The Stabbing in the Stables (25 page)

She made her decision. “I can tell you where Donal is.”

“Oh?”

“He is very close. Here in the estate there are stables. Not the stable block behind the house, the one we are going to turn into a swimming pool. But in the estate there is a small farm—
was
a small farm I should say. Now it is—what is the word? Delerict?”

“Derelict.”

“Ah. Yes. It is over”—she pointed out of the window—“over there, beyond the trees. You see?”

“Yes.”

“That is where Donal is at the moment…living, I don't know…hiding, perhaps? He has been giving us some advice on buying racehorses. We say thank you by letting him stay in the stables for a while. Tit for tat—is that the expression?”

It didn't seem worth saying that that wasn't exactly the expression, no.

“It is very convenient for him to be here, I think. Just for a little while.”

Also very convenient for you. You can keep an eye on him. And if his blackmail demands become too pressing…Neither Carole nor Jude could forget the implicit threat they had overheard from Victor Brewis at Fontwell.

“Do you mind if we go and see if Donal is there now?” asked Jude.

Yolanta opened her hands wide in a gesture of permission. Very much Lady Bountiful. Yes, she would enjoy the condescension that went with her position as lady of the manor. Whether the Great and the Good of West Sussex would welcome her and Victor with open arms, well, that remained to be seen.

“Can we drive there?” asked Carole.

“No, is not possible. I think once there was a track went from the house across there. Not anymore. Then there is an old gate from the farm out onto the road, but you have to drive right round the walls of the estate. Five miles perhaps. You are quicker to walk.”

They took their leave of their hostess, both complimenting her on her “lovely house,” and Jude even mischievously saying, “I'm sure you can't wait till you get the rest of the place up to the standard of this room.”

As they walked across the damp grass towards the old farm, Jude made a mock obeisance to her neighbour. “Well, what a performance. I didn't know you had that kind of deviousness in you.”

“Oh, it just seemed the most sensible approach to take,” said Carole, outwardly casual, but inwardly delighted.

T
HOUGH THE GRASS
was wet underfoot, fortunately both of them were wearing sensible shoes (Carole scarcely possessed any others). As they approached the wooded area, they could see the outlines of what had once been the estate's home farm, but was now in a worse state of dilapidation than the manor itself. Many years had elapsed since the premises were last inhabited, and many before that since any maintenance work had been done on the property. The farmhouse appeared to have suffered from a fire at some point. Its roof was a cage of blackened rafters, and the barns around sagged, broken-backed. Presumably, in an area of barn-conversion mania like West Sussex, only the fact that the buildings belonged to Cordham Manor had prevented their being developed.

“I bet the Brewises have got planning applications in for this lot,” murmured Carole. “Didn't you say he made his money in property development?”

“Yes. I wonder what Yolanta would like to convert
this
into.”

Carole's shudder was as evocative an answer as any number of words would have been.

They stopped for a moment to assess their next move. There was an element of potential danger in what they were doing. Donal Geraghty was presumably lying low because he didn't want to be found, and, though they didn't really represent any threat to him, Carole and Jude knew his propensity for violence. Caution was advisable.

They had identified the stable block, a long low structure set the far side of the house. Though its tiled roof was full of holes and its ridge as uneven as a sea serpent's back, the building was in a better state of repair than those that surrounded it. The stout brick walls and leaky roof would provide a reasonable kind of shelter against the early March cold.

“I think we just call out as we approach,” said Carole. “Donal's more likely to do something rash if we catch him by surprise.”

“You're right,” Jude agreed. She was impressed by her friend's dominance since they had arrived at Cordham Manor, particularly by the duplicitous way she had handled Yolanta Brewis. And, of course, being Jude, she felt pleased rather than threatened by the shift in their customary roles.

So they moved towards the derelict stables, gently identifying themselves and calling out Donal's name. But there was no response.

