A Racing Murder (The Ham Hill Murder Mysteries)

by Frances Evesham

  Mrs Collins paced up and down, unable to stand still, opening and closing her hands, her expression agonised. ‘I told him to rest,’ she muttered, over and over again. ‘He’s had a bad heart for years, but he wouldn’t listen.’

  Imogen, feeling helpless, dragged a blanket from a railing and wrapped it around the woman’s shoulders. She seemed not to notice. ‘He’s been off colour for days,’ she muttered, shivering. ‘He won't stop work, you see. He was out all night. It’s too much for a man of his age with a weak heart. I told him, too much. He's hardly had any sleep.’

  At last, when Imogen had begun to despair, an ambulance arrived and a paramedic took over. Laura staggered back, white as a sheet.

  Imogen suspected there was little to be done to help Mr Collins.

  The paramedics slid him onto a stretcher and carried him into the ambulance, Mrs Collins trailing behind them.

  Imogen stood outside with Laura. Laura heaved a deep sigh. ‘He won’t make it,’ she said. ‘It's obvious. They won’t be certain until they get to the hospital, I suppose, but anyone can see it. He's over seventy, you know.’

  ‘Come inside,’ Imogen suggested.

  Laura’s eyes were wild, unfocused. ‘I'm expecting a couple of the ewes to lamb, any minute.’

  ‘Is there someone who can come and help?’

  Laura frowned, as though answering this simple question took every ounce of her concentration.

  ‘I'll ring Eric. He’s due in tonight, but I know he'll come earlier. I'll stay with the ewes until he comes. Could you – I know it’s a cheek, but could you look after the lamb in the farmhouse?’

  To Imogen's relief, the new arrival still lay, sleeping peacefully, in his cosy corner near the Aga. She touched his body and felt the little heart pumping through the wool of his chest.

  She was suddenly close to tears. Just as one life had gone, a new one had sprung into being. Wiping her eyes, she made a pot of tea in the huge brown teapot that the Collins family had undoubtedly used for years. Imogen’s grandmother had insisted on keeping just such a pot, refusing to put it in the dishwasher. ‘Spoils the taste, me duck,’ she'd said, straining dark brown, tannic tea into china cups.

  Brushing off the desire for comfort, Imogen sent a text to Dan.

  Can't meet you at yard – emergency at the Collins farm.

  Her phone rang, and she heard Dan’s voice. ‘I’m at the yard. Shall I come over?’

  Imogen’s tears threatened again. ‘Can you?’ Briefly, she explained.

  ‘I'll be there in ten minutes,’ he said. She took a deep breath. Everything would be all right. Dan was on the way. With renewed energy, she poured the tea.

  She was in the barn when he arrived, with Laura, sipping from a mug. The warm barn full of ewes was comforting. One was circling, restless. Laura said, ‘She’ll be next.’

  Eric arrived. An elderly man with a lined and wrinkled face, he took one look at Laura and jabbed his thumb towards the house. ‘Now you get along inside. I’ll be fine here and my boy will come after he finishes work. You do what you need to do, Missy.’

  As Laura, Dan and Imogen sat in the cosy kitchen, the phone rang. Laura answered, her hand shaking as she picked it up. ‘It’s Mum,’ she mouthed.

  She listened, eyes glistening with tears. She turned to Imogen. ‘He's gone.’

  The next hour or so was a blur, as Laura struggled to contact her four sisters.

  Dan busied himself making endless rounds of toast as they ran through the dull, painful business of death. Imogen knew the rituals only too well; the paperwork and the sad, bureaucratic arrangements that must be made.

  At last, there was nothing else to do except wait, and they fell into conversation.

  Laura’s hands still shook, but she seemed to take comfort in talking. ‘What a week. I mean, it's no surprise about Dad. A shock, but we’d all seen it coming. He thought he could go on forever, but then, we all think that, don't we? But so soon after that – that horrible death at the races.’ She blew, hard, into a tissue.

  Dan said, ‘Is there anything else we can do? I mean, we can stay, if you like, but we don't want to get in your way.’

  Imogen said, ‘Would you like us to contact your husband?’

