“Except, you’ve already established that horses can’t be gullible.”
“No. Well, maybe not,” Carole conceded. “Anyway, when you came in, some time ago, you asked if I could do you a favour. So far as I can recollect, you haven’t yet said what that favour is.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“What is it then?”
“I wondered if you’d mind giving me a lift to the stables, so that I can have a look at Chieftain.”
Carole’s first reaction was to refuse. They’d reached late afternoon, nearly time for a television chat show to which she was becoming secretly addicted. But her puritan instinct told her that that wasn’t really an excuse. And that if she used it as such, she’d have to admit to Jude that she actually watched the thing. So she said yes, she’d love to give her friend a lift to the stables.
As they drove along in Carole’s sensible, recently vacuumed Renault, Jude provided a skimpy background to their destination. Long Bamber Stables were on the Fedborough Road, maybe a mile up the River Fether from Fethering. They advertised regularly in the Fethering Observer, offering “D.I.Y./Full/Part Livery, an Indoor School, Hacking, Riding Lessons” and other services.
Though Jude had not been there before, she had heard from Sonia Dalrymple that the stables were owned by a married couple, Walter and Lucinda Fleet. In riding circles, Walter Fleet had apparently once been known as a promising eventer (whatever that might be, Carole inevitably interpolated) whose career had been cut short by a serious fall from a horse. Jude had also got the impression that Lucinda Fleet was not Sonia Dalrymple’s favourite person.
But that was all she knew. Except for the fact that Sonia had agreed to meet her outside the stables at six that Tuesday evening.
“And how would you have got here if I hadn’t given you a lift?”
“I knew you would give me a lift.”
Carole saw Jude’s teasing smile, illuminated by the headlights of an oncoming car, and seethed quietly.
The parking at Long Bamber Stables was some way from the main gates, and when she switched off the engine, Carole insisted on staying in the Renault. She’d even brought a book with her-and there was always a torch in the glove compartment, because she had a paranoid fear of running down the car’s battery.
Jude didn’t argue, although she knew Carole’s decision to stay arose from her unwillingness to meet Sonia Dalrymple, someone new, someone who believed in alternative therapy, someone who was rich enough to own a horse. Saying she wouldn’t be more than half an hour, Jude walked across the tarmac to the stable gates. She checked the large watch, fixed by a broad ribbon to her wrist. Three minutes to six.
The buildings appeared to make up a timber-clad square, no doubt with loose boxes lining the inside and paddocks behind. There was no roof over the yard onto which the gates opened, though somewhere inside there had to be a covered indoor school and storage barns. A little way away from the stables stood a modest redbrick house, presumably the home of Walter and Lucinda Fleet. Although she couldn’t see it, Jude could hear the swishing flow of the River Fether, which ran alongside the site.
To her surprise, there was no light over the gates, nor could she see any evidence of lights inside the compound. There was no sign of Sonia Dalrymple either.
It was cold. Jude waited for a few minutes, stamping her feet to maintain circulation. But no other vehicle appeared to join the Renault in the car park.
A thin February moon cast a watery light over the scene. Jude could see that the double gates were closed, and she looked in vain for a bell push or knocker. Apart from the underscoring of the river, the only sounds were distant rustlings and clompings, presumably from the horses within.
Jude checked her watch again. Nearly quarter past six. Though she didn’t know Sonia Dalrymple that well, her client had always been punctual for her appointments at Woodside Cottage.
Surely she had said meet outside the stables. She must have been held up somewhere. Sonia had twin teenage daughters, so no doubt she’d been delayed by some crisis in ferrying them somewhere.
Or maybe Jude had got it wrong, and the arrangement had been to meet inside the stables, near Chieftain’s box. Worth trying. If the gates were locked, Jude would know she hadn’t got it wrong.
Just as she had the thought, there was a sudden outburst of neighing and heavy-footed stamping from the horses within. Something had disturbed them. More likely, someone had disturbed them. Sonia Dalrymple must be inside the compound. Odd that she hadn’t put any lights on, though. If the stables were locked, Jude would hammer on the doors to attract attention.
But when she turned the heavy metal ring, the gates readily gave inward, letting out a grudging creak of timber. Jude pushed through into the hay and dung-scented yard, where near silence had reasserted itself.
As she did so, from the far side of the square courtyard she heard the sharp impact of wood on wood. A gate closing?
Jude moved into the centre of the square where the moonlight was strongest. She’d been right about the loose boxes, forming the walls of the area. Unseen horses shifted uneasily. One whinnied, troubled by the presence of an intruder. There was no sign of human life.
On the other hand, there was a sign of human death.
In the middle of the courtyard lay the body of a man. The pale moonlight glistened on the blood that had only recently ceased to flow from his face, throat and chest.
2
Jude’s plump body moved with surprising speed back across the tarmac to the Renault. Carole took a moment or two to interpret her friend’s excited gabble, but once she understood was quickly out of the car. With her torch.
Its beam did not improve the look of the body. The man had been the object of a frenzied assault. A trail of bright blood spots suggested that he had been backing away from his attacker. Deep gashes on his hands showed that he had tried to protect himself, until he had tripped backwards or collapsed from his injuries.
The horses in the stalls framing the women shifted nervously, some snorting unease at this new invasion of their domain.
Carole looked back along the trail of blood. A few feet beyond where the broken line stopped-or in fact where the spillage had started-the door to a wooden two-storey building hung open. A solid door, not divided in the middle like those on the loose boxes. Hinged metal bars and heavy padlocks hung from rings on the frame. From inside there was a slight glow from a hidden light source.
“What’s that, Jude?”
“I’ve no idea. First time I’ve been to this place. Saddle room, tack room maybe? Mind you, the blood spots suggest that the victim and his attacker came out from there and-”
“It’s not our place to make that kind of conjecture,” said Carole, suddenly all sniffy. “We should ring the police. You’ve got your mobile, haven’t you?”
“Yes…” Jude reached reluctantly into the pocket of her coat. “I wouldn’t mind having a quick look around before we-”
Carole’s Home Office background would not allow the sentence to be finished. “This is a crime scene. It would be deeply irresponsible for us to disturb anything.”
“Just a quick look?” Jude wheedled.
“No.” A hand was held out for the mobile. “If you won’t do it, then I will.”
A short hesitation, then Jude said, “I think we should tell the Fleets first.”
“What?”
“The people who own the place. They must live in the house next door. They should know what’s happened on their premises before the police arrive.”
Carole wavered for just long enough for Jude to say, “I’ll tell them,” and set off towards the gates.
“Do you want the torch?”
“No, I can see. Besides, I don’t want to leave you alone in the dark with the body.”
