Charlotte’s establishment was approached down a long and splendid avenue of mature trees. The carriage-way was gravel, heavily grown into by grass and weeds, with two tracks down it made by the wheels of visitors. It mounted a small rise, and offered a sudden prospect of a grandiose and dilapidated Georgian mansion. The frontage was covered with a grey render, now badly cracked, and partly covered with ivy which was beginning to creep on to the window glass. At this point there was a fork in the driveway. The broad way straight ahead towards the house, on which not a pebble of gravel could now be seen for weeds, was marked ‘Horlus Hall’. The turnoff to the right was marked ‘Attenbury Stud Farm’. This led to a fine building in tip-top repair, adjacent to the main house, but which had at first been screened from view by a stand of trees.
It was a very grand stable block, brick-built in lavish style, with a clock tower above the gate to the courtyard. All around the stable, away to the right as far as the eye could see, the landscape was laid out as paddocks between smart painted white rail fences. Harriet had no particular eye for bloodstock but she could see that the animals in the nearer paddocks were handsome creatures with glossy coats, and a delicate way of stepping. They came towards the edge of their grazing area as though expecting carrots.
Peter stopped the car just outside the gate, and tootled the horn. A man appeared in jodhpurs, riding boots and a flat cap, who stared for a moment and then roared, ‘Lord Peter! Damn you, Peter, it’s good to see you! And this will be your lady wife? All these years and you haven’t brought her to see us. Come on, come on, I’ll raise Charlie.’
‘This is Frank Morney, Harriet,’ said Peter. ‘Best trainer in Berkshire.’
‘Not any more,’ said Frank. ‘We raise them for others to train these days.’
Within the stable yard the cobbles were covered with a drift of straw. Horses looked over their half-gates from the stables with long, intelligent faces, making Harriet think simultaneously of Houyhnhnms and Virginia Woolf. There was a smell of straw and manure and leather mingled with the smell of the horses themselves, a pleasant pungency.
Frank led the way across the yard to a door in the corner, behind which was the tack-room, with Charlotte sitting at a desk, grumbling over paperwork.
‘Good God!’ she said, on seeing Peter. ‘However long is it?’
‘Don’t count,’ he said. She got up from her chair, and rated, Harriet noticed, a peck on both cheeks before Peter introduced her.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve come to ride, or to buy,’ she said, having shaken Harriet’s hand. ‘You’d better come through.’
She led the way through a door from the tack-room which led into a sitting-room, with a Victorian cast-iron fireplace, and large chintzy sofas, rather sagging and bulging. There were hunting prints on the walls, and the mantelpiece was lavishly adorned with rosettes of coloured ribbon, and a row of silver cups either side of an elaborate carriage clock. At the far end of the room a grand piano was wedged into the corner, with rows of family faces in silver frames standing on it.
‘I see you’ve got your mother’s piano, Charlie,’ said Peter.
‘And not much else, you mean,’ she said drily. ‘And before you ask, the pile next door isn’t ours. Not our responsibility at all, thank God. Owners ran into trouble and had to sell the land. We bought all the paddocks and the stable block, and this cottage. Quite enough for Frank and me. Who wants a stately pile these days?’
‘Not me, certainly,’ said Peter.
Harriet was studying Charlotte during this exchange. She was a tall woman in middle age, with a somewhat manly deportment. Her hair was streaked with grey, and cropped rather short. She was actually wearing a pale pink twin-set, and she certainly still looked more like a girl for pearls than one for emeralds. There was a faint, fleeting likeness to the newly ennobled young Lord Attenbury, so recently seen in the Wimseys’ drawing-room in London.
Ignoring Peter’s placatory remark she went on, ‘I enjoy being a traitor to my class, as you see.’
‘Get off your mounting block, woman, and offer our guests a cup of tea or a tot of something,’ said Frank suddenly. Tea was opted for, and brought out in pretty china, and they all subsided into the saggy sofas, which proved remarkably comfortable despite appearances.
