A Racing Murder (The Ham Hill Murder Mysteries)

by Frances Evesham

  ‘Belinda Sandford’s her name. She grew up around here – her mother’s a local girl.’

  Adam blinked. ‘How do you know all that?’

  She grinned. ‘You should have come into the shop with me this morning, and then you’d have heard the gossip. Anyway, as the police are here, I assume this unfortunate jockey’s death wasn’t caused by an accidental fall from a horse?’

  ‘Nothing so simple. James says the winner of the 3.15 was found with her head stuck in a trough of water in one of the stables. The jockey was a woman – well, a girl, really. Someone called Alexandra – or Alex – Deacon. Apparently, there was a Stewards’ Enquiry into the race and your Belinda Sandford was found guilty of tactical obstruction of Alex’s horse. That must be why the police want to see her.’

  ‘And that accounts for the air of gloom at her table this evening,’ Imogen said. ‘They glugged down champagne as though there was no tomorrow, but none of them looked as though they were enjoying it. Emily and I thought we’d need to fend off a shouting match. The other people at the table are members of the horse’s syndicate. They each own a leg, or something.’

  ‘Ah. Interesting.’ Adam nodded, frowning.

  ‘Why especially? Stop teasing.’

  He laughed. ‘Sorry. Trying to maintain my aura of mystery.’ Imogen smiled. Adam’s moon face and twinkling eyes really weren’t designed to look mysterious.

  He said, ‘I know very little about horse racing, but I’ve heard that the members of a syndicate share any prize money. They’ll be out of pocket over the race.’

  ‘Aha. I see what you’re thinking. A motive?’

  He held up a finger in warning. ‘We’re getting way ahead of ourselves. I imagine this poor woman, Alex Deacon, might have had a heart condition or bumped her head or something. There could be any number of reasons she died.’

  ‘There’s going to be plenty of gossip when the news gets out. If I know Lower Hembrow, the place will be buzzing with speculation by tomorrow.’

  Adam laughed at that. ‘Tomorrow? I bet it’s already a hot topic across the road in The Plough. Which reminds me, it’s busy over there this evening. I need to get back, reluctant though I am to drag myself away from the action over here. I’ll see what the locals have to say, but I’m not getting involved.’ He folded his arms. ‘And, what does that snort mean?’

  ‘You know you can’t wait to start piecing together the evidence.’

  ‘Not much evidence available at the moment. I’m keeping a beautifully open mind and I refuse to see murder around every corner. Most unexpected deaths are perfectly innocent. But I need to get back to the pub. It’s Saturday night, so it’ll be heaving by now. Can you deal with the police?’

  ‘We can cope,’ Imogen smiled. ‘Emily will keep an eye on the syndicate, make sure there’s no trouble. As soon as they finish eating, she’ll spirit them away to take coffee somewhere private. The hotel’s bursting at the seams but I think we have one suite spare, a rather gloomy one that needs redecorating at the back of the hotel. If I know Emily, she’ll keep the police well away from the rest of the guests.’

  ‘Worth her weight in gold, your Emily.’

  ‘Meanwhile,’ Imogen said, ‘I’ll go back up and wait to catch Belinda and her mother when the police have finished. I think they’ll need strong coffee.’

  Adam crossed the road, enjoying the velvety darkness despite the cold. He loved Lower Hembrow village when it was like this – quiet, peaceful and a million miles away from his former life with the West Midlands police in Birmingham. The sky had cleared at the end of the day and the brightest of late February moons glinted, surrounded by the sparkle of millions of stars.

  He’d made a good decision, moving here. Who wouldn't want to live in Somerset?

  Adam felt he could almost reach up and touch Venus, as it dipped below the horizon.

  He pushed open the door to The Plough. Light and noise flooded out, with all the force of a breaking wave.

  ‘Here he is.’ The voice of the new barman, Rex Croft, soared above the racket. Adam had a soft spot for the Croft family. Rex’s younger brother, Alfie, had named Harley, when the stray animal had arrived and adopted him.

  Harley now lived across the road at The Streamside Hotel. Adam, having never before owned a dog, had discovered the role was trickier than expected; Harley had all but wrecked his bachelor quarters at The Plough.

