Lead a Horse to Murder (11 page)

I was about to climb into my van when I heard someone calling, “Excuse me! If you have a moment—”

I turned, surprised. An older man dressed in a white suit and a straw hat was hurrying toward me, his face flushed from the effort.

“Dr. Popper, isn’t it?” he said, a little out of breath as he drew near.

“That’s right.” I smiled as I struggled to place him. As soon as I did, I felt my smile droop. “Winston, right? I’m afraid I never got your last name.”
That’s the downside of eavesdropping on other people’s arguments,
I thought.
You end up getting only
some
of the facts.

“Winston Farnsworth. But Winston is fine.”

“Then please call me Jessica. Or Jessie.” I eyed him warily, still not sure what I thought of the dignified English gentleman. He was wearing a bow tie again— yellow, this time, his attempt at looking more casual, I supposed. Still, the touch of whimsy the bright shade brought to his look was canceled out by the matching handkerchief carefully folded in the breast pocket of his white jacket.

But while he looked like an upstanding citizen, the fact that I’d caught him arguing with Andrew MacKinnon on the day of Eduardo’s funeral had left me unable to choose a side—if there was even a side to choose. I decided to wait until I had more information before forming an opinion of Winston Farnsworth.

“Dr. Popper—Jessica—I wondered if I might trouble you . . . and please, if this is an inappropriate request, don’t hesitate to tell me.”

I leaned forward, my curiosity piqued.

“Would it be possible for you to stop over at my house to take a look at my dachshund, Frederick?”

I glanced at my watch. According to my calculations, Nick would probably be at the park with the dogs at least until lunchtime. At least, the
old
Nick, the pre–law school version. Who knew how much time he penciled in for leisure these days? Still, today
was
Saturday, after all, and I was itching for a day off—or at least part of a day—with or without Nick.

“Perhaps I’m being overly cautious,” Winston continued, “but for the last couple of days, Frederick’s been scratching one of his ears incessantly. It’s a little red inside, and I’m seeing some kind of discharge. I’m worried that it’s gotten infected.”

From Winston’s description, it certainly sounded like an ear infection. Bacterial, or perhaps yeast. Nothing serious, but undoubtedly annoying, if not actually painful, for the poor little guy. Even though the strange concept of a day off sounded pretty enticing, the idea that Winston’s dog might be uncomfortable or even worse made it impossible for me to say no.

“Of course,” I told him. “I’d be happy to come by.”

“Excellent!” Winston beamed. “Perhaps you’ll even allow me to make you a cup of tea. I’m afraid I don’t get many visitors these days. Being a bachelor is rather a lonely life.”

“Tea sounds perfect,” I told him. After my friendly little chat with Jillian MacKinnon, a little caffeine was definitely in order.

“Then why don’t you follow me? My house is just a mile or two up the road, but locating my driveway has been known to give some people pause.”

I climbed into my van, curious to see which of the vehicles parked along the MacKinnons’ driveway would turn out to be Winston’s. When the gleaming cream-colored Rolls-Royce Corniche pulled out in front of me, I thought,
Of course
.

A little over two miles north on Turkey Hollow Road, the Rolls’s right-turn signal blinked. I followed the car onto a long driveway and through a wrought-iron gate decorated with an elaborate letter “F.”

“Not too shabby,” I muttered.

The driveway, lined with magnificent oak trees, cut straight through an immense, perfectly manicured front lawn the size of a small airport. It led to a huge brick house with elegant white columns. White shutters framed three stories of windows, and a neatly trimmed row of bushes, all exactly the same height, lined the front. At first glance, the estate was as dignified as its owner.

As we walked toward the house, I expected a housekeeper to greet us. Instead, Winston pulled a ring of keys from his pants pocket and unlocked the front door himself.

“I have live-in help during the week,” he volunteered, as if he’d anticipated my surprise. “But my housekeeper goes home to her family on weekends. Actually, I prefer having the house to myself. I’ve never been completely comfortable having people wait on me.”

He must have noticed that my eyebrows shot up.

