The Stabbing in the Stables (11 page)

T
HE WOULD-BE PATRICIAN
voice came from a short, stocky, red-faced man, dressed in Barbour, jodhpurs and knee-length riding boots, all of which appeared to have come straight from the shop without any detours to collect mud or wrinkles. The costume of the tall, magenta-haired woman beside him matched his exactly and was equally untouched by real life. She was a good twenty-five years younger than he, and looked expensive.

With a look that contrived to say a lot about her opinion of the new arrivals, Lucinda whispered to Jude, “Sorry, need to sort these out. Victor and Yolanta Brewis they're called. Just moved into the area. He's a property developer and she's…well, I'm not sure that I can think of a nice word. I'll tether Chieftain to the rail.”

“Can I keep working on his knee?”

“If he doesn't mind. But if he gets at all restive, please stop. I don't think I'm insured for you getting kicked in the head.”

Jude tried to channel her energy into the injured knee, but it was hopeless. Not that Chieftain behaved badly—he was as docile as a rocking horse—but she couldn't focus on the job in hand. All she could hear was the loud conversation from the other side of the yard.

“Come on, Lucinda, chop, chop,” urged the man. “I left a message earlier with one of the girls, asked for the horses to be ready when we arrived. I haven't got time to hang about, you know.”

“Nor have I,” said Yolanta, in heavily accented Eastern European English. “I have an appointment with my personal stylist in Brighton at two o'clock.”

“I'm sorry,” said Lucinda, busying herself with collecting saddles and bridles from the tack room.

“Didn't you get my message?”

“No, I didn't, actually.”

“That's bloody bad. I spoke to a girl who said she'd pass it on. She deserves a good dressing-down. Where are your girls?”

“They only come in for a couple of hours in the morning. They've gone.”

“Well, make sure you find out who it was who took the message and give her a good dressing-down when you next see her.”

Lucinda Fleet didn't answer that, but led the couple across towards two adjacent stalls. Over them, carved wooden plaques advertised the names “Tiger” and “Snow Leopard.” Lucinda opened one stall and led out Tiger. He was docile enough until he saw Victor Brewis. Baring his large teeth, he let out a whinny of disapproval.

“Hello, boy. I hope you're not thinking of trying it on again with me today. I'm afraid I may have to show you who's master.”

“Mr. Brewis,” Lucinda said tentatively, “I'm honestly not sure that that's the right approach with Tiger. I think coaxing him probably works better. His mouth's still sore from the last time you—”

“Look, I'm paying you to look after my bloody horses, not give your opinions on how I should treat them. Tiger's my horse, and I know how to handle him.”

“Well, I'm not sure—”

“Come on. We're already behind because you didn't get my message. Tackle him up quickly.”

“Mr. Brewis, ‘tackle him up' is not an expression that people in equestrian circles—”

“As I said, I don't want opinions from a bloody woman. Just get on with it.”

“Oh now, Victor,” said Yolanta coyly, “you are being very rude. I also am a ‘bloody woman.' Is it also my opinions you are not wanting?”

“No, my little angel.” The nickname could hardly have been less appropriate, as Victor Brewis looked the long way up to his wife's eyes. “There are women and women, you know. I always value my little Yolanta's opinion.”

“I am glad to hear it. Otherwise I might stamp my little foot”—at least size nine from where Jude was standing—“and be horrid to my little Vixy. Might even make my little Vixy sleep in the spare room.”

“Oh, you wouldn't, Yolanta.”

“Not now my little Vixy has said he values his Yolanta's opinion. Not this time. But you be careful, you naughty boy.”

Jude was glad that Lucinda, saddling up Tiger, was not facing her while this trail of yuckiness trickled out. If they'd made eye contact, she'd never have managed to control her laughter.

“I think we should put the gentler bit on him today,” said Lucinda firmly to Victor Brewis.

“What?”

“We used the slotted Kimberwick last time. That was too hard on his mouth.”

“But the slotted Kimberwick gives me more control, doesn't it?”

“Yes, maybe, but—”

“Listen, I own the bloody animal. I'll do with it what I think is fit.”

“I'm just thinking of the horse. I don't want—”

“Mrs. Fleet, will you please put on the slotted Kimberwick! That's the bit that gives me most control, and I like to be in control.”

