The Stabbing in the Stables (10 page)

“S
O YOU DIDN'T
get the impression that Hilary Potton was a murderer?”

“No, why should she be?” asked Carole.

“Just that anyone who had any involvement in Long Bamber Stables should be on our list.”

“Well, no, I don't think she is a murderer. Though I think she's a potential murderer.”

“Aren't we all, in the right circumstances?”

“Speak for yourself,” said Carole tartly. “Mind you, the ‘right circumstances' for Hilary Potton would have to be very specific ones. There is only one situation in which she would murder someone…”

“Ah?”

“…and that's if the victim were her husband. Then I think she'd be capable of any atrocity.”

“But Walter Fleet was not her husband.”

“No. I don't even know whether she'd ever met him, though I assume she would have done—you know, dropping Imogen at the stables or picking her up.”

“Hm.” Jude sipped at her sauvignon blanc in the High Tor kitchen on the Wednesday evening. Maybe she was beginning to widen the cracks in Carole's gentility, she thought mischievously. Even a year ago Carole would have insisted on their taking their drinks through to the sitting room. Hanging round kitchens drinking used to be total anathema to her, but she was changing.

“I was really surprised to hear that this Donal character has been released,” Carole mused. “I'd been very definitely coming round to the view that he'd done it.”

“Well, it's good news, isn't it?”

“In what way?”

Jude grinned triumphantly. “If he didn't kill Walter Fleet, then somebody else did. And we're still in with a chance of finding out who.”

 

“I'm afraid I'm going to have to cancel my appointment.”

“No problem. Lots of other things I can do tomorrow afternoon. Do you want to fix another date, Sonia?”

“Erm…no. Not at the moment. I'm sorry, everything's a bit all over the place. I'm rather stressed.”

“I thought that was why you were coming to see me,” said Jude.

“Yes.” There was a silence from the other end of the phone. “The fact is…erm, if we could leave it for a little while…?”

“As I say, no problem.”

“Good.”

“And how about Chieftain?”

“Oh, he and Conker have gone back to Long Bamber.”

“No, I meant you are temporarily suspending your treatment with me. I wondered if the same went for Chieftain. Or has his lameness got better?”

“No, it hasn't. Yes, actually I would be grateful if you could have another go at him, Jude.”

“Of course. I still feel a bit frustrated by my failure last time. So, when could you make it?”

“Erm, well…” Sonia Dalrymple sounded uncharacteristically flustered. “As I say, things are a bit…”

“Are you all right, Sonia?”

“Yes, absolutely fine.” The response was too quick to be genuine. “Look, tell you what, Jude, because my movements are a bit unpredictable over the next week, would you mind going to try your powers on Chieftain on your own?”

“I don't mind, but what about him? He's not going to take very kindly to a stranger coming into his stall and fondling his knee, is he?”

“No, but Lucinda or Walter—that is, Lucinda or one of her grooms will hold him and keep him quiet while you do your stuff. He'll be fine with them.”

“Okay, I'll have a go.”

“I'll give you Lucinda's number. And I'll give her a call first to say you'll be in touch. Then you can fix a time that's mutually convenient.”

“I'll do that. By the way, I assume you've heard that the police have released Donal without charge?”

“I did hear that, yes.” There was quite definitely a note of relief in her voice.

“By the way, it was a pleasure to meet Nicky the other day,” Jude said, though she wasn't quite sure “pleasure” was the right word.

“He was pleased to meet you too.”

“And do please thank him on my behalf.”

“What for?”

“His donation to the N.S.P.C.C. It was a very generous cheque.”

“Oh, that's typical of Nicky—ever the master of the grand gesture.” For the first time, Jude almost heard a hint of criticism.

“Is he still with you?”

“No, he flew off to Singapore yesterday morning.”

And once again, there was unmistakable relief in the way the words were said.

 

Jude hadn't been back to Long Bamber Stables since the night of Walter Fleet's murder, and that Thursday morning the premises did look a lot less foreboding than on her previous visit. The weather had brightened and, though the February cold still scoured her face, Jude felt the thin sun promising that, one day, there would be a spring.

She had come on her own, walking along the towpath, past Unwins, the mile or so to the stables. She hadn't told Carole about her visit. This was not with a view to excluding her friend from any part of their investigation—though she knew that, if Carole ever found out, that was the way she would see it. But Jude needed the minimum number of people around her when she was on a mission of healing. Her previous lack of success with Chieftain rankled—not because she allowed herself any vainglory about her healing skills, but because the failure felt like unfinished business. And, besides, the horse was still suffering.

Following the instructions Lucinda Fleet had given her on the phone, Jude let herself in by the main gates, and closed them behind her. In daylight she could get a much better view of the stable yard. What struck her most was how dilapidated all of the structures were. On her previous visit the moon and police spotlights had flattered the buildings. Now she could not be unaware of the ancient cracked weatherboarding, the rusting corrugated iron and missing tiles on the various roofs.