‘So what’s this about, Peter?’ asked Charlie when the tea was poured. ‘Are you after one of Frankie’s hot tips?’
‘I wouldn’t say no,’ said Peter.
‘But actually my nephew has been after you, I suppose.’
‘Yes, he has,’ said Peter. ‘And there is some sort of story about Roland and a horse, and how you were going to stable it for him.’
‘What does it matter now? Roland is dead.’
‘It seems he used the great emerald as collateral on a loan to buy the horse. I just wondered if you knew anything about it. As in who the seller was?’
‘I can tell you his name,’ Charlotte said. ‘But that’s practically all I know about him. Do you want the full story?’
‘Yes please,’ said Peter quietly.
‘Well, Roland used to stable a racehorse here in those days. We kept it in good fettle for him. Decent sort of horse, but not as good as Roland thought it was. He was down here one day with some friends, playing about, riding round our practice track. It was quite a party, because it was my birthday. Ada had brought a cake. All very jolly. And we had some customers there that day too. Including this fellow who had a horse at livery here; a nice little Arab filly called Red Fort who had won some local races for her owner. He was trying to sell her, but he couldn’t get the price he was asking. There was a good deal of ribbing and boasting going on. They had the stable lads all leading the horses out to be looked over, and a couple of our jockeys riding them round the track. Lots of mouth; although Frankie said to me on the side that they didn’t know the shit end from the bridle end. Anyway, Roland got into a tussle with Rannerson over who had the best horse, and offered to lay a bet on his horse against Red Fort. Rannerson said he didn’t believe in betting money, and some of the silly crowd around them were saying that he was just chicken about taking Roland’s bet because he thought he’d lose.
‘Then Roland said, “Tell you what – if your horse beats my horse I’ll buy it from you at your asking price.” He got it out before I could stop him; I thought it was a bad bargain and a damn silly way to buy a horse.’
‘Harriet’s on unfamiliar ground here,’ said Peter. ‘Would you mind explaining why it was a bad bargain, and moreover a silly way to buy a horse?’
‘A bad bargain because Red Fort was too nervy and unpredictable to make a good racehorse. Lots of style, but too much temperament. A silly way to buy a horse’ – here she looked directly at Harriet – ‘because people ought not to buy horses as though they were fast cars or just valuables. They’re not simply horse-flesh, if you see what I mean, Lady Peter; they deserve to be owned by people who can tell them apart and see their virtues. Peter says you don’t know much about horses, but admitting that you don’t is offering them a kind of respect, like admitting that you don’t know much about some human being.’
‘I understand that!’ said Harriet. ‘I can see in that case that you must have been outraged at buying a horse on a bet.’
‘Of course,’ said Charlotte, ‘Roland didn’t mean to buy the horse; he was fool enough to think that his horse would win. Red Fort was standing there, fretting and stamping and bucking a bit, and Little Jim who was in the saddle was having trouble keeping her behind the starting line. When Frank popped the starting pistol she was off. She didn’t so much run as bolt round the course, and Jim was lucky to stay mounted. But she finished first by about three lengths.’
‘Whose horse did you say she was?’ asked Peter.
‘An army chap called Rannerson. Captain Rannerson, and no, Peter, I don’t know what regiment. Pleasant enough fellow, but Frankie didn’t like him.’
‘Why not, Frank?’ asked Peter.
‘Never looked me
in the eye,’ said Frank. ‘Makes you feel like a bloody footman when someone does that. You don’t get to be muck by mucking out, Lord Peter.’
‘Of course not,’ said Peter. ‘Is there more to this story of the Captain with the averted gaze?’
‘Well, both horses stayed with us,’ said Charlotte. ‘But then there was huge bother about finding the price for Red Fort. Rannerson had asked a thousand guineas, and Roland went off looking rather glum to raise it. And then the punch line – it was 24th October.’
