The Stabbing in the Stables

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

“A
HORSE
?” C
AROLE
Seddon echoed with distaste. “You're planning to heal a horse?”

“Well, to have a go,” said Jude.

“But I don't see how it can possibly work. Horses don't have human understanding. A horse won't know it's being healed, so how can it be healed?”

Jude chuckled, and her bird's nest of blond hair rippled before resettling around her plump face. “What you're saying, Carole, is that because a horse doesn't know it's being healed, it's not going to fall for the idea that it
is
being healed, as a human being might. You're saying horses aren't that gullible.”

“Well…”

“Yes, you are.”

“Maybe.”

“I know you don't believe in healing…”

Carole tried to find some form of denial, but all she could come up with was, “Let's say I don't understand it.”

“I don't understand it either. I just know that it sometimes works.”

“Yes, but not with animals.”

“There are many authenticated reports of animals' ailments having been cured by healing.”

“Huh.” That was Carole Seddon's customary response to the world of alternative therapy—and to many other things that challenged the security of her sensible life.

They were sitting in a part of that security, the kitchen of her house High Tor in the West Sussex seaside village of Fethering. The tidiness of the room, the gleaming surfaces, the neatly aligned pots and pans, the rack of spice jars whose labels had been dragooned into facing the front, all conspired to cancel out the cosiness that the Aga should have imparted. In front of the stove, Carole's Labrador, Gulliver, satisfied by his late afternoon walk on Fethering Beach, snuffled in a contented dream of saving the world from killer seaweed.

“So whose horse is it?”

“Woman called Sonia Dalrymple.”

“Do I know her?”

“No. She's a client.” Jude always used that word to describe the people who took advantage of her occasional healing and balancing services. “Patient” never sounded right to her.

“Oh.” Carole managed to fill the monosyllable with exactly the same ration of scepticism that she had put into the “Huh.” Her attitude to Jude's “clients” was that they were slightly flaky people with insufficient self-control—and probably more money than sense. Carole's view was that when you were genuinely ill, you went to your GP. And when you weren't genuinely ill, you put up and shut up.

Carole Seddon suffered from the innate puritanism of a middle-class Southerner in her fifties, a system of values that had been dinned into her by timid parents in the postwar austerity of her upbringing. She was suspicious of the foreign, the unknown and, most of all, anything with the slightest whiff of mysticism. She hated herself for her hidebound worldview, but it was too much part of her personality to yield to major change.

That personality was, she liked to think, reflected in her appearance. Her grey hair was cut sensibly short, and her pale blue eyes were assisted by sensible rimless glasses. Bright colours and patterns were eschewed, and the only part of her wardrobe aspiring beyond Marks & Spencer was a well-kept, though now ageing, Burberry raincoat.

But over the previous few years chinks had appeared in the carapace of correctness with which Carole Seddon had deliberately surrounded herself. As she grew further away from the trauma of divorce from her husband David, as she became more reconciled to her unwarrantably early retirement from the Home Office, she had not exactly mellowed—indeed, the idea of “mellowing” would have been anathema to her—but she had entertained the possibility that there might exist valid attitudes other than those with which she had been brought up. This process had been partly assisted by a rapprochement with her son Stephen, engineered by Gaby, the girl to whom he was now married.

But the greatest change in Carole Seddon had been effected by the serendipitous arrival of Jude in Woodside Cottage next door. Carole would never have admitted it, because she was not an advocate of any kind of sentimentality, but her friendship with Jude was the most potent agent in the recent thawing of her character's permafrost.

The attraction between the two women was unlikely. In spite of the fact that Carole wanted to organise every moment of the future to within an inch of its life while Jude was comfortably content to let events come to her, their relationship survived remarkably well. And the detail that from time to time that relationship had incorporated murder investigations was regarded by both women as an inestimable bonus.

“So for what imagined ills does this Sonia come to you?” Carole continued sniffily.

Jude smiled an easy smile. “There is such a thing as client confidentiality.”

“Yes, I suppose there is…” The temptation to add “in your kind of world,” proved irresistible. “And it's her horse?”

“As I said. He's called Chieftain.”

“She must be rich.” There were certain triggers within Carole to this knee-jerk reaction, and all of them came from her childhood, when her parents had made sacrifices to put her through private education. Anyone who had a horse must be rich. Equally anyone who had a boat. The same went for anyone who went skiing—and certainly anyone who went water-skiing. The fact that all of these indulgences had now become widely available to the general public did not change Carole's views. In the ineluctable way of prejudices, they stuck.

“As a matter of fact, Sonia is quite well heeled.”

“I thought so,” said Carole, prejudice vindicated.

“But that's not important.”

Oh no, of course not. Owns a horse, and can afford to splash out on alternative therapies, but the money's not important. But Carole kept such reactions to herself.

Jude's grin suggested she had read the thoughts without their being voiced. She sat at the kitchen table of High Tor, swathed in her customary layers of fabric—more of them now to fend off the February chill. Jude didn't always wear the same clothes, but they always gave the same impression. She dressed in a profusion of floaty shirts, skirts and scarves, which never seemed to define where one garment ended and the other started. The outline around her plump body was always imprecise, but to everyone it generated a feeling of comfort—and, to men, an undoubted sexual allure. People were always at their ease around Jude, something that could never be said of Carole.

“Anyway, what's wrong with the horse?”

“Chieftain's lame. Trouble with his knee.”

“Do horses have knees?”

