a firmness that was only just polite. He quite understood that Mrs Schriber was recovering from a nasty shock, and he would do his best not to upset her, but there were a few more questions he felt she might be able to answer. It was hardly necessary, the brisk voice said into Nigel’s ear, to remind them that an innocent woman had been brutally murdered.

Nigel showed the detective inspector, accompanied by a sergeant, into the sitting room. The two men were scrupulously polite. They wiped their shoes as they came into the entrance hall, put their hats on the table, and called Tim sir. The senior officer was a man in his late forties, stocky and blue-jowled, with glasses, neatly dressed in a grey suit and striped tie. The younger was a slight man, with thick fair hair brushed back, wearing a tweed sports jacket and casual trousers. He carried a black briefcase.

There was nothing about either of them to suggest that they were policemen, except that air of cool authority which knows it doesn’t need a uniform.

‘Mrs Schriber’s inside,’ Tim said. ‘I must emphasize that she’s been under the doctor. I hope you won’t stay too long.’

‘We’ll do our best, sir,’ Inspector Lewis said. ‘Thank you.’

Isabel shook hands with them both. They took seats in the two armchairs facing her, asked if she smoked or minded if they did, and the junior officer opened his briefcase, handed his superior a file, and prepared a pad on which to take notes.

Isabel felt nervous in the beginning; but the two men were calm and reassuring, the senior was particularly gentle in his manner. The first questions were prefaced by an apology; he wanted to check back on her earlier statement on the night of the murder. It was just routine and to make sure he hadn’t overlooked anything. Isabel found her hands gripping together as she listened to the young sergeant read her own words back to her. Her evening spent at Coolbridge, dining alone, taking coffee in the drawing room; Mrs Jennings offering to stay later than usual and unpack. As she listened her mind was racing backwards, reliving that evening, the memory of that hour spent in the drawing room was bringing back the sense of blind unreasoning fear.

‘What’s the matter, Mrs Schriber – is something upsetting you?’ The voice recalled her. The young man had stopped reading. They were both watching her, expectantly.

‘I was terrified,’ Isabel said slowly. ‘I was alone in the drawing room after dinner and the curtains weren’t drawn. I had the strongest feeling that I was being watched. It was a dreadful night, raining hard and pitch dark. I knew it was just nerves, but I got up and pulled the curtains. I had the same feeling when I went upstairs to my bedroom. I remember looking at the door and realizing for the first time that there wasn’t a key. It was quite irrational; I’d spent weeks alone down there and never been frightened before. But I was then.’

‘You didn’t see or hear anything when you were downstairs?’ Inspector Lewis asked her quietly. ‘Nothing to make you think there was an intruder hiding outside? You’d never had telephone calls when the person just hung up when you answered? No callers or travelling salesmen? Nothing at all to account for this instinct of yours?’

‘No,’ Isabel said. ‘Nothing like that. Mrs Jennings did mention someone had come round while I was away. They had heard the house was for rent. But it was nothing sinister. It was just a nervous feeling on my part.’

‘It was more than that,’ he said. ‘It was very intuitive. You were dead right, Mrs Schriber. There was someone outside those windows, hiding under the trees, watching you.’

The room was quite silent; neither of the officers moved or said anything. Isabel looked at the detective.

‘How do you know?’

‘Because we found footmarks in the earth round the trees,’ he said. ‘Bare feet, like the prints in the house. Whoever killed your housekeeper was lurking out there in the darkness, waiting to break in. Mrs Jennings usually left around nine, didn’t she?’

‘Yes. She stayed late that night as a favour.’

‘So her husband said. He rang up to ask if she wanted him to come and fetch her as it was raining. She said no, she’d be home in a few minutes. If he’d gone to get her, Mrs Schriber, she’d have been alive today.’

‘I’d like a cigarette,’ Isabel said. He sprang up immediately, offered her one of his, lit it for her, holding the flame longer than usual.

‘Mrs Schriber,’ he said. ‘I don’t like doing this, believe me. I know it’s very unpleasant for you, and I promised your friend Mr Ryan I’d be as quick as I could. But this is a terrible murder. Not just a robbery with violence, but a really horrible murder. Your housekeeper was literally beaten to death. Her head and face were smashed to pulp with a two-foot spanner. And I am beginning to think that the man who did it was not just an ordinary thief who was surprised in the hall, about to nick the silver.’

He sat down again and waited. Years of dealing with criminals of all varieties had completely hardened his sensibilities. He could see that Isabel Schriber was feeling sick and he didn’t want her to cave in until he’d got everything he could out of her. And to do that he was going to shock her even more.

‘This was no ordinary thief,’ he said. ‘I’ll admit, we took the view that it was an attempted burglary because you’re a rich woman and it was a big country house where jewellery and valuables would be found. But no professional thief takes off his shoes. He might wear tennis shoes, to creep about, or rubbers, but he doesn’t go barefoot. And he doesn’t slosh bucketfuls of water round, just to wash his feet.’