Yolanta gigglingly complained about how masterful Vixy always was, while Lucinda pursed her lips and continued preparing Tiger for his master. Then she did the same for Snow Leopard. All the time the Brewises kept up their inane flirtation, stopping only occasionally to berate Lucinda for her slowness.

Their mounting was a sight to be seen. Snow Leopard was a much smaller horse—little more than a pony—and Yolanta had no difficulty getting one foot in the stirrup and swinging her other long leg over. From the way she moved, it looked like she had a personal trainer as well as a personal stylist.

But for Victor Brewis the task wasn't so easy. Tiger not only towered over him, but the horse also was in no mood to cooperate for someone he had reason to dislike. As Lucinda held the bridle and tried to keep him calm, his owner kept getting one foot in the stirrup, while Tiger himself backed away. The three of them circled round the yard in some kind of grotesque square dance. Jude, who had long since given up any attempt to heal Chieftain's knee watched, trying not to laugh too openly.

Eventually Victor was up, and with relief Lucinda opened the yard gate and let them out into the paddocks. Yolanta had clearly learnt about horses—perhaps in her Eastern European homeland—and she had quite a good seat. But her husband's sum of skill was less than zero. From the back, his rotund frame, bouncing on top of the huge horse, had all the elegance of a sack of potatoes.

“They are funny,” said Jude, as Lucinda crossed back towards her.

“Maybe.” The reply was accompanied by a rueful smile. “But it's less funny when people are actually cruel to the horses.”

“And are they?”

Lucinda screwed up her face. “Only by incompetence. I don't think Victor Brewis actually does anything that could be reported to the R.S.P.C.A. And I'm afraid I wouldn't be in a position to report him, anyway.”

“How do you mean?”

“The way things are at the stables right now, I can't afford to lose two horses. The Brewises are right pains, but they do pay up on time, without fail—unlike some of my other owners.”

“Ah.”

“And they pay for a few little extras, as well. Like me getting the horses saddled up for them. I don't do that for anyone else, you know…well, except very small kids. Long Bamber's meant to be just D.I.Y. livery.” She sighed. “No, I'm afraid I'm stuck with them.”

“But the way he talked to you…”

“That's how he gets his kicks, Jude. He doesn't realise it, but he gets charged extra for being rude to me. Victor Brewis, you see, suffers from small-man syndrome—just loves throwing his weight around.”

“Born to rule, eh?”

“Far from it. People who're born to rule never act so autocratically. It's only people who're embarrassed about where they come from who behave like that.”

“You're right. And I'm sorry, I must ask you…slotted Kimberwick?”

“It's a horse's bit. Acts as brakes on the horse, actually. There are two slots for the reins, according to how much pressure you want to put on the horse's tongue. It's quite a tough bit for a horse with as soft a mouth as Tiger's.”

“Okay, I think I get it. More or less.”

Lucinda smiled a smile of small triumph. “Mind you, I didn't put the slotted Kimberwick on Tiger.”

“But Victor Brewis thinks you did.”

“Yes.” Lucinda Fleet winked. “Which shows exactly how much he knows about matters equestrian.”

Jude grinned and looked up at the tall horse beside her. “I'm sorry, trying to do any healing on Chieftain was impossible with all that going on.”

“I'm not surprised. Do you want to have another go, now that things have quietened down?”

“No. My concentration's shot to pieces. I won't be any good now.”

“Okay.” Lucinda undid the rope from the rail, and led the horse away. “Come on, Chieftain boy, you get back inside. Be nice and warm in there, and you can get back to your salt lick.”

Jude followed her, rather disconsolately. “I don't know that I'm ever going to help him much. First time I've tried healing a horse, and it doesn't seem to be going too well.”

Lucinda didn't disagree or offer words of comfort. Instead she said, “Maybe I should get Donal to take a look at the old boy.”

“Is Donal around? Have you seen him since his little session with the police.”

“No, but he'll be round the yard sometime soon,” said Lucinda as she bolted Chieftain back into his stall. “The original bad penny, that Donal.”

“I'd be interested to meet him.” Then, covering up, Jude added, “I mean, to talk about horse healing, that kind of thing.”

“Well, as I say, he's bound to be round here before too long. Or, if you really want to find him…”

“Yes?”

“He always drinks up at the Cheshire Cheese—you know, up in Fedborough. It's near George Tufton's racing stables. All his lads drink in the Cheese. And, unless he's been banned again, that's where you'll find Donal.”