  Searching for a solution, reasoning that Imogen was fragile after her husband’s death and a dog might help her adjust, Adam had suggested Harley should live permanently at the hotel.

  Imogen and Harley had soon bonded, spending hours together in the hotel gardens, but sometimes, Adam discovered with surprise, he missed the dog’s friendly presence.

  Not tonight, though. The Plough was packed with locals and a dozen heads in the bar turned to watch Adam’s progress between the polished tables. He nodded cheerfully at them all, let himself through the folding countertop and stepped behind the bar.

  One of the young farmers shouted, ‘Come on then, Adam. Tell us all about it. What's going on over there? Who died?’

  Adam had been right. The news had already hit Lower Hembrow.

  Oswald, the ageing gardener from The Streamside Hotel, raised his glass of cloudy local cider. His weathered cheeks glowed from the drink. They were almost as red as his nose which, large and leathery, was permanently flushed, a victim of his all-weather outdoor life. A few strands of grey hair wavered on top of Oswald’s skull.

  ‘There's been a spot of excitement over at the racecourse,’ he said. ‘Some poor girl’s dead, I hear.’ He shook his head. ‘Drowned, that’s what I heard. Drowned in a water trough.’

  An aggressive voice interrupted. ‘I’ll bet that was murder, then. You don’t drown yourself, do you? Stands to reason.’ That was Joe Trevillian, escaped from his farm and family, and making the most of an hour or so of freedom.

  ‘Where did you hear that?’ Adam asked.

  Joe grunted. ‘It's all over the county. Ann Clarkson’s not too pleased. The dead girl worked at her racing yard, over Ditcheat way. An up-and-coming young jockey, she was, so I hear.’

  He scratched his head. ‘Ann will be upset. She and Leo Murphy have been rivals for years. She’s hoping to steal his place as the top trainer in the county any way she can, and she had her eye on young Alex to help.’

  He took a gulp of cider and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘Two up-and-coming female jockeys, from rival yards, in the same race? You mark my words, two women in competition will lead to nothing but trouble. Jealousy, that’ll be behind it.’

  Adam was about to suggest that maybe the dead girl’s family deserved more sympathy than her employer, when the sudden crack of glass on wood shocked the drinkers into silence.

  Rex Croft had slammed a pint glass on the bar, sending a wave of beer across the surface. ‘What do you mean by that? You accusing Belinda or something?’ Adam had never before heard the normally gentle Rex raise his voice.

  Joe held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Not accusing anyone of anything, young fellow. Just a passing comment. Keep your hair on.’

  Rex's eyes flashed. ‘You’d better watch your tongue, Joe Trevillian. If you were twenty years younger I'd take you outside…’

  ‘You and whose army?’ sneered Joe.

  Time to step in. ‘Let's calm down,’ Adam said. ‘This is just speculation. All we know is that this young jockey died at the racecourse. It was probably an accident – and it’s a tragedy for her family. So, let’s show some respect, shall we?’

  Why was Rex so indignant on Belinda's behalf? Adam had only a vague recollection of seeing her once or twice, when she’d dropped into The Plough with friends.

  Maybe Rex had more than a passing interest in her.

  The drinkers in The Plough, disappointed to find that no one was about to throw a punch, turned back to their own debates. Joe Trevillian waved his glass. ‘Same again.’

  Adam shot a warning glance
at Rex and moved to serve the farmer. ‘Sheppy’s?’

  Joe nodded, rested his elbows on the bar and asked, ‘Are the police calling you in on this one, Hennessy?’

  Adam passed over a glass of cider and eyed the farmer. For some reason he'd never understood, Joe Trevillian had taken a dislike to him. He never missed an opportunity to sneer at Adam’s policing background.

  Adam's last case had ended in disaster when someone leaked details of a police raid, and a colleague had died. Adam had lost his taste for policing, ended his career early, taken his Detective Chief Inspector’s pension and his pot of savings – one of the benefits of never having married – and bought The Plough.

  He sometimes thought he learned more from the gossip of locals like Joe Trevillian, Rex Croft and the evergreen gardener, Oswald, than he had from any of his officers’ laboriously typed reports.

  Why did Trevillian feel such antipathy towards him? Was it just a cantankerous nature? The man had no links, so far as Adam could tell, with anything that had happened in Birmingham.

