‘What did you do? Did you speak to them?’
‘No. I know it sounds pathetic but I just wanted to get the hell out of there. I drove off. Left my car outside Caroline’s house and went to bed. But I went back in the morning and the remains of the fire were still there. And there were these weird patterns drawn in the ashes.’
‘What sort of patterns?’
‘I can’t really describe them. Wavy lines and circles and star shapes. But they had definitely been drawn deliberately.’
‘And have you ever seen these men again?’ asks Judy, ignoring Clough, who is trying to exchange significant glances.
‘No, but about a week later I came home late again.’ He laughs. ‘I’m afraid I’m rather a nocturnal animal, Detective Sergeant. I left my car outside Caroline’s, and I thought I heard something in the yard. I went to check but I thought it was just a fox or maybe that infernal cat. There was no one there but the security lights were on. And then I saw it. A dead snake nailed up over one of the horse’s stalls.’
‘A dead snake?’
‘Yes. A grass snake, I think. I took it down and threw it in the compost heap.’
‘Did you tell anyone?’
‘No.’ He pauses. ‘The thing is, my father had a particular fear of snakes. When he was little he had this ghoulish Irish nanny who used to tell him ghost stories, but she also used to tell him stories about snakes. You know that before Saint Patrick came along Ireland used to be infested with snakes? That’s what she said anyway. Anyway, she told him that, one day, a great snake – as green as poison – was going to come for him.’
‘Nice sort of nanny,’ says Clough.
Randolph laughs again. ‘She sounds a nutcase, doesn’t she, but my dad adored her. Paid her a pension until the day she died. Anyway, because of this snake phobia, I decided not to tell him. But a few days later, he told me that he’d got up at night because of a noise in the yard and he’d found a dead snake on the kitchen step.’
‘Did he have any idea who might have put it there?’
‘He said he didn’t but the night he died, when he was delirious, he kept going on about a snake. I mean, it can’t be coincidence, can it?’
Can it? Judy wonders. She remembers Nelson mentioning some letters. Didn’t they say something about a Great Snake? She asks Randolph. He looks blank.
‘The old man used to get so much mail. Cranks asking for money, racing fans wanting tips. He didn’t say anything about any particular letters.’
‘What about when Neil Topham died? Did your father say anything about letters addressed to the museum?’
‘Letters to Neil? No, I don’t think so. DCI Nelson said that he didn’t think there was any link between the two deaths.’
If Judy knows anything about Nelson, she’s willing to bet that he didn’t make any such assertion. ‘Never assume,’ that’s his motto. She and Clough must have heard it a thousand times. They look at each other.
‘Thank you very much,’ says Judy, standing up. ‘We’ll investigate further and let you know.’
She means to sound bland and rather discouraging but Randolph seizes on her words as if they are a lifeline. ‘Oh, thank you so much. That means such a lot. I hope you won’t think I’m a loony but I really do think that something odd is going on. In the yard too. Something isn’t right. Tammy thinks I’m imagining things but Caroline agrees with me. Something just isn’t right.’
‘What does your mother think?’
‘I don’t want to worry Ma just now. She’s so cut up about Dad. All this stuff about snakes and mysterious dancing men, it would just upset her.’
They walk back through the house towards the front door. On the doorstep, Clough asks, ‘The snake that was nailed up over one of the horse’s stables. Which horse was it?’
Randolph looks surprised. ‘Oh, a fellow called The Necromancer. Good sort. Bit of a devil in his own way, though.’
This time they go back through the yard. Judy wants to show Len Harris that she can’t be intimidated so easily and perhaps she wants to scare Clough a little, taking him so close to the fearsome horses. The first yard seems quiet enough, stable lads are mucking out, trundling wheelbarrows about, but again they ignore Judy and Clough completely. A man in a leather apron is examining the hooves of a large grey horse.
‘Farrier,’ Judy says. Clough looks blank.
‘Blacksmith,’ she explains.
‘I wouldn’t want his job. That white horse is the size of an elephant.’
‘Grey,’ says Judy, pausing to pat the horse’s neck. ‘White horses are called grey. Unless they have pink eyes, that is.’
‘Don’t bother trying to educate me,’ says Clough, giving the grey a wide berth. ‘Let’s just get out of here.’
A ginger cat comes bustling up and rubs itself round Judy’s legs. This reminds her of something.
‘Do you think we should tell Ruth? About the boss?’
Clough thinks for a moment. ‘Maybe we should. It’d sound better coming from you.’
Thanks a lot, thinks Judy, though she agrees with him. After all, isn’t bad news her speciality?
They are passing through into the second yard when, suddenly, there is a terrible noise from one of the stables. A dreadful clattering and banging accompanied by the spine-chilling screams of an animal in pain. Judy runs towards the sound but her way is blocked by Len Harris.
‘No you don’t.’
‘What’s going on?’ demands Judy, slightly breathless.
‘One of the horses has cast himself. It often happens. Especially if they’ve been flown over recently.’
Judy tried to look past Harris into the stable. She gets a fleeting glimpse of a horse on the ground, an anguished rolling eye.
‘This happened before. When I was here a few days ago. I remember it.’
‘Like I say, it’s not unusual. Billy!’ He shouts to a passing stable boy. ‘Can you show these people out?’ And he turns and shuts himself in with the horse.
Judy hesitates. Harris was undeniably rude and her detective instincts tell her to stay and discover what’s going on. But Clough is already on his way out and, after all, the welfare of the horses is not her primary concern right now. Telling herself that she’ll call the RSPCA, ask them to pay a discreet visit, she follows Billy out through the main yard. He’s a thin lad, about sixteen, with spots and a pronounced squint.
‘What happened to the horse called Fancy?’ Judy asks. ‘I saw him when I was here last.’
Billy’s eyes shoot, alarmingly, in two opposite directions. ‘I’ve never heard that name.’
‘Fancy,’ repeats Judy. ‘Four-year-old colt. He had colic.’
Billy shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know all the horses. Here’s the main gate now. I’ve got to get back to work.’
In the car, accompanied by a pungent smell of dung, Clough explains why all the Smith family are clinically insane. ‘I mean Rudolph, Randolph, whatever he’s called. All that crap about strange men dancing in the woods. Loco, that’s what he is.’
‘I thought it was quite convincing,’ says Judy.
‘I’m surprised at you,’ says Clough. ‘Never thought you’d fall for all that Hugh Grant crap.
‘He doesn’t look like Hugh Grant,’ says Judy. ‘More like Robert Pattinson from the
‘Never heard of ’em,’ says Clough.
‘They’re for young people,’ says Judy.
Clough grunts and continues with the attack. ‘What about the incredible reappearing snake? Someone’s having a laugh here.’
Judy thinks of something Cathbad told her about a saint who was meant to appear in two places at once. That’s the thing about Cathbad; you never know what he’s going to say next. The opposite of Darren. Thinking of the missed family lunch, she sighs, feeling even guiltier than usual.
