Come to Grief by Dick Francis Page B

to an irate newspaperman at his home in Surrey.
    Kevin Mills yelled, “Where the hell are you? They say all anyone gets on the hotline now is your answering machine, saying you’ call back. About fifty people have phoned. They’re all rambling.”
    “Ramblers,” I said.
    “What?”
    I explained.
    “It’s supposed to be my day off,” he grumbled. “Can you meet me in the pub? What time? Five o‘clock?”
    “Make it seven,” I suggested.
    “It’s no longer a Pump exclusive, I suppose you realize?” he demanded. “But save yourself for me alone, will you, buddy? Give me the inside edge?”
    “It’s yours.”.
    I closed my phone and warned Betty Bracken to expect the media on her doorstep.
    “Oh, no!”
    “Your colt is one too many.”
    “Archie!” She turned to her brother for help with a beseeching gesture of the hand and, as if for the thousandth time in their lives, he responded with comfort and competent solutions.
    “My dear Betty,” he said, “if you can’t bear to face the press, simply don’t be here.”
    “But . . . ,” she wavered.
    “I shouldn’t waste time,” I said.
    The brother gave me an appraising glance. He himself was of medium height, lean of body, gray in color, a man to get lost in a crowd. His eyes alone were notable: brown, bright and aware. I had an uncomfortable feeling that, far beyond having his sister phone me, he knew a good deal about me.
    “We haven’t actually met,” he said to me civilly. “I’m Betty’s brother. I’m Archie Kirk.”
    I said, “How do you do,” and I shook his hand.

5
    Betty Bracken, Archie Kirk and I returned to the house, again circumnavigating the trash cans. Archie Kirk’s car was parked outside the manor’s front door, not far from my own.
    The lady of the manor refusing to leave without her husband, the uncomprehending old man, still saying “Eh?” was helped with great solicitude across the hall, through the front door and into an ancient Daimler, an Establishment-type conservative-minded political statement if ever I saw one.
    My own Mercedes, milk-coffee colored, stood beyond: and what, I thought astringently, was it saying about me? Rich enough, sober enough, preferring reliability to flash? All spot on, particularly the last. And speed, of course.
    Betty spooned her beloved into the back seat of the Daimler and folded herself in beside him, patting him gently. Touch, I supposed, had replaced speech as their means of communication. Archie Kirk took his place behind the wheel as natural commander-in-chief and drove away, leaving for me the single short parting remark, “Let me know.”
    I nodded automatically. Let him know what? Whatever I learned, I presumed.
    I returned to the drawing room. The stolid tenants, on their feet, were deciding to return to their own wing of the house. The dogs snoozed. The cross aunt crossly demanded Esther’s presence. Esther, on duty at eight and not a moment before, come ramblers, police or whatever, appeared forbiddingly in the doorway, a small, frizzy-haired worker, clear about her “rights.”
    I left the two quarrelsome women pitching into each other and went in search of Jonathan. What a household! The media were welcome to it. I looked but couldn’t find Jonathan, so I just had to trust that his boorishness would keep him well away from inquisitive reporters with microphones. The Land-Rover he’d seen might have brought the machete to the colt, and I wanted, if I could, to find it before its driver learned there was a need for rapid concealment.
    The first thing in my mind was the colt himself. I started the car and set off north to Lambourn, driving thoughtfully, wondering what was best to do concerning the police. I had had varying experiences with the force, some good, some rotten. They did not, in general, approve of freelance investigators like myself, and could be downright obstructive if I appeared to be working on something they felt belonged to them alone. Sometimes,