A Racing Murder (The Ham Hill Murder Mysteries)

by Frances Evesham

  Hedge trimmings flew as the horses lifted over the fence. Diane let out her breath. They were all over. Belinda was safe – for now.

  But there was a long way to go.

  The crowd gasped. A horse had fallen at the fourth. The jockey, an old pro, curled into a ball for safety and let the rest of the field swerve past.

  ‘Not Belinda,’ Diane muttered under her breath. ‘Not Belinda.’

  Butterfly Charm galloped smoothly, keeping in touch with the front runners, gliding over each obstacle with graceful ease. Diane forced herself to breathe evenly. It was going to be all right. Belinda was round safely and on the second circuit.

  Another horse fell, unloading his rider, and the field was down to six with Butterfly Charm in fourth place.

  The horses thundered down the track towards the rails, two riderless runners by their side. Diane’s friends cheered, hoarse with excitement, almost drowning out the commentary. Ling bounced up and down on her toes, shrieking encouragement.

  Butterfly Charm moved up to third place. There was just one more fence to go. Belinda’s purple cap bobbed in the air as the elegant grey lengthened her stride and, slowly, inch by inch, overtook the dark bay in front of her.

  Diane clenched her hands at her chest, the knuckles white. ‘Go on,’ she whispered. ‘Go on, Belinda.’

  Butterfly Charm was at Season’s Greetings’ shoulder, still fighting, as the two horses took off and landed together over the final fence, galloping neck and neck, stride for stride, every sinew straining.

  Diane gasped. Season’s Greetings was tiring. Slowly, Butterfly Charm was moving ahead.

  Then, unbelievably, she was in the lead, a short head in front of Season’s Greetings.

  Was it all over?

  No, not yet. The other horse was fighting back. There was a long, downhill run to the finishing post, and Diane knew Butterfly Charm’s chief flaw was a lack of speed in the final stretch.

  Surely, Butterfly Charm couldn’t possibly win? Diane’s heart thudded as Butterfly Charm put on a burst of speed, gaining ground until she was ahead. Astonishingly, against the odds, she was going to win.

  But then, she lurched. She jinked, swerved to the right. Quick as a flash, Belinda switched her whip to her right hand. She touched Butterfly’s shoulder and the horse straightened and speeded up, leaving Season’s Greetings in her wake as she thundered pass the post in first place.

  Tears of joy sprang to Diane’s eyes. Belinda had won. Her first proper race, and she’d won, against all the odds.

  But something was wrong.

  The cheering died away.

  The crowd was murmuring.

  Diane turned, confused. All around, people frowned, shaking their heads.

  What could be wrong?

  The loudspeaker blared and Diane’s heart plummeted.

  There was to be a Stewards’ Enquiry.

  Ling squeezed Diane’s arm. ‘What a shame.’ The queue of punters in front of the bookies broke up into chattering groups.

  Diane forced herself to breathe. She felt sick. Belinda’s first race. Had she won, or lost? Diane couldn’t tell. It was all in the hands of the stewards.

  Belinda arrived at the Stewards’ Room, her stomach churning. Alex Deacon, the jockey who’d ridden Season’s Greetings into second place, was already inside.

  The stewards sat behind a long polished table. Belinda was ushered to a plain wooden chair, a few metres from Alex.

  Alex, several years older than Belinda and riding in her fourth professional race, held her racing helmet cradled on her lap. Golden blonde waves flowed over her shoulders. Belinda’s own hair had partly escaped from an elastic band on top of her head and stray wisps, damp with sweat, stuck to her forehead. She wished she’d taken a moment to wash her face and brush her hair.

  Alex oozed with confidence as they watched a video of the race. She couldn’t wait to put her side of the story.

  ‘Butterfly Charm came up on Season’s Greetings’ shoulder and began to pull ahead. I knew my horse would make a great finish and I waited to time it right. But just as I was about to whip him on, Butterfly Charm moved to the right, crossing my path, so I had to pull him up.’

  She glanced at Belinda, flicking her hair back over one shoulder.

  Belinda kept her eyes on the Chief Steward, but she could see Alex’s smirk. She’d seen her smile like that on the dance floor at Young Farmers’ events. The boys fell for it every time.

