Gently at a Gallop

by Alan Hunter

  ‘Go on,’ Gently said. ‘What trouble?’

  ‘I reckon someone treated him wrong,’ Creke said. ‘He’s a proud bugger, he won’t have it. He laid into a stable-boy in his box.’

  ‘He killed him?’

  Creke shook his head. ‘Otherwise he wouldn’t be here today. But he duffed up the bloke enough so’s the owner thought it was smart to get rid of him. That’s the tale, and I don’t mind telling it. He’s never been any trouble with me. He’s a stallion mind you, he needs handling – but that’s all. He’s no problem.’

  ‘A stranger could ride him,’ Gently said.

  ‘That’s right,’ Creke said. ‘If I told Prince he could.’

  ‘And a stranger could catch him.’

  Creke’s quick eye flickered. ‘Would this be one of Rising’s notions?’ he asked.

  Gently hesitated, then nodded.

  ‘I guessed it would be,’ Creke said. ‘Next time I’m over at Clayfield I’ll turn Prince loose and see if Mr. Jerry Rising can catch him.’ He gave the horse’s cheek a ruffle. ‘Not Berney nor no one could catch him,’ he said. ‘Once he was off on his own on that heath, I’d be the only one who’d get near him.’

  ‘And, of course, he never is on his own on the heath?’

  ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’ Creke said.

  Gently motioned to the two strong bolts that secured the gate of the loosebox. ‘People do make mistakes,’ he said.

  Creke checked a moment, staring at the bolts, but then gave a decided shake of his head. ‘There’s only me sees after this horse,’ he said. ‘And I never make mistakes like that.’

  ‘He was here Tuesday evening?’

  ‘He was here. I came down about seven to give him his run. And the gate was shut then, and the bolts shot, the way I’d left them in the morning.’

  Gently nodded. ‘Where did you exercise him?’

  ‘Up round the farm,’ Creke said.

  ‘Not on the heath?’

  ‘Why should I?’ Creke said. ‘It’s the farm I want to keep my eye on.’

  ‘Then you wouldn’t have had him out there this afternoon?’

  Creke stared from under his dark brows. ‘Would that be likely?’ he said. ‘In the middle of harvest, with a fine spell due to break any time? We’ve been up on the fifteen-acre all day, and just now got a start on the barley. The only time I have for Prince is in the evening – and not always then, this time of year.’

  The big horse whinnied, as though in confirmation.

  ‘And that’s how it was on Tuesday?’ Gently said.

  ‘Just like that,’ Creke said. ‘We were over on the glebe land. Ask some of the chaps, they’ll soon tell you.’

  Gently was silent. His eyes glanced round the building, at the corn-bins, hay-rack, the shelf of brushes; at the fine black saddle that hung from a peg, with matching reins and bridle beside it. His glance came back to Creke, who was watching him closely.

  ‘So now you know about everything,’ Creke said. ‘It wasn’t old Prince who did that job Tuesday.’

  Gently’s stare was expressionless. ‘Let’s step outside,’ he said.

  They left the great stallion snuffling and tramping and went out into the sunlight. The pond stretched peacefully before the building and the trees clustered thickly behind and above it. From the field across the track came the sound of the combine, but it was distant and muffled by a line of hedge. The track slanted away between hedges and crops and vanished at last behind the trees.

  ‘A quiet spot . . .’

  Gently picked up a stone and tossed it in the water to ripple the pond-weed.

  ‘And a handy spot.’

  He picked up another stone and tossed it over the hedge, where it rattled on the road. He turned to Creke.

  ‘Quiet and handy – and invisible from the house. And nobody here from morning till night. Just the horse . . . and his saddle.’

  Creke’s black brows hooked up ‘Now, listen—’ he began.

  ‘Do you walk down here from the house?’ Gently said.

  ‘I’ve got a bike, but—’

  ‘You don’t bother to get a car out?’

  Creke stood staring, his mouth open.

  Gently pointed to a space beside the building. ‘Someone’s parked a car there lately,’ he said. ‘Out of the sun. Out of sight. Where you wouldn’t see it from the track.’

  ‘But that was my car—’

  ‘What’s the make?’

  ‘Morris. A Morris Oxford Traveller.’

  Gently gave the confused markings an appraising look. ‘This was something smaller,’ he said. ‘Perhaps an 1100.’

