“Wait till it’s light. Go and look through the paddocks. The Ripper never takes them far. No, if that’s what’s happened to Conker, we’ll find her soon enough.”
Lucinda looked grim, and Sonia could not mask another involuntary sob.
“Have you checked whether anything else is missing,” asked Jude, “apart from the pony?”
“No, I haven’t, as it happens. If it’s the Ripper, he’s certainly not going to have taken anything else. He’d have brought his knife with him.”
“Yes, but if there are other things missing, then maybe you’ll be able to eliminate the idea that it was the Ripper.”
“I see what you mean.” Lucinda Fleet moved across to the large tack room. “The padlocks are still on the door, but then that doesn’t mean much. Some of the owners have got keys to them too.”
“So they could have gone inside, taken stuff and then locked up again?” asked Jude.
“Yes.” Lucinda unlocked the door, looked inside the tack room and said immediately, “Conker’s saddle and bridle have gone. And her head collar.” Leaving the door open, she moved away. “I’ll just have a look in the barn where we keep the feed and stuff, see if anything’s missing there.”
Jude grinned at Sonia Dalrymple. “I’d say what we’ve just heard pretty good news. It wasn’t the Ripper. Whoever took Conker rode her away-or at least took her away with a view to riding her, and that’s certainly not his style.”
“No.” The horse’s owner still looked wretched. But then Jude remembered: of course, her husband was home. She took Sonia’s arm, and led her out of the stables’ front gates.
“Things all right” she asked softly, aware how much Carole felt excluded by this intimacy, “with Nicky?”
Sonia shook her head wearily. “I don’t know. We had another row last night. He didn’t sleep at home.”
“Where did he go?”
She shrugged. “Some hotel. He quite often does when we have words.” She allowed herself a half smile. “Nicky thinks he’s punishing me. Little does he know the relief I feel at his absence. Anyway,” she sighed, “he’s flying off to Chicago at lunchtime.”
“When Nicky leaves you for a night, Sonia, does he always go to the same hotel?”
Another shrug. She didn’t know and she didn’t care.
Carole cleared her throat, an aggrieved reminder that she was also present, and Jude led Sonia back into the yard.
“The logical thing to think,” said Carole, “is that the pony was taken by Imogen Potton. You say the girl’s obsessed with Conker. It makes sense that she should steal her away from the cruel world which fails to understand either of them.”
“It would make perfect sense,” Jude agreed, “but for the fact that Imogen is staying with her grandmother in Northampton. She was there when I spoke to her yesterday evening at about seven-thirty, out doing some shopping for her grandmother. So even if she left straight after speaking to me, there’s no way she could have been here in time to take the horse. She doesn’t drive; I can’t imagine her being able to afford a cab to come all that way, so she’d have been reliant on the trains.”
Lucinda Fleet reappeared from the barn. “There are some carrots and pony nuts missing.” She poked her head into the empty stable. “And Conker’s hay net. Whoever took her knew what the pony liked.”
“Imogen Potton,” Carole insisted.
“Yes, that would fit some of the facts,” Lucinda agreed, “but why should she do that? Conker’s here when she wants to see her. Sonia lets Imogen ride Conker more or less when she wants to.”
“Yes,” Sonia interposed excitedly, “but Imogen told me she thought Conker was in danger. So she probably took her away for her own protection.” A sob came into her voice as she said, “Oh God, I hope nothing’s happened to that poor pony.”
Carole was reminded of the night Walter Fleet had died, when both Lucinda Fleet and Sonia Dalrymple had seemed more worried by the idea of the Ripper having mutilated a horse than of any injury to a human being.
“The idea of Imogen having taken Conker fits most of the facts, I agree. Except…” And Jude reiterated the reasons why the girl could not chronologically or geographically have made it to Fedborough from Northampton in time.
“Oh, well…” Lucinda took a mobile phone out of the pocket of her body-warmer. “I’d better ring her mum just to check Immy is where she’s meant to be.” She recalled a number from the memory, but clearly getting an answering machine, left a message asking Hilary Potton to call her as soon as possible.
The four women stood around for a moment, looking at each other. Then Jude said, “Sonia, I wonder if you have any idea why Conker should be targeted. Had she ever been-”
But the pony’s owner’s plans didn’t involve answering more questions. “I’m sorry, I must get back. Lucinda, call me if you get any news of Conker, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course. The minute I hear anything.”
The three were silent until they heard the sound of Sonia’s Range Rover starting up.
“Not a lot we can do now,” said Lucinda. “Just wait till Hilary calls.” She looked around the stable yard with something approaching despair. “There’s any amount of stuff I should be doing here, but…Would either of you like a cup of coffee?”
“Yes, please,” Carole and Jude replied, with considerable alacrity.
The interior of Lucinda’s house showed signs of neglect. That might have been expected in a home whose owner has been recently widowed, but the level of neglect suggested it predated Walter’s murder. The Fleets seemed to have given up on domestic pride, in the same way that they seemed to have given up on their marriage.
The kitchen where the coffee was prepared might once have had a warm farmhouse feeling, but no longer. The large beige Aga onto which Lucinda put the kettle was dull and greasy. Surfaces were scattered with equestrian catalogues, invoices, unwashed plates, empty milk bottles and bits of tack. Carole and Jude were encouraged that Lucinda used a tea towel to rub out the mugs she detached from hooks on the dresser, but discouraged by the grubbiness of the tea towel she used. Half-eaten bowls of dog food stood on the floor, but the only sign of the animals themselves was a stale doggy smell. The calendar, given free by some horse fodder wholesaler, was three years out of date. On the wall was a faded photograph of Walter Fleet in his heyday, being awarded some medal by Princess Anne. That, and a few brittle dusty rosettes, were the only ornamental elements in the kitchen.
The impression was of a house that took second place to the stables, just somewhere to live in that was convenient for work.
Whether because she was unaware of the chaos or so used to it that she didn’t notice, Lucinda made no apologies for the state of the place. She spooned instant coffee into the mugs. Her guests both chose to have it black, but into her own she poured milk from a bottle whose crustiness made Carole wince, along with four teaspoonsful of sugar.
“Have to keep up my energy. The old blood sugar.” Her sweet tooth was the only thing she was going to apologise for. She sat down at the paper-strewn kitchen table and sighed heavily.
“It probably will get out, about Conker having been taken. Hard to keep secrets round a place like this. Owners are a gossipy lot.”
“And would that be such bad news?” asked Carole.
“Just another piece in a sequence of cumulative bad news. Another reason for existing owners to think of taking their horses away, and for new owners to look for another stable. There are plenty around here. They’d be spoiled for choice.”
She spoke wearily, someone who had battled against the rising tide of adverse circumstances and now was close to giving up the struggle.
“Are things really that bad?” asked Jude.
Lucinda Fleet nodded glumly.
“But presumably,” suggested Carole, “if you did have to give up, this place would fetch a pretty healthy price. You must have about ten acres.”
“Eight and a half.”