  The Chief Steward was in his late fifties, a well-built farmer with a reputation for being firm but fair. Even so, Belinda could have sworn his cheeks flushed a little.

  It was her turn to speak. Leo had trained her for this but she was still terrified.

  She thought about Leo’s instructions. ‘Keep it simple,’ he’d said. ‘Don’t try to be clever.’

  ‘We came down the straight,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the steward. ‘Can you speak a little louder?’

  She swallowed and tried again. ‘After the last jump, we were neck and neck and then Butterfly Charm drew ahead.’

  ‘Yes.’ The steward tapped his pen on the table. ‘And what did you do next?’

  Do? What had she done? It was all a blur. ‘I tapped Butterfly with my whip. Just once, to encourage her.’

  ‘Which hand?’ asked the Chair.

  Belinda thought back. Horses raced clockwise at Wincanton. ‘We were on the outside, with Season’s Greetings inside, next to the rails, and my whip was in my left hand.’

  She closed her eyes, reliving the heady excitement of the moment. ‘I tapped Butterfly Charm’s flank, to keep her going, but she moved in a little to the right. I couldn’t see Season’s Greetings, for we were well ahead by then.’ It didn’t hurt, did it, to point that out?

  ‘As soon as I realised my horse had moved to the right, I corrected her.’ Her voice faded away. She admitted the truth to herself. In a rush of adrenalin, with the finishing post so close, she’d lost control of the horse. Just for a split second. And, in that instant, Butterfly had drifted.

  Belinda licked dry lips. The Chief Steward nodded. ‘Thank you. I’ll ask you both to leave the room and we’ll deliberate. We’ll make our decision known as soon as possible.’

  Fighting to keep any sign of emotion from her face, Belinda left the room behind her rival. Alex turned and raised an eyebrow. ‘Not the greatest debut,’ she said, and her eyes glittered.

  Belinda bit back a retort. She was sure Alex had deliberately pulled up. ‘Let’s wait for the result,’ she said.

  ‘Oh yes. My uncle, the racing journalist, is here. The news will be in the evening editions.’

  ‘You’re assuming you’ll get the decision?’

  ‘Of course.’ Alex smirked. ’You’ll learn. Just a rookie error.’

  Belinda looked Alex in the eye. ‘Did you pull him up deliberately?’

  Alex leaned in and smiled. ‘What do you think?’ she murmured.

  She’d known it. Belinda clenched a fist in fury. She longed to slap Alex’s smug face.

  At that moment, a camera whirred.

  Alex smiled and turned away. ‘Uncle John. Nice to see you.’

  Smirking, she took her uncle’s arm and walked away. After two steps, she glanced back over her shoulder. ‘Can’t wait to see that photo in the Post.’

  3

  Dinner

  The dining room at The Streamside Hotel buzzed.

  Diane had booked a table at seven thirty for the Butterfly Charm syndicate. Belinda had wanted to stay away, but Ling had persuaded her to come. ‘Win or lose,’ she’d said, ‘we always celebrate.’

  Belinda had groaned. ‘They’ll all be so disappointed. I won fairly. I really did.’ She shook her head. The enquiry had been a nightmare.

  ‘Cheer up,’ Ling said. ‘That was the most exciting race we’ve seen all season. Of course, we wanted you to win and we all had a little flutter, but we joined the syndicate for fun, not profit. You did a terrific job to come second.’r />
  Belinda chewed her lip. She hoped her mother hadn’t put money on the race. She could barely afford the annual fees for the syndicate, but insisted on staying in it all the same. Perhaps it was because Dad had been such an enthusiast. Belinda knew Mum was scared of horses, no matter how much she pretended otherwise.

  Belinda’s eyes filled with tears.

  She wished Dad were here to laugh and wink at her. ‘It’s sport, Belinda, not real life,’ he’d say, with a hug to show he understood his daughter’s disappointment. He’d never shared her competitive instincts. As a criminal lawyer, he’d fought hard for truth and justice and had lost, when necessary, with grace. He’d also had very sharp eyes. Belinda was sure Alex had deliberately held back her horse, making it seem as though Butterfly Charm’s small swerve had seriously impeded her progress. Dad would have seen it.