“My dear girl, I haven’t always been this wealthy,” he said, his hazel eyes sparkling with amusement. “I happen to be one of those chaps who pulled myself up by his own bootstraps. A rags-to-riches tale, as they say. I grew up in London’s East End, raised by a loving mother who worked her fingers to the bone as a maid in a house very much like this one.”

“But the way you speak sounds so . . .” I searched for the right word. “. . . refined.”

Winston chuckled. “These are skills that can be easily acquired,” he replied. “All it takes is determination.”

As I followed him through the door, I concentrated on the house. Even though my knowledge of decorating consists solely of what I’ve learned from watching the Home and Garden Channel, I easily identified Winston’s décor as Early Horse. Nearly every element of the room reflected his passion for anything and everything equine.

The library was no exception. Like Andrew MacKinnon’s study, the fawn-colored walls of the cozy room Winston led me to were covered with photographs, drawings, and paintings of horses. Most of them carried humans who were intensely absorbed in either jumping, fox hunting, racing, or, most frequently, polo.

But that was just the beginning. The hooked rug in front of the fireplace had a horse design, and a big overstuffed chair was upholstered in dark blue fabric covered with gold horses. No fewer than three different lamps had horse-themed bases and shades. I spotted a horse ashtray, horse candlestick holders, and horse bookends, propping up books about—you guessed it— horses.

“Horses have always played a large role in my life,” Winston said, sounding almost apologetic. “But I suppose you already figured that out.”

“I can see it’s your passion,” I observed diplomatically, sitting on a love seat that was covered in dark blue velvet, one of the few items in the room without any horses on it.

“In fact, my first job, when I was a boy of nine, was mucking out stalls at an equestrian club just outside of London. Throughout my life, I’ve been fortunate enough to enjoy all sorts of pastimes,” he went on. “Stock-car racing, jumping from airplanes, even hang-gliding. Sailing, too. Many years ago, I competed for the America’s Cup. But polo has always given me a thrill that nothing else comes close to.

“They say it’s the most dangerous sport—that it’s basically ice hockey on horseback.” Winston lowered himself into the overstuffed armchair. “But it’s more than that. There’s a sense of power that comes from playing the game that I’ve never experienced anywhere else. Then there’s the unity you feel with the horse. It’s as if the two of you are connected, somehow. As if you share the same soul. You become one tremendous beast with four mighty legs and two strong arms, thundering up and down the field with one singular purpose. It’s hardly surprising polo is considered the game of kings. In fact, at an ancient polo ground in northern Pakistan, tucked away in the mountains near Gilget, there’s a famous stone with a poem in both English and Arabic. It’s attributed to a man named J.K. Stephen, and it reads, ‘Let other people play at other things: The King of games is still the game of Kings.’ In fact, polo actually originated as a game for royalty. Do you know much about its history?”

“I’m afraid not,” I admitted.

“The game is believed to date back some twenty-five hundred years, when it was played in Persia—present-day Iran. A Persian poet and historian who called himself Firdausi first wrote about it at the beginning of the last millennium. Even so, the game could well date back even further, at least to the sixth or seventh centuries B.C.

“But even then, it was the ‘game of kings,’ ” Winston continued. “Queens, too, and emperors. The game spread to China, then Japan, where both Samurai and common people enjoyed the sport. In those days, the balls were made of all kinds of materials. Leather, ivory, even the roots of certain plants and trees. Willow was used quite commonly. In fact, the word ‘polo’ comes from ‘pulu,’ which is the Tibetan name for the willow root.

“The British heard about the game—and witnessed it, as well—long before they began playing it in India in the 1850’s. They founded their first polo club in India, in a town called Silchar. That was in 1859. It’s gone now, but the Calcutta Polo Club, which was founded three years later, is still around. It’s considered the world’s oldest.

“Before long, just about every regiment in the British cavalry had its own team. Many of the maharajahs—the princes who ruled various states throughout India— formed teams, as well. They created the India Polo Association in 1891, the organization that was the first to standardize the rules of the game. The game came to England around then, getting its first permanent home in the 1890’s when the seventh Earl of Bathurst founded a polo club near Cirencester, on his own estate. It also became popular in Argentina around then—but heavens, I’m boring you.”