  ‘But I’m telling you it was mine!’ Creke exclaimed. ‘Last night I fetched a sack of oats down here.’

  ‘And you parked over there,’ Gently said. ‘Not beside the doors?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Creke said. ‘That’s just what I did.’

  Gently shook his head. ‘In my book,’ he said, ‘someone parked his car there who didn’t want it seen. And there’s only one reason to park in this spot.’ He jerked his head towards the doors.

  Creke’s sharp eyes bored at Gently, and for a moment his knuckles were white. Then the eyes flickered, and he loosened. He gave an ingratiating little chuckle.

  ‘All right – you’ve got me! Someone could have parked there, and I should never be the wiser. But I reckon it was more likely a couple of lovers than a person interested in the horse. That cock won’t fight.’

  ‘Why?’ Gently said.

  ‘Isn’t that obvious?’ Creke said. ‘If a stranger went in there interfering with Prince, he’d likely finish up the same way as the stable-boy.’

  ‘Who’s talking about a stranger?’ Gently said.

  Creke’s eyes jumped at him. ‘Aren’t we?’ he said.

  ‘I’m not,’ Gently said. ‘I’m talking about someone who knows that horse, who can ride him.’

  Creke looked at him; looked away. ‘I reckon you know more than I do,’ he said. ‘There’s maybe chaps over at Melton who can ride him, but they aren’t around here.’

  ‘Someone much closer,’ Gently said.

  ‘Nobody I know,’ Creke said.

  ‘From the village,’ Gently said.

  Creke shook his head.

  ‘From the Manor.’

  ‘No,’ Creke said. ‘No. There’s nobody.’

  ‘Not Gerald Rising.’

  Creke’s laugh was genuine. ‘I’d like to see that Aussie try!’

  ‘Mrs Rising.’

  Creke hesitated. ‘I’m not saying she couldn’t. But she bloody doesn’t.’

  ‘So,’ Gently said. ‘That just leaves you. He’s a one-man horse, and you’re his master. He was safe in his box all Tuesday, and you were up on the glebe land along with your men.’

  Creke stiffened slightly. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘And it’s the truth. You’ll never make it different.’

  ‘I wonder,’ Gently shrugged. ‘Was Berney a friend of yours?’

  ‘Maybe he was,’ Creke said. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And a friend of your wife’s?’

  ‘You’d better ask her,’ Creke said. His mouth twisted. ‘She’s up at the house.’

  ‘Sir,’ Docking said quickly. ‘We’ve spoken to Mrs Creke. I understand she has some disability.’

  ‘In fact, she’s a bloody cripple,’ Creke said. He spat in the pond. ‘But you go and see her.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  THERE WAS NOTHING more to be got out of Creke – certainly nothing more he proposed to tell them. He stuck his pipe in his mouth, leered, and strutted away to join the workers. Not a man you’d easily over-reach . . . Gently watched him till he’d disappeared through the field-gate: a hard, obstinate, confident figure, a man used to wrestling with lands and seasons.

  ‘Do you reckon he was lying, sir?’ Docking said, also watching.

  Gently grunted. ‘One thing’s certain. If anybody rides this horse besides Creke, the odds are that Creke knows who.’
/>   ‘You don’t think it might have strayed, sir?’

  Gently shook his head. ‘That theory was never on. If Berney went on the heath for a clandestine meeting, he wouldn’t advertise it by returning stray horses. No, if this was the horse, then it had a rider – and the rider is someone known to Creke. He may not have known the horse was out, but even that . . .’ Gently shrugged. ‘Let’s take another look at him.’

  They went back into the building. The black stallion hadn’t shifted from its post by the gate. It stood quite still, ears alert, its prominent eyes staring fixedly. A huge presence of a horse: it had the power of making them feel intruders. It showed no fear, no uneasiness – here were men: lesser creatures.

  ‘Do you ride?’ Gently asked Docking.

  ‘No, sir – at least, I haven’t ridden since I was a nipper.’

  ‘If he was a strange horse, would you tackle him?’

  ‘Not unless I was tired of life, sir,’ Docking said.

  ‘I think he’s our horse,’ Gently said.

  He walked up to the gate, to the stallion. It sent loud warning breaths through its nostrils, but didn’t budge or twitch a muscle.

  ‘I’d come away if I were you, sir,’ Docking said. ‘I fancy Rising wasn’t so far out.’