A couple of the stable doors were fully open. Their usual occupants, tethered to posts in the yard, puffed out steamy breath and clattered their hooves disconsolately on the stone surface, while their stalls were mucked out. Jude could hear the scrape of thick-bristled brooms and spades from inside. She moved towards the nearest stall and found herself facing Lucinda Fleet, who was sweeping water out into the gutter round the edge of the yard.

“Ah, good morning. Can you wait till I finish this? Have to get up as much water as possible this time of year, otherwise it freezes. If you're cold, wait in the tack room over there. I won't be long.”

Given such an adventitious offer, Jude gratefully took it up, and walked across to the tack room. The interior was lit only by the light that came through the open door and a cracked, discoloured window. On the far wall were rows of saddles on metal supports. Halters and bridles hung from pegs. Just inside the door, under the window was a high bench whose surface was covered with horse impedimenta, some of which—like currycombs and riding crops—Jude could identify, but others whose functions she could not begin to guess.

What was odd about the space was how clean everything was. From the description Carole had given of her torch-lit visit to the tack room, Jude had expected everything to be blurred by a thick patina of dust, and it took her a moment to realise that the new tidiness must have been the police's doing. Of course, the whole area was a crime scene. Every item within the tack room must have been examined for fingerprints or other clues. Some had probably been taken away for testing in forensic laboratories. And what remained had been neatly returned to its place, to await the accumulation of further layers of dust.

One item of equine equipment that wasn't on the desk was a bot knife. The pictures in the papers and on television news ensured Jude would have recognised one if it had been there. Its absence was hardly surprising. Though they might inspect and return most of the room's contents, the police were never going simply to clean and replace a murder weapon. But Jude thought it was a fair guess that the bot knife had been on the bench the night Walter Fleet died.

She looked at the ladder leading to the upper level. It didn't face the front door; it was at right angles to it. Screwing up her eyes with the effort of imagination, she tried to visualise the scene. Carole had said the little upstairs light had been on. Walter Fleet, maybe doing a security check around the yard, had seen the glow of that light through the tack room window. He had opened the door, maybe seen the intruder, challenged him…And then?

After a quick look out across the yard to see that Lucinda was still involved in her mucking out, Jude crossed to the ladder and climbed up. The angle was very steep, not easy either to ascend or descend in a hurry. She peered into the space at the top. Sufficient daylight penetrated up there for her to see that all evidence of anyone having slept there had been removed. The boards were bare, again swept unnaturally clean.

No surprise, really. The information available to the forensic police from a sleeping bag and other bedding must be invaluable. Maybe they had even found some DNA trace from Donal. Although Lucinda had denied he ever slept up there, from what she'd heard of the man, Jude reckoned he was quite capable of creeping in after dark when he needed a bed. Maybe the evidence that he had been up there was what prompted the police to take him in for questioning.

As she lowered herself heavily down the ladder, Jude again tried to visualise what had happened. Walter Fleet standing in the doorway. No light except for the diluted moon and what spilled from upstairs. If the intruder was up there, Walter might just about have been able to see him. Or her. Or to hear him. Or her. Whether or not the intruder had plans to commit burglary or some other crime, he was still a trespasser and had no right to be there.

Some kind of conversational altercation must presumably have taken place. Jude thought it unlikely that Walter had actually climbed up the ladder before finding his murderer. Made more sense that the murderer had come down to his level, with a view to escape. But Walter was barring the doorway. So the murderer must have picked up the bot knife from the bench and attacked the man who stood in the way of his freedom. Walter would have staggered back from the first onslaught, which would tie in with where the blood spots in the yard had started. The murderer continued, slashing away at his victim in a frenzy, until Walter Fleet fell backwards, dead. And then the murderer had rushed away from the scene through the wooden gate at the far side of the stable yard. Only moments before Jude had entered through the main gates.

That was the bit that was so frustrating. To think that she'd been literally seconds away from seeing the perpetrator of Walter Fleet's murder.

“Y
OU LOOK THOUGHTFUL
.”
Jude hadn't noticed Lucinda's approach until she stood in the doorway.

“Yes, I'm sorry. A bit distracted. I'm afraid it's because…” She let the words trickle away. Probably not the right moment to raise the matter.

Lucinda Fleet had no such inhibitions. “You're thinking about the night Walter died.”

“Well, I—”

“Don't feel embarrassed about it. That's all everyone who comes here thinks about. And for you…well, since you found the body, it must be impossible for you not to think about what happened.”

“I can't deny it. But how are you coping?”

Lucinda shrugged. “I'm coping, getting on with what has to be done here. As you probably know—since everyone in West Sussex seems to know—Walter and my marriage was not the happiest since records began. Once I've got over the shock, I think I'll be quite relieved. Oh, and once the funeral's happened. Hopefully that'll kind of put a lid on things.”

