a haynet tied up inside a barn.
‘Are those… donkeys?’
Smith laughs. ‘Some horses don’t like the company of other horses. The Necromancer for one. But they’re herd animals. They don’t like to be alone. So we brought in these little fellows to keep them company. They’re from a local horse rescue place. We call them Cannon and Ball because they’re such jokers.’
Nelson doesn’t see that this follows at all. He pats one of the donkeys, marvelling at how soft its fur is. He sees that both animals have cross-shaped markings on their backs. His mother once told him that all donkeys carry this mark because it was a donkey that carried Christ into Jerusalem. These two don’t look as if they are too bothered by religious significance. They carry on tearing at their hay, large ears twitching.
‘Jolly little fellows,’ says Smith with casual affection. Cannon (or Ball) looks at him out of large long-lashed eyes. Their feet are tiny, like goat’s hooves.
Leaving the jolly donkeys behind, they pass another barn stacked with hay and cross a concrete carport to a large, modern-looking house. Nelson is disappointed. He’d expected a Lord to live in a mansion at least.
‘Is this the country seat?’ he asks.
‘Afraid not,’ says Smith. ‘Slaughter Hill House was pulled down. You can see the ruins in the grounds.’
Again, Nelson is struck by the strange, rather sinister name. He asks Smith about it.
‘There was a battle here in the Civil War. King’s Lynn was Royalist, you know, and the Earl of Manchester attacked the place for the Parliamentarians. There was a great battle hereabouts. Hundreds died.’
Nelson bets he knows which side Lord Smith would have been on. He’s ambivalent himself – he can’t see any particular harm in the Royal Family (he was quite shocked when Ruth once referred to them as ‘parasites’) but he has always admired Cromwell’s warts-and-all approach. And he likes the sound of the Earl of Manchester. He imagines him looking like Sir Alex Ferguson.
‘It’s the hill that gets me,’ he says now. ‘There are no hills in bloody Norfolk.’
‘There’s a slight rise in the park,’ says Smith, ‘that’s why I put the gallops there. It’s good for the horses to go uphill. Builds stamina. But I believe that the name derives from the great mound of bodies after the battle.’
Charming, thinks Nelson. Name a house after a great pile of festering bodies. Aloud he says, ‘Why was the house pulled down?’
‘It was falling to pieces,’ says Smith sadly. ‘Too far gone to save. It was demolished in the Sixties. Great shame. It was the house I grew up in, lots of memories.’ He stares up at the modern house, frowning slightly, then visibly pulls himself together. ‘But this is better in many ways, far more convenient. And it’s near the horses. I can come over if there’s a problem in the night. My daughter Caroline lives in the cottage by the gate.’
‘Caroline works for you, does she?’
‘Yes. She’s my yard manager. Good girl. Does all my paperwork and still rides out three times a day. She’s never caused me a day’s worry.’ There is a slight emphasis on the ‘she’.
They enter through a back door into a gleaming red and white kitchen.
‘Coffee?’asks Smith.
‘Please.’ Nelson had not expected Lord Smith to be making him coffee. Surely there’s an elderly retainer around somewhere? He asks.
‘No,’ says Smith. ‘There’s a housekeeper but she’s not here today. My wife’s out at work. Most of the time it’s just me and Randolph.’
‘Randolph?’
‘My son. Would you like biscuits? I’m diabetic so I’ve got some ghastly sugar-free rusks. But there are some Hobnobs somewhere.’
Nelson thinks he would like a Hobnob very much indeed. He is just wondering about the mysterious son (maybe he’s locked in a turret room somewhere) when the door opens and a handsome, dark-haired man bursts into the room.
‘Morning all.’
Smith does not turn round but plunges the cafetiere with unnecessary violence.
‘What time do you call this?’ he says.
‘I don’t know,’ says the man pleasantly. ‘What time do you call it?’
‘You’ve been out all night. Your mother was worried sick.’
‘I doubt that,’ says the man who must, surely, be the errant Randolph. ‘Ma never worries about anything. Ah, coffee. Superb. I could murder a cup.’ He turns and seems to register Nelson for the first time.
‘Hallo there,’ he says. ‘I’m Randolph Smith.’
‘DCI Nelson.’
‘DCI Nelson’s come to talk to me about Neil’s death,’ says Danforth, speaking loudly and clearly as if to someone deaf or deficient in understanding. It’s almost as if he wants to convey a message. Or a warning. Nelson watches Randolph with interest. For a second he looks wary – almost scared – then the cheerful unconcern is back in place.
‘Oh, the mysterious death at the museum. Does the detective suspect foul play?’
‘It’s not a laughing matter’ says Danforth Smith reprovingly.
‘No.’ Randolph rearranges his handsome features. ‘Desperately sad. Poor Neil.’
‘Yes indeed,’ says Smith, putting cafetiere and dark green cups on a tray. ‘I’ve written to his parents of course. And we should all attend the funeral.’
‘Will it be here or in Wales?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ says Smith. ‘We’ll take our coffee into the study, Detective Inspector.’
Nelson follows Lord Smith out of the room, wondering how Randolph Smith knows that Neil Topham’s family comes from Wales.
Smith ushers Nelson into a luxurious study with sofa, drinks cabinet and vast mahogany desk. The walls are lined with shelves containing leatherbound volumes and plastic files. In the occasional clear space, there are photos of horses, some standing in fields, some sweaty and magnificent after winning a race. A glass cabinet is crammed full of trophies.
‘Do you have children, Detective Chief Inspector?’ asks Smith, seating himself behind the desk.
‘Two daughters,’ says Nelson, sitting in the proffered visitor’s chair, which swivels rather alarmingly. He hates saying this; it feels as if he is denying Katie. At least he sent her a birthday present, he thinks. He couldn’t bear to let the day go completely unnoticed.
‘Daughters are easier. My two girls have never given me a day’s trouble. Caroline you saw. She’s a real hard worker. Tamsin’s a lawyer, lives in London, husband, two children. But Randolph! He hasn’t done a day’s work since leaving university. Caroline’s travelled all over, seen the world. All Randolph seems to see is the inside of night clubs. And he drinks with the most dreadful people…’ He stops himself with an effort. ‘Still, you don’t want to hear about my domestic problems.’
‘It must be hard work, running an operation like this.’
‘Bloody hard work. Up at five every day. The horses have holidays but we don’t.’
‘Do you have much time left for the museum?’
Smith’s face becomes serious. ‘Not as much time as I’d like. I left all the day-to-day running to Neil. Poor chap.’ He looks up and meets Nelson’s eyes. ‘Have you discovered anything about how he died?’
‘Earliest indications suggest that death was the result of pulmonary haemorrhage,’ says Nelson cautiously. Is it his imagination or does Danforth Smith relax slightly?
‘How ghastly. Did he have weak lungs?’
‘We won’t know until we’ve looked at his medical records but it’s quite possible. But I wanted to talk to you about another matter.’
‘Yes?’ Smith leans forward across the acres of polished wood. His tone is one of polite interest but Nelson notices that one hand is clenched tightly around a fountain pen. As Nelson watches, Smith seems consciously to relax his grip, letting the pen roll across the desk.
‘Yes,’ says Nelson. ‘Were you aware of any letters sent to Neil Topham?’
‘Letters?’
‘Threatening letters.’
Nelson places a file on the desk. He takes out some loose papers and pushes them towards Danforth Smith, who puts on a pair of half-moon glasses and peers at the hand-written pages. Nelson watches him intently. At first
