“Ah.”
“And they pay for a few little extras, as well. Like me getting the horses saddled up for them. I don’t do that for anyone else, you know…well, except very small kids. Long Bamber’s meant to be just D.I.Y. livery.” She sighed. “No, I’m afraid I’m stuck with them.”
“But the way he talked to you…”
“That’s how he gets his kicks, Jude. He doesn’t realise it, but he gets charged extra for being rude to me. Victor Brewis, you see, suffers from small-man syndrome-just loves throwing his weight around.”
“Born to rule, eh?”
“Far from it. People who’re born to rule never act so autocratically. It’s only people who’re embarrassed about where they come from who behave like that.”
“You’re right. And I’m sorry, I must ask you…slotted Kimberwick?”
“It’s a horse’s bit. Acts as brakes on the horse, actually. There are two slots for the reins, according to how much pressure you want to put on the horse’s tongue. It’s quite a tough bit for a horse with as soft a mouth as Tiger’s.”
“Okay, I think I get it. More or less.”
Lucinda smiled a smile of small triumph. “Mind you, I didn’t put the slotted Kimberwick on Tiger.”
“But Victor Brewis thinks you did.”
“Yes.” Lucinda Fleet winked. “Which shows exactly how much he knows about matters equestrian.”
Jude grinned and looked up at the tall horse beside her. “I’m sorry, trying to do any healing on Chieftain was impossible with all that going on.”
“I’m not surprised. Do you want to have another go, now that things have quietened down?”
“No. My concentration’s shot to pieces. I won’t be any good now.”
“Okay.” Lucinda undid the rope from the rail, and led the horse away. “Come on, Chieftain boy, you get back inside. Be nice and warm in there, and you can get back to your salt lick.”
Jude followed her, rather disconsolately. “I don’t know that I’m ever going to help him much. First time I’ve tried healing a horse, and it doesn’t seem to be going too well.”
Lucinda didn’t disagree or offer words of comfort. Instead she said, “Maybe I should get Donal to take a look at the old boy.”
“Is Donal around? Have you seen him since his little session with the police.”
“No, but he’ll be round the yard sometime soon,” said Lucinda as she bolted Chieftain back into his stall. “The original bad penny, that Donal.”
“I’d be interested to meet him.” Then, covering up, Jude added, “I mean, to talk about horse healing, that kind of thing.”
“Well, as I say, he’s bound to be round here before too long. Or, if you really want to find him…”
“Yes?”
“He always drinks up at the Cheshire Cheese-you know, up in Fedborough. It’s near George Tufton’s racing stables. All his lads drink in the Cheese. And, unless he’s been banned again, that’s where you’ll find Donal.”
Well, thank you, Lucinda, thought Jude. You really have been most helpful.
15
There were a couple of hostelries in Fedborough that Carole and Jude had got to know quite well during a previous investigation. But not the Cheshire Cheese.
It was a dark, low-ceilinged pub, which, unlike most in the town, had made no concessions to attracting the tourist trade. The others all claimed that the gleaming brasswork of their rustic interiors, their open fires and their hearty gastro-menus recreated how English pubs used to be. The Cheshire Cheese, however, was how English pubs really used to be: dingy, and quite possibly grubby beneath the gloom. The dark wood counter and tables looked as though they would be sticky to the touch. The smell of old beer and tobacco seemed to have permeated the very walls of the place.
Jude was subjected to another tradition of old English pubs as she entered: a cessation of the low-level chatter that had been going on and a circle of baleful eyes cast towards the unrecognised newcomer. Undeterred, but aware of the eyes following her, she strode boldly up to the bar. An anaemic girl looked up grudgingly from her copy of Hello! magazine, but didn’t say anything.
“Could I have a glass of white wine, please? Do you have a chardonnay?”
“We got white wine,” said the girl, who then produced a half-full screw-top bottle from a cold shelf. In the murk Jude couldn’t assess the cleanliness of the wineglass, which was probably just as well.
But she could assess that this was not a situation for subtlety of approach. “I’m looking for a man called Donal. Expert on horses. I’m told he often drinks in here.”
Before the girl had a chance to say anything, there was a raucous shout from a table behind Jude. “Got a new bit of stuff, have you, Donal?”
“Or is one of your wives after her maintenance?” suggested another voice.
Taking the money for the wine, the barmaid nodded towards the source of the catcalls. Jude turned to face a table of four rough-looking men dressed in grubby padded jackets, breeches and battered riding boots. Their size suggested that they were all ex-jockeys, and the smell of horse that surrounded them suggested that they all worked at George Tufton’s racing stables. They seemed to fit the scale of the pub, as though its low ceilings had been designed to accommodate this pygmy species.
After the two shouts, the men were silent, and there was no noise from any of the other tables. Jude was aware of her audience, and sensed that they looked forward to her making a fool of herself.
“So which one of you is Donal?”
All four men laughed, and seemed for a moment to contemplate some trickery in their reply. But then three of them pointed to the one farthest away. His head was a scouring brush of short white bristles, his face deeply lined from a life spent in the open air, and beneath a broken nose, his uneven greenish teeth hadn’t come under the scrutiny of a dentist for a long, long time. Almost lost in the wrinkles around them, two blue eyes sparkled, calculating and devious. There was an air of danger about him. Even if Jude hadn’t known of his reputation, she would have recognised a man with a combustibly short fuse.
“Donal, I wonder if I could talk to you…?”
“You could talk to me. Whether I talk back or not is another matter.” The voice was Irish, but without the charm of leprechauns and Blarney stones.
“Donal doesn’t talk for free,” said one of his companions.
“Except to his mates in the police,” said another, prompting a round of discordant laughter.
“So what’s the price of your talking?” asked Jude.
Donal grinned, baring more of the bomb site in his mouth, but let one of the others answer her question. “Large Jameson’s will usually get him started.”
Jude turned back to the counter. The barmaid, who like everyone else had been listening to the exchange, was already filling the glass. She rang up the price and took the proffered money. Clearly, speaking was something she avoided whenever possible.
Facing the four men again, Jude could see Donal stretching out his hand for the drink, but she held on to it. “No, I want a quiet word. Come and sit with me at that table. It won’t take long.”
This prompted rowdy suggestions from Donal’s mates, on the lines of “You’re on a promise there, you lucky sod” and “When did you last have an offer like that?” But Donal, lured by the drink, did get up out of his seat and limp gracelessly across to the table Jude had indicated.
She raised her glass. “Cheers.”
He said nothing till he had downed two-thirds of his Jameson’s in a single swallow. “So you want to know what the police asked me, do you?”
“What makes you assume that?”
“Recent experience. That’s the only reason anyone wants to talk to me. God, you know the only product made in this entire area is gossip. And I assume you’re just another local who’s got some crackpot theory as to
