‘It’s good to see you again, Patrick,’ he said, as he lined up two beers on the counter.
Blue Reed ordered a second round and, cursing himself for being a hypocrite and a traitor, proposed a toast:
‘Here’s to….’
The name which was always in his mind stuck on his lips.
‘To Paula!’ exclaimed Francis joyfully, raising his glass.
The two men drank, each with a broad smile on his lips, although the sincerity of Patrick’s was highly questionable.
Francis, who had emptied his glass in a single gulp, made a confession:
‘I owe you everything. I owe you… Paula.’
‘I don’t see what there is to thank me about,’ protested Patrick, starting to choke.
‘Paula told me the role you played in our marriage. She admitted she’d been indecisive. Without your advice….’
‘All I did was—.’
‘Whatever it was, I shan’t forget that it’s to you that I owe my happiness.’
Pierced by a fiery sword, Patrick said nothing and lit a cigarette.
‘It’s been two years since we were married,’ Francis continued, ‘and two years since we last saw you, Patrick. You should have contacted us, Paula would have been so happy… Her parents gave you our new address, I imagine?’
“Two years since we last saw each other isn’t quite correct,” thought Patrick bitterly, thinking of White Camellia. He’d seen Francis two weeks ago, in the north of London, while he had under surveillance one of the department heads of the Cope Refrigerating Company, whose wife suspected him of adultery. He vividly recalled the polar equipment he’d had to wear in order to spend a few hours in the refrigeration unit, in order to snap photographs of the department head and his secretary engaging in a passionate embrace, despite the Siberian temperature. He’d almost caught pneumonia. It just so happened that afterwards he’d seen Francis getting into his car, but since he was pretty sure Francis hadn’t seen him, he decided not to bring it up.
‘It’s been quite a while since I left Cornwall for the capital. I thought about you a lot, obviously, but you know how it is. What with work and everything else, there’s no time left for other things.’
Francis nodded his agreement and asked:
‘By the way, what do you do?’
After Patrick explained, Francis remained thoughtful.
‘I don’t suppose you ever met Harris Thorne?’ he asked eventually.
‘No, never.’
‘Well, you won’t be able to do it now, because he died last year.’
Patrick was about to feign surprise, but changed his mind. He clapped his hand to his forehead and exclaimed:
‘What was I thinking? Of course I’d heard about it. Either someone told me or I read about it in the newspapers. Jolly hard luck on poor Sarah… How’s she dealing with it?’
‘Pretty well, actually. She’s just got engaged to Mike Meadows, the village doctor.’
Once again, Patrick had to stop and think. It was a delicate situation, for he could hardly pretend not to have known Meadows. He decided to follow the old adage: attack is the best form of defence:
‘If I remember correctly, Harris Thorne died in rather strange circumstances, didn’t he?’
‘Exactly, and I wanted to talk to you about it. As a detective, I imagine you’d find it interesting.’
Just as Francis finished his account of the facts, two men seated not far away called out to him. He went over and introduced Patrick to them. The conversation ranged over other subjects and the four of them decided to have a bar meal there. From the following discussion, which was exclusively about horse racing, Patrick gleaned that Johnny and David were avid punters and that Francis also seemed well versed in the subject.
There followed much friendly banter, wherein Johnny and David chided Francis for his timid betting habits. ‘How can you win anything if you risk nothing?’ asked David, at which Johnny shot Francis an amused look.
‘Actually, our student made a big bet yesterday, but the sly fellow didn’t think to tell us about it. Isn’t that so, Francis? Don’t deny it, I saw you at the window. What did you win?’
‘To tell you the truth, I haven’t dared to look. Patrick, can I borrow your newspaper?’
He thumbed rapidly through the paper to reach the sporting pages. In the silence which followed, his companions saw him go pale. He plunged his hand into his inside pocket and brought out a ticket, which he examined at length before placing it on the table. Johnny and David looked at each other and leant over to inspect it. They recoiled in astonishment and stared at Francis.
‘Little Joe,’ murmured David. ‘He put twenty pounds on Little Joe.’
‘Which was at thirty to one,’ added Johnny, almost falling off his chair.
The happy event was duly celebrated and the four of them left the pub at closing time. After saying goodbye to the two punters, Patrick and Francis stopped by the tote office to collect the latter’s winnings. Because Francis’s train didn’t leave until six o’clock, the pair decided to take a stroll in St. James’s Park first.
‘I can’t believe it,’ said Patrick, sitting down on a bench. ‘Winning such a huge sum in so short a time… I’d love to see Paula’s face when you tell her.’
Francis sat down beside him without a word. He took off his jacket, loosened his tie and looked thoughtfully into the distance.
‘What’s up, old boy? You don’t look like someone who’s just won six hundred pounds.’
‘If you only knew how I won it….’
‘By betting on a horse, and as far as I know, that’s not illegal. Anyone would think you’ve got something else on your conscience.’
‘It’s not that,’ replied Francis, shaking his head. ‘Just now I told you about Harris’s brother. He calls himself a clairvoyant. I don’t really believe in that stuff, but since my brother-in-law’s death, which he predicted, I can’t dismiss it completely.’
‘Pure luck.’
Francis smiled sceptically and took his time lighting a cigarette.
‘Pure luck,’ he repeated. ‘I’m not so sure. It wasn’t the first time he announced an event which came to pass. Besides, he had a great-uncle with the same gift.’
As they walked to the station, Patrick listened to Francis’s account of the life of great-uncle Harvey, which he knew already. The end of the recital took place on the departure platform because Francis had added all the strange events which had occurred since their arrival in Hatton Manor.
‘And it’s the same Brian,’ he concluded, ‘who as recently as last week told me I would soon collect a large sum as the result of a bet.’
‘It’s scarcely believable,’ said Patrick, lost in thought and seemingly unaware of the voyagers rushing past.
Francis appeared troubled.
‘That’s not all. He also predicted an incident, a sort of accident, I’m not sure precisely what. That’s why I’m not exactly jumping for joy about…’ He tapped his inside pocket. ‘What does the great detective think?’
‘To be honest, there’s nothing to say, except to be careful… You never know.’
The sharp blow of a whistle made them jump.
Francis, smiling again, extended his hand to his companion:
‘Don’t worry, Patrick. There’s a lucky star looking after me and you know her.’
‘Ah! Paula,’ replied Patrick, looking downcast.
‘Promise you’ll come and see us.’
‘Of course.’
‘I hope I’ll still be there to greet you!’ exclaimed Francis with a roar of laughter, before turning on his heel and climbing into the compartment.
Patrick stayed to watch the train leave and Francis make a last wave from the window, then retraced his steps. His mind was full of questions. He ordered a cup of coffee at the station buffet and sat down to reconsider the plan he’d been hatching for weeks, if not months.