"What do you want from life?" I asked my image.
"I don't know," it answered.
What I really wanted I knew, in my heart, I couldn't have. Flying an airplane with tin legs, even a Spitfire, was a totally different ball game to commanding an infantry platoon. The very word infantry implied a foot soldier. I suppose I could ask for a transfer to a tank regiment, but even then, the "tankies" became foot soldiers if and when their carriage lost a track. I could hardly say, "Sorry, chaps, you'll have to carry on fighting without me," as I sat there with my false leg waiting for a lift, now, could I?
So what were the reasons I had so enjoyed being an infantry platoon commander? And could I find the same things elsewhere?
I went back to my room and back to bed, leaving my prosthesis standing alone by the bedroom wall as if on sentry duty.
But sleep didn't come easily.
For the first time since my injury I had faced the true reality of my future, and I didn't like it.
Why me? I asked, yet again. Why had it been me who'd been injured?
Yes, I was angry with the Taliban, and also with life in general and the destiny it had dealt me, but almost more so, I was frustrated and fed up with myself.
Why had I allowed this to happen? Why? Why?
And what could I do now?
Why me?
I lay awake for a long while, trying to find solutions to the unanswerable puzzles of my mind.
In the morning, I set to the more immediate task at hand: identifying the blackmailer, recovering the papers and my mother's money, and making things good with the tax man. It sounded deceptively simple. But where did I start?
With Roderick Ward, the con man accountant. He had been the architect of this misery, so discovering his whereabouts, alive or dead, must be the first goal. Where had he come from? Was he actually qualified, or was that a lie too? Were there co-conspirators, or did he work alone? There were so many questions. Now it was time for answers.
I called Isabella Warren from the phone in the drawing room.
"Oh, hello," she said. "We're still speaking, then?"
"Why shouldn't we be?" I asked.
"No reason," she said. "Just thought you were disappointed."
I had been, but if I didn't speak to people who disappointed me, then I'd hardly speak to anyone.
"What are you up to today?" I asked her.
"Nothing," she said, "as usual."
Did I detect a touch of irritation?
"Do you fancy helping me with something?"
"No bonus payments involved?"
"No," I said. "I promise. And none will even be requested."
"I don't mind you asking," she said with a laugh. "As long as you don't mind being refused."
I wouldn't ask, though, I thought, because I did mind being refused.
"Can you pick me up at ten?" I asked.
"I thought you said you'd never let me drive you again." She was still laughing.
"I'll chance it," I said. "I need to go into Newbury, and the parking is dreadful."
"Can't you park anywhere," she said, "with that leg?"
"I haven't applied for a disabled permit," I said. "And I don't intend being qualified to."
"What do you mean?"
"I want to be able to walk as well as the next man," I said. "I don't want to be identified as 'disabled.' "
"But parking is so much easier with a blue badge. You can park almost anywhere."
"No matter," I said. "I don't have one today, and I need a driver. Are you on?"
"Definitely," she said. "I'll be there at ten."
I went out into the kitchen to find my mother coming in from the stables.
"Good morning," I said to her, still employing my friendlier tone from the previous evening.
"What's good about it?" she said.
"We're both alive," I said.
She gave me a look that made me wonder if she had thought about not being alive this morning. Was suicide really on her mind?
"We will sort out this problem," I said in reassurance. "You've done the hard bit by admitting it to me."
"I didn't have any choice, did I?" she said angrily. "You snooped through my office."
"Please don't be annoyed with me," I said in my most calming way. "I'm here to help you."
Her shoulders drooped and she slumped onto a chair at the kitchen table.
"I'm tired," she said. "I don't feel I can carry on."
"What, with the training?"
"With life," she said.
"Now, don't be ridiculous."
"I'm not," she said. "I've spent most of the night thinking about it. If I died it would solve all the problems."
"That's crazy," I said. "What would Derek do, for a start?"
She placed her arms on the table and rested her head on them. "It would clear all the problems for him."
"No, it wouldn't," I said with certainty. "It would just create more. The training business would still have to pay the tax it owes. The house and stables would then definitely have to be sold. You dying would leave Derek homeless and alone as well as broke. Is that what you want?"
She looked up at me. "I don't know what I want."
How strange, I thought. I had said the same thing to myself in the night. Neither of us was happy with the futures we saw staring us in the face.
"Don't you want to go on training?" I asked.
She didn't reply but placed her head back down on her arms.
"Assuming the tax problems were solved and the blackmailer was stopped, would you still want to go on training?"
"I suppose so," she said without looking up. "It's all I know."
"And you are so good at it," I said, trying my best to raise her spirits. "But tell me, how did you stop Pharmacist winning on Saturday?"
She sat back in the chair and almost smiled. "I gave him a tummy ache."
"But how?" I asked.
"I fed him some rotten food."
"Moldy oats?" I asked.
"No," she said. "Green sprouting potatoes."
"Green potatoes! How on earth did you think of green potatoes?"
"It had worked before," she said. "When he called the first time and said that Scientific had to lose, I was at my wit's end of what to do. If I'd over-galloped him everyone in the stable would know." She gulped. "I had to do something. I was desperate. But what could I give him? I had some old potatoes that had gone green, and they were moldy and sprouting. I remembered one of my dogs being ill after eating a green-skinned potato, so I peeled them all and then liquidized the peel. I simply poured it down Scientific's throat and hoped it would make him ill."
"How on earth did you get him to swallow it? It must be so bitter."
"I simply tied his head up high using the hay-net hook and used a tube to pour it down into his stomach."
"And it worked?" I asked.
"Seemed to, although the poor old boy was really very ill afterwards. Horses can't vomit, so the stuff had to go right through him. I was really scared that he'd die. So I reduced the amount the next time."
"And it still worked?"
"Yes. But I was so frightened about Pharmacist that I used more again that time. I was worried the potatoes weren't green and rotten enough. I'd had to buy some more."
"Do you have any of them left?" I asked her.
"They're in the boiler room, with the light on," she said. "I read somewhere that high temperatures and bright light make potatoes go green quicker."
"And how many times have you done this altogether?" I asked her.
"Only six times," she said, almost apologetically. "But Perfidio won even though I'd given him the potato peel. It didn't seem to affect him one bit."
"Did you give it to Oregon at Newbury last week?" Oregon had been one of the horses that Gordon Rambler had written about in the Racing Post.
She nodded.
I walked through and opened the boiler room by the back door. The light was indeed on, and there were six neat rows of potatoes sitting on top of the boiler, all of them turning nicely green, some with sprouting eyes.
Would the British Horseracing Authority ever have thought of dope-testing for liquidized green, sprouting, rotten potato peel?