by R B Marshall
I frowned. “But how did you know we’d need them?” Her timing had been impeccable this morning. Almost as if—
“I heard that uppity young man implying that we were not a properly equipped establishment.” She tamped perlite and grit around the roots of a plant as if she were pummelling Jason’s face.
My jaw dropped. “You were listening outside the door?” Perhaps my employer wasn’t the benign old lady she appeared at first glance. Come to think of it, all the flowers she’d already worked on were standing to attention as if they were army recruits under the attention of a demanding drill sergeant.
“In polite circles, one does not eavesdrop, my dear. I merely had not made my entrance yet, and was waiting until there was a suitable lull in the conversation.”
Suppressing a grin, I filed that titbit away. “So when did you contact the colonel?”
“Why, just now.” She waved a hand at a phone handset just visible through the greenery, on the wall by the door. “He and my Henry were good friends, and one can always rely on him in a tight spot. But I will order a set of jumps for the stud. It is something I feel we should have, if we are to breed sports horses. Until they arrive, we’ll avail ourselves of Winston’s.”
“Thank you, Lady Letham, I appreciate you doing this.”
Just at that point, Ursula Harkin appeared at the entrance. Wearing her customary black pinafore over a dark skirt and white blouse, she clasped her hands at her waist, before announcing, “That’s thon minister’s wife at the door for you, your ladyship. Something about the Women’s Institute?”
“Please excuse me, my dear,” Lady L said to me, pulling her floral gardening gloves off and laying them on the bench. “I must go and attend to matters of the parish.”
Trinity and I had just finished lunch and stepped out into the stable yard when Neil Etherington arrived. Propping his bicycle against the wall, he beamed at us, teeth showing white through the large beard that covered most of his face. Dressed in a v-necked sweater with a checked shirt underneath, he had cycle clips on the legs of his jeans, and bent to undo them before addressing us. “Good afternoon, ladies. How are you both today?”
“Brill, thanks,” Trinity replied, grabbing a head collar and stepping towards the fields. “I’ll get Leo in, and let you interview the boss first.”
“Don’t call me that,” I muttered, but she was already out of earshot.
“Leo?” asked Neil.
“My horse. Lady L lets me keep a couple of horses here. I have him, and also a youngster called Dancer.”
He pulled a notebook out of his backpack and scribbled something. “What do you do with them?”
“Dressage with Leo—he won the winter points series in London just before I came up here. I need to start entering competitions up here.
Dancer is just at the start of his training, so it’ll be a while before he’s ready to compete.”
Sliding a hand into his back pocket, he pulled out his phone. “May I?”
I remembered from before that he liked to record the interviews, and nodded.
“It would be good to watch you riding Leo. Maybe get some photos for the article?”
“Okay. Trinity will have him ready soon.” I watched him try to juggle the notebook, pen and phone. “Would you like to go inside again? That way you can sit down.”
Twenty minutes later he’d finished interrogating, I mean, interviewing me about Hamish’s murder investigation. I was careful not to say anything about Gremlin or my white-hat hacking, just that I’d ‘found out’ this, or ‘discovered’ that. There was no point in making all my secrets public.
We emerged from the tack room with Jorja at our heels to find Leo all sparkling clean and ready for me. “Thanks, Trin,” I said, taking the reins from her. “The outdoor school is this way,” I said to Neil, clicking my tongue to encourage Leo to walk on, and leading the way to the arena.
“Do you ride him every day?” the reporter asked.
“Most days. He usually gets one day off per week. But we don’t school every day—we hack when the weather is nice.”
“School? And hack?” Neil’s forehead wrinkled.
It seemed like our horsey jargon was a foreign language. “Dressage is like a gymnasticising of the horse—like doing yoga and going to the gym. It makes them stronger and helps their joints last longer. Schooling is when we practice our dressage exercises. Hacking is going for a ramble in the countryside. It’s good for both our brains.”
Neil pressed a button on his phone and murmured into it.
