by Roger Keevil
“… I shall treat myself to something very large and expensive. Let’s see what they’ve got.”
“What may I get for you, sirs?” The enquiry came in a slight French accent from the young barman who stood polishing a glass behind the bar.
Copper surveyed the immense array of bottles displayed on the bar shelves. “Er … I have no idea. Pete, how about you?”
“Give me a sec,” replied his colleague. “I’m still looking. I haven’t seen this much alcohol since I went backup on a raid with Customs on a booze smuggler’s warehouse.”
“Matt?”
“I suppose I’d better just have an orange juice,” came the dispirited reply.
The barman smiled in sympathy. “Ah. You will be the designated driver then, sir?”
“We gave the chauffeur the day off,” remarked Pete, his eyes still ranging along the selection of drinks on offer.
“I think we can do better than just an orange juice, sir,” said the barman. “Perhaps, if it will be just the one, I could suggest a Buck’s Fizz. You cannot be expected to miss out on the champagne completely, as it is all on the house.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Matt, mollified.
“And for you, sir?” asked the barman, as he passed the glass across the bar. “If not a champagne, perhaps you would like something a little stronger. We have some very fine whiskies and cognacs, or perhaps a cocktail …?”
“Ummm …” Copper continued to look perplexed.
The barman took pity on him. “If I may suggest, sir, would you like to try our cocktail of the day? It has been specially created by our master sommelier M. Philippe Gilbert for today’s meeting, and it is named in honour of the famous racehorse Nijinsky. And it has been very popular, and not just with the ladies, but with the gentlemen too. Would you like to try that?”
“Maybe.” Copper didn’t sound too sure. “What’s in it?”
“It is of course based on our classic Domaine De Sade Brut champagne, sir,” explained the barman, “and to that we add a measure of cognac, some triple sec, a little white rum …”
“Shame it’s not Red Rum!” quipped Pete.
“… and a dash of Angostura bitters.”
“Sounds all right,” said Copper. “Okay, I’ll give it a try. A Nijinsky it is. And make it two. If I’m going to be standing here drinking a poncey cocktail, Pete, I’m not doing it alone.”
“You’d better make it three,” laughed Pete. “Then Matt here can give his to his horse, and it might actually make it over the first fence!”
The cocktail proved surprisingly enjoyable. So much so that it was followed by another, and a pattern might easily have developed, had not the public address system announced that preparations for the signature race of the day, the Five Thousand Guineas, were under way, with the runners already parading in the paddock. Many of those in the marquee gravitated, champagne glasses in hand, towards the large television screens set up at each end of the tent, but the majority of the crowd, the three police officers among them, made their way outside, determined to experience the full atmosphere and excitement of the event.
“So where’s the best place to watch from?” enquired Dave Copper.
“Well, you can forget the stands,” replied Pete. “No chance of getting up there on a day like today. I quite fancy trying to get somewhere on the rails. You can still watch the race on the big screens, but you get a terrific rush when the horses actually go past you.”
“You’re the expert,” acknowledged Copper. “You’d better lead on.”
To their surprise, the trio managed to carve out a space in the crush virtually next to the winning post. As the hour of the race approached, the excitement grew. Bells rang. The cries from the bookmakers’ stalls grew ever-louder and more insistent. A thudding of hooves signalled the passing of the participants as they cantered up from the paddock to the start. The public address system rang out with constant updates as to the state of readiness of the runners. For a brief moment, there was an almost preternatural silence. And then, with a sudden all-enveloping roar, the crowd gave voice as the field burst out of the starting gates.
Copper, torn between watching the race on the screen on the other side of the track and craning his neck for a glimpse of the action, found himself swept up in the excitement as the runners flashed past on their first circuit of the course and he managed to catch sight of the purple-and-orange colours of Last Edition’s jockey. The pitch of the commentator’s voice over the loudspeakers grew steadily higher. Every so often, the crowd seemed to hold its collective breath as the horses crashed through another hurdle. A groan arose as one of the more fancied runners failed to find its feet at one of the fences and tumbled in a welter of horseflesh and humanity, while its competitors passed on relentlessly. As the horses approached the finish, four of them virtually in line abreast, the cacophony grew as they thundered past, to be replaced by a loud hum of speculation as it became clear that there was no obvious winner. Seconds later, the announcement came that the result would be decided by a photograph. As the hum grew ever louder, and the three police officers exchanged shrugs, the loudspeakers crackled into life again.
