Comeback

Table of Contents

 

 

—
The New York Times

 

 

On holiday from the Foreign Office, Peter Darwin was visiting his childhood village in Gloucestershire when he found himself at the service of a veterinarian whose surgical procedures left more corpses than not.

 

The police were unable to determine why so many priceless racehorses were dying. But Darwin was local. He remembered the villagers and what was at stake.

 

And now he knew enough to get himself killed . . .

 

 

“[
Comeback
] shows once again why Dick Francis is a major brand name in the thriller genre; the components here include seamless and swift plotting, a wonderful mix of believable characters, suspense, and a bang-on horse-racing background ... The Gold Cup locale is atmospheric and the medical background fascinating and informative ... And the smart, likable hero deserves more adventures from the master.”

 

“[Francis] keeps his readers jumping.”

 

“The bestselling author’s touch with a story is as sure as ever.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

 

“The finish had me sweating. The Gold Cup is tame by comparison.”

—
Evening Standard
(London)

 

“All the drama of a photo finish.”

—Daily Express
(London)

 

“Still the best bet for a winning read.”

—
The Mail On Sunday
(London)

 

 

—
Newsday

 

“It’s either hard or impossible to read Mr. Francis without growing pleased with
yourself
: not only the thrill of vicarious competence imparted by the company of his heroes, but also the lore you collect as you go, feel like a field trip with the perfect guide.”

 

“One of the most reliable mystery writers working today . . . Francis’s secret weapons are his protagonists. They are the kind of people you want for friends.”

 

“[Francis] has the uncanny ability to turn out simply plotted yet charmingly addictive mysteries.”

—
The Wall Street Journal

 

“A rare and magical talent . . . who never writes the same story twice . . . Few writers have maintained such a high standard of excellence for as long as Dick Francis.”

 

“Few things are more convincing than Dick Francis at a full gallop.”

 

“Francis just gets better and better . . . It can’t be as easy as he makes it look, or all mystery writers would be as addictive.”

 

“After writing dozens of thrillers, Dick Francis always retains a first-novel freshness.”

—
The Indianapolis Star

 

“He writes about the basic building blocks of life—obligation, honor, love, courage, and pleasure. Those discussions come disguised in adventure novels so gripping that they cry out to be read in one gulp—then quickly reread to savor the details skipped in the first gallop through the pages.”

—
Houston Chronicle

 

“Dick Francis stands head and shoulders above the rest.”

—
Ottawa Citizen

 

EVEN MONEY
SILKS
DEAD HEAT

 

 

 

WIN, PLACE, OR SHOW

 

 

 

A JOCKEY’S LIFE
THE SPORT OF QUEENS

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

COMEBACK

 

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with Dick Francis Corporation

 

Copyright © 1991 by Dick Francis.

eISBN : 978-1-101-19760-8

 

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I
’m Peter Darwin.

Everyone asks, so I may as well say at once that no, I’m not related to Charles.

I was in fact born Peter Perry, but John Darwin, marrying my widowed mother when I was twelve, gave me, among many other things, a new life, a new name and a new identity.

Twenty years rolled like mist over the memories of my distant childhood in Gloucestershire, and now I, Peter Darwin, was thirty-two, adopted son of a diplomat, in the diplomatic service myself.

As my stepfather’s postings and later my own were all at the whim of the Foreign Office, I’d mostly lived those twenty years abroad in scattered three- or four-year segments, some blazing, some boring, from Caracas to Lima, from Moscow to Cairo to Madrid, housed in Foreign Office lodgings from one-bedroom concrete to gilt-decked mansions, counting nowhere home.

Friendships were transitory. Locals, left behind. Other diplomats and their children came and went. I was rootless and nomadic, well used to it and content.

“Look us up if you’re ever in Florida,” Fred Hutchings said casually, leaving Tokyo to be consul in Miami. “Stay for a day or so if you’re passing through.”

That “day or so,” I thought wryly, was a pretty good indicator of the warmth of our feelings for each other: tepid to luke.

“Thanks,” I said.

He nodded. We’d worked together for months without friction. He half-meant the invitation. He was trained in politeness, as we all were.

My own posting, when it came through nearly a year later, was surprisingly to England, to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office in Whitehall.

“What?”
My stepfather in Mexico City chuckled with pleasure on the phone when I told him. “Private secretary! Well done! The pay’s rotten. You’ll have some leave first, though. Come and see us. Your mother misses you.”

So I spent nearly a month with them and then set off to England via Miami, which was why, after a delayed flight and a missed connection, I found myself with twenty-four hours to kill and the echo of Fred Hutchings’s invitation in my head. Why not, I thought, and on an impulse found his number from Enquiries, and phoned him.

His answering voice sounded genuinely welcoming and I pictured him on the other end of the line: forty, plump, freckled, eager, with a forehead that perspired under the slightest nervous pressure. The mildness of my liking for him flooded belatedly back; but it was too late to retreat.

“Great, great,” he was saying heartily. “I’d ask you here for the night but the children aren’t well. How about dinner, though? Get a taxi to The Diving Pelican on a Hundred and Eighty-sixth Street, North Miami Beach. I’ll meet you there about eight. How’s that?”

“Splendid,” I said.

“Good. Good. Great to see old friends.” He told me the address of the restaurant again, carefully. “We eat there all the time. Come to think of it”—his voice brightened enthusiastically—“two of our friends there are going to England tomorrow too. You’ll like them. Maybe you’ll all be on the same plane. I’ll introduce you.”

“Thank you,” I said faintly.

“A pleasure.” I could feel him beaming with goodwill down the wire. “See you then.”

With a sigh I replaced the receiver, booked myself and my bags into the airport hotel for the night and in due course taxied as instructed to the rendezvous.