Forty minutes later, I’d finished working with Leo. Neil and Trinity had been leaning on the fence watching, and he’d alternated between taking photos of me and chatting to her, occasionally scribbling something in his notebook. I even saw them laughing together at one point. It seemed like he’d lost some of his shyness around my friend. Or perhaps the fact that he was interviewing her for work had reduced his nerves.
“Do you need to get photos of Trinity as well?” I asked, as I jumped off Leo and loosened his girth.
He shook his head. “I got some at the class on Saturday. We’re all sorted, I think. I’ll write these up, and, all being well, the articles will be in this week’s paper.”
“Well I never did! Fame at last,” Trinity said with a grin, flicking the hair off her cheek and affecting a model-like pose.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” I said. “Guess what we’re doing next?”
She screwed up her face. “Shovelling shit?”
“Close. We’ve got to make space for the jumps, remember?”
Neil stuffed his notebook in his pocket. “I can help, if you’d like?”
“Don’t you have to get back to the office and make us the talk of the town?” Trinity gave him a wink.
He cleared his throat before answering, “I c—can stay on at work if I need to finish the pieces. But surely an extra pair of hands would help you?”
Chapter Five
Tuesday afternoon found us pulling off the main road at a sign that said ‘Balvaird House’.
On either side of the approach to the house, lush grass paddocks contained sleek thoroughbred horses, and old oak trees lined the narrow road.
Ahead of us was a modern Georgian house built onto the side of a square castle tower—what we in Scotland would call a ‘keep’. Its stone crenellations jutted higher than the two-storey, white-painted mansion, giving a much more imposing appearance.
The driveway continued past the front of the house and disappeared round behind. “I guess the stables are that way,” I suggested, and crunched the lorry’s gears as I slowed for the turn.
A wiry man wearing plus fours and a tweed jacket stepped from a side door, and hailed us. “Good afternoon, good afternoon, ladies.” With grey hair in a wide strip under a bald crown, and crow’s feet at the side of his eyes, he looked like someone’s favourite great-uncle rather than a retired military man. “Old Alice sent you, has she?”
I nodded and clambered down from the cab, holding out my hand. “Afternoon. Colonel Roberts, is it?”
He shook my palm vigorously. “The very one! But you may call me Winston. I’m retired now, the army seems a long time in the past.”
“Thanks,” I said, trying not to wince at his firm grip. Trinity appeared from the passenger side. “This is my friend Trinity. Trinity, Colonel Roberts.”
“Winston,” he repeated, also greeting her enthusiastically. “Now, dear ladies, Alice said you wanted to borrow our jumps?”
“Yes, thanks so much for letting us do that. It’s for a client who’s a show jumper.”
“Perfect, perfect.” He lifted his chin and pointed at a grass paddock with a worn oval track around the outside. “They’re in our outdoor arena. If you drive the vehicle closer, I’ll point them out to you.”
Most of the jumps were buried in long grass and nettles, so I was glad that I had riding gloves in my pocket to protect my hands.
Despite being retired, the co
lonel was obviously quite fit and strong, and he formed the last link in our human chain—me hauling the wooden poles and frames from the stranglehold of overgrown weeds, Trinity carrying them to the fence, and Winston piling them into the truck.
“Fair gets the heart rate up, doesn’t it?” said the colonel when we stopped for a rest half-way through. “Obvious I haven’t been hunting for a couple of months.”
“Which hunt d’you ride with?” Trinity asked, glaring at me in case I’d say anything about ‘poor foxes’.
“Crieff drag hunt,” he replied, slapping his hands on his trousers to get the dirt off them.
I breathed a sigh of relief. Drag hunting didn’t involve killing animals, just following an artificial scent, so I didn’t need to try and convert him.
“Ride the wife’s point-to-pointers,” he continued. “Gets them qualified for the races, and gives me something to do, since the emporium closed.”
“The emporium?” my friend was doing her usual thing and being better at dealing with people than I was.
