6
Sonia Dalrymple led Chieftain out of his stall, and Jude was impressed by the sheer size of the beast. “He’ll be more relaxed outside. He’s still a bit nervous being back here, and he might not like a stranger invading his space.”
“He might lash out at me, you mean?”
“It’s possible. He hasn’t got a vicious nature, but most horses are wary of people they don’t know.”
Jude chuckled. “Just like my friend Carole.”
“I sometimes think it’s a pretty sensible attitude to life-can save disappointment later.” Again Jude detected some buried hurt in Sonia’s words, as if she spoke from unhappy experience.
The block in which they stood had been carefully and expensively converted. By comparison, Long Bamber Stables looked shabby. Two stalls faced each other across a paved central area. On the far wall metal rungs were fixed, leading up to a closed trap door.
“Plenty of storage space you’ve got here.”
“Yes. That was designed as a hayloft, but we’ve never really used it. We never bought hay in very large bulk, so it was simpler to keep it down here. And now the girls have gone…”
Sonia kept reverting to that. As though to break her mood, she turned to stroke Chieftain.
“He’s big, isn’t he?”
“Sixteen hands. When Nicky bought him, he had some idea about hunting with him, but…well, Nicky hasn’t got the time and…Anyway, this bloody government’s trying to ensure that there never is any more hunting.”
“Does Nicky ride him at all?”
“Yes, he does sometimes.” The question seemed to make Sonia uncomfortable. “But he’s so rarely home for any length of time.”
“And he couldn’t ride him at the moment, anyway, with the horse lame.”
“No,” Sonia agreed, as if that ended the conversation.
“Is Chieftain a stallion?”
“Gelding. Makes them a bit more manageable. Though you do have your petulant moods from time to time, don’t you, you beautiful boy?”
Chieftain seemed to understand the endearment, and nuzzled into his mistress’s blond hair. Sonia’s hand found a piece of carrot in the pocket of her Barbour and slipped it up into his mouth. He crunched it appreciatively and reached down towards the source for more.
“No, that’s it, Chieftain. That’s it for the time being.”
Jude stepped cautiously towards the huge horse. “Okay So where’s the lameness?”
“Front left. Knee might be slightly swollen; it’s hard to tell.”
“Will he be all right if I just touch him?”
“Better if I introduce you to him first. And give him this.” Sonia slipped another piece of carrot into Jude’s hand. “He’ll be your friend for life then. Chieftain…Chieftain, who’s my big boy?” Again the horse responded to the affection in her tone and nuzzled against her. “This is Jude. I want you to meet Jude. Hold your hand out-not the one with the carrot in it.”
Tentatively, Jude did as she was told. Chieftain appeared not to have noticed the gesture. “Can he see it there? Horses have a big blind spot, don’t they?”
“He knows it’s there. Just wait.”
She kept her hand out, and slowly the gelding lowered his massive head to sniff at it. The warm breath made Jude feel as if she was under a hand dryer, and she was aware of the proximity of the huge teeth. But all that touched her were a couple of the whiskers, which tickled along the skin of her hand.
“He’s getting used to the idea of you. This is Jude…yes, isn’t it, boy? All right, offer him the carrot.” Jude slowly advanced her other hand. “Keep it flat.”
For a moment Chieftain was uncertain. Then, with one sudden quick movement, he dropped his head and daintily abstracted the treat. So close, the crunching sounded disproportionately loud.
“He’ll be all right with you now, Jude.”
“So you’ll hold him…if I just touch his knee?”
“Yes. Very gently, though, because if it’s giving him pain…”
“I’ll be gentle.”
Jude could feel the horse tense as she touched the injured leg above the knee. Through his coat, she could feel the enormous coiled-up strength within. Softly, almost caressing, she moved her hand lower, down the straight ridge of bone until she began to feel the angularity of the knee. Chieftain stamped and skittered uneasily. She was getting near to the trouble.
Sonia Dalrymple brought her head close to the horse’s, and murmured soft words of comfort to him. He was partially reassured, but the tension within his huge frame tightened a few more notches.
So slowly that the movement could not be seen, Jude let her hand slide down over the irregularities of the knee. “This is where the trouble is, all right. It feels like it’s on fire.”
“Actually burning hot? So it’s infected?”
“Possibly. But it’s not that kind of heat. It’s a heat I can sense rather than feel…from where the focus of the pain is.”
“But can you heal it?”
Jude grinned ruefully. “I can try. I’m afraid any healer who guarantees to cure a problem is a healer I wouldn’t trust.”
“Well, please do your best. Chieftain hates not being able to gallop around…don’t you, boy?”
The horse let out a long shuddering breath of assent.
“All right,” said Jude, slowly bringing her other hand down till the two encircled the injured joint, “let’s see what we can do.”
Carole was feeling restless. The Times crossword, her daily anti-Alzheimer’s exercise, was proving particularly intractable. She had a feeling they’d got a new compiler, and his mind-she felt sure it was a he, with an illogical masculine mind-didn’t work the same way as hers did. Or the same way generations of other Times crossword compilers had trained hers to work.
She knew, though, that the unyielding crossword was a symptom rather than a cause of her malaise. Partly she was frustrated by the knowledge that Jude was over at Sonia Dalrymple’s house, possibly getting vital inside information about the background to Walter Fleet’s murder.
But Carole had another, more enduring, anxiety. It had been a long time since she’d heard from her son and daughter-in-law. September and the magical Fedborough wedding of Stephen and Gaby now seemed a long time ago. At the time, Carole had felt a rapprochement with the younger Seddons, even-in spite of the presence of her ex-husband David-a sense of family. And that had been maintained by frequent phone calls after their honeymoon and a surprisingly jolly visit to Fethering at Christmas. But through January and into February communication had become much less spontaneous and frequent. Carole, who, in spite of her forthright exterior, was always ready to put herself in the wrong, wondered what she had done.
Stephen, she knew, was always busy, doing whatever it was he did. Their increasing closeness had not brought with it a greater understanding of his work; still all Carole knew was that it involved money and computers. Gaby too had a demanding job as a theatrical agent. No doubt they were just preoccupied with the frenetic lifestyle of a successful, newly married couple about London. No reason why they should think much about their parents’ generation.
But this likely explanation did not allay Carole’s unease. There was another detail that troubled her. Stephen and Gaby were still living in his house in Fulham. At one stage-indeed when she was first introduced to Gaby-they had been down in West Sussex house hunting, with a view to moving out of London. Such plans had still been being discussed in the run-up to Christmas, but since then…no mention.
Carole could not hide her disappointment from herself. Though, if ever the subject had come up in company, she had treated their potential move rather as an inconvenience, huffing about being quite all right on