  The stallion breathed faster and showed its teeth; its ears flattened along its skull. Then it dropped its head quickly with a shrill neigh. Gently lunged backwards. Teeth clashed on air.

  ‘God – the black devil!’ Docking burst out.

  ‘He’s our horse,’ Gently said.

  ‘If he is I’m getting a destruction order,’ Docking said. ‘The black bastard. He should be in a zoo.’

  The stallion backed off, its hooves scraping, and came to a stand in the centre of the box. There it raised its head high and gave a clamorous neigh.

  Gently watched it musingly. ‘But it’s a horse,’ he said.

  They got back in the Lotus and continued driving along the narrow road. Soon the fields on the left gave way to trees, a deep plantation of beech and conifers. Then these thinned. An amphitheatre appeared, edged with copper beeches, elms and chestnuts; and here, perfectly sited, lay a long, low, Elizabethan house. It was built of the local rust-red brick and presented a front of irregular small gables. Shallow wings flanked either end and there were three clusters of ornamented brick chimneys.

  ‘We’re rather proud of this place, sir,’ Docking said. ‘It’s been here since 1584.’

  ‘What about the Stogumbers?’ Gently said. ‘Are they an old family?’

  ‘Probably been here as long, sir,’ Docking said. ‘Once they used to be important people, but I reckon death duties took care of that. They still own some land around here.’

  ‘Including the Home Farm?’

  ‘Yes, sir – including that.’

  Gently turned off between tall stone pillars, each topped with a stone gryphon, and drove between hedges of clipped yew to the gravel strip that fronted the house. Here there was a circular flowerbed where an elderly man knelt weeding. He looked up as the Lotus arrived, then got stiffly to his feet. Gently parked and got out. The man came over.

  ‘I’m looking for Mr Stogumber,’ Gently said.

  The man inspected him with an amused eye. He wiped his hands on his baize apron.

  ‘Mr Stogumber isn’t in,’ he said.

  Gently hesitated. ‘Where shall I find him?’

  ‘You’ll find him out here,’ the man said. ‘Talking to two policemen. One of whom doesn’t know Jimmy Stogumber.’ He chuckled and pushed out an earthy hand. ‘Don’t bother with introductions,’ he said. ‘My daughter was over here this afternoon, so I’ve heard all about you.’

  Gently shook hands. Stogumber stood smiling. He was a fine-looking man in his seventies. He’d lost none of his cropped, grizzled hair, and he carried a strong body with little stoop. But there was tired flesh about his face and tired lines around his eyes. He was wearing decrepit flannel trousers and, in spite of the heat, a knitted pullover.

  ‘Yes, you upset my Marie,’ he said. ‘Her opinion of policemen is rather low just now. And she’s right, you know. Poor Charles did reform. I’ll be surprised myself if there’s another woman in it.’

  ‘This will have been a big shock to you,’ Gently said.

  ‘Yes, it’s a sad business,’ Stogumber said. ‘But here I am keeping you standing in the sun. Let’s go inside and talk there.’

  He gestured courteously, and stood aside for Gently and Docking to precede him into the house. They went up an apron of brick steps, planted each side with chalk-blue hydrangeas, and passed through a spacious doorway, with a carved lintel, into a panelled hall with a pemmon floor. An oak staircase rose on the right to a gallery at first-floor level. Darkened portraits in oils ranged down the wall on the left. The pemmons were covered with woven rush matting, fragrant, yielding underfoot, and at the end of the hall, beneath the gallery, spread a wide, stone-shafted window.

  ‘All in the family,’ Stogumber said, waving a hand at the portraits. ‘The one at the end is old Aylmer Stogumber, who sailed with Drake and married an heiress. The family was Devonshire in those days, but Aylmer came this way when he married.’ He smiled. ‘We’re still foreigners, of course. We’ve only been here four centuries.’

  ‘So your son is last of the line,’ Gently said.

  ‘Yes,’ Stogumber said. ‘The last with the name. There’s Leo, of course, and Marie’s expecting, but Lachlan’s the only one with the name.’

  ‘No doubt he’ll hand it on . . . ?’

  Stogumber clicked his tongue. ‘I sometimes wonder if I shall see the day. But he’s twenty-two, so there’s time yet. Though he’ll need another mistress besides the muse.’