The main gates of the stable yard had long since rotted away, leaving only the drooping remnants of rusty hinges hanging from their pulpy uprights. The yard into which they stepped showed a few patches of bricked surface, but was mostly covered with the detritus of many year's leaves and rubbish. The square had three stalls either side, and the far wall was open where another pair of gates had rotten away. Passages on either side led presumably to storage areas, a hay barn perhaps on one side and housing for wagons on the other.

“Donal,” Jude called out softly. “Donal!”

Still nothing. Though Cordham Manor was only a few miles from the busy thoroughfare of the A27, some acoustic trick of the South Downs cut off all the traffic noise. All they could hear was the susurration of wind in the nearby trees. And yet neither woman had the feeling that she was alone. Both felt, if they stayed silent long enough, they would hear some sound, some giveaway of another human presence.

But it wasn't a human who gave away the secret, it was an animal. They heard the unmistakable scrape of a horse hoof on a brick floor.

It came from the furthest stall to their right. Both moved forward, and were unsurprised to find themselves, over what remained of the stable gate, facing a defiant Imogen Potton, standing in front of a very relaxed-looking Conker. Imogen looked terrified, exhausted. She'd got some shreds of food trapped in the brace on her teeth. The ginger streak of hair hung down like a rat tail over her forehead.

Conker had been made very comfortable in her new home. Her saddle and tack had been hung on old rusted hooks and she was tethered by a rope from her head collar to a corroded metal ring. Unaware of the sensation she had caused, the pony was placidly tugging mouthfuls of stalks out of her hay net and munching them with noisy relish.

“Oh, it's you,” said Imogen gracelessly, recognising Jude.

“Yes. And this is my friend Carole Seddon.”

“We met with your mother in the Seaview Café.”

Whether or not she remembered the occasion, this information did not appear to interest the girl. She maintained her defensive posture in front of the pony.

“So you're not in Northampton.”

“Oh, well done.” The words were ladled over with sarcasm.

“Your mother's been very worried about you,” said Carole. Though now she came to think of it, the phone call Lucinda Fleet had taken in her kitchen had not suggested that Hilary Potton was in a state of panic.

Imogen didn't seem too worried about her mother's anxiety either. “She doesn't care. She's never cared about me.”

“We'll have to ring her to tell her you're okay,” said Jude. “And where you are.”

“I'm not moving. I'm not going to leave Conker. I'm not going to let anyone get at Conker.”

“She'll be safe back at Long Bamber.” Jude's voice was infinitely soothing. “Or if you felt she was safer at Unwins, Sonia could take her back and look after her there.”

“No!” There was panic in the girl's eyes. “No, I'm not going to let Conker out of my sight. She certainly wouldn't be safe with Mrs. Dalrymple.”

“I think you underestimate how much Mrs. Dalrymple cares for that pony. She was terribly upset, in floods of tears this morning when she thought Conker had been stolen.”

“I don't care. I'm going to protect Conker, and nobody's going to stop me,” said the girl doggedly.

“Is Donal around? Maybe he can make you see sense.”

“No,” Imogen replied. “Donal's gone. Once he'd showed me where to put Conker, he went away.”

“Well,” said Jude, extracting her mobile from a pocket, “the first thing I'm going to do is let Sonia know that the pony's safe. You've no idea how relieved she'll be.”

She moved a little away to make the call, leaving Carole the unrewarding task of trying to make conversation with Imogen. Sonia answered the phone immediately, and sobbed with relief when she heard that Conker was safe. She agreed with Jude that the best thing would be to get Imogen reunited with her mother as soon as possible. Then Sonia could make arrangements to pick up Conker later in the day. Maybe drive over with Lucinda and hack the pony back to Long Bamber Stables. That would probably be the solution.

Sonia apologised that she couldn't do anything earlier, but Nicky was there and needed her help getting stuff together for his trip to Chicago. He'd be driving up to Heathrow to get a lunchtime flight. Once he'd gone, everything would be simpler for her. In many ways, thought Jude.

