continued to turn as if nothing had happened. It was only half past eight when the Renault drew up outside High Tor, and the decision was quickly made that they needed a drink at the Crown and Anchor.
Once inside, as the first large Chilean chardonnays began to warm them, Carole and Jude decided to order a meal as well. Ted Crisp, the landlord, said-atypically effusive-that the steak-and-ale pie was “to die for,” so they’d both gone for that. After the cold and the atrocity they had witnessed, they found the fug of the pub interior very welcoming. So was Ted, large of bulk, scruffy of hair and beard, even scruffier of fleece, sweatshirt and jeans.
“How did she react then-this Lucinda-when she found out her husband was dead?”
“She managed to control herself very well,” replied Carole, with appropriate respect for such restraint.
“Hm,” Jude said. “I think her reaction was more one of relief. She’d been really worried that one of the horses had been injured. When she found out it was just her husband murdered, she didn’t seem so bothered.”
“People react differently to that kind of shock,” said Carole tartly.
“Yes, sure. Just the impression I got.”
“Well, do you know anything about this Lucinda or her husband or the state of her marriage or-”
“Ted, we met her for the first time an hour ago. The circumstances in which we met her husband were not conducive to confidences. We know nothing about either of them-or the state of their marriage.”
“All right, Carole. I didn’t know that.”
“Sorry.” She smiled to reinforce the apology. Ted smiled back. For a second their eyes connected. Carole still found it strange to think there had once been-however briefly-a physical relationship between them.
“But maybe you know something,” Carole went on, “if Walter Fleet was a Crown and Anchor regular…?”
“No. He didn’t come here very often. Anyway, last thing men go to a pub for is to talk about their wives and marriages. They come here to get away from all that.”
“Yes. So all we do know about the Fleets,” said Jude, “is what I’ve heard from Sonia. Which doesn’t amount to very much. She implied that she didn’t particularly care for Lucinda Fleet. She also hinted that the marriage wasn’t a very happy one. That’s all we’ve got.”
“But we can find out more.” Carole’s pale blue eyes glowed with eagerness. “You’ll still be seeing Sonia, won’t you?”
“Oh, sure.” Jude looked at her friend with a half-teasing expression. “But why should we want to find out more?”
“Well, it was a murder. We were on the scene. Natural curiosity dictates that we want to know who killed Walter Fleet.”
“But surely,” Jude said, maintaining her bantering tone “that’s up to the police to find out.”
“Yes,” Carole conceded, “but we’re bound to be interested, aren’t we?”
“No doubt about it.” Ted Crisp chuckled. “You two are bound to be interested. So tell me, Carole, who do you think did it?”
“We have no information. We can’t possibly answer questions like that at this point.”
“And it is entirely possible,” Jude contributed innocently, “that the police will solve the crime-indeed, that they have already solved the crime. Most murders are pretty straightforward.”
“I agree. Usually the police have to look no further than the person who claims to have discovered the body. Which in this case was you.”
“Yes, Carole.”
“Alternatively, they look to the victim’s live-in partner, who is quite frequently standing there with the bloodstained murder weapon still in his or her hand.”
“Though not in this case, Carole. Lucinda Fleet arrived after the murder had been committed.”
“But we don’t know where she’d come from, do we? She might have been present when the murder was committed-actually committed it-and then she might have run across the fields to where her Land Rover was parked and…”
“Possible, I suppose. Mind you, the same could be true for Sonia Dalrymple.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Carole, that I don’t know where she’d been before she came to the stables. I assumed she’d been held up doing something for her kids, but now I think about it, they’re at boarding school. And she did seem to be pretty flustered, even before she saw the body.”
“Then Sonia’s a potential murderer too.”
Ted Crisp scratched his beard. “It must be difficult going through life, being as suspicious of everyone as you are, Carole.”
“I can assure you,” she replied, “it’s quite easy.”
He chuckled. “But to be honest, at the moment, you really know nothing, do you?”
“No,” Jude agreed.
“That doesn’t stop us having theories, though.”
“All right, Carole. So what is your current theory, given the virtually complete lack of information from which you are working?”
“Well, Ted, we know Lucinda Fleet was worried that her stables had been visited by a horse mutilator.”
“Yes.”
“Say that was true. A horse mutilator-this Horse Ripper-had got into the stables. He was about to do his dirty work when Walter Fleet surprised him. The Horse Ripper killed Walter so that he couldn’t identify him to the police.”
“Well…”
“It’s not much of a theory,” said Jude.
“It’s the only one we’ve got,” Carole snapped.
The arrival of their “to die for” steak-and-ale pies at that moment curtailed further discussion of the crime.
4
The murder of Walter Fleet was duly reported on national and local news, and made the front page of the Fethering Observer. But there was no announcement of an arrest, and, as ever, beyond bland statements at press conferences, the police gave away little of their thinking or their progress in the investigation. Which, to Carole and Jude, was extremely frustrating.
The one new piece of information that did emerge in a television bulletin was the nature of the murder weapon, which had been discovered at the crime scene. Carole and Jude had not spotted it because it had been lying up against the corpse. The stabbing and slashing at Walter Fleet’s front had, it was announced, been done with a bot knife. Helpfully, for people with little equestrian knowledge-like Carole and Jude-the inspector holding the press conference showed a photograph and explained what a bot knife was.
Amongst the many medical complaints suffered by horses is infestation by botflies, a condition sometimes known as the “bots”-or even “botts.” A bot knife is used to scrape the eggs of the parasite out of a horse’s hair. In the illustration shown on the television, viewers saw a black-handled knife with a curved serrated end, which looked more suited for slicing grapefruit than committing murder.
But clearly it was an object that could be found around any stable yard, which suggested to Carole and Jude that the stabbing of Walter Fleet was a spur-of-the-moment rather than a premeditated action. The unsuitability of the bot knife as a means of killing someone served only to support that theory.
From Sonia Dalrymple Jude found out more about botflies and their treatment, data which she gleefully passed on to Carole. The adult botfly looks not unlike a bee, and favours laying its small yellowish eggs in the thick hair on a horse’s chest or behind its front legs. The presence of the eggs irritates the host, who tries to remove them by biting and licking the infested area, but these actions have the opposite effect of encouraging growth inside the eggs. They also give an opportunity for the tiny maggots to get transferred into the horse’s mouth and
