to back out, but it would be rather letting the side down.”
We helped ourselves to a generous breakfast and joined others at the table. The mood was remarkably cheerful considering what had happened the previous night. Johnnie Protheroe came to sit beside me. “You’ve heard the news, have you? Captain Sechrest called in on his way from the hospital this morning. Sandy has some nasty burns but they are not life threatening. She’s going to be all right.“
“That is good news,” I said, and I saw the relief in his face. He really cares about her, I thought. He cares about her and she’s married to someone else. What a complicated world this is. And then I realized something else. If this was yesterday’s planned murder, then the killer had finally made his mistake. His victim was going to live and she might have some idea why she was a target.
Breakfast finished, we wrapped ourselves up in scarves and hats and walked down the drive. Mist swirled about us and the bare bones of trees loomed like giant skeletons. However, there was already a festive atmosphere in the village, with bunting strung between buildings and signs to a car park behind the shop. On the far side of the village green some booths had been set up. We went through a gap in the hedge and were charged fourpence admission by a young Boy Scout. Folding seats had been set beside what looked, through the mist, like a real racetrack, only the fences were, as Junior had described, two feet high at the most. Quite a few people had arrived from elsewhere and the stalls selling hot cider, roasted chestnuts and baked potatoes were doing a good trade. So were the bookies. I could see on a blackboard that Monty appeared to be the current favorite. Darcy was at ten to one. I joined the line for one of the bookies and placed my bet on him.
“Isn’t this kind of gambling illegal?” Mrs. Wexler asked.
“It’s for charity,” the vicar said hastily. “The restoration of the church, you know. And you’ll see that the police are well represented in the crowd.”
I left the seats for the older people and stood behind one of the booths, which offered some shelter from the bitter cold. Mist swirled in, swallowing up the tents and then revealing them again. All around me people were laughing, but I couldn’t join in their festive mood. All I could think of was that this mist was a perfect opportunity for a killer, and that Darcy would be among those running out there.
“Yoo-hoo, Georgie!” I turned at the sound of my name and spotted two gorgeous mink coats coming toward me. Mr. Coward and my mother, both looking equally glamorous, came to join me. “Hello, my darling.” My mother kissed me about three inches from my cheek. “So what happened after we left last night? Any news on the poor woman?”
“Nothing much happened. The police decided to call it an accident and the good news is that she’s going to be okay.”
“Strange sort of accident,” Mummy said. “Someone must have bumped into that candle thingie, either accidentally or on purpose. It couldn’t have been blown over. Surely it was too solid.”
“I agree,” I said. I looked around. “Is Granddad here?”
“Mrs. Huggins wouldn’t let him out of the house. She said it would be too bad for his chest. She’s taken to bossing him around lately, I notice.”
“She has her eye on him,” I said.
“Well, why not? Poor old dear. He needs some companionship in his old age,” she said.
“You’d welcome Mrs. Huggins as a stepmother?”
A spasm crossed that perfect face. “Well, if you put it that way, it might be a tad embarrassing. But she does cook well and I find it a comfort to know she’s looking after him.”
“He could do with more money.” I decided to be frank.
“Darling, do you think I haven’t tried? He claims it’s all German money and he won’t touch it. Always was stubborn, you know.”
The sound of a drum interrupted this conversation and the Boys’ Brigade band marched in, playing “The British Grenadiers.” An announcer with a megaphone got up onto a makeshift dais.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the two hundred and thirty-third running of the Lovey Chase,” he boomed. “Presenting this year’s contestants: From Widecombe, Tony Haslett. From Little Devering, Roland Purbury. From right here in Tiddleton, Monty Hawse-Gorzley. Visiting us from Shropshire, give a hand for a very good sport, Mr. Archibald Wetherby. . . .”
The flaps of a big tent were drawn back and out came the most extraordinary apparitions. They were wearing white woolen long johns and long-sleeved woolen undershirts. On their heads were ancient plumed helmets like those worn by the dragoon guards and around their waists were small saddles, with stirrups hanging down to their knees. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more ridiculous. There were shouts, jeers, taunts as the young men came out, one by one.
“From Bovey Tracey, Mr. Jonathan Protheroe. And from Ireland, the Honorable Darcy O’Mara.” Darcy caught my eye for a brief second and gave me an embarrassed grin.
“Runners to the starting gate, please,” the announcer shouted. Everyone cheered now. “Five times around the track,” he continued. “No cheating and cutting corners or running around the jumps in the fog. Anyone not playing fairly will be disqualified.”
The runners lined up along a ribbon laid on the ground. Their breath rose into the frigid air and they looked like a row of warhorses, ready for battle. One of the boys from the band stepped forward with his bugle and sounded the call. The starter waved his flag and they were off. It was soon clear that the saddles and flying stirrups were a bally nuisance. These danced and flew around, hitting other racers and getting in the way as they tried to jump. There was a collision at the first jump as Badger and a hefty lad tried to jump it at the same time. More cheers and jeers. And then they were swallowed up into the mist.
I found I was holding my breath, peering into the mist at the ghostly shapes of the runners. I heaved a sigh of relief as they reappeared a minute later with Monty and Darcy at the front of the pack, together with a slim youth. Badger and Johnnie Protheroe came lumbering up toward the rear of the pack.
Behind me two men were chatting. “You have your money on young Monty, then? I’m not so sure myself. Don’t know if he has the stamina.”
“Who else is there?” the other male voice said. “If poor old Freddie Partridge had been alive, I’d have backed him. Always a good sport, old Freddie. Who’d have thought he’d shoot himself, what?”
I was holding my breath again, not because I was thinking of the racers this time, but because something incredible had just dawned on me. Something so obvious and simple that I wanted to shout out loud. Freddie Partridge. I believe I had heard his last name before, but it had never really registered. I peered to my right, through the mist, trying to make out the shapes of the first trees in the orchard. And in my head I heard Sir Oswald saying clearly, “It was a pear tree.”
“Oh, golly,” I said out loud. Freddie had been the first of the deaths and he was the Partridge in a pear tree.
Chapter 33
DECEMBER 29
The Lovey Chase.
I wasn’t even conscious of the race continuing. I vaguely heard cheers as the racers thundered past us, stirrups jangling. But suddenly it all made sense. It all fitted perfectly: Ted Grover had been to visit his lady love, the publican’s wife. They were the two turtledoves. And the Misses Ffrench-Finch of course were the three French hens. And Gladys Tripp—she was a calling bird, wasn’t she? My heart was hammering so loudly I was sure it must be echoing around that field. And the five gold rings? Mr. Klein, the jeweler—the only one the murderer had not tried to kill, for some reason. Mr. Skaggs the butcher had been bringing us the geese—which were not a-laying, but a-lying, which might be significant. And the master of hounds had disappeared into the mere where the swans were a-swimming. . . .
And golly, it was true. My instincts were right. The previous night’s affair was no accident. Mrs. Sechrest was one of the nine ladies dancing, which meant . . . my eyes were suddenly riveted to the track again . . . that these were the ten lords a-leaping.
The first runners emerged from the mist, their breath now ragged and gasping as they came toward us. Monty, Darcy and the thin lad were running neck and neck. One by one the others straggled behind them, fighting for breath. One of them stopped to throw up, then staggered on.
“Last lap,” someone shouted and the crowd cheered them on.