Well, thank you, Lucinda, thought Jude. You really have been most helpful.

T
HERE WERE A
couple of hostelries in Fedborough that Carole and Jude had got to know quite well during a previous investigation. But not the Cheshire Cheese.

It was a dark, low-ceilinged pub, which, unlike most in the town, had made no concessions to attracting the tourist trade. The others all claimed that the gleaming brasswork of their rustic interiors, their open fires and their hearty gastro-menus recreated how English pubs used to be. The Cheshire Cheese, however, was how English pubs really used to be: dingy, and quite possibly grubby beneath the gloom. The dark wood counter and tables looked as though they would be sticky to the touch. The smell of old beer and tobacco seemed to have permeated the very walls of the place.

Jude was subjected to another tradition of old English pubs as she entered: a cessation of the low-level chatter that had been going on and a circle of baleful eyes cast towards the unrecognised newcomer. Undeterred, but aware of the eyes following her, she strode boldly up to the bar. An anaemic girl looked up grudgingly from her copy of
Hello!
magazine, but didn't say anything.

“Could I have a glass of white wine, please? Do you have a chardonnay?”

“We got white wine,” said the girl, who then produced a half-full screw-top bottle from a cold shelf. In the murk Jude couldn't assess the cleanliness of the wineglass, which was probably just as well.

But she could assess that this was not a situation for subtlety of approach. “I'm looking for a man called Donal. Expert on horses. I'm told he often drinks in here.”

Before the girl had a chance to say anything, there was a raucous shout from a table behind Jude. “Got a new bit of stuff, have you, Donal?”

“Or is one of your wives after her maintenance?” suggested another voice.

Taking the money for the wine, the barmaid nodded towards the source of the catcalls. Jude turned to face a table of four rough-looking men dressed in grubby padded jackets, breeches and battered riding boots. Their size suggested that they were all ex-jockeys, and the smell of horse that surrounded them suggested that they all worked at George Tufton's racing stables. They seemed to fit the scale of the pub, as though its low ceilings had been designed to accommodate this pygmy species.

After the two shouts, the men were silent, and there was no noise from any of the other tables. Jude was aware of her audience, and sensed that they looked forward to her making a fool of herself.

“So which one of you is Donal?”

All four men laughed, and seemed for a moment to contemplate some trickery in their reply. But then three of them pointed to the one farthest away. His head was a scouring brush of short white bristles, his face deeply lined from a life spent in the open air, and beneath a broken nose, his uneven greenish teeth hadn't come under the scrutiny of a dentist for a long, long time. Almost lost in the wrinkles around them, two blue eyes sparkled, calculating and devious. There was an air of danger about him. Even if Jude hadn't known of his reputation, she would have recognised a man with a combustibly short fuse.

“Donal, I wonder if I could talk to you…?”

“You could talk to me. Whether I talk back or not is another matter.” The voice was Irish, but without the charm of leprechauns and Blarney stones.

“Donal doesn't talk for free,” said one of his companions.

“Except to his mates in the police,” said another, prompting a round of discordant laughter.

“So what's the price of your talking?” asked Jude.

Donal grinned, baring more of the bomb site in his mouth, but let one of the others answer her question. “Large Jameson's will usually get him started.”

Jude turned back to the counter. The barmaid, who like everyone else had been listening to the exchange, was already filling the glass. She rang up the price and took the proffered money. Clearly, speaking was something she avoided whenever possible.

Facing the four men again, Jude could see Donal stretching out his hand for the drink, but she held on to it. “No, I want a quiet word. Come and sit with me at that table. It won't take long.”

This prompted rowdy suggestions from Donal's mates, on the lines of “You're on a promise there, you lucky sod” and “When did you last have an offer like that?” But Donal, lured by the drink, did get up out of his seat and limp gracelessly across to the table Jude had indicated.

She raised her glass. “Cheers.”

He said nothing till he had downed two-thirds of his Jameson's in a single swallow. “So you want to know what the police asked me, do you?”

“What makes you assume that?”

“Recent experience. That's the only reason anyone wants to talk to me. God, you know the only product made in this entire area is gossip. And I assume you're just another local who's got some crackpot theory as to who killed Walter Fleet?”

He had come surprisingly near the truth, but Jude started off on another tack. “In fact, it was about your expertise with horses I wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh?”

