by Simon Brett
Join the club, thought Jude. “But presumably there’s no doubt about how he was killed?”
“What on earth do you mean? You saw his body—slashed to pieces with that bot knife.”
“Yes, but sometimes…a murderer might have killed someone by another method, and then slashed the body to disguise how he’d really died.”
Lucinda Fleet cocked a wry eyebrow at Jude. “Big reader of crime fiction, are you?”
“Sorry. Just an idea. It’s inevitable, when something like that happens, everyone comes up with pet theories about it. A lot of local gossip.”
Lucinda raised her eyes to heaven. “Tell me about it. Well, congratulations on coming up with a theory I haven’t heard before—and I’ve heard a good few of them. No, the bot knife is definitely what killed him. The police questioned me quite a bit about Walter’s health, physical state, what have you. And left me in no doubt that it was the attack with the bot knife—wielded by some unknown assailant—that did him in.”
“Right,” said Jude thoughtfully. “And I don’t suppose you have any idea who that assailant might have been?”
The shoulders under Lucinda Fleet’s faded body warmer were raised in a nonchalant shrug. “Not a clue. I would assume some vagrant who was dossing down in here.”
“But not Donal?”
“No, very definitely not Donal. And thank God the police have realised that too. You heard they released him?”
“Yes. So…you were saying?”
“Yes, well, I assume this vagrant—probably a drug addict hoping to find something here worth stealing—anyway, Walter must have disturbed him and…I don’t know. Whoever it was, though, he may have done me a favour. Soon maybe I’ll be able to reclaim what’s left of my life.”
“Once you get the funeral out of the way.”
“Yes. That, as I said, will be a great relief to me. Not least because it is the last time I will ever have to see any of Walter’s ghastly relatives.”
“You don’t have any children, do you?”
“No.” Lucinda might have been about to say more on the subject, but decided against it.
“And…this is sheer nosiness, Lucinda, but since you know everyone in the area’s coming up with their own theories about Walter’s death…”
“Yes?” she asked patiently.
“Was Walter well heeled? Did he leave a lot of money?”
Lucinda Fleet let out a harsh laugh, and gestured around the yard. “What do you think? Neither of us had any secret stash of cash, I’m afraid. Everything we had we put into this place, which, as you can see, is in fairly desperate need of maintenance. And would have had that maintenance years ago, if we’d had any money to do it with.”
“Yes. I understand.”
“Anyway, perhaps we should go and have a look at Chieftain.”
The two horses who’d been tethered during the mucking out were now safely back in their stalls. Lucinda led the way across to a half-open loose box, over which a neat brass plate proclaimed the name “Chieftain.” Hearing their approach, the owner came forward and poked his head out to see what was going on.
“You know a lot about horses, don’t you?” Jude asked.
“If I don’t now, I never will.”
“And what’s your view on healers working with horses? Are you in the sceptical camp?”
“Certainly not. I’ve seen it work too often to be sceptical. No, I’ve come across quite a few horse healers in my time, and they can certainly do the business.” Lucinda slid across the outside bolt of the loose box. “Come on, Chieftain boy. You come out and let Jude make you better.”
As soon as she addressed the horse, Lucinda Fleet was transformed. The brusque, even harsh, exterior she presented to her fellow humans was replaced by a sudden empathy, not a sentimental approach as to a pet, but a deep and strong understanding of how horses ticked.
Chieftain, clattering out into the yard, was clearly used to Lucinda’s hand on his halter, but he eyed Jude warily, as if he recognised her but couldn’t place where they’d met. She was once again struck by the enormous bulk of the horse, and the amount of potential for damage in that strong sleek body.
Lucinda led the gelding across to the rail where the other two horses had been tethered, but she kept hold of his halter. “Stroke his nose, Jude. Give him a moment to get used to you.”
She did as she was told. Chieftain sniffed around her hand in an exploratory manner, then nuzzled his large nose towards her ear. This was not a gesture of affection; he was still assessing her. After a moment, he moved his head away, either satisfied that she was harmless, or simply bored with her.
“See if he minds you touching his leg.”
Jude did as Lucinda suggested. Very gently, as she had done before, she put first one hand on his upper thigh, then the other. Chieftain showed no signs of objecting, so she moved her hands slowly down until she could feel the warmth from his knee glowing under them.
“Right, if we can just keep very quiet and still, I’ll see if I can ‘work my magic’ on him.” Perhaps in an unconscious homage to Donal, she said the phrase with a trace of an Irish accent.
“Lucinda! We’ve come to ride! Could you get the horses ready!”
14
THE 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.
15
THERE 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 entere
d: 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.