  He pushed open a door and ushered them into a long, low-ceilinged room with mullioned lattice-windows. It was furnished discreetly with a mixture of period pieces and of more comfortable modern furniture.

  ‘Sit you down while I rinse these hands.’

  When he returned, he brought a tray of drinks with him. He handed them round with grave politeness, then carried his own to a high settle by the windows. He sat, resting one leg along the settle.

  ‘Now, gentlemen, we can get to business. But if you’ve come here hoping I can name the woman for you, then I’m afraid I must disappoint you.’

  Gently shook his head. ‘That wasn’t the object. Though, naturally, I value your opinion.’

  ‘And I gave it to you,’ Stogumber said. ‘I doubt whether this woman ever existed. Heaven knows, I wasn’t in favour of Marie’s wedding, but one must give the devil his due. Charles was infatuated with Marie. Let me define what I mean by that. A man is infatuated with a woman when he is in love and she isn’t. And that’s how it was with Charles and Marie: he loved her, and she let him.’ He dropped his eyes from Gently’s. ‘She’s a wilful girl. I’m afraid her marriage was just an act of rebellion.’

  ‘Against you?’ Gently said.

  Stogumber nodded. ‘Mine are a pair of sad children,’ he said. ‘They lacked their mother. She died with Marie. Poor Stella. She was never a strong one.’

  ‘But your daughter must have had some fondness for Berney,’ Gently said.

  ‘Aye, well . . . in her way,’ Stogumber admitted. ‘But it blew up suddenly on the tail of a row. I can never get that out of my mind. Charles would always hang around Marie, but Marie knew well enough how to snub him. Then there was a scene at quarter-day about Marie’s allowance, and after that she turned right round.’

  ‘Are you suggesting it was his money?’

  ‘No, no,’ Stogumber said. ‘I know Marie better than that. She was wanting to slip an old father she couldn’t manage, to take on a husband who she could.’ He gave a little sigh. ‘And she knew the way,’ he said. ‘One look at her must have told you that.’

  ‘What was her brother’s reaction?’ Gently asked.

  Stogumber’s hand twitched. ‘He backed her up. Lachlan will always back up Marie, and she him, against me.’


  ‘And your cousin?’

  ‘Leo’s neutral . . . perhaps a little on the old man’s side. But that’s no good. Against Lachlan and Marie, we might as well hold our peace.’

  Gently sipped some of his drink (it was ice-cold bitter). ‘So you don’t favour the police theory,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t a woman who lured Berney on the heath. Perhaps you have an idea who did?’

  Stogumber frowned at his blotched hands. ‘I haven’t,’ he said. ‘It’s a mystery to me. Charles’s actions on Tuesday make no sort of sense. It’s as though he went fey, was expecting death.’

  ‘I think there was a reason,’ Gently said.

  ‘Yes, that’s your business,’ Stogumber agreed. ‘But I’m an old man, I remember things. This reminds me very much of my father’s death.’

  Gently stared. ‘Was he killed by a horse?’

  Stogumber shook his head. ‘He gassed himself. But there’s the point. One day he went off, with no imaginable reason, booked a room in a hotel, and turned on the gas. Till then he was a normal, sane person. You couldn’t have guessed he’d do any such thing. No troubles with money, health or women. Yet suddenly he went fey and took his life.’

  ‘But that’s all the connection,’ Gently shrugged.

  ‘It’s the best I can do,’ Stogumber replied. ‘Just like my father, Charles went off on Tuesday, did inexplicable things, and died.’

  ‘Only,’ Gently said, ‘in this case there was a horse. And horses you don’t simply turn on.’

  Stogumber’s tired eyes lifted. ‘Have you found the horse?’

  Gently nodded. ‘It was Farmer Creke’s.’

  ‘Farmer Creke’s!’ Stogumber echoed, his eyes widening, searching into Gently’s. ‘But . . . can you be sure?’

  ‘Fairly sure,’ Gently said. ‘His horse would have been available on Tuesday.’

  ‘Oh my goodness!’ Stogumber exclaimed.

  ‘Is it really a surprise to you?’ Gently said.

  Stogumber shook his head dumbly, his lips trembling. The beer was slopping in his glass.

  ‘This is a shock, truly a shock. Oh my goodness, poor Charles! Of course, I’ve wondered about the horse, but I wouldn’t let myself think it was that one.’ He set the shaking glass on the settle. ‘You will have seen Creke?’ he said.