  Laura made a noise halfway between a grunt and a laugh. ‘No, I don’t want to drag him away from the hospital. He's needed there and he can’t bring Dad back. Sick patients have to come first.’

  Imogen bit back a start of surprise. Maybe all doctors had to put their patients before their families. That didn’t seem fair. Dan said, ‘Did you know Alex Deacon?’ Imogen gave him a warning look. Surely Laura was too distraught to talk about anything except her father.

  But Laura seemed relieved to think about something else. ‘Not lately. I knew her years ago, when she joined the pony club. I used to help out with the younger ones there. She’s been working at Ann Clarkson’s stables recently, of course. There’s tension between them and Leo Murphy's yard, where Belinda works, but it's never been more than a friendly rivalry. No hint of real trouble between the two establishments. I wouldn't put it past some of the stable hands to try and nobble riders from the other place, but it's hard to do and I'm not suggesting anything like that really happens.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I did meet Alex, recently. It was at Exeter, I think. Yes, that's right, it was her second ride. Butterfly Charm wasn't running that day, but Magnus was interested in joining a second syndicate. He's been involved in racing for a while now. He loves the atmosphere, the long lunches, the excitement of winning a few bob.’

  ‘And you don't?’

  Laura laughed. ‘I'm just a country girl at heart. I like racing for the horses. I'd rather be in the stables, grooming and filling up the hay nets. Of course, we're not allowed to do that on race days, but when we visit Leo's yard on open days he lets me play at being one of the stable hands.’

  She waved her hands in a gesture encompassing the farm. ‘Dad would have liked me to take over this place with my husband, but it's not Magnus’s thing.’ There was a hard edge to her voice. Had there been quarrels with Magnus?

  ‘How did you meet your husband?’ Imogen asked, half expecting Laura to tell her to mind her own business.

  ‘At the races, many years ago. I'd been down on the farm, helping out with lambing during the university holidays. I went down to Wincanton to watch an old family friend ride in one of the races, bumped into Magnus and spilt a cup of coffee over him. I thought he was the most glamorous person I'd ever met. He’s a few years older than me, you know.’

  ‘Any children?’ Dan asked. Imogen gulped. She had to admire his direct style.

  Laura seemed perfectly happy to keep talking. ‘Two. Boys, both at boarding school. Oh dear,’ she sniffed, the tears suddenly spilling over onto her cheeks. ‘They were going to come here for Easter. They love to follow Dad around the farm.’

  The door opened. Mrs Collins was there, with an older, plainer version of Laura. One of her sisters. Mrs Collins hardly noticed Imogen and Dan, who made quiet excuses and left.

  Outside, Dan went to his car and Imogen to hers. He said, ‘Let's go somewhere for dinner tonight. You look like you could do with cheering up.’

  ‘We arranged to meet Adam and Steph for dinner this evening.’

  Dan’s face fell. ‘So we did. I'd forgotten,’ he said. ‘But maybe it’s a good thing. There’s plenty to talk about. I learned a thing or two from Leo Murphy, but I'm going to make you wait. We can talk over dinner.’

  With a broad grin and a wink he jumped into his car and drove away.

  18

  Dinner

  Imogen had reserved her favourite table for four in the hotel, neatly tucked in a little alcove in one corner of the room.

  Adam was first to arrive, to Harley's delight. Unfortunately, the dog had just spent a happy half-hour in the garden where he'd found the muddiest spot close to the stream and rolled enthusiastically in the sludge.

  Adam held Harley at arm’s length in the foyer
until Emily rescued him. She took Harley by the collar and led him away. ‘I'll get Michael to give him a bath,’ she said.

  Adam brushed mud from his best trousers. That served him right. He’d dressed up, telling himself it was out of respect for the elegance of The Streamside Hotel’s dining room, such a contrast from the casual atmosphere of the Plough, although he knew it was for Steph.

  Imogen grinned. ‘Nice shirt,’ she said.

  ‘This old thing?’ Adam mocked. ‘I’ve had it for years. Isn't that what you’re supposed to say?’

  ‘Can't fool me. It’s new, and I'm sure…’ she twinkled, ‘I’m sure Steph will be looking lovely, as always.’

  Adam snorted with laughter. ‘And what will Dan be wearing tonight, do you think?’ he teased.