“Of course they do. Their legs are hinged in the middle, you know.”

“Yes, I know they are, Jude. But ‘knee' sounds a rather prosaic word for a horse. I thought they were all ‘fetlocks' and ‘withers' and…” Carole's repertoire of equine anatomy ran out.

“I can assure you they have knees, as well as fetlocks and withers.”

“Ah.” She still needed something with which to come back at Jude. “I thought, if horses were ill, they were taken to vets.”

“And if a horse is taken to the vet, and the vet can't find anything wrong…?”

“Oh, I see. Then they resort to alternative remedies,” and Carole couldn't stop herself from adding, “just like gullible humans.”

Jude grinned again. In anyone else, such a grin would have been infuriating. With her, somehow it wasn't. “Except, you've already established that horses can't be gullible.”

“No. Well, maybe not,” Carole conceded. “Anyway, when you came in, some time ago, you asked if I could do you a favour. So far as I can recollect, you haven't yet said what that favour is.”

“No, I haven't.”

“What is it then?”

“I wondered if you'd mind giving me a lift to the stables, so that I can have a look at Chieftain.”

Carole's first reaction was to refuse. They'd reached late afternoon, nearly time for a television chat show to which she was becoming secretly addicted. But her puritan instinct told her that that wasn't really an excuse. And that if she used it as such, she'd have to admit to Jude that she actually watched the thing. So she said yes, she'd love to give her friend a lift to the stables.

 

As they drove along in Carole's sensible, recently vacuumed Renault, Jude provided a skimpy background to their destination. Long Bamber Stables were on the Fedborough Road, maybe a mile up the River Fether from Fethering. They advertised regularly in the
Fethering Observer
, offering “D.I.Y./Full/Part Livery, an Indoor School, Hacking, Riding Lessons” and other services.

Though Jude had not been there before, she had heard from Sonia Dalrymple that the stables were owned by a married couple, Walter and Lucinda Fleet. In riding circles, Walter Fleet had apparently once been known as a promising eventer (whatever that might be, Carole inevitably interpolated) whose career had been cut short by a serious fall from a horse. Jude had also got the impression that Lucinda Fleet was not Sonia Dalrymple's favourite person.

But that was all she knew. Except for the fact that Sonia had agreed to meet her outside the stables at six that Tuesday evening.

“And how would you have got here if I hadn't given you a lift?”

“I knew you would give me a lift.”

Carole saw Jude's teasing smile, illuminated by the headlights of an oncoming car, and seethed quietly.

The parking at Long Bamber Stables was some way from the main gates, and when she switched off the engine, Carole insisted on staying in the Renault. She'd even brought a book with her—and there was always a torch in the glove compartment, because she had a paranoid fear of running down the car's battery.

Jude didn't argue, although she knew Carole's decision to stay arose from her unwillingness to meet Sonia Dalrymple, someone new, someone who believed in alternative therapy, someone who was rich enough to own a horse. Saying she wouldn't be more than half an hour, Jude walked across the tarmac to the stable gates. She checked the large watch, fixed by a broad ribbon to her wrist. Three minutes to six.

The buildings appeared to make up a timber-clad square, no doubt with loose boxes lining the inside and paddocks behind. There was no roof over the yard onto which the gates opened, though somewhere inside there had to be a covered indoor school and storage barns. A little way away from the stables stood a modest redbrick house, presumably the home of Walter and Lucinda Fleet. Although she couldn't see it, Jude could hear the swishing flow of the River Fether, which ran alongside the site.

To her surprise, there was no light over the gates, nor could she see any evidence of lights inside the compound. There was no sign of Sonia Dalrymple either.

It was cold. Jude waited for a few minutes, stamping her feet to maintain circulation. But no other vehicle appeared to join the Renault in the car park.

A thin February moon cast a watery light over the scene. Jude could see that the double gates were closed, and she looked in vain for a bell push or knocker. Apart from the underscoring of the river, the only sounds were distant rustlings and clompings, presumably from the horses within.

Jude checked her watch again. Nearly quarter past six. Though she didn't know Sonia Dalrymple that well, her client had always been punctual for her appointments at Woodside Cottage.

Surely she had said meet
outside
the stables. She must have been held up somewhere. Sonia had twin teenage daughters, so no doubt she'd been delayed by some crisis in ferrying them somewhere.

Or maybe Jude had got it wrong, and the arrangement had been to meet
inside
the stables, near Chieftain's box. Worth trying. If the gates were locked, Jude would know she hadn't got it wrong.

Just as she had the thought, there was a sudden outburst of neighing and heavy-footed stamping from the horses within. Something had disturbed them. More likely, someone had disturbed them. Sonia Dalrymple must be inside the compound. Odd that she hadn't put any lights on, though. If the stables were locked, Jude would hammer on the doors to attract attention.

But when she turned the heavy metal ring, the gates readily gave inward, letting out a grudging creak of timber. Jude pushed through into the hay and dung-scented yard, where near silence had reasserted itself.

As she did so, from the far side of the square courtyard she heard the sharp impact of wood on wood. A gate closing?

Jude moved into the centre of the square where the moonlight was strongest. She'd been right about the loose boxes, forming the walls of the area. Unseen horses shifted uneasily. One whinnied, troubled by the presence of an intruder. There was no sign of human life.

On the other hand, there was a sign of human death.

In the middle of the courtyard lay the body of a man. The pale moonlight glistened on the blood that had only recently ceased to flow from his face, throat and chest.