“The Field and Stream Emporium.” He pointed at a wooden building the size of an extra-large garage, beside the stables. “My little project, as was. Set it up with my army pension.”
I noticed a faded racing-green sign propped beside the door of the shop. “What happened to it?”
“McDades,” he said succinctly, the sinews on his neck tightening. “When they opened up down the road, we went out of business.”
“Oh, that must’ve been hard.” Again, Trinity was better with the sympathy than me.
“What a shame,” I managed. But I didn’t want to say any more, since McDade was my client. In fact—perhaps if he knew that, the colonel wouldn’t loan us the jumps. I pressed my lips together, just in case they blurted something out without me planning it.
“Water under the bridge,” the colonel said, but his jaw hadn’t relaxed any. “Shall we get the rest of those poles in?”
On the way back from the colonel’s, Trinity pointed at a McDade’s store next to a garden centre on the edge of town. “How’s about we stop and spend those vouchers himself gave us?”
I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “I guess we’ve got time. Just don’t tell the colonel we went anywhere near here with his jumps.”
Trinity laughed. “Good point.” Then she rubbed her hands together. “But a good bit of retail therapy is just what the doctor ordered.”
After tucking the lorry into an out-of-the way corner of the car park, we approached the large industrial building.
It was like a Tardis inside—bigger than it seemed from the outside. A blast of warm air from the heaters above the door struck my face, and musak tinkled from hidden speakers in the roof. On the right was a long counter where staff waited behind electronic tills to ring up your purchases, and then there were some doors to what I assumed were offices or changing rooms. The central area had shelves of horsey equipment and feeds, and round the remaining walls there were racks of equestrian clothing in a veritable cornucopia of colours and textures.
Trinity made a beeline for the sale rail and started rummaging for a bargain, while I got distracted by a display of saddle cloths in all the colours of the rainbow. It offered a great opportunity for some ‘matchy matchy’.
I was trying to decide between a lilac numnah and polo shirt or a petrol blue saddle cloth and t-shirt, when Pat McDade sidled up beside me. “Ms Paterson, a quick word, if you would?”
It was hard to associate this restrained, almost shifty, character with the larger than life, bluff man I’d met before. “Of course,” I replied, wondering what was coming. Surely we hadn’t had Darcy long enough for there to be an issue with his training?
“I understand you do, ah, investigations?” At my nod, he continued, “I’d like to hire you for—Ah! Good afternoon, Mrs Downie!” He broke off to greet a large, tweedy woman who was bearing down on us like a galleon in full sail.
“Mr McDade, good afternoon to you too,” she said, her voice booming so loud that I was sure they’d hear it out in the car park. “And how is your lovely wife?”
“Excellent, excellent.” Showman McDade was back in evidence, making me think it was just an act he put on, and that the quiet, unobtrusive character I’d observed might be his real personality.
He nodded at the wire basket Mrs Downie carried. “What are we shopping for today?”
“Prizes for the Pony Club show.” Her protruding eyes took on a calculating look. “Would McDade’s care to contribute something?”
Mr McDade didn’t miss a beat. “Of course! I’ll get the girls to organise some vouchers for you. Now,” he gestured at me, “if you’ll forgive me, I just have to finish up with Ms Paterson here.”
“Oh, are you the young lady who’s working with Lady Letham?” Suddenly I was the focus of her attention.
“Um, yes. Izzy Paterson.” I held out my hand.
“Senga Downie,” she said, almost crushing my knuckles in her vigorous grip. “DC of the Gowrie branch of the Pony Club.”
District Commissioner. Interesting. “Nice to meet you.”
“We must get you over to a rally sometime. Do a demo, or maybe a talk.” I remembered from my childhood that the DC was in charge of organising activities and events for the local members.
“Of course.” Most likely she was just being polite, but I knew Trinity would get on my case if I didn’t at least attempt to network with the woman. I handed her a business card. “Just let me know when you’ve got an opening.”
