The Stabbing in the Stables

by Simon Brett

  The massage was thorough and took nearly an hour and a half. At the end, feeling deeply toned and relaxed, Jude showered off the oil on her body, donned her borrowed bathing costume and made her way to the swimming pool. It was set in a mini Crystal Palace, a huge vaulted structure of cast iron and glass; its previous role as a conservatory was hinted at by the huge potted palms and other tropical trees on the poolside area. The atmosphere was steamy and deliciously warm, in vivid contrast to the cold, darkening February outside.

  There were wicker loungers and tables around the pool. Abandoning her robe, slippers and towel, Jude eased herself down the steps into the water, whose temperature exactly matched that of the ambient air. She swam a brisk ten lengths, using the efficient crawl she had perfected during one long summer with a lover in the south of France. Then she bobbed about in the water for a few minutes, taking a covert look at the other spa users, searching for Sonia Dalrymple.

  There was no sign of her in the poolside area. Four or five loungers were occupied, all by women, no men. And none of the bodies on display could ever have been mistaken for Sonia’s. Perhaps it had taken a long time for these women—or, more likely, their husbands—to attain the kind of wealth that made the Yeomansdyke experience accessible, but none of them was in the first flush of youth, and indeed the first hot flush of the menopause was quite a distant memory. No, if Sonia Dalrymple was around, she was in some other part of the spa.

  Jude got out of the water, towelled herself down, resumed her bathrobe and slippers, and ambled back to the spa reception.

  “I was rather expecting to meet a friend of mine here today. Mrs. Dalrymple…I don’t know if she’s been in.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Dalrymple has booked into the hotel for three nights. She’s in one of the tanning suites at the moment,” said the girl with exquisite politeness. She consulted a printed sheet. “Suite 4.”

  “Oh, well, I’ll wait till she comes out.”

  “You don’t have to. If you’re a friend, I’m sure she’d be delighted to see you. Just knock on the door. The tanning suites are down there.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  The suites’ numbers were on brass plates worn smooth with much polishing. Jude tapped on the heavy oak door of Number 4, but there was no response. She entered unbidden.

  Sonia Dalrymple lay on a bed under the sunlamp, wearing only a wispy black bikini bottom. She was on her back, showing to full advantage the stunning figure that made Jude a little wistful for what she once had been. But, even at her height of beauty, she had never been so precisely toned. Amazing to think that that firm, flat stomach had given birth to twins. Sonia’s body, like everything else about the Dalrymples, was absolutely perfect.

  She wore a designer eyeshade and, rather than the dark goggles on the table, beneath it a thin silk scarf was laid across her eyes. Either she was breathing very shallowly, or she was not breathing at all.

  Jude felt a moment of anxiety. There was something wrong. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, the mobile phone on the table beside Sonia rang. Instantly alive, she snatched at the phone as a man dying of thirst would snatch at a drink.

  But at the same moment she recognised her visitor and stabbed at the phone to hold the call.

  As she did so, the scarf slipped away from her face, to reveal the purplish bruising around both her eyes.

  Jude wondered whether she now knew what Lucinda Fleet’s words had meant. “She often goes to Yeomansdyke to recuperate after Nicky’s been home.”

  17

  SONIA DALRYMPLE SNATCHED up the scarf to hide her eyes, then switched off the phone without answering it. “Jude, what on earth are you doing here?”

  Time for a little tactical finessing of the truth. “Someone gave me a day’s voucher here as a Christmas present”—that bit was true—“and I saw your name on one of the receptionist’s sheets. When I asked about you, she told me you were in here.”

  “Ah.” Sonia realised that she couldn’t keep the scarf up forever. Jude had seen the worst, anyway. She uncovered her face. “I’m sorry I look such a sight. I…er…I had a fall from Chieftain.”

  “Chieftain’s lame,” said Jude gently.