She finished the call and returned to the silent stand-off between Carole and Imogen. She thought again how tired and tense the girl looked. Presumably she'd had no sleep the night before, sneaking out of her bedroom in Northampton, catching a train to London, another to Fedborough, then staging her horse-stealing raid on Long Bamber Stables. No wonder the girl looked exhausted.

She also looked very fragile. Her anxiety about Conker's safety was a final screwing up of the tension that had been building throughout her parents' estrangement. Jude got the feeling it would take very little to make the girl crack up completely.

She reported back what Sonia had said. Imogen immediately vetoed the idea of her leaving Conker.

“Well, look, maybe you can stay with her till Sonia and Lucinda arrive. But that probably won't be till this afternoon. Sonia's got to sort things out for her husband before he goes off to get a flight to Chicago.”

“He's going off today?” asked Imogen.

“Yes. Lunchtime. Anyway, are you going to speak to your mother, Imogen?”

A very determined shake of the head.

“All right. One of us will. It'd better be you, actually, Carole. The last time we spoke, Hilary Potton wasn't exactly my number-one fan.”

Jude handed the mobile across and looked at Imogen. “I don't know your home number.”

The girl's mouth set in a firm line. Jude certainly wasn't going to get it from that source.

But Carole's photographic memory for phone numbers came to their aid. She got through straightaway.

“Hilary, it's Carole Seddon ringing.”

“Oh, how nice to hear you.” The tone didn't suggest a mother sick with worry about the disappearance of her teenage daughter.

“Look, for reasons that are too complicated to explain at the moment, I am actually with Imogen.”

“Good heavens. Where?”

“She's at Cordham Manor. Do you know it? Just outside Fedborough.”

“I've driven past the turning. But what on earth is Immy doing there?”

“She's got Conker with her. She took the pony from Long Bamber Stables last night. She's apparently worried about her safety. I don't really understand. I'm sure Imogen herself can explain better than I can.”

“Can I talk to her?”

“I'm afraid she says she doesn't want to talk to you.” Carole looked across, and was surprised to see that the girl's eyes were welling full of tears. The rigidity had gone out of her body and her shoulders slumped. She had held herself together for as long as she could, but something—possibly the knowledge that her mother was now only a phone away—had made Imogen realise she could not maintain the tension any longer. She looked about seven, as she reached out for the mobile.

The part of the conversation Carole and Jude heard was too tearful to be very coherent, but the message got through that Imogen did agree to return to Fethering. Then the mobile was handed back to Carole to make the arrangements.

“Can you come and pick her up, Hilary?”

“I wish I could. No car.”

“But surely, with Alec being…er…” Carole didn't know the graceful way to put this. “Well, he's not using your car at the moment, is he?”

“No. But the police have got it.”

“Ah.”

“Running all kinds of forensic tests, would you believe? Looking for Walter Fleet's DNA on the upholstery, I suppose, building up the prosecution case. Let me tell you, it is extremely inconvenient being married to a murderer.”

Not for the first time, Carole was struck by the oddness of Hilary Potton's response to her situation. This flippancy seemed to be another facet of her self-dramatisation. What was happening to her husband was infinitely less important than the effect it was having on her. Maybe that was also the explanation for her lack of panic about Imogen's disappearance. In Hilary Potton's egocentric world, that was just another cross that the martyr had to bear.

Carole arranged that she would drive Imogen home in the Renault. She expected resistance, but all fight seemed to have gone out of the girl. She looked feeble, a broken rag doll.

Only as they were leaving did Imogen suddenly look back in panic at Conker.

“I can't leave her. I must ride her back.”

“No, Imogen, you can't,” said Carole firmly. “It's a long way, and you'd have to ride on the main roads.”

“Conker's fine on the roads.”

“No. I'm sorry. I'm not going to be responsible for you riding that pony back to Fethering.”

“But suppose something happens to her?”

Jude came to the rescue. “Nothing's going to happen to her. I'll stay here till Sonia arrives.”

And even Imogen couldn't find any objection to that arrangement.