“The result of the De Sade Five Thousand Guineas Steeplechase is as follows. First, by a short head, ‘Last Edition’, owned by Mrs. J. Baverstock, trained by Sir Richard Effingham, and ridden by Owen Elliott. Second, …”
The rest of the announcement was lost in a huge burst of cheering. Dave Copper jumped in the air with a whoop of triumph, before flinging his arms around each of his colleagues in turn in bear-hugs of joy. “Bloody marvellous! Three out of three! Hey, guys, this is fun. You’d better let me know next time you’re coming to the races – I might want to tag along.”
“Not likely, mate,” snorted Pete with a grudging laugh. “You’re too good at this. You soak up all the luck. I’ll tell you what, though – you can pick out horses for us for the rest of the afternoon, as long as you promise not to have a bet yourself.”
“Deal!” grinned Copper, his face still wreathed in an exuberant smile. “So what do you reckon we go back to the marquee, and I’ll see if I can sort you out some winners over another drink? And I’ll tell you what, Matt – it’s not so very far to get home, and a taxi’s not going to cost an arm and a leg. Why don’t you and Pete whistle up a mate or two from uniform, and get them to pop over and take your car home for you? Highly irregular, but I won’t tell the Chief Constable if you don’t, and then I’ll stand us a cab out of my winnings, and you can have a drink to help me celebrate.”
“Now that,” smiled his colleague, “is what I call a result.”
Chapter 2
“He’s done what?” A laugh of disbelief. “No, you’re right, ma’am … no, it’s not funny at all. So when do you want me to …?” Andy Constable’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Straight away? No, of course that’s not a problem. There’s nothing on my desk that won’t keep. I can easily put things aside.” He glanced down at the pile of paperwork in front of him and suppressed a sigh of relief. “So will I be working on my own with D.I. Warner’s team? … Well, that would be very helpful, ma’am, if I can take him with me … Yes, I quite understand the sensitivity. I’ll get on to it straight away.”
Constable replaced the receiver and turned to Dave Copper with a smile on his face. “You know how much you’ve been enjoying doing those analyses I delegated to you?”
“The ones you said formed an essential part of my career progression, sir?” replied Copper wryly. “Yes, guv. I’m having a really good time sorting them out.”
“Dump ‘em,” said Constable shortly. “We have other fish to fry. Or to be more exact, horses.”
“You what, guv?”
Constable rose, shrugged his way into his jacket, and reached for his car keys. “Tell you on the way to the car. We’re off to Effingham Hall at Knaggs End.”
Copper stood. “Isn’t that a bit off our patch, guv?” he enquired, as he followed his superior along the corrido
r. “That’s the far side of Westchester, over the other side of the county.”
“Indeed it is, sergeant. Well spotted. But by a stroke of luck, we have a chance for an awayday in the beautiful English countryside, doing what they actually pay us to do. I say luck – not so much luck for D.I. Warner, whose case this was supposed to be. He’s just got himself carted off to hospital, courtesy of a broken femur.”
“How come?”
“Kicked by a horse.” The officers exchanged glances before bursting out into laughter.
“You what?”
“On the scene of the crime, for some reason. Further details still to be obtained. But it’s not what you expect in an average policeman’s working day, so I couldn’t stop myself having a chuckle. Although, as the Chief Superintendent pointed out, murder is no laughing matter.” The two reached Constable’s car and climbed in.
“So what’s it all about then, guv?” asked Copper, as the inspector pulled into the traffic and set a course for the bypass.
“We have a titled corpse on our hands. One of the great and the good, it seems. Hence the sensitivity which the Chief Super was so eager to stress. One Sir Richard Effingham.”