‘That was dreadful bad luck,’ said Peter. ‘As far as I remember nobody saw the Great Crash coming till it came. Look, Charlotte, I know that Roland used the family emerald as collateral while he tried—’
‘It was awful, Peter. He simply couldn’t bear the disgrace if he hadn’t stood by his word and paid for the horse. He’d made his offer in front of all those friends. And you know what Roland’s fancy friends were; some of them are smooth as cream to your face, and can’t wait to spread bad news about you if they get the chance. Anyway, the stockbrokers couldn’t sell the shares fast enough; all Roland’s money was melting away. In the end he had to ask Rannerson for more time, and Rannerson said he would agree to that if he could have the emerald as a pledge. It took Roland nearly a month to find the cash and get the blasted thing back. And it was ruinous. Most expensive horse in the history of England, I should think. And she never did win a major race. His wife wasn’t very sympathetic. Neither was I. Daddy washed his hands of the whole thing; said Abcock was old enough to get himself out of a scrape he had got himself into.’
‘The thing is,’ said Peter, ‘it would be good to know exactly how the emerald was used. Was it actually handed over to Rannerson?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Charlotte. ‘I’m sure it was. I remember a furious family conference in which we were contemplating disaster on another front, if Roland couldn’t get it back, and Rannerson sold it. Scandal; disgrace! You couldn’t sell such a thing in secret. If it had been up to me, mind, I would just have let the damn thing go. It’s been trouble all my life, and none of us likes it. But that was too sensible for my brother. And in the end he did get it back.’
‘What became of Captain Rannerson?’ asked Peter.
‘Search me. He never showed up here again once he no longer owned a horse here. Never met him at a race meeting, or a hunt. Simply vanished. Some of his friends were around for a bit.’
‘Well, I have to ask you, who were they? Anybody special?’
‘Not unless you count that friend of yours – Freddy, Freddy Arbuthnot as special.’
‘Indeed I do! I’ll trot off and talk to Freddy.’
‘Do you want a bit of a canter before you go?’ asked Charlotte. ‘I take it Lady Peter doesn’t ride?’
‘I’d love to,’ said Peter.
‘I’ll watch,’ said Harriet in the same breath.
So for the next half hour she watched Peter riding a very frisky chestnut mare round the circuit, and although he looked at ease on horseback and she admired him very greatly, she perhaps didn’t sufficiently appreciate his ram-rod back in the saddle, and the slack and easy way in which he managed the reins.
14
The moment Peter mentioned Captain Rannerson, Freddy lost his usual urbane and confident manner, and began to look a bit uneasy. ‘What about him?’ he asked.
‘About him and a horse called Red Fort,’ said Peter. They were sitting comfortably in the library of the London house, with coffee and buns on a table before them.
‘Well, I remember the horse all right,’ said Freddy. ‘Your friend Lord Abcock bought it.’
‘And offered the famous emerald as security?’
‘That’s right,’ said Freddy. ‘I know about that because Rannerson asked me to give the thing a look-over to make sure it was kosher. What’s this about, Peter? Whole deal was made and paid long ago.’
‘What was Rannerson like?’
‘Decent enough chap. Well mannered, well dressed. Anyway, I took him round to Hatton Garden to show his booty to a fellow I know. Thing was quite all right.’
‘Had your friend seen it before?’
‘Don’t believe he had, no. But he could tell a fine old emerald from a newer one all right. Anyway, as you know, Peter, Abcock found the money and took his stone back.’
‘Leaving Rannerson with a wad of cash.’
‘I believe so. Poor fellow didn’t enjoy it long enough to spend it, though.’
‘How so?’
‘He got murdered by a pick-pocket the very next day. Just sitting looking at the ducks in St James’s Park. Someone came up behind him and throttled him. I read all about it in the Evening Star. Didn’t you happen to see it, Peter?’
‘Well, I only heard the name Rannerson two days ago, so it wouldn’t have meant a thing to me if I had. But if the emerald got into the stories I’d have pricked up my ears. Must have been abroad when it happened. Tell me all you can remember about it, Freddy.’
‘There’s not much more. Rather an odd thing; his wallet wasn’t taken. But the next day a gardener found a jeweller’s box thrown away in one of the flower-beds.’
