Declared Dead

We sat down to an enormous helping of bacon and eggs and Tom tried hard to make me laugh by reading out loud from the morning's edition of the Sportsman. Staring out from the front page was a picture of yours truly, grinning in her racing silks, and beside it the banner headline proclaimed: 'PRYDE'S VICTORY COMES BEFORE A FALL'

'What a dreadful pun!' said Tom. 'I can't believe they actually pay someone to write this rubbish.'

'It's probably one of James Thackeray's. He loves that kind of thing.'

Tom chuckled. 'That clown! The only literary thing about him is his surname. Listen to this piece of purple prose:

"Yet again the Blue Riband of racing produced a sensational climax to the festival meeting. Under an inspired, if not always elegant, ride from dashing professional Victoria Pryde, Cartwheel put his nose in front on the line to rob Irish hotpot, Pride of Limerick, of victory. But the drama didn't end there. No sooner were they past the post and disappointed Irish punters heading for the bar, than a stewards' inquiry was announced. Thousands of anxious racegoers held their breath and their betting slips for what seemed an eternity as the stewards, led by Brigadier-General Allsopp, decided whether Pryde should keep the race and earn herself a place in the history books as the first woman to ride the winner of the Gold Cup. Irish maestro Eamon Brennan, rider of Pride of Limerick, was confident that the placings would be reversed, claiming that Victoria's inability to keep a straight line had cost his mount the Cup. The stewards thought otherwise, and all those who snapped up the generous 5-1 on offer on Cartwheel were soon celebrating their good judgment. Unfortunately for Victoria, her joy was short-lived. Returning to change after being interviewed on television, she was struck to the ground by an unidentified man and, as a result, left the course nursing a cut lip. The police are investigating the assault, which they believe to have been committed by a disgruntled punter."

'Disgruntled punter!' Tom put the paper down and snorted. 'On that basis, there must be at least two million suspects. I'm surprised to see that Cartwheel started as long as 5-1.'

'I suppose it must have been because of all that money on Pride of Limerick. You know how the Irish pile in when their blood's up.'

Tom nodded. 'I suppose so, but even then you don't tend to find the bookies being that much more generous about the opposition. Sometimes I think we're in the wrong business. Let's see what the betting report says.' He turned to one of the inside pages of the paper, which always carried a short summary of the betting on every race. 'Here, look at this. "One of the features of yesterday's race was the generous odds laid on Cartwheel. One rails bookmaker is rumoured to have laid the horse to lose over a quarter of a million pounds." There's one person, then, who doesn't have you as his pin-up.'

I smiled nervously and wondered whether there could be any connection between that unnamed bookmaker, my less than happy husband and the previous night's phone call. It was a subject that for the moment I wanted to put out of my mind.

I had been booked to ride a novice chaser for Ralph Elgar that afternoon at Lingfield and with the heavy overnight rain there was a chance he had decided not to risk him. I asked Tom if I could give Ralph a ring and find out what was going on.

He waved me to the phone: 'It's all yours. Tell him you've decided to spend the day with a real trainer.'

Ralph answered almost before the tone had rung out. 'Victoria?' he boomed. 'Thank God! Where the hell are you? I've been trying to get hold of you all morning. Your husband claimed to have no idea where you were and gave me an earful for waking him up so early.'

'I'm sorry. I'm down at Tom Radcliffe's, doing a bit of schooling.'

'It's Edward you should be schooling, in some manners.'

I chose to ignore the jibe. 'Is Lingfield still on?' I asked.

'The racing is, but Mainbrace isn't running. I've checked with the Clerk of the Course and as the going's so heavy we're allowed to withdraw without incurring a penalty. I've discussed it with the owner and she's not prepared to take the chance. That means you've got a day off and if you want my advice, and you're going to get it anyway, you won't spend it with that rascal Radcliffe.'

'Don't be so cruel. He's very nice really. In fact, I'm going off any minute to see a friend in London.'

'London? That's the last place you'd catch me spending a free day. Ah well, it takes all sorts. Make sure you look after yourself: you know you're my favourite girl jockey!'

'I know, and I'm also your only girl jockey!'

I put the phone down and smiled at Tom. 'Good old Ralph. I owe him so much.'

'Dirty beast. I reckon he's got a soft spot for you.'

'Who, Ralph? Don't be ridiculous! He's twice my age.'

'When's that ever stopped anybody? By the way, who's this friend you're going to see in London? Is he anyone I know?'

'That'd be telling. But for your information, it's a she.'

* * *

I drove to Didcot station and took the next train to town. An hour and a half later, I was sitting in the lounge of the Waldorf Hotel in the Aldwych having coffee with Amy Frost, an up and coming solicitor and old school friend. Even though she had been against my marrying Edward and studiously avoided his company ever since, Amy had remained loyal and supportive to me and if anybody could help me now it was going to be she. I told her the whole story, beginning with the Worcester race and ending with the previous night's attack with the boiling water. She listened impassively, even making the occasional note on a jotting pad perched on her shapely crossed legs.

'So there it is,' I concluded. 'My husband's a vicious and egotistical lunatic who is knee-deep in debt and it seems I can't leave him without losing custody of my child. Is he really right when he says the courts would prefer him to look after Freddie rather than me?'

Amy picked up her coffee. 'It's not quite as simple as that. I suppose you've seen the announcement in this morning's papers?'

'No, why? I read the Sportsman on the train and planned how I could do away with my husband without being caught. Weedkiller ought to do the trick.'

'I'll treat that as a joke. It's your beloved father-in-law. He's just been appointed Lord Chief Justice, probably the most important legal job in the land.'

'Is that as bad as it sounds?'

'From your point of view, it couldn't be much worse. I can't somehow see the Lord Pryde, as he will now be called, sitting back and watching his son lose custody of the heir to the family name.'

'Nor can I. I can just picture Lady Pryde turning up in court to say what a decent loving chap her son has always been, forced to stay at home and care for Freddie while I gallivant about the country riding racehorses.'

'Hold on, Victoria, it's not that hopeless. There is some justice in this world. However impressive Edward's pedigree, it'll end up being your word against his and if you can show him to be an outright scoundrel you'll win custody even if his father's the Pope, if you know what I mean.'

'Isn't that a bit of a problem – and I'm not referring to the Pope! I'd have to come clean on all this horse fixing business and surely the courts aren't going to be that attracted to a self-confessed crooked jockey?'

Amy looked genuinely worried. 'I'm afraid you could be right. What's more, if that found its way to the Jockey Club you'd lose your licence and in the present climate might even end up on a conspiracy to defraud charge. I'm sorry I'm not being very helpful.'

'It's not your fault. I didn't expect any miracle solution. What about divorce? Would my position be any different?'

'It could be if you were the complaining party. These days, though, they go in for the consent approach, trying not to talk about blame.'