  ‘Painter’s smock?’ Imogen suggested.

  ‘And a beret, of course. Did he paint in a garret in Paris?’

  ‘Well, at the art school, anyway.’

  ‘Maybe a string of onions, then.’

  ‘And that, Mr Hennessy, shows your age. I bet you can remember when onion sellers came from Brittany to sell their wares from their bicycles.’

  Adam threw up his hands. ‘Not quite, but I learned about it at my mother's knee.’

  They were still giggling like children when Dan arrived, soon followed by Steph. They made their way towards the restaurant.

  Steph’s dark curly hair had mostly withstood the fading of time, except for a white streak at her temples. This evening, her purple paisley shirt and orange scarf lit up the dining room. Adam swallowed hard, suddenly short of breath.

  He caught sight of himself in a mirror and snorted quietly at the contrast. There was no point in kidding himself. ‘Smartly dressed’ was the best he’d ever achieve. He'd been born with genes that had stopped him growing taller than five foot six, but seemed to have no such scruples when it came to sideways growth. Once or twice he’d tried a diet, but the truth was, he loved the good things of life.

  He hadn’t been out for a run since Saturday morning.

  Still, friends, good food and good wine mattered more to him than his figure. He’d never lasted more than three days on any diet. At least he looked the part as the host of The Plough.

  He really should get back to that fitness plan, though. He was eating far too many restaurant meals these days. He’d treated James Barton to dinner here at The Streamside a couple of days ago, thinking his friend needed more than the pub meal he’d originally promised. It had been his thank you to James for feeding him information on Alex Deacon’s death, and was designed to bring him up to date on Adam’s meeting with DCI Andrews. At least, that was the excuse, but really he’d been hoping to find out why his old friend seemed depressed. James had been close-lipped. He’d given little away, except to say he was counting the days to retirement. ‘The wife’s sick of Birmingham,’ he said. ‘I’m hoping she’ll cheer up once the weather warms up.’ Despite Adam’s hints, he’d said nothing more.

  This evening, though, Adam put the nagging worry about his old mate to the back of his mind. Dan had arrived, and Imogen seemed to have a kind of inner glow. Adam loved to see her face light up like that. He’d keep an eye on her, make sure Dan did nothing to hurt her.

  The four of them chose their meal with care, agreeing on a 2018 Camel Valley Pinot Noir Rose Brut from Cornwall to enjoy with the smoked salmon starter and duck main course suggested by the young waiter. The newest member of staff in the dining room, he hovered a few metres away, topping up their glasses of water with painfully obsequious care.

  Dan murmured, ‘He reminds me of Uriah Heep.’

  Imogen beckoned the young man over. ‘We've got business to talk through, Thomas, so please will you make sure everyone leaves us alone until we give you a signal?’

  Thomas blushed brick-red at the responsibility and for the rest of their meal watched from a respectful distance whenever he wasn't actively engaged in serving other customers.

  Steph smiled, ‘Your staff are very loyal.’

  ‘I’m so proud of them,’ Imogen said. ‘They've made me welcome here, ever since I arrived. I wasn't sure I'd keep the hotel at first, but Emily and her team run it so smoothly that I hardly have to do a thing, except the garden.’

  Dan said, ‘When will you be opening it to the public?’

  ‘In the spring. It used to be such a feature of the hotel, and people like to spend a day walking round gardens. Oswald, of course, is against us opening the whole area. He doesn't want what he calls “lazy gardeners” trampling over the grass and pinching bits of plants for their own gardens, although he’s letting us use it for the Spring Fair. He says that’s traditional.’

  Once the smoked salmon arrived, they picked up knives and forks, and silence fell while they ate their starters.

  As he laid his fork down, Adam said, ‘It seemed a good idea for us to meet this evening to talk through Alex Deacon's murder. I have to say, though, this wonderful food and wine is a problem. It’s going to be hard to keep our minds on the job.’

  Dan agreed. ‘Maybe we should take coffee up to your Hawthorn Room, Imogen, when we’ve eaten. We might concentrate better.’

  Imogen nodded. ‘I've had a small filing cabinet moved in there, so we can keep notes and things secure.’

  Steph laughed. ‘Wow, it's starting to sound like a police incident room, isn't it, Adam?’