  Maybe the man just objected to overweight, undersized, un-athletic ex-policemen moving into his village. ‘Give it another thirty years,’ Adam had told Imogen, ‘and maybe Joe and I will be best buddies.’

  But, he rather doubted it.

  He smiled at Trevillian and blinked, mildly, through his thick spectacles. He liked the way they disguised the workings of his active mind. ‘I'm a private citizen, these days,’ he said. ‘I don't know any more than you about this poor woman.’

  Trevillian snorted. ‘Bet you could find out, though, if you wanted to.’

  A young farmer buying a round for himself and six mates saved Adam from the need to reply. By the time he’d filled their glasses, Joe had lost interest and turned away.

  5

  Garden

  On Sunday morning, The Plough’s chef, Wyatt Logan, arrived early. ‘We've got a bit of a crisis around here, Boss,’ he drawled. ‘Extra lunch orders and we're plumb out of beef.’

  Adam sighed. Wyatt was a great cook, introducing jerk rubs and cornbread to The Plough, and recalibrating local residents’ understanding of ‘gravy.’ To Adam’s surprise, The Plough’s locals, those most rural of English folk, lapped it up. But Wyatt’s forward planning was disastrous. If his food hadn’t been so good, he’d be long gone.

  At least, today, he had the grace to blush. ‘I guess we might be able to borrow from The Streamside.’

  ‘That's the second time this month,’ Adam pointed out. ‘We ran out of lamb chops a couple of weeks ago. It's getting embarrassing. Maybe we should just offer vegetarian food. Or vegan, so you don’t have to order meat?’

  Wyatt’s eyes were brown puddles of horror. ‘No way, Boss. Sure, some of the locals love their greens, but those farmers out in all weathers? They’ll just fade away without their steak. Why don’t I hop across to The Streamside and beg from Emily?’

  Adam paused. Maybe he should go himself. His policeman’s antennae were twitching. Imogen might know more about Saturday’s death at the races by now.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ he said. ‘I’ll go this time. Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.’

  Wyatt’s face fell. He seemed to like visiting the hotel. Adam wondered why. Maybe he hoped for a job there. Adam imagined Gerald, The Streamside’s chef, who longed for a coveted third AA Rosette, shuddering at the thought. No. The man would starve rather than serve Wyatt’s signature cheese dip and fries.

  Adam arrived at the hotel and waved at Emily through the office window. She pointed towards the garden. ‘She’s on her way out,’ she mouthed.

  Adam found Imogen wearing her favourite brown gardening cords, flannel shirt, sweater and gilet. ‘Gardening today? A bit chilly, isn’t it?’

  ‘Layers,’ she told him. ‘They’re the answer when it’s cold. You start off wearing as many clothes as you can find. Then you warm up a bit and shed one item at a time until you're down to a T-shirt.’

  Adam shivered. ‘You look determined.’

  ‘Harley and I are pruning,’ she said. ‘Have you come to give us a hand?’

  Harley was already at her side, alert, his tongue hanging out in anticipation.

  ‘I’ve never pruned, but give me the secateurs, tell me what to do, and I'm your man,’ Adam said. ‘But first, I need a favour. Can you loan us a few pounds of beef from your kitchens? Wyatt’s underordered again. Do you have any spare?’

  She chortled. ‘With Emily in charge? Of course we have. You could have rung her directly. I think,’ she nodded, solemnly, ‘in fact, I’m absolutely certain that you came here this morning because you wanted an excuse to pick my brains and find out more about this racecourse affair.’

  Adam grinned. ‘I can’t deny it, but I really do need beef, so…’

  Imogen sighed, rolled her eyes, and led him back to the office. Emily was hard at work, her computer keyboard clattering like gun shot as she typed.

  Imogen explained The Plough’s problem. ‘Can you organise someone to take any beef we can spare across to Wyatt?’

  ‘I’ll sort it out,’ Emily promised, clicking ‘save’ and logging off the computer. ‘I’ll take it over myself.’

  Imogen opened her mouth to object. Surely someone from the kitchen could go? But Emily was already on her way.

  Harley, tail wagging, led the way through the garden to the potting shed, where a huge variety of forks, spades, shears, loppers and secateurs hung neatly along the walls. Adam touched a finger on the sharp edges of one of the hoes and whistled.