‘It sounds as though someone thought they were killing him for that emerald. Who would have known about it, Freddy?’
‘Oh, half the world knew he had got it off Abcock. Talk of the town. And then quite a few people in the City would have known that Abcock was raising funds to get it back.’
‘And quite a few people would have known when he succeeded?’
‘Yes. But news takes a day or two to get right round the gossip channels.’
‘So someone might have thought he still had the emerald?’
‘I suppose so. Rather more your sort of thing than mine. Though I think you’d have had to be batty to think a fellow would carry the emerald around with him in his pocket.’
‘I suppose most throttlers could be described as batty,’ said Lord Peter, thoughtfully. ‘Considering that they risk a punishment that perfectly fits the crime.’
‘Must think they can get away with it. And he has got away with it; can’t remember reading about an arrest in that connection.’
The following morning Lord Peter called on his brother-in-law at Scotland Yard.
Commander Parker had a comfortable office these days, with a sideways view of the river through his windows, and when Peter asked about the murder of Captain Rannerson all those years ago he simply rang a bell on his desk, and asked the WPC who appeared to find the files for him.
‘What’s my little sister up to?’ Peter asked him while they waited. ‘She seems never to be at home now all the young are grown and flown. Whenever Harriet or I drop by we find that she’s out.’
‘She’s doing social work, mainly,’ Charles told him. ‘For the Prisoners’ Aid Association. She turns out to be very good at fund-raising.’
‘Yes, I imagine she would be. Still calming her conscience, then?’
‘There’s not a blot on her conscience, as far as I know, Peter. She’s working because she wants to work.’
‘Still expiating the abominable crime of having been born aristocratic and wealthy,’ said Peter.
‘Well, you would know more about that than I do,’ said Charles. ‘But there are plenty of discharged prisoners getting a helping hand just when it hangs in the balance whether they go straight or go wrong again.’
‘I didn’t mean to cast nasturtiums at her work, Charles. It’s an excellent thing to do.’
‘Well, I don’t suppose any of the men and women she has been helping give a damn why she does it,’ said Charles. ‘You should stop psychologising and get out more.’
Peter leaned back in his chair, and regarded his brother-in-law with affection. After all these years of marriage he was still Mary’s ready champion, springing to her defence against the least breath of criticism. And about the crime of being born aristocratic, Charles after all didn’t know where the shoe pinches.
‘Pax, Charles,’ he said softly. ‘Pax.�
��
And at that moment the WPC reappeared with a thick, dog-eared, rather dusty file, and they could cut to the chase.
They spread out the papers in the folder all over a table under Charles’s office window, and began to read.
There was quite a lot about Captain Rannerson. He was a captain in the Indian Army, who had been home on extended leave. Compassionate leave on account of his father’s illness. Rannerson senior had in fact died a few months before his son was murdered.
‘Better than the other way round,’ said Peter.
There had been no witnesses to the assault, although people were passing along the path beside the lake; the bench on which Captain Rannerson had been seated was, however, in a niche formed by a herbaceous border which had been in full bloom, including foxgloves and delphiniums and other tall flowers which the scene of crime officer had not been able to identify. The detective in charge of the case had quickly decided that the motive was theft, and the object of the theft was to have been the emerald. Batty though it had seemed to Freddy for anyone to think that Rannerson would be carrying the emerald around in his pocket, it seemed that during his brief possession of the jewel he had indeed been doing just that, and whipping it out to show it off to all and sundry in his club, and at cocktail parties. There were several witness statements to that effect.
‘So the murderer was in Rannerson’s social circle,’ said Charles.
‘Oh, maybe. But people talk, especially about a thing like that confounded emerald,’ said Peter.
The jeweller’s box recovered from the flower-bed, and supposed to have been thrown away in disgust by the murderer when it was found to be empty, was gold, embossed with a Fabergé label, but the police had also quickly discovered that the box did not really belong to the jewel. Abcock had borrowed it from his wife for the purpose of consigning the emerald to Rannerson.
Wimsey 014 - The Attenbury Emeralds Page 13