“Not at all,” I told him sincerely. “It’s fascinating.”

“I appreciate how polite you are, Jessica, patiently listening to an old man going on and on. But I haven’t forgotten that I promised you a cup of tea. If you’ll just excuse me.”

I took advantage of his absence to examine his books. They ranged from dusty first editions that looked as if they might be valuable to brand-new volumes with slick covers. They covered every aspect of horses, from breeding them to training them. The shelves were even stocked with novels in which horses played a prominent role.

I was perusing a dog-eared copy of
Black Beauty
I’d pulled off the shelf when I heard a voice behind me say, “Quite a collection, isn’t it? I’m afraid I’m a bit of a fanatic when it comes to both books and horses. A combination of the two is simply irresistible.”

Winston set down a tray with two porcelain cups and a china teapot on a low table. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything to go with the tea. Cookies or little sandwiches, I mean.” Smiling apologetically, he added, “I’m afraid a doddering old bachelor like me isn’t very good when it comes to entertaining guests.”

“This will be fine,” I assured him, returning to the settee.

“By the way, you’re welcome to borrow any of the books that pique your interest. I think of books as my friends, and I truly enjoy introducing them to other friends. Especially
new
friends.”

“Thanks, at the moment I’m up to my ears in veterinary journals,” I told him. “But I would like to hear more about polo. When did it come to the United States?”

“We have an American publisher named James Gordon Bennett to thank for that. I understand he was quite an adventurer. He happened to catch a polo match while traveling in London in 1876. He was so intrigued by the game that he brought polo balls and mallets back to New York with him. Soon afterward, he held an indoor exhibition match in New York City, and a short time later, the first public match took place in Prospect Park in Brooklyn. Ten thousand spectators turned out for the event.

“Within a decade, polo clubs had sprung up all over the east. But Long Island became the real center, hosting international matches that drew more than thirty thousand spectators at a time. Even Teddy Roosevelt played. He belonged to a club in Oyster Bay that unfortunately no longer exists.

“Today, polo is played all over Europe, Hong Kong, Malaysia, Russia, in just about every country you can think of. And the international center is in Wellington, Florida. But during the summer months, Long Island’s polo tradition is still alive and well, I’m pleased to report.”

Winston paused to sip his tea. “Not bad. Especially for someone who’s about as comfortable in a kitchen as a bull in the proverbial china shop.” He raised his cup to his lips again, then stopped midway. “You know, Jessica, I’m glad we’re having this chance to get to know each other a little. I’m afraid you caught me at rather a bad time the other day.”

“It was a bad time for everyone,” I replied. “I’m sure everybody who knew Eduardo was shocked by his death.”

“You mean shocked by the fact that he was murdered.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t remember anything in my life that’s been more tragic. It’s so senseless! Such a promising young man. Eduardo was so full of potential!”

His characterization of Eduardo as “full of potential” surprised me. I was tempted to ask him what he meant. It seemed to me that if anyone had ever fulfilled his potential, it was the charismatic polo player. He was one of the few ten-goal players in the world; he was handsome and charming; he was worshipped by just about everyone who knew him . . . Was it possible that Winston expected even more of him?

Leave it alone,
I told myself.
You’re reading too much
into Winston’s comments.
“Full of potential” is a phrase people use all the time, especially when they’re talking about young people.

Besides, I could see how distressed this topic of conversation was making him.

“Perhaps I could take a look at Frederick now,” I suggested, figuring this was a good time to dispense with the socializing and get down to business.

“Of course. I’ve already taken up too much of your time. As I mentioned, bachelors like me have a tendency to get lonely, and as a result we may be guilty of talking too much. He’s penned out back. I’ll just bring him in. . . .”

As Frederick bounded inside, I saw that he was an energetic wire-haired dachshund with fawn and tan fur. He headed right over to me and jumped up to say hello, wagging his tail so hard I was afraid he’d fall over. Like most dachshunds, Frederick was an affectionate, sweet-tempered house pet. It was difficult to believe they were originally bred to hunt badgers, slipping into their narrow burrows and dragging them out. In fact, the name,
Dachs Hund,
was German for “badger dog.”