  “Yes, but he’s on the mend. I thought I’d have a go this morning and then unfortunately…”

  “Sonia, I was up at Long Bamber Stables this morning. With Chieftain. In another abortive attempt to heal his lameness.”

  “Ah. Yes. Of course.”

  Rather than beautiful, her nakedness now looked only vulnerable. Seeming to become aware of this, Sonia reached round for a Yeomansdyke robe and wrapped it around herself.

  “Do you want to talk?”

  “What, Jude? About what?”

  “About your face. About the bruises.”

  “No. There’s nothing to say about them. I had an accident, that’s all.”

  “But not an accident falling from a horse?”

  “No.”

  Clearly further information on that subject was not going to be forthcoming. “Actually, I’m glad to have bumped into you, Sonia.” Which was perhaps misleading given the amount of planning that had been involved. “What I’m doing with Chieftain just doesn’t seem to be working, so I’ve set up another healer to have a look at him.”

  “Oh? Who’s that?”

  “Donal.”

  Under her tan Sonia went instantly pale. “Donal? No, I don’t want to have anything to do with Donal. I don’t want him ever to come near my stables again.”

  “He’s not coming to your stables. Chieftain’s at Long Bamber.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course.”

  “Lucinda says he’s very good with the horses.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “I thought it was worth trying. I’ve set him up to come to the stables at eleven in the morning.”

  “I suppose it’s worth trying.”

  “Do you want to be there when he—”

  “No.” The word, almost a shriek, came out far too quickly. “No, I’m booked in here for three nights.”

  “All right, then. I can go in the morning, if you like. To the stables.”

  “Yes, fine. Or Donal’ll be all right if just Lucinda’s there.”

  “I think I might go, anyway.”

  “Very well. See that the bill’s sent to me.”

  There was a silence. Whatever ease had once existed between the women had dissipated.

  “Sonia…”

  “What?”

  “Is the idea that you stay here till the bruises fade?”

  “Maybe. After a few days I can cover anything up with makeup.”

  “You make it sound like it’s not the first time you’ve been here in these circumstances.”

  “What if it isn’t? I can’t stay round Fethering. I keep meeting people in the streets.”

  “This is not that far away.”

  “No, but there’s nobody I know up here, none of the members. Most of the members come on breaks from London. There are very few locals. And the staff are paid to be very discreet.”

  “Right. Sonia, if there is anything you want to talk about, anything you want to say about—”

  “No. Thank you, Jude. There isn’t.”

  For Carole Seddon, lying was a big issue. She didn’t have her neighbour’s airy relationship with the truth, something that could be assumed or removed like an extra scarf. But Carole did need to lie. Well, no, to be accurate, she didn’t need to lie, but if she wanted to get to the next stage of investigation, then she had to lie.

  And she did want to get to the next stage of investigation. Thinking about Walter Fleet’s murder was the only way she knew of allaying anxieties about Stephen and Gaby’s marriage.

  But she was frankly feeling out of the loop on the case. Jude was the one with all the connections to Long Bamber Stables; she could move easily between individuals in an attempt to piece together how Walter Fleet died. But Carole had no one she could contact. Except Hilary Potton. And she could
n’t make that contact without telling a lie.

  Having decided she was going to tell one, Carole devoted considerable thought as to what that lie should be. Her former career hadn’t trained her for this. In the Home Office the lying took place at a much higher level than she had ever attained. There it was a reserved occupation for higher civil servants and cabinet ministers. Down at Carole Seddon’s level, the most one was allowed to do was to finesse the truth.

  But she was still quietly pleased with what she did eventually come up with. The lie had two qualities that all good ones should have: it couldn’t be disproved by evidence, and it predisposed the person being lied to towards the liar. Having made her selection, Carole was quick to put it to the test. She looked up “Potton” in the local directory and dialled the number.