“When is the funeral?”

“I wish I knew. The police haven't released Walter's body yet.”

“That must be awful for you.”

“Not the best fun I've ever had, no. God, what it'd be like for someone who actually loved their dead spouse, I can't imagine.”

“So the police are still doing forensic tests on…on the body, are they?”

“I assume so. I'm afraid I'm not the first person with whom they share information.”

Join the club, thought Jude. “But presumably there's no doubt about how he was killed?”

“What on earth do you mean? You saw his body—slashed to pieces with that bot knife.”

“Yes, but sometimes…a murderer might have killed someone by another method, and then slashed the body to disguise how he'd really died.”

Lucinda Fleet cocked a wry eyebrow at Jude. “Big reader of crime fiction, are you?”

“Sorry. Just an idea. It's inevitable, when something like that happens, everyone comes up with pet theories about it. A lot of local gossip.”

Lucinda raised her eyes to heaven. “Tell me about it. Well, congratulations on coming up with a theory I haven't heard before—and I've heard a good few of them. No, the bot knife is definitely what killed him. The police questioned me quite a bit about Walter's health, physical state, what have you. And left me in no doubt that it was the attack with the bot knife—wielded by some unknown assailant—that did him in.”

“Right,” said Jude thoughtfully. “And I don't suppose you have any idea who that assailant might have been?”

The shoulders under Lucinda Fleet's faded body warmer were raised in a nonchalant shrug. “Not a clue. I would assume some vagrant who was dossing down in here.”

“But not Donal?”

“No, very definitely not Donal. And thank God the police have realised that too. You heard they released him?”

“Yes. So…you were saying?”

“Yes, well, I assume this vagrant—probably a drug addict hoping to find something here worth stealing—anyway, Walter must have disturbed him and…I don't know. Whoever it was, though, he may have done me a favour. Soon maybe I'll be able to reclaim what's left of my life.”

“Once you get the funeral out of the way.”

“Yes. That, as I said, will be a great relief to me. Not least because it is the last time I will ever have to see any of Walter's ghastly relatives.”

“You don't have any children, do you?”

“No.” Lucinda might have been about to say more on the subject, but decided against it.

“And…this is sheer nosiness, Lucinda, but since you know everyone in the area's coming up with their own theories about Walter's death…”

“Yes?” she asked patiently.

“Was Walter well heeled? Did he leave a lot of money?”

Lucinda Fleet let out a harsh laugh, and gestured around the yard. “What do you think? Neither of us had any secret stash of cash, I'm afraid. Everything we had we put into this place, which, as you can see, is in fairly desperate need of maintenance. And would have had that maintenance years ago, if we'd had any money to do it with.”

“Yes. I understand.”

“Anyway, perhaps we should go and have a look at Chieftain.”

The two horses who'd been tethered during the mucking out were now safely back in their stalls. Lucinda led the way across to a half-open loose box, over which a neat brass plate proclaimed the name “Chieftain.” Hearing their approach, the owner came forward and poked his head out to see what was going on.

“You know a lot about horses, don't you?” Jude asked.

“If I don't now, I never will.”

“And what's your view on healers working with horses? Are you in the sceptical camp?”

“Certainly not. I've seen it work too often to be sceptical. No, I've come across quite a few horse healers in my time, and they can certainly do the business.” Lucinda slid across the outside bolt of the loose box. “Come on, Chieftain boy. You come out and let Jude make you better.”

As soon as she addressed the horse, Lucinda Fleet was transformed. The brusque, even harsh, exterior she presented to her fellow humans was replaced by a sudden empathy, not a sentimental approach as to a pet, but a deep and strong understanding of how horses ticked.

Chieftain, clattering out into the yard, was clearly used to Lucinda's hand on his halter, but he eyed Jude warily, as if he recognised her but couldn't place where they'd met. She was once again struck by the enormous bulk of the horse, and the amount of potential for damage in that strong sleek body.

Lucinda led the gelding across to the rail where the other two horses had been tethered, but she kept hold of his halter. “Stroke his nose, Jude. Give him a moment to get used to you.”

She did as she was told. Chieftain sniffed around her hand in an exploratory manner, then nuzzled his large nose towards her ear. This was not a gesture of affection; he was still assessing her. After a moment, he moved his head away, either satisfied that she was harmless, or simply bored with her.

“See if he minds you touching his leg.”

Jude did as Lucinda suggested. Very gently, as she had done before, she put first one hand on his upper thigh, then the other. Chieftain showed no signs of objecting, so she moved her hands slowly down until she could feel the warmth from his knee glowing under them.

“Right, if we can just keep very quiet and still, I'll see if I can ‘work my magic' on him.” Perhaps in an unconscious homage to Donal, she said the phrase with a trace of an Irish accent.

“Lucinda! We've come to ride! Could you get the horses ready!”