He paused. ‘It was a very messy killing,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen a number of murders, Mrs Schriber, but I’ve never seen so much blood before. It was everywhere in that hall. Over the walls and the drawing room door, pools of it on the floor. Whoever killed Mrs Jennings must have been spattered from head to foot. He couldn’t have travelled a yard in that state. And he used a car because we found tyre marks in a field outside the gates. So I reckon he wasn’t just barefoot. He was naked, Mrs Schriber. Stark naked, but wearing gloves. And that means he went in there to commit murder. He washed himself clean in your kitchen.’

‘I don’t believe it.’ She heard her own voice from a distance. She couldn’t take her eyes off that square face, with the blue shadows round the chin, and the hard little eyes behind the glasses.

He had conjured up an image of such horror that she couldn’t accept it. A naked, bloodstained figure, wielding a heavy spanner, while all around the blood flew, drenching the walls and the floor. And then padding away in the darkness, to wash the reek and stain away. She had left the house through the kitchen. She remembered that floor, slippery with water, and the pinkish colour under the strip lighting.

‘You said it was burglary.’

‘I know we did,’ he agreed. ‘At first sight. But we think differently now. We think someone went into that house to murder the woman he saw in the drawing room. A woman he knew to be living there alone, sleeping alone. We have a maniac on our hands. A homicidal murderer. He must have watched that house because he knew your habits and your housekeeper’s. And he knew his way about. It’s a horrible thing to say, Mrs Schriber, but if he hadn’t chanced on Mrs Jennings you’d have woken up to find him standing by your bed.’

It was a warm afternoon, with sunshine flooding through the open windows. Isabel was freezing cold.

‘Is there anyone,’ his voice said, slightly confidential in a lower tone, ‘anyone at all who might want to kill you?’

‘No,’ Isabel said. ‘No. You can’t believe a thing like that.…’

‘We’re trying to find a reason,’ he explained. ‘Otherwise we’ve just got to look for a madman. And he’ll do it again. There’ll be another woman in a lonely house or a flat. I want you to think of anything, anything, however trivial or unrelated it may seem, and tell me, because it just might be a clue. Like that feeling of being watched. You didn’t mention that when I first saw you. You were too shaken up. But things come back. People remember. That’s what I want you to do, Mrs Schriber. Think back from the time you moved into that house. Mr Jennings also said there was a man who called there one afternoon when you were in London. His wife told him about it; he said he’d heard the house was for sale. It’s probably nothing. But we’ve got to follow up everything, every clue. We’ve got to catch this man. I’m going to leave you in peace now. But just try and think back, and if you remember anything – anything at all … let me know.’ He was holding his hand out to her, and the pressure was surprisingly limp for such a decisive person. She got up as the two men went out.

‘Good afternoon,’ they said and closed the door. She heard Tim’s voice outside, with other voices.

She found a cigarette in her handbag and lit it. Her hands were quite steady. There was a second door, leading out into the back corridor. She didn’t want to see Tim or Nigel or anyone. She opened the door and went through into the passage; there was a door at the end, leading to the Fosters’ swimming pool and garden. She walked out quickly, closing it, and stood for a moment in the sunshine. There were chairs and a swing seat, and a portable barbecue by the changing rooms. Isabel walked towards the swing seat; the sun was quite hot, the air very still.

The sense of inner chill was still with her. She sat on the sofa seat and swung herself to and fro, her face turned up towards the sun.

Cold with fear. The basis of most clichés was solid truth. She was shivering in a temperature of close on seventy degrees, because her nervous system was reacting to the stimulus of fear and horror.

Coolbridge, the lovely manor house set in its splendid gardens, had symbolized her search for security and identity after Charles’s death. It was her first step towards breaking the links his personality had forged around her. She had sometimes described the house as having a dream-like atmosphere; so still and peaceful with the serenity of great age. Now it was a dream transformed into a nightmare, a place where evil had stalked naked and red, and the victim could so easily have been herself. Did anyone want to kill her? She remembered that question, asked so deceptively as if it weren’t really important. And her own answer. No. An answer that came from utter conviction. No. She had been sitting with her eyes closed. Now they opened, and the glare of the sun stung them to tears. No one had any reason to kill her any more than the unfortunate housekeeper whose kindness in staying late had made her the victim. If that tough, smug policeman was right, then a lunatic, possessed with a desire to kill, had wandered into the district and fastened on Coolbridge and its lonely occupant as the object of his mania. It was an idea of sickening horror, but it ended there.

She was feeling warmer. There was nothing more to remember, no point in playing back the details of that night. It was time she took up responsibility for herself, and repaid the Fosters for their kindness, Tim for his solicitude, by putting what had happened where it belonged. As a dreadful incident in her life which was best forgotten. She was not going to hide by the swimming pool, indulging herself with fears. She was going to walk round the yard and see the colt she had bought in Ireland, which had arrived yesterday. She was going to talk about that at dinner and forbid anyone to mention the police. And on Sunday, as she had promised, she was going back with Richard. Ten days later, on Wednesday 5 June, she would be at the Derby to see the Silver Falcon win.