  “Oh, Hilary, it’s Carole Seddon here. You remember, we met at the Seaview Café yesterday.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “It’s just, after you’d gone, I noticed there was an Allinstore carrier bag with some shopping down near your table, and I wondered if it might have been yours. I gave it to one of the women behind the counter, so she’s going to keep it till it’s picked up.”

  Carole reckoned that was pretty safe. Since the carrier bag didn’t exist, Hilary was extremely unlikely to go checking whether it had been handed in.

  “Oh, Carole, that’s so thoughtful of you. But no, in fact it wasn’t mine. Certainly not if it was in an Allinstore carrier. I get quite enough of that place when I’m working. The last thing you’re likely to catch me doing is shopping there on my day off.”

  “Well, I did what I could. I’m sure the rightful owner will go and pick it up.”

  “Yes.”

  There was a lull in the conversation, and really no logical reason why it should be extended. Carole had done her good-citizen act, but—unsurprisingly—the conjectural carrier bag had not belonged to Hilary Potton. Time for a final thank-you and good-bye.

  Before that could happen, Carole quickly interposed. “You know we were talking yesterday about Walter Fleet’s murder…”

  “Yes. I don’t think anyone in Fethering is talking about anything else. Now the police have released their first suspect it seems to be open season on unbridled speculation.”

  “I know.” Carole giggled winsomely. “Well, I’m afraid I’m also indulging in that unbridled speculation.”

  “Don’t apologise. We all are.”

  “I was asking you yesterday what Imogen’s view is—you know, because she knows the Long Bamber set-up so well…? You said she was very upset about what happened.”

  “Yes. When I came back from work, she was in a terrible state. Looked like she’d seen a ghost.”

  “But she hadn’t actually seen anything?”

  “No. She was at school and then home with me. She didn’t go near the stables that day.”

  “But has she given any indication of who she thinks might have done it?”

  “Not really. She avoids talking about the whole business. But I get the impression…”

  “Yes?” Carole prompted.

  “…that Immy probably thinks Walter was killed by the Horse Ripper.”

  “The one who’s been attacking horses locally?”

  “Yes. She’s very devoted to the creatures, as you may have gathered. She thinks someone who’d be up to attacking them with a knife would be capable of any atrocity. In fact, she seemed less worried by Walter Fleet’s death than she was by the threat that the killer posed to Conker and the others.”

  Rather the same reaction as his wife had, thought Carole.

  “Mind you, that’s not what I think happened,” Hilary Potton went on assertively.

  “Oh?”

  “Walter Fleet was a bit of a ladies’ man, always chatting everyone up, the kind who always finds the opportunity to put an arm round your shoulder, hold your hand just that little bit longer than is strictly necessary. You know what I mean?”

  Even though that kind of thing didn’t happen to Carole as often as it did to Jude, she knew what Hilary meant.

  “Well, I think Walter must’ve have done something along those lines a little too blatantly, and gone off with some woman, and his wife just couldn’t take any more, and she snapped, and she stabbed him and stabbed him and stabbed him until the rotten bastard was dead!”

  The raw emotion in the woman’s voice was completely out of control. Carole wasn’t a trained psychologist, but she could still work out that Hilary Potton was transferring feelings about her own marriage on to the Fleets’. Which made even scarier the kind of revenge that she might, given the opportunity, visit on her own unfortunate husband.

  18

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Jude went down to High Tor for an early coffee. The two women pooled their individual progress on the investigation, and made arrangements for the rest of the day. Then Jude set off to meet Chieftain’s latest healer.

  The Donal who jumped out of the horse box that had given him a lift to Long Bamber Stables was unrecognisable from the drunkard in the Cheshire Cheese. His clothes weren’t different, nor was the stable-yard smell that surrounded him, nor the alcohol on his breath. But his manner transformed him. He was the professional horse expert, at ease in his chosen setting.

  Lucinda Fleet was in the yard, overseeing a delivery of hay, and Imogen Potton, who was mucking out the stable of her beloved Conker, emerged when she saw Donal was there.

