professional horse expert, at ease in his chosen setting.
Lucinda Fleet was in the yard, overseeing a delivery of hay, and Imogen Potton, who was mucking out the stable of her beloved Conker, emerged when she saw Donal was there.
He greeted Lucinda casually, and she seemed little concerned by his presence. He was part of the occasional furniture at Long Bamber Stables, and the fact that he had recently been questioned by the police about the murder of her husband did not trouble her. Or maybe they had already met since his release and discussed the matter. Jude could still remember Lucinda’s disproportionate anxiety about Donal’s having been taken in for questioning and her insistence that he was guiltless. That was something which, at some point, would need explanation.
Imogen grinned at the Irishman. She seemed as relaxed with him as she was with Conker. Here was an adult who didn’t bring all the baggage of most of the other adults in her life. Donal knew about horses-that was all that mattered-and in his company Imogen’s conversation need never stray from the subject of horses into more treacherous areas.
“I’m going to take Conker out for a long hack today,” she announced excitedly. “She’ll like that, won’t she, Donal?”
“I would think it would be exactly what she wanted, young Immy. Conker’s a pony that gets bored when she’s not working.”
“You have cleared it with Sonia Dalrymple?” asked Lucinda. “She’s happy for you to take her out for a hack?”
“Yes, she said it’s fine. So no problems.”
“Good.” But then a thought struck her. “Just a minute, Immy. It’s term time-shouldn’t you be at school?”
“We’ve all got the morning off. It’s an Ofsted day.”
Lucinda Fleet, having no children, had no idea what an Ofsted day was, so ceased to raise any objections, and Imogen returned to her mucking-out duties.
The morning was cold. Jude was glad she had managed to track down a fine pair of black leather gloves that a lover had once bought her in Florence. They were warm and fitted so well that her hands felt naked.
Donal led Chieftain out of his stall, breathing endearments or instructions at the horse’s nose. The sight of the tethered Conker prompted a whinny of greeting, which was reciprocated. Donal stopped the horse in the centre of the yard, away from any tethering hooks, rings or rails.
“Aren’t you going to tie him up?” asked Jude.
The Irishman shook his head. “He’ll be more relaxed if I don’t.”
“And he won’t try to get away?”
“He won’t try to get away.”
“It’s his front right knee.”
“I can tell that.”
But it wasn’t the knee that Donal concentrated on first. He ran his gnarled hands over the horse’s back, fingers hardly making contact with the dark hair. Then he concentrated on the neck, digging more deeply into the flesh beneath the black mane. And all the time, he kept up a murmuring commentary of comfort, in a language that was all breathing and no words.
Chieftain relaxed visibly under Donal’s ministrations. Through his huge nostrils, his breath steamed evenly out into the February air. Apart from that, the great body was entirely still.
Only when that state had been achieved did Donal curve his body forward, and let his hands move down towards the injured knee. They didn’t touch the animal, but seemed to close around a force field, an invisible ring some two inches away from the flesh. Donal tutted at what he felt there.
“I thought so. He’s been ridden too hard.”
“But I’m sure Sonia would be very gentle with him.”
“It’s not Sonia I’m talking about. It’s that husband of hers. He’s the bully.”
After what she’d seen at Yeomansdyke the day before, Jude could well believe that. Donal continued to read the information he was feeling from the horse’s knee. “He turned it, poor boy. Probably slipped. It was very wet underfoot a couple of weeks back, before everything froze up again. If the rider had jumped off as soon as he felt the slip, the horse wouldn’t be in this state now. But no, Mr. Nicky Dalrymple doesn’t like weakness-in an animal or a human being.”
“Do you mean anything particular by that?”
He looked up from the horse’s knee, the blue eyes either side of his broken nose glinting with mischief. “And what might I mean…Jude?” Mocking, he teased out the vowel of her name.
“I was wondering if you were referring to Sonia…to Nicky not liking to see any weakness in her.?”
“Well, I might have been meaning that…and I might not. There are certainly things I know about that marriage, but they’re not things I would reveal”-he winked-“at least not unless the price was right.”
“And would the price be charged in Jameson’s?”
He chuckled. “No, I think for information of this kind I’d be looking for payment of a more foldable nature.”
“Ah. Well, I don’t believe in paying money for information.”
“And why would you want the information, anyway? From what I’ve seen of you, you’re not one of the bitchy Fedborough gossips. Why do you care what’s going on inside a couple’s marriage?”
“I don’t care at all.” She had to say it, though of course she was anxious to know everything she could about anyone involved with Long Bamber Stables. “But do you think there are people who’d pay for the information you have?”
“I don’t see why not. There are things I’ve seen which people might want to keep quiet…things they might not want an irresponsible drunken Paddy to spill out…in his cups.”
As when he’d referred to himself the previous day as a “stage Irishman,” there was a knowingness about Donal’s words. He was aware of the image that was expected of him, and was quite prepared to live up to it. But again Jude got the feeling that he was a lot more intelligent than he allowed himself to appear.
“So who would you hope to get the money from?”
He grinned, still playing with her. “If it’s something discreditable about a marriage, I’d have thought the people most likely to pay for it being hushed up would be the people involved.”
“Yes, and in this case they could certainly afford it.”
“My thinking exactly, Jude.” A complacent smile cracked his wizened face, and he looked back down at Chieftain’s leg. While they had been talking, he had kept his hands circling the invisible wrapping around the knee. Now he pointed his hands, swollen knuckles tight against each other, at the joint, and slowly, as if directing a hose, moved them up to the horse’s shoulder. After a few moments of intense concentration, he took his hands away, and straightened up, wincing from the stiffness in his back.
“He’ll be all right now.”
“You mean he’s cured?”
“I mean he’s ready now for nature to cure him. It’ll take a couple of weeks. The muscle was torn. But it’s on the mend now.” He reached up to take hold of Chieftain’s head collar and lead him back to his stable. As he did so, Lucinda emerged from the tack room. “Got him sorted, have you, Donal?”
“Yes. Can’t be ridden for a couple of weeks, then he should be fine…until his owner does the same thing again.”
Lucinda looked rueful.
“Aren’t you going to say anything to Mr. High-and-mighty Dalrymple then?” asked Donal.
“I can’t risk them taking the horses away. I need the money.”
Just what she’d said about Victor and Yolanta Brewis. Her financial situation must be pretty serious for someone as devoted to horses as Lucinda to risk their being hurt by bullying owners. Jude wondered whether money pressures at Long Bamber Stables had anything to do with Walter Fleet’s death.
Donal didn’t seem surprised by her reaction, and led Chieftain on into his stable. Conker, still tethered in the yard, whinnied, perhaps feeling it was about time he too was reinstalled. But the sound of broom on cement flooring indicated that Imogen hadn’t finished mucking out.
Donal locked the bottom half of the door with practised ease, though he moved stiffly, his body still adjusting from the bent pose he had held so long. Lucinda stood waiting when he turned back from the stable. “What?” he
