The Silver Falcon (29 page)

‘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.'