  He greeted Lucinda casually, and she seemed little concerned by his presence. He was part of the occasional furniture at Long Bamber Stables, and the fact that he had recently been questioned by the police about the murder of her husband did not trouble her. Or maybe they had already met since his release and discussed the matter. Jude could still remember Lucinda’s disproportionate anxiety about Donal’s having been taken in for questioning and her insistence that he was guiltless. That was something which, at some point, would need explanation.

  Imogen grinned at the Irishman. She seemed as relaxed with him as she was with Conker. Here was an adult who didn’t bring all the baggage of most of the other adults in her life. Donal knew about horses—that was all that mattered—and in his company Imogen’s conversation need never stray from the subject of horses into more treacherous areas.

  “I’m going to take Conker out for a long hack today,” she announced excitedly. “She’ll like that, won’t she, Donal?”

  “I would think it would be exactly what she wanted, young Immy. Conker’s a pony that gets bored when she’s not working.”

  “You have cleared it with Sonia Dalrymple?” asked Lucinda. “She’s happy for you to take her out for a hack?”

  “Yes, she said it’s fine. So no problems.”

  “Good.” But then a thought struck her. “Just a minute, Immy. It’s term time—shouldn’t you be at school?”

  “We’ve all got the morning off. It’s an Ofsted day.”

  Lucinda Fleet, having no children, had no idea what an Ofsted day was, so ceased to raise any objections, and Imogen returned to her mucking-out duties.

  The morning was cold. Jude was glad she had managed to track down a fine pair of black leather gloves that a lover had once bought her in Florence. They were warm and fitted so well that her hands felt naked.

  Donal led Chieftain out of his stall, breathing endearments or instructions at the horse’s nose. The sight of the tethered Conker prompted a whinny of greeting, which was reciprocated. Donal stopped the horse in the centre of the yard, away from any tethering hooks, rings or rails.

  “Aren’t you going to tie him up?” asked Jude.

  The Irishman shook his head. “He’ll be more relaxed if I don’t.”

  “And he won’t try to get away?”

  “He won’t try to get away.”

  “It’s his front right knee.”

  “I can tell that.”

  But it wasn’t the knee that Donal concentrated on first. He ran his gnarled hands over the horse’s back, fingers hardly ma
king contact with the dark hair. Then he concentrated on the neck, digging more deeply into the flesh beneath the black mane. And all the time, he kept up a murmuring commentary of comfort, in a language that was all breathing and no words.

  Chieftain relaxed visibly under Donal’s ministrations. Through his huge nostrils, his breath steamed evenly out into the February air. Apart from that, the great body was entirely still.

  Only when that state had been achieved did Donal curve his body forward, and let his hands move down towards the injured knee. They didn’t touch the animal, but seemed to close around a force field, an invisible ring some two inches away from the flesh. Donal tutted at what he felt there.

  “I thought so. He’s been ridden too hard.”

  “But I’m sure Sonia would be very gentle with him.”

  “It’s not Sonia I’m talking about. It’s that husband of hers. He’s the bully.”

  After what she’d seen at Yeomansdyke the day before, Jude could well believe that. Donal continued to read the information he was feeling from the horse’s knee. “He turned it, poor boy. Probably slipped. It was very wet underfoot a couple of weeks back, before everything froze up again. If the rider had jumped off as soon as he felt the slip, the horse wouldn’t be in this state now. But no, Mr. Nicky Dalrymple doesn’t like weakness—in an animal or a human being.”

  “Do you mean anything particular by that?”

  He looked up from the horse’s knee, the blue eyes either side of his broken nose glinting with mischief. “And what might I mean…Jude?” Mocking, he teased out the vowel of her name.

  “I was wondering if you were referring to Sonia…to Nicky not liking to see any weakness in her.?”

  “Well, I might have been meaning that…and I might not. There are certainly things I know about that marriage, but they’re not things I would reveal”—he winked—“at least not unless the price was right.”