Copper’s attention was alerted. “Hang on, guv. That name seems to ring something of a bell. Just let me …” He reached into his pocket, produced his phone, and started dabbing at the screen. “Got it! He’s a racehorse trainer. I knew I knew the name. In fact, he was the guy who trained ‘Last Edition’ – the horse I won the station sweepstake on.”
“That’s good, then,” replied his superior. “You’ll have the inside track on everything, won’t you?”
“Ouch! Does that mean we’re going to get horse jokes all day, sir?”
“I sincerely hope not, sergeant. But that’s rather more your forte than mine, so I hope you’ll manage to rein yourself in.”
“Just sitting here quietly, guv,” said Copper, face admirably straight. As he continued to peruse the screen, his attention was caught by a further item. “Hang on a minute, sir … there’s something else here.” He read on, and his expression changed to one of sadness. “Well, there’s a thing.”
“And what’s that?”
“That horse, sir. ‘Last Edition’.”
“Your lucky winner?”
“Not so lucky after all, as it turned out, guv. It’s dead.”
“Dead? That’s a bit sudden, isn’t it? If it was jumping about and winning races not so long ago. What did it die of?”
Copper read on. “Doesn’t say exactly, sir. Something about an accident during training. It’s all a bit vague. Shame, though. I bet that horse was worth a fortune after that win.”
“Well, I hope to goodness they’re not going to have us investigating the death of the horse as well as the trainer,” remarked Constable drily. “One suspicious death at a time is quite enough for me.” He turned off the main road and began to navigate the twisting cross-country lanes in the direction of Knaggs End.
As the car breasted the final rise before descending into the tree-filled valley which marked their destination, a huge vista opened before them. Vast stretches of chalk downs spread to the horizon, punctuated with hedgerows dividing fields clad in the gold and green of cereals and arable crops, with occasional prehistoric burial mounds rising like islands in a rippling sea of foliage. Here and there, a great oak provided a solitary punctuation mark. On the skyline, the distinctive furrowed silhouette of an ancient hill fort stood sentinel. And over all, the gigantic bowl of a pale blue sky, dotted with a scattering of white clouds in a stately but relentless march towards the eastern horizon, presided calmly over a perfect English summer’s day. Below in the valley, the spire of Knaggs End church rose through the canopy of greenery, and as the road descended, the trees began to close in, until the officers reached an imposing stone-flanked gateway, its pillars crowned with horse-head sculptures, with a small stone-built lodge of a vaguely Jacobean design standing to one side. The drive, shadowed by massive specimen trees and lined with a profusion of rhododendrons in exuberant bloom, suddenly emerged into the broad gravel sweep which fronted the south face of Effingham Hall.
“Bloody hell!” ejaculated Copper. “It’s Castle Dracula!”
Effingham Hall was a perfect example of Victorian gothic architecture at the height of its flowering. Mullioned oriel windows gazed up aslant at crenellated parapets, where heraldic beasts sat, proudly supporting shields bearing the stony coat-of-arms of the Effingham family. Courses of brick and stone climbed upwards towards fairy-tale slate-crowned turrets. Climbing plants, their leaves a rich and glossy red, scrambled up and over an imposing porte-cochère, large enough to take the grandest of carriages, in an attempt to soften its formidable outlines. The Hall stood on a low platform, with glimpses of urn-flanked paved terraces visible to right and left. And before the house, somewhat detracting from its calm and stately image, stood a scatter of police vehicles.
The detectives climbed the steps to the door of the house, where a uniformed officer stood. “D.I. Constable and D.S. Copper,” said the inspector, as the pair flashed their warrant cards. “I believe we’re looking for Sergeant Fletcher.”
“Oh, yes, sir,” replied the P.C. “We were warned to expect you. He’s just inside – I think you’ll find him in the billiard room. Just through there, sir, second on the left.”
“Billiard room, eh?” murmured Copper, as the two followed the directions. “How the rich do live.”