  Belinda blinked hard and took a breath. Dad would tell her to accept the verdict. It didn’t matter that Alex had been sneaky. That was all part of the game, like a clever defence in court. There was no point in sulking.

  Instead, she made herself sit straight at the elegant table, where every place was set with spotless cutlery and sparkling glass. The champagne was ready, the first bottle already open and nestled enticingly in an ice bucket. Belinda must put on a good face. She stitched on a smile.

  Henry Oxon raised his glass in her direction. ‘Remember, you passed the post first. Nobody can take that away from you. A jolly good show for your first professional race and the stewards recognised that. You haven’t been fined, or penalised.’

  ‘Not by the Jockey Club,’ Belinda admitted, ‘but I’m sure Leo will have something to say in the yard, although he was kind today.’

  ‘Stop worrying,’ Ling said. ‘It happens to everyone. You told me that yourself.’

  ‘Not in their first race,’ Belinda sighed. ‘With their mother watching – and the syndicate – and Alex laughing at me.’ She groaned. ‘I’m sure she held Season’s Greetings back deliberately, to make me look even worse.’ Then she bit her lip. She was whining and Dad wouldn’t have liked that.

  Henry was on her side. ‘Probably. Racing’s a battle, Belinda, just like the law. I show my clients in a good light, so I win the case even when I know they’re over-egging their side of the argument and maybe even stretching the truth. It’s all a game.’

  Ling said, ‘Belinda’s Dad didn’t see it that way. He wanted to punish the ones who deserved it, not play games just to win.’

  Henry gave a bark of laughter. ‘Poor old Rupert. A great guy, honest as the day is long, but not really cut out for the real world.’

  Magnus Wilson, an anaesthetist at the local hospital, leaned closer to Belinda. He was a handsome man, about the same age as her father and Henry, and a long-time friend of both. He had the brightest blue eyes Belinda had ever seen, although he hid them behind a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles. He removed the glasses and smiled at her. ‘Take no notice of Henry. He has no morals. Your Dad was a good man who wanted to make the world a better place.’

  Laura, Magnus’s wife, said. ‘We could use a few more men like that around here.’ She glared at Henry.

  There was a short silence. Henry took a breath, as though about to speak, but Ling rested a restraining hand on his arm.

  Just inside the dining room, Imogen was chatting to Emily, her hotel manager. She heard raised voices and glanced across the room, listening, ready to deal with any trouble.

  The big, red-faced man at Belinda Sandford’s table emptied his glass of wine in one long draught. It probably wasn’t his first. His tiny wife wore an embroidered silk dress, her hair in an elegant chignon, immaculately neat, complete with a white flower. She smiled at the young girl on the other side of the table. ‘Don’t take any notice of Henry,’ she advised. ‘Lawyers love to argue and even more, they love to win. Henry forgets he’s not in court and that he might hurt people’s feelings.’

  The big man refilled his glass, laughing loudly. ‘Quite right, Ling. Take no notice of me, Belinda. Get back on the horse tomorrow. Onwards and upwards, that’s the spirit.’

  Imogen raised her eyebrows at Emily. The awkward moment had passed. The staff wouldn’t need to break the tension by making enquiries about the food, or topping up water glasses.

  Emily grinned at her boss. ‘Race days can be tricky,’ she said. ‘Owners are either celebrating or commiserating, and whatever’s happened they all drink too much.’

  Although Emily was still in her twenties, she’d run The Streamside Hotel efficiently for several years, first for Councillor Jones, Imogen’s father, and now for Imogen. Imogen had soon found she could rely on the younger woman’s common sense and experience.

  Imogen’s own area of expertise was the garden. Her gaze slid through the window, enjoying the new floodlighting that lit up the snowdrops, so they mirrored the myriad stars in the night sky. Imogen had brought all her landscaping expertise to bear on the hotel’s grounds during the past six months, and this year, the garden would look wonderful. The earliest of the daffodils were already in bloom under the hawthorn trees by the stream.

  She breathed a sigh of pure happiness. The bluebells and crocuses would flower soon and the hectic spring work begin. She’d barely be indoors for the next few months and there was nowhere she would rather be than outside in the fresh air.

  She heard a noise in the reception area and turned. Adam Hennessy was hurrying through the lobby, waving, his face serious.

