Arthur Ryder, a total eclipse.
“She was taken.”
That’s how Arthur began his story.
“She was kidnapped, you could say, though there was never any contact with whoever did it and no ransom demand. Nothing. Ever. Which technically makes it an abduction, according to the police, and further puts it outside the scope of a long-lasting investigation. Of course, the police looked first at the people who work here, or did at that time. I’ve had to let several people go. It happened at night. Of course detectives checked out everybody who had some connection with the farm here. Whoever took Nell also took Aqueduct. He was one of my most valuable stallions. In terms of breeding, probably
The papers hadn’t named the horse, to keep some piece of information out of public view so that the police could ignore false leads. “Then do you think the true object of this theft was the horse?”
Ryder nodded. “I can’t think of why they’d take Nell if ransom wasn’t a factor. But Aqueduct, there’s an extremely valuable four-year-old, worth at least three million, even more when I sell seasons.”
“Seasons?”
Arthur looked at him, a little puzzled. “You know, at stud. I could get as much as a hundred, a hundred and fifty thousand for one season, whoever owns the season brings his mare to breed. I don’t like to go over fifty seasons; it’s too hard on the stallion.”
Melrose (who cursed himself for giving away the fact he didn’t know the meaning of a common practice) totted up the “seasons” figure. Lord. In one year the horse could bring in six or seven million quid. Valuable, you bet.
“Without Aqueduct, I was in financial trouble. Big trouble. The breeders who were due to put their mares at stud and had paid for the privilege naturally wanted their money back. A few accepted other stallions, but wanted additional seasons to compensate.” He shrugged, as if going on were too depressing. “In the two years’ time, I haven’t recouped.”
“You’ve thought about the motive’s being someone wanting to put you out of business?”
He nodded. “I have, yes. The police suggested that. But I honestly couldn’t think who then and can’t now. It’s such a total mystery, the whole thing.”
“But whoever did it couldn’t himself enter your horse in a race. There are methods of identification-”
“Yes. But anyone intent on taking a horse would certainly have worked out some way of getting rid of particulars of identification.”
“Still… well, if you ever saw the horse yourself, you’d know, wouldn’t you?”
He smiled. “Not necessarily, I’m afraid.” He picked a silver-framed photograph from his desk and handed it to Melrose. “But she would. You can bet she would. Nell.”
Melrose looked at a face he could only describe as luminous. In this photo she could not have been more than fourteen, fifteen at most, if it was taken right before she disappeared. He found this remarkable, devastating. She was smiling or laughing at something the camera couldn’t see. Strands of her sheer, pale hair blew across her face and shoulder. One hand was raised to pull the hair away. She was wearing a denim jacket over a white T-shirt, and on her it was haute couture. How had this child managed to get this way? Her father was handsome, certainly, but for Nell Ryder it was more than mere looks. He couldn’t explain it. It was a kind of-poise, a sangfroid even. He felt a sense of loss of such immediacy, such a feeling of deja vu, he was baffled. In all probability he would never see her, never hear her, never watch her ride a horse.
“She fit a horse like a kidskin glove,” said Arthur, as if following the line of his visitor’s thoughts. “She knew horses, she really did.” He shook his head and replaced the photograph carefully.
Melrose cleared his throat. “She’s beautiful.”
Ryder looked at him. “To say the least.”
The very least.
“I’ll let George Davison show you the horse. I need to talk to my stepson again.”
AQUEDUCT
The little sign was there, but the horse was not.
“We don’t put any other horse in this stall. Superstitious, maybe, but there it is. Never knew a horse like him,” said George Davison. “So high bred and low-down good-natured. That horse never had a mean bone in his body. Like Nell Ryder herself.”
The horse, Melrose noted, came before the girl, at least in the trainer’s mind. “Do you think what happened will affect the stable, Mr. Davison?”
“Naturally.” Any fool could see that, his look said. But apparently not this particular fool. “We lost enough income to-”
“No, Mr. Davison, I don’t mean the horse being stolen. I mean last night. The murdered woman.”
“Oh, her?” Davison shrugged. “Funny old business, that. But I don’t see how it’s anything to do with us.” They were walking down the row of horse stalls.
“It seems so strange. What could this woman have been doing?”
“Someone just dumped her, maybe.”
“Possibly. Very odd, though, if that’s the case. You mentioned Nell Ryder. Her grandfather told me about her. It’s one of the strangest things I’ve ever heard.”
“He hasn’t been the same since. This place hasn’t, either. You think he’d be selling off stock otherwise?” He shook his head. “That little girl just disappearing into the night…” He shook his head again.
Melrose knew he shouldn’t appear overly curious, yet wouldn’t anyone, hearing such a story?
Davison was stopping the two of them at nearly every stall and giving Melrose a lowdown on each horse that Melrose could have done without. (“Stalwart, beautiful jumper, by Forward, out of Mr. Don; Gingerbread Man, progeny of Ginger Biscuit and Seaward-”
“What do you think happened?”
Davison said, “That girl, she was a gypsy, you ask me.” He was looking in at a roan named Bobolink and rocking a bit on his heels.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, she pretty much did what she wanted. You know, independent.”
Melrose smiled. “ ‘Gypsy’ usually suggests someone unsettled or a traveler. Is that what you mean?”
Davison shrugged, not so much out of indifference as uncertainty about what he did mean. “Maybe. She was kind of a puzzle.”
But the girl in the photograph had looked not at all like a puzzle but perfectly straightforward.
“I liked her, though; you had to like her. Here we are; here’s Aggrieved.”
They stopped in front of a stall at the far end. Melrose smiled. “Aggrieved.”