  ‘Absolutely, but without the chipped cups, crumbs in keyboards, and weird smell from somebody's microwaved lunch.’

  ‘You could be talking about the newsroom at the local paper, except there'd also be someone shouting down a phone, or an intern sulking because the subeditor’s blue-pencilled most of her article.’

  ‘I had an interesting time at Leo Murphy's yard,’ Dan said, frowning earnestly. The man might look like a pop star, Adam thought, but he took life very seriously.

  ‘I didn't take to the head man, Pat,’ Dan said. ‘He walked me round the yard, and seemed very keen for me to include two female apprentices, as well as the horses, in my painting.’

  Adam raised an eyebrow. ‘Any idea why?’

  Dan grimaced. ‘Rivalry with Ann Clarkson’s training yard where Alex worked, I reckon. Pat’s fiercely loyal to Leo. I think he’s trying to show his devotion to equality – you know, plenty of women working here, we’re more right-on than other yards where there are so many men and boys. Somehow he made me feel a little suspicious.’

  Adam nodded, ‘I know what you mean, but too much political correctness can’t be a motive for killing Alex.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Dan sounded grudging, ‘but something he said rankled. “Having a few women around pulls in the punters”. It grated on me, that did.’

  A short silence followed while they digested this remark. Was it innocent? Just an old-fashioned tough man’s so-called humour, or something less acceptable?

  ‘I wonder,’ Imogen said, ‘how many others in the yard hold a similar opinion?’

  As they ate, they continued to share the information they’d gathered so far.

  ‘At least,’ Adam said, after Imogen recounted her stressful afternoon, ‘DCI Andrews has given us his blessing. He’s not happy with an accidental death decision, but his hands are tied without evidence. So, it’s up to us to find some.’

  He leaned back in his chair, ‘Laura Wilson sounds a thoroughly likable woman, helping out her parents, and dealing with a family tragedy.’

  Steph said, ‘But we haven’t seen much of this doctor husband of hers. Not at the yard when you were there, Adam, and not at the family farm with his wife. I think we need to get to know him better.’

  Dinner over, plates cleared and stomachs pleasantly full, they made their way to the Hawthorn Room.

  There was a whiteboard on the wall, used when business meetings took place there, and Imogen acted as scribe while the others listed the suspects. She put Alex's name in the middle of the board, and surrounded it with other names, linking them with arrows to show their relationships
.

  From Leo’s yard they listed Belinda, Leo himself, and Pat the head man, followed by the members of the syndicate.

  Imogen said, ‘Then, there are Alex’s fellow workers at the other yard. Ann Clarkson is the trainer, and Tim, this lad that went around with Belinda and then with Alex. He works there.’

  She drew arrows from Leo to Ann. ‘There was something about Leo’s relationship with Ann. Closer than rivalry, I think that was the suggestion. We need to know more about them. We said we’d leave them to the police…’

  Adam shook his head, ‘The police didn’t find anything unusual there. They talked to Alex’s friends and family, and to Ann Clarkson, but they drew a blank. Everyone at the yard’s shocked and upset, of course, although it seems Alex wasn’t especially well liked. The police picked up a sense that she’d happily step on anyone who stood in the way of her climb to the top of her profession, but that’s not too unusual in a competitive field like racing.’

  Steph said, ‘My money’s on the syndicate members and that race.’

  She held up one hand as the others’ voices rose in protest. ‘I know it’s just a hunch, but hear me out. Let’s assume Alex’s death was murder. All the likely suspects had to be at the races that day. The syndicate members are a close-knit group, rallying round when Belinda’s father died and persuading her mother to stay in the syndicate, even though Diane’s not a horse-lover. They know each other well. They were all at Wincanton, that day, with plenty of free time, plus access to the Owners and Trainers areas, and they all have an interest in the horse that lost the race, Butterfly Charm. They’ve said they don’t care much about the prize money, but is that true? If Butterfly Charm wins big, she’ll grow more valuable which could bring in big bucks in a sale.’

  Adam grinned. ‘I have an open invitation from Henry and Ling to visit them at home and talk more about buying shares in a horse, and I plan to take them up on it. I agree that we need to know more about them.’