  ‘I’m sorry to say all I have for my pathetic little garden is a spade, a fork and one of those wooden dibber things I’ve never actually used. But this year I'm going to get it all in shape. The paddock’s too big for a beer garden so I plan to steal a little corner for myself for my own garden. Though how I’ll find the time, I have no idea. My retirement’s proving anything but restful at the moment. I meant to spend every day painting, but I’ve hardly touched my brushes this year.’

  Imogen stroked the shining surfaces of a range of different sizes and shapes of spade. ‘That painting of the village you gave me at Christmas is lovely. The guests adore it. One wanted to buy it, remember?’

  ‘It was New Year’s Eve and he was drunk.’

  ‘True, but it’s something.’

  Adam grunted. The truth was, since meeting Imogen’s old school friend, Daniel Freeman, he found his own amateur efforts embarrassing.

  Daniel was a well-established artist, working from a proper studio, with an exhibition in Yeovil in a few months’ time. He was also far too handsome for a man of fifty, with a full head of hair showing only an elegant streak or two of grey.

  Imogen liked him, a lot. Was it just a crush from their schooldays, or something more serious? And, if it was serious, could Dan – Adam noticed Imogen called him Dan, these days– be trusted not to hurt her? After all, he had an ex-wife and a son living in the South of France. Not exactly a good omen.

  Still, Imogen was an adult. It was none of Adam’s business.

  She pushed open the potting shed door.

  ‘It’s beautifully warm in here,’ Adam said.

  ‘It’s Oswald’s favourite place. He hides in here and drinks tea. It wasn’t always a potting shed – it’s brick-built and very sturdy. I think it was a barn or a stable, once. One of the family who owned the estate before my father bought it, used it as a study. They put in these windows – one on either side. This one,’ she pointed, ‘looks out over the stream, and you can see the main building from the other.’

  ‘I like the smell in here. Earthy,’ Adam inhaled. ‘I could enjoy painting this place. A still life, you know, with all these shiny tools hanging on the walls – so beautiful, yet menacing.’

  She grinned. ‘Menacing? That’s the policeman talking. These tools are Oswald’s pride and joy. When it's pouring with rain, or freezing cold, there's nothing he likes better than cleaning and sharpening all the blades.’

  She took down
a pair of secateurs and handed them over. ‘Talking of freezing weather, I need to start work. I’ve heard there are winter storms on the way, and I won’t get anything done if the garden’s covered with a foot of snow for a week.’

  She gripped the handles of a hefty wheelbarrow and steered it, refusing Adam’s offer to help, out of the shed and towards a tall row of fiery stems. ‘Dogwood.’ She gathered half a dozen bright red shoots in one hand. ‘I grow them for the colour. They've been beautiful this winter, but it's time to cut them right down so they’ll grow again next year. I'll collect the best stems and put them in water in the hotel. They’ll soon grow new leaves and bring spring into the place.' She cut down the branches and waved them in the air. ‘Lovely, aren’t they?’

  ‘Meanwhile,’ Adam said, unable to raise much enthusiasm for pruning, ‘what happened last night? Did DCI Andrews march your guest away in handcuffs?’

  She piled the stems in her wheelbarrow. ‘The police were only here for a few minutes. I gather they were just getting a handle on events at the racecourse.’

  ‘The whole affair was the talk of the pub,’ Adam said. ‘Tempers were running high. Rex seems to have an interest in this Belinda Sandford, and I thought he was going to land a punch on Joe Trevillian’s nose. Not that I would have minded. The man’s a grumpy old so and so. I don’t know how I’ve offended him.’

  Imogen stopped work and stood a moment, hands on hips. ‘He’s like that with everyone. Some kind of chip on his shoulder, I suppose. He thinks the world’s against him.’

  She pointed to another clump of bright stems. ‘You can chop those down, if you like.’ Adam grinned, took the hint and bent to the task.

  ‘Young Belinda was in quite a state last night,’ Imogen confided. ‘Luckily her mother was here to look after her, although she seemed as upset as her daughter. Belinda left for work first thing this morning – you know how it is with racing yards – they start work at the crack of dawn, but Diane’s staying for another night.’