The boys changed into tidy clothes with only medium grumbles. I changed from navvy to gentleman and with my walking stick clumsily managed to knock to the floor the pile of Carteret's diaries that had been on the table by my bed. Edward obligingly picked them up for me, but held one awkwardly open, its pages tearing halfway along from the spiral wire binding.

'Hey, careful!' I said, taking it from him. 'You'll get me shot.'

I concentrated on closing the book to minimise the damage, and there, leaping out at me from the page, was the name I'd sought for unsuccessfully on the train.

Wilson Yarrow.

'Wilson Yarrow,' Carteret had written, 'that paragon we've had stuffed down our throats, they say he's a fraud!'

The next paragraph didn't explain anything but merely consisted of remarks about a lecture on miniaturisation of s.p.a.ce.

I groaned. 'They says he's a fraud' got me no further. I flicked forward a few pages and came to: There's a rumour going round that Wilson Yarrow won the Epsilon Prize last year with a design he pinched from someone else! Red faces on the staff! They're refusing to discuss it, but perhaps we'll hear less about the brilliant brilliant Wilson Yarrow from now on. Wilson Yarrow from now on.

The Epsilon Prize, I remotely remembered, had been given each year for the most innovative design of a building by a senior student. I hadn't won it. Nor had Carteret. I couldn't remember ever having submitted an entry.

Roger banged on the bus door, stuck his head in and said, 'Ready?' and the Morris family, dressed to impress, trooped out for his inspection.

'Very good,' he approved. He gave us all racecards, entry badges and lunch tickets out of an attache case.

'I don't want to go to the races,' Toby said, suddenly frowning. 'I want to stay here and watch football.'

Roger left the decision to me.

'OK,' I said to my son peaceably. 'Get yourself some lunch, and if you change your mind, walk up later to the office.'

Toby's worried frown turned to a more carefree expression. 'Thanks, Dad,' he said.

'Will he be all right by himself?' Roger asked, driving away with the rest of us, and Edward a.s.sured him, 'Tobe likes likes being by himself. He hides from us often.' being by himself. He hides from us often.'

'He goes off on bike rides,' Christopher said.

Roger's mind switched to the day ahead. 'We've done all we could,' he said dubiously.

'Don't worry so much,' I told him. 'Do you know a rabbet from a raceway?'

'What on earth are you talking about?'

'Testing a theory.'

'Is it a riddle, Dad?' Neil asked.

'Sort of. But don't ask, it hasn't an answer.'

Roger parked the jeep at the end of the office building, where it would be ready if he needed to drive round the course. The boys paired off, Neil with Christopher, Edward and Alan together, with a rallying point near the office door for after the first, third and fifth races.

People were coming: a bus-load of Tote operators, the St John's Ambulance people, the squad of policemen for traffic control and the general prevention of fights in the betting rings, the bookies with their soap boxes and chalk boards, the gate-men, the racecard sellers; and then the jockeys, the sponsors of the races, the Stewards, the trainers, the Strattons and, finally, the racegoers with all bets still to lose.

I stood near the main entrance, watching the faces, seeing on almost all of them the holiday pleasure we'd aimed for. Even the TV crew, invited by Oliver, seemed visibly impressed, cameras whirring outside the big top and within.

Mark drove the Daimler right up to the gate into the paddock so that Marjorie wouldn't have to walk from the car park. She saw me standing not far away, and beckoned as one seldom refused.

Without comment she watched me limp, with the stick, to her side.

'Flags,' she said dubiously.

'Watch the faces.'

She was sold, as I'd thought she would be, by the smiles, the chatter, the hum of excitement. A fairground it might be, but something to talk about, something to give Stratton Park races a more positive face than a bomb-blasted grandstand.

She said, 'The Colonel promised us lunch lunch...'

I showed her the way to the Strattons' own dining room, where she was greeted by the same butler and waitresses who always served her at the races, and obviously she felt instantly at home. She looked around carefully at everything, at the table the caterers had brought and laid with linen and silver, and up at the shimmering tent-ceiling with its soft oblique lighting and hidden air-vents.

'Conrad told me,' she said slowly. 'He said... a miracle. A miracle is saving us. He didn't say it was beautiful beautiful.' She stopped suddenly, swallowing, unable to go on.

'There's champagne for you, I think,' I said, and her butler was already bringing her a gla.s.s on a salver and pulling out a chair for her to sit down a collapsible plastic-seated chair at base, covered now, as were ten round the table, with flowery material tied with neat bows.

Since pleasing Marjorie herself would mean the success of the whole enterprise, nothing we could think of that would make her comfortable had been left undone.

She sat primly, sipping. After a while she said, 'Sit down, Lee. That is, if you can.'

I sat beside her, able by now to do it without openly wincing.

Lee. No longer Mr Morris. Progress.

'Mrs Binsham...'

'You can call me Marjorie... if you like.'

My great old girl, I thought, feeling enormous relief. 'I'm honoured,' I said.

She nodded, agreeing with my a.s.sessment.

'Two days ago,' she said, 'my family treated you shamefully. I can hardly speak of it. Then you do this for us.' She gestured to the room. 'Why did you do it?' did you do it?'

After a pause I said, 'Probably you know why. You're probably the only person who does know.'

She thought. 'My brother,' she said, 'once showed me a letter you wrote to him, after Madeline died. You said his money had paid for your education. You thanked him. You did all this for him him, didn't you? To repay him?'

'I' suppose so.'

'Yes. Well. He would be pleased.'

She put down her gla.s.s, opened her handbag, took out a small white handkerchief and gently blew her nose, 'I miss him,' she said. She sniffed a little, put the handkerchief away and made an effort towards gaiety.