  Imogen’s throat tightened. ‘Something’s wrong,’ she muttered to Emily, and crossed the foyer. ‘What is it?’

  Adam stopped in his tracks. ‘Came to warn you. The police are on their way. They want to speak to some of your guests. I thought you’d want to head them off, keep things calm.’

  ‘Too right. The last thing we need is a visit from the police. I suppose it’s not just parking offences?’

  ‘No such luck,’ he said. ‘Trouble at the racecourse, apparently.’ He dropped his voice. ‘There’s a body.’

  ‘A what?’ Imogen stiffened. A surge of adrenaline tied a knot in her stomach. Not again. Not another death. It was less than a year since her own husband had been murdered.

  In a sudden rush of feeling, the rawness and pain of that time returned. Her legs trembled.

  Adam took her arm and led her to a chair in a quiet corner, almost hidden behind a huge pair of potted ferns. ‘Sorry, that was thoughtless. It’s no one you know. At least, I don’t think so. One of the jockeys.’

  ‘An accident in a race?’ The knot in Imogen’s stomach began to untie itself. This time, the bad news was not for her. ‘Who do they want to speak to?’

  ‘According to my old mate, James Barton, who rang to let me know—’

  ‘The forensic pathologist?’

  He nodded. ‘The police want to talk to Butterfly Charm’s jockey.’

  Imogen jerked her head towards the dining room. ‘She’s having dinner with friends. And they’re not too happy. There was an incident during the race, I heard. I’ll bring her out of the dining room if I can, without causing a fuss. Belinda, that’s her name.’

  He nodded. ‘Are you up to it?’

  ‘Of course. It was just the shock. It brought it all back – you know, Greg’s death and everything.’ Shakily, Imogen stood up, squaring her shoulders. ‘I’m fine, now. I’ll get Emily to head off the police and take them somewhere quiet.’

  She slipped back into the dining room and murmured in Emily’s ear. As ever, the manager caught on fast. She gave a short start and a long stare. ‘They can use one of the conference rooms.’ She was already on her way to organise things.

  Imogen swallowed hard, took a breath, let it out slowly and approached the guests at the syndicate table.

  She leaned close to Belinda. ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you. We need to talk. Would you mind just popping out for a moment?’

  Belinda turned, frowning. ‘I’m sorry? What’s the matter? Is it the Stewards’ Enquiry?’

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sp; She looked terrified. Imogen said, ‘Please don’t be alarmed. Come with me and I’ll tell you in private. It’s too public here.’ Belinda’s eyes slid past her. Already, one or two diners at other tables had stopped eating and turned towards the syndicate table.

  Belinda scrambled up, dropping her napkin on the floor.

  The big man at her table rose to his feet. ‘Is there something wrong?’ he boomed.

  His wife touched his hand. ‘Be quiet, Henry,’ she murmured. ‘No scenes in the hotel, please.’

  He grunted, hesitated, and subsided. ‘Can’t we have a little peace and quiet while we’re eating?’ he growled.

  Belinda followed Imogen from the room and another woman – Belinda’s mother, Diane Sandford, Imogen realised – tagged along with her daughter.

  The rest of the syndicate exchanged glances, shrugged, and refilled their glasses. The other diners in the room, losing interest, went back to their meals.

  4

  The Plough

  Adam was waiting in the entrance foyer. He said, ‘Emily’s taken the police officers to the Hazel Conference Room. We thought your guests would rather not be escorted by the police.’

  Belinda’s eyes were like saucers. ‘I haven’t done anything. Why do the police want me?’

  ‘Don’t worry, dear.’ Diane Sandford’s hand was at her throat. She seemed almost as anxious as her daughter.

  Imogen showed them to the conference room and returned to reception. She grabbed Adam’s arm. ‘You’d better tell me everything you know. Come into the office.’

  He sank into an office chair, eyes gleaming. Imogen had seen that look on his face before. A retired policeman, Adam was never going to lose his fascination with crime.

  Imogen said, ‘Thanks for diverting the police. Hardly anyone’s noticed they’re here.’

  ‘I thought you’d rather not have a fuss. The body’s at the racecourse and they’ll just be asking for a preliminary account from your guest.’