“I do some healing myself…”

He nodded, showing none of the derision those words sometimes prompted.

“…and someone asked me to try my skills on a horse that's lame. I'm afraid I haven't been successful, but I was told by Lucinda Fleet at Long Bamber that you might have more luck.”

“It wouldn't be luck,” he said.

“No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that.”

“Where is the horse? Whose is it?”

“It's at Long Bamber.”

“Then I probably know it.”

“Called Chieftain.”

He smiled a crooked smile. “Oh yes. Mrs. Butter-wouldn't-melt-in-her-mouth Dalrymple. I'll bet I know why he's lame.”

“Well, I don't. Sonia didn't tell me.”

“No, she wouldn't.”

“Then why do you think he is lame?”

“I know. No reason why you should.”

The way he said this was not exactly rude, but it left her in no doubt that she wasn't about to find out more.

“So would you have a look at him?”

“The Dalrymples have got plenty of money,” Donal said. “That stable complex of theirs must have set them back a bob or two.”

“Oh yes. I'm sure Sonia would pay for your services. She was going to pay me, but I couldn't ask for anything unless I got a result.”

“You're stupid,” he said, without vindictiveness. “People should pay for the healing, not for the results.”

Donal downed the remainder of his Jameson's and grinned enigmatically. “I'm like a slot machine. When your money runs out, I stop working.”

“You mean you'd like another of those?”

“If you want me to talk more, yes.”

Another silent transaction was conducted with the girl at the bar, and Jude placed the refilled glass back in front of her interviewee. “As your friend said, the police didn't keep you topped up with Jameson's when they asked you questions.”

“No.”

The monosyllable was spoken without intonation. Jude couldn't tell whether he'd follow the change of conversation or clam up on her. But she tried her luck.

“Presumably they didn't have anything on you? They just questioned you because you were quite often round Long Bamber Stables?”

“Oh, they had more reasons than that.” His eyes twinkled teasingly and he was silent, as if not going to give any more. Then he relented. “They had the reason that I've a record for petty crime, a bit of thieving and that stuff. They had the reason that I drink, that I sometimes get violent in my cups. Then the reason that I'm Irish and…what? A vagrant? A diddycoy? A tinker? They had the reason that I don't live in a nice neat little house like everyone else in this
lovely part of England
…” The words were heavy with irony. “Oh yes. So far as the police were concerned, I was the perfect Identikit murderer. They were really gutted when they couldn't pin it on me. So they had to let me go at the end. They'd got nothing on me. Nothing that would stand up in court. And, more to the point, their time was up.” He pointed to his empty glass. “As is yours.”

“But another refill will keep you talking?”

“For a very short time. I'm afraid a law of diminishing returns operates here, you see. I tend to drink faster as I go along.”

Another wordless transaction at the bar, and Jude was back at the table. Donal at least kept his side of the bargain and picked up the conversation exactly where he had left it. “I think most of the detectives who questioned me have still got me down as the killer. But they don't have a shred of evidence.”

“So you think they're still keeping an eye on you?”

“That wouldn't surprise me at all.” He looked out through the clouded pub windows. “Probably an unmarked car out there, waiting to pick up my trail when I get out of here.” He took a lengthy sip of the Jameson's. “Which won't be for a long while yet.” He let out a cracked laugh. “Yes, if I go down to Long Bamber to have a look at Chieftain, the police'll see that as further proof that I'm the villain.”

“How do you work that out?”

“Have you not heard the great cliché: ‘The perpetrator always revisits the scene of the crime'?”

“Ah. Right. Does that mean you're not going to go there?”

“No, of course it doesn't.” He chuckled. “It'll give me great pleasure to lead the police on a wild goose chase.”

“So you will try and heal Chieftain?”

“I'll be down at Long Bamber tomorrow morning,” he said, suddenly efficient. “Round eleven.” He drained his drink. “And that's me switched off again. Now I will return to my mates, to be perverse and argumentative, and talk a load of bollocks, and lead the conversation down a lot of whimsical cul-de-sacs, and then lose my temper and start threatening people.”

“Why?”

“Because, he winked—that is what is expected of a stage Irishman.”

She scribbled down her name and mobile number on a scrap of paper and gave it to him.

This prompted more ribaldry from George Tufton's stable lads, whose table Donal rejoined, stepping immediately back into his expected role.