'Well, now,' she said. 'Flags. Happy faces. A lovely sunny spring day. Even those horrid people at the gate seem to have gone home.'

'Ah,' I said, 'I've something to show you.'

I took Harold Quest's confession from my pocket and, handing it over, explained about Henry and the out-of-character hamburger.

She searched for spectacles and read the page, soon putting a hand over her heart as if to still it.

'Keith,' she said, looking up. 'That's Keith's car.'

'Yes.'

'Did you give a copy of this to the police?'

'No,' I said. 'That's a copy too, incidentally. The original is in the safe in the Colonel's office.' I paused and went on. 'I don't think I can find out how much money Keith owes, or to whom, but I did think this might do for you as a lever instead.'

She gave me a long inspection.

'You understand me.' She sounded not pleased, nor displeased, but surprised, and accepting.

'It took me a while.'

A small smile. 'You met me last Wednesday.'

A long five days, I thought.

A woman appeared in the entrance to the dining room, with a younger woman hidden behind her.

'Excuse me,' she said, 'I was told I could find Lee Morris in here.'

I stood up in my unsprightly fashion.

'I'm Lee Morris,' I said.

She was plump, large-bosomed, friendly-looking, about sixty, with large blue eyes and short greyish-blonde curly hair. She wore layers of blue and beige clothes with brown low-heeled shoes, and had an untidy multicoloured silk square scarf tied in a bunched knot round her neck. Under her arm she carried a large brown handbag with its gold shoulder-chain dangling down, and there was altogether about her an air of being at home with herself: no mental insecurity or awkwardness.

Her gaze casually slid past me and fell on Marjorie, and there was a moment of extraordinary stillness, of suspension, in both women. Their eyes held the same wideness, their mouths the same open-lipped wonder. I thought in a flash of enlightenment that each knew the ident.i.ty of the other, even though they showed no overt recognition nor made any attempt at polite speech.

'I want to talk to you,' the newcomer said to me, removing her gaze from Marjorie but continuing to be tinglingly aware of her presence. 'Not here, if you don't mind.'

I said to Marjorie, 'Will you excuse me?'

She could have said no. If she'd wanted to, she would have done. She cast an enigmatic glance at the newcomer, thought things over, and gave me a positive 'Yes. Go and talk.'

The newcomer backed out into the central aisle of the big top, with me following.

'I'm Perdita Faulds,' the newcomer said, once outside. 'And this,' she added, stepping to her right and fully revealing her companion, 'is my daughter, Penelope.'

It was like being hit twice very fast with a hammer; no time to take in the first bit of news before being stunned by the second.

Penelope Faulds was tall, slender, fair-haired, long-necked and almost the double of Amanda: the young Amanda I'd fallen in love with, the nineteen-year-old marvellous girl with grey smiling eyes going laughingly to her immature marriage.

I was no longer nineteen. I felt as breathless, however, as if I still were. I said, 'How do you do,' and it sounded ridiculous.

'Is there a bar in here?' Mrs Faulds asked, looking round. 'Someone outside told me there was.'

'Er... yes,' I said. 'Over here.'

I took her into one of the largest 'rooms' in the big top, the members' bar, where a few early customers were sitting at small tables with sandwiches and drinks.

Perdita Faulds took easy charge. 'Was it champagne that Mrs Binsham was drinking? I think we should have some.'

Faintly bemused, I turned towards the bar to do her bidding.

'My treat,' she said, opening her handbag and providing the funds. 'Three gla.s.ses.'

Penelope followed me to the bar. 'I'll carry the gla.s.ses,' she said. 'Can you manage the bottle?'

My pulse quickened. Stupid. I had six sons. I was too old.

The bar staff popped the cork and took the money. Mrs Faulds watched in good-natured enjoyment while I poured her bubbles.

'Do you know who I am?' she demanded.

'You own seven shares in this racecourse.'

She nodded. 'And you own eight. Your mother's. I knew your mother quite well at one time.'

I paused with the drinks. 'Did you really?'

'Yes. Do get on. I'm thirsty.'

I filled her gla.s.s, which she emptied fast. 'And how well,' I asked, refilling it, 'do you know Marjorie Binsham?'

'I don't exactly know her. I met her once, years ago. I know who she is. She knows who I am. You noticed, didn't you?'

'Yes.'

I watched Penelope. Her skin looked smooth and enticing in the softly diffused peach light. I wanted to touch her cheek, stroke it, to kiss it, as I had with Amanda. For G.o.d's sake, I told myself astringently, take a grip on things. Grow up, you fool.

'I've never been here before,' Mrs Faulds said. 'We saw on the television about the grandstand being bombed, didn't we, Pen? I got all curious. Then it was in Sat.u.r.day's papers of course, with your name and everything, and they said the races would go on as planned. They said you'd been in the stands when they blew up, and that you were a shareholder, and in hospital.' She looked at the walking stick. 'They got that wrong, obviously. Anyway, I phoned the office here to ask where you were and they said you'd be here today, and I thought I'd like to meet you, Madeline's son, after all these years. So I told Pen I had some old shares in this place and asked if she would like to come with me, and here we are.'

I thought vaguely that there was much she'd left out, but Penelope held most of my attention.

'Pen, darling,' her mother said kindly. 'This must be pretty boring for you, Mr Morris and I talking about old times, so why don't you buzz off for a look at the horses?'

I said, 'It's too early for there to be any horses in the parade ring yet.'

'Hop off, Pen,' her mother said, 'there's a love.'

Penelope gave a resigned conspiratorial smile, sucked her gla.s.s dry, and amicably departed.

'She's a darling,' her mother said. 'My one and only. I was forty-two when I had her.'