Entering the billiard room, the detectives were met with the sight of the back of a man, bent over the billiard table as he examined a selection of items spread out on a sheet on its surface. “D.S. Fletcher, I presume,” said Constable.
The other turned in surprise. “Inspector, sir. Am I glad to see you! The Super sent a message to say that they were sending you over to take charge. And thank goodness, because we’ve just been on hold since they had to take D.I. Warner away.”
“What exactly happened?” asked Constable. “All I know is that it’s got something to do with a horse.”
“It’s partly my fault, sir,” admitted Fletcher. “We got here first thing, to carry on after making a start last night, and while we were waiting for the doctor to arrive to take a look at the victim, I asked Inspector Warner if it would be a good idea if we used the time to take a look around the place, just to get an idea of the general set-up. It’s my first murder case, you see,” he continued, “so I hoped I might be able to learn a few things from the inspector’s thoughts.”
“Hear that, Copper?” remarked Constable. “A sergeant who wants to learn a few tips from his inspector. Now there’s a novel idea.” Copper just grinned in response.
“Anyway, sir,” went on the slightly nonplussed Fletcher, “we went out to the back of the house – what they call the stable yard. Well, there is actually a stable there, and that’s where they keep the horse.”
“Just the one? I thought the dead man was a racehorse trainer.”
“Oh, apparently the racehorses are kept somewhere else, sir. No, this one’s owned by the lady of the house. I understand she goes riding. And Mr. Warner, he fancies himself as someone who knows a bit about horses, so he went into the stable to make friends with the horse.”
“And I’m guessing the horse had other ideas?”
“Yes, sir. The D.I. went round the back of it, and the thing let out with a great big kick, and before I knew where I was, there’s Mr. Warner lying on the ground yelling blue murder, and some old bloke who I think is some sort of gardener came running and got the horse out of the way. And then the doctor turned up, and he took a look and said the inspector’s leg was broken, so he stayed with him until the ambulance came and took him away. And in between groans, Mr. Warner said we’d better get someone in to take over, so I called in. And here you are, thank goodness.”
“Well, nice to be appreciated,” said Constable. “So, why don’t you bring us up to speed with everything else. What do we know so far?”
Fletche
r drew a notebook from his pocket and consulted it. “The dead man is Sir Richard Effingham, sir. Fifth baronet, apparently, whatever that might be. We got a call last night at 8.29pm, and there happened to be a car not too far away, so they attended about ten minutes later. They found the body in the library …”
Constable sighed. “I suppose we may as well get all the clichés out of the way as early as possible. I suppose the next thing you’ll be telling me is that there’s a butler.”
“Er-hrrm.” The discreet cough came from the doorway. “Excuse me, sir, but her ladyship has asked me to enquire whether the police …” There was the faintest of hesitations. “… gentlemen would like some refreshments.”
“And you are …?”
“Pelham, sir,” replied the tail-coated newcomer. “Her ladyship’s butler. She wondered if you would you care for some coffee? Or perhaps some mugs of tea.”
“Um … not just at the moment, thank you,” replied Constable abstractedly. “We are rather busy. Perhaps later.”
“Very good, sir. I shall be serving coffee to her ladyship at eleven o’clock, in the morning room. Perhaps that would be a more convenient time for you.” Pelham faded back into the gloom of the entrance hall.
“Is that bloke genuine?” gurgled Copper. “He’s like something out of an old film. He must be about a hundred years old. And get those side-whiskers!”
“Never mind about the whiskers,” retorted Constable. “At the moment, I’m more concerned about our murder victim. Obviously he is a murder victim, Fletcher? Otherwise we wouldn’t all be standing around his billiard table.”
“Very much so, sir. The body was discovered after everyone heard a shot, and there are injuries to the body which pretty much rule out any other interpretation. Even I could see that, sir. Inspector Warner and I came in last night to take a look at the scene, but for some reason, we couldn’t get the doctor here straight away, so everything was just sealed off with a couple of officers standing guard until this morning. And you know what happened then.”