“Right! Must dash!” And with that, she sailed off again in the direction of some grooming brushes.
Pat McDade’s jaw clenched as he watched her go, the red veins in his nose becoming more prominent. “Might be better if we met once we’re closed,” he said, turning back to me. “I never get a moment’s peace here. Could you come back at six thirty? Come in the staff entrance,” he pointed at a corner of the store, then told me the security code. “My office is third on the left. Come straight in, we don’t stand on ceremony here.”
“Okay, I’ll see you later.”
With that, someone else approached him—a man in green and yellow coveralls wearing black wellington boots—and he disappeared towards a stand of workwear.
After finally deciding on the blue ensemble, I headed for the till, when a tinkle of laughter caught my attention. Trinity.
She was chatting with a medium-height man who looked vaguely familiar, and curiosity drew me closer until I finally recognised who he was. The Terminator, the local horse chiropractor, whose cheesy catch phrase was ‘I’ll be back’.
By the way Trinity was looking up at him, she obviously didn’t think he was cheesy. With short, curly brown hair, a square jaw and designer stubble, he was definitely easy on the eye, and I remembered her saying that she’d liked him the first time they met.
I caught her eye and pointed at my watch, which earned me an eye roll. But from her gestures and body language, she was obviously saying goodbye to him, so I carried on to the service desk, planning to pay for my purchases using Mr McDade’s voucher.
By the time they’d rung up Trinity’s haul of sale items, it was close to closing time and I began to worry about getting to Glengowrie in time to get evening stables done, and then back to McDades for my meeting with Pat.
“We’ll need to be quick with the horses tonight,” I said as I clambered into the cab of the lorry. “We can unload the jumps tomorrow.”
“Suits me,” replied Trinity.
I gave her a questioning look.
“Got me a date tonight,” she said smugly. “With Termie.”
“Termie? Tell me you didn’t just call him that.”
She shrugged. “Ain’t told me his real name. Yet. Says it’s a secret.”
“Hmmm.” I cancelled the indicator on the lorry as we turned onto the main road, remembering that I’d vowed to check out any of Trinity’s future boyfriends after the last one turned out to be a murderer. “Maybe I can find i
t out.”
“Wonder what it is?” she mused, looking out of the window as we passed a small stand of trees. “I think he looks like a David. Or an Andrew.”
“He wouldn’t keep his name secret if it was—Oh no!” A siren blipped behind us and flashing blue lights reflected on the door mirrors. I glanced at the speedometer. Thirty. Why were the police stopping us?
Chapter Six
“Step out of the lorry, please ma’am.” The policewoman looking up at me from the roadside was familiar, somehow. Underneath her uniform cap, her face was perfectly made up—all eyebrows and fake tan—and her glossy black hair was cut in a tidy bob and tucked behind her ears.
And then I remembered where I knew her from. She’d been on guard outside the stables at Balmoral after the murder of the stud manager, and she’d given me a hard time when I’d wanted to check on our mares. “Constable Adamson, wasn’t it?” I asked as I stepped down from the cab.
She gave me a sharp look, but didn’t comment on that. Instead, she pulled a pad and pen from her tunic pocket, and shuffled a piece of carbon paper behind the first form. Have they not heard of tablet computers, this far north? “Are you aware of the speed limit in this area?”
“Thirty, isn’t it?” I said, suddenly doubting myself. Was there a school nearby and a twenty limit I hadn’t noticed in my eagerness to shop at McDades? I checked the road surface visible from where I stood, but there were no warning signs painted on the road. So probably not a twenty limit.
“And do you know what speed you were travelling at?”
This one I was more sure of. “Thirty. I checked the speedo. And we’ve only just pulled away from McDades, so we couldn’t have been going any faster.”
She sucked air through her teeth, like a tradesman about to give you an overinflated estimate for some building work, and her head moved slowly from side to side. “Not according to my equipment. You were over the limit. Thirty-two.”
