I had also discovered that polo ponies were not actually ponies at all. They were horses. Many were Argentinean Criollo horses, and others were ex-Thoroughbred racehorses that had proved to be not fast enough to be winners on the track. In America, Thoroughbreds were often crossed with quarter horses to produce fast, sure-footed animals capable of quick acceleration and deceleration, and able to make the sharp turns essential for success. But ponies, they certainly were not, averaging over fifteen hands, or five feet, at the withers, rather than the maximum fourteen and a half hands of a true pony.

In spite of a head full of fairly useless information, I came up with no answers to my questions. However, I did find out the final of a tournament was scheduled for that coming Sunday at the Guards Polo Club, near Windsor. Perhaps I would go. Even better, perhaps I would take Caroline.

“ARE YOU CRAZY?” said Caroline when I phoned her. “I haven’t got time to go to a bloody polo match. And you’re meant to be resting. You’re still concussed, remember?”

“It’s only for the afternoon,” I said. “And concussion affects memory.”

“You’re really serious about going, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” I said.

“But I know nothing about polo,” she complained.

“So what?” I said. “Neither do I.”

“Then what on earth do you want to go for?” she said.

“Well, you know my mad theory about the bombing and the poisoned dinner?” I said. “I have an itching feeling that it might have something to do with polo. I know it sounds daft and I might be barking up the wrong tree, but I want to go to a polo match and ask a few questions.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” she said. “Of course I’ll come. Shall I wear my deerstalker and bring a magnifying glass?”

“Do I detect a degree of skepticism?” I asked, laughing. “To tell the truth, I’m very doubtful as well. But I have nowhere else to look.”

“So what do I wear?” Caroline asked.

“Tweed suit and green wellies,” I said.

“I don’t have a tweed suit,” she said.

“Good,” I said. “Something fairly smart and warm. The forecast is not great for Sunday.”

“Do I need a hat?” she said.

“I don’t know,” I replied.

“You’re no bloody good,” she said. “I thought you knew about the horsy world.”

“Racing,” I said, “not polo.”

“Same thing. Both messing about on horses.”

She had lots to learn.

I SPENT most of Saturday kicking my heels around the cottage and studying the hands of my watch as they swept ever so slowly around and around, wishing they would hurry up so I could be on my way to Fulham. On my way to Caroline.

But the day wasn’t a complete waste. During the morning, I called Margaret Jacobs at the saddlery shop. She wasn’t very friendly.

“What do you want?” she demanded in a rather cross tone.

“What’s wrong, Margaret?” I said.

“You made Patrick and me so ill after that dinner,” she said. “I thought we were dying.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “If it is any consolation, I was desperately ill as well. And I didn’t make everyone ill on purpose.”

“No, I suppose not.” She mellowed, but only a bit. “But it said in the paper that your restaurant was closed for decontamination. There must have been something wrong for them to do that. And we’d been eating there only the week before too.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the restaurant,” I told her. “We have been inspected by the Food Standards Agency and given a clean bill of health. There never was anything wrong with it.”

“There must have been,” she said. “Otherwise, why were we so ill?”

I decided not to tell her about the kidney beans and my belief that someone had poisoned the dinner on purpose. Instead, I changed direction.

“Margaret,” I said, “I know that you and Patrick were invited to the lunch given by Delafield Industries on 2,000 Guineas day. Was your illness the reason why you didn’t go?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “I was really looking forward to that day, but we had both been up all night.”

“I suppose, in the end, it was good that you didn’t go,” I said.

“Why?” she asked.

“Don’t you know?” I said. “The box where the bomb went off at the races was the box where that lunch was held. All those people who died were the Delafield staff and their guests.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

“Margaret,” I said, “are you still there?”

“I didn’t realize it had been that box that had been bombed,” she said, sounding very shocked. “My God. We could have been killed.”

“But you weren’t,” I said, trying to be reassuring.

“I was so cross we couldn’t go,” she said. “In fact, I still wanted to in spite of feeling so lousy. It was Patrick who insisted we shouldn’t and we had a huge row about it.” She paused. “Those poor people.”

“Yes,” I said. “I was there. I cooked the lunch.”

“Did you?” she said, somewhat surprised. “If I’d known that, I might not have been so keen.”

“Oh thanks,” I said.

“Sorry,” she said. But she didn’t add that she didn’t mean it.

“Margaret,” I said, “the Hay Net restaurant is perfectly safe, I promise you.”

“Mmm,” she replied, not sounding as if she believed it.

“Come to dinner as my guest, and bring Patrick.”

“Maybe,” she said. And maybe not, I thought. The saddlery business run by Patrick and Margaret Jacobs supplied equine equipment to the majority of the stables in the town, and I needed them not to spread their suspicions about my food. It was very easy to get a bad reputation, whether deserved or not, and a bad reputation was very hard to get rid of.

“Think about it,” I said. “And feel free to bring a couple of guests with you.” How much would I have to offer, I wondered, before she agreed?

“When?” she asked. I had her hooked.

“Anytime you like,” I said, reeling her in. “How about next weekend?”

“Saturday?” she said.

“No problem,” I said. “I’ll book you in for four. At eight o’clock?”

“OK,” she said with a little trepidation in her voice. “Thank you.” The catch was landed. But it didn’t move me any further along in my search for answers.

LIFE WITHOUT a car was becoming a real bore. The invention of the internal combustion engine has proved to be the greatest provider of personal freedom that man has ever known, but it has become a freedom we tend to take for granted. The most recent provider of my own personal freedom was still sitting in a mangled heap at the back of the towing garage, and I severely missed its convenience for quick simple journeys, journeys that were now neither quick nor simple.

I called the NewTax taxi number, which I now knew by heart, and booked myself a ride to Cambridge station to catch the five o’clock train to London. I threw a few things into an overnight bag and waited impatiently for the taxi to arrive. Why, I wondered, did I feel like a naughty schoolboy skipping lessons?

Almost as an afterthought, I put my passport in my bag just in case. I told myself I was being foolish, but so what? Hadn’t Shakespeare said in As You Like It something about not having loved unless one could remember having run off on some folly or other? Was I falling in love? Yes, I think I probably was.

KING’S CROSS station was full of disappointed soccer supporters waiting for the train back north after their team’s defeat in the Cup Final. The mood was somber, and not a little aggressive. Hard as I tried, it was impossible for me not to be smiling broadly with excitement at the prospect of spending two nights with Caroline. Consequently, I received some unwelcome attention from a group of half a dozen red-soccer-shirted young men who were all rather the worse for drink.

“What are you smiling at?” demanded one of them, pushing his face close to mine and giving me a generous sample of his alcoholic breath.