In spite of what Lucinda had said in his defence, Donal-who must also have a surname, though neither Carole nor Jude knew it-was looking the most likely candidate for the killer of Walter Fleet. And that impression was confirmed when Jude heard from Sonia Dalrymple that the horses were being allowed to return to Long Bamber Stables. That news definitely implied the police’s investigations were at an end. They had got their man.
Carole and Jude were disappointed by this conclusion, but they couldn’t really argue with it. Starved of information as they were, they knew that any alternative theories they produced about the crime would be nothing more than conjecture. They weren’t privy to the facts at any level, whereas the police seemed to have more than enough facts at their fingertips to secure a conviction.
So, without a murder mystery to worry away at, they would both have to return to their normal lives. For Jude that would not be too much hardship-back to the routine of Woodside Cottage, her clients, her occasional mysterious visits to London. (The mystery of these visits was really only in Carole’s mind. Jude had a wide circle of friends, many of whom her neighbour was destined never to meet. She also had lovers, though there were more of these in Carole’s imagination than in reality. Jude didn’t deliberately hide the details of her London relationships, but Carole was always too genteel to enquire directly about them. So the aura of mystery intensified-a situation that in fact suited Jude very well.)
For Carole, however, the return to normal life would not be so easy. The murder had offered a welcome distraction from thoughts of Stephen and Gaby’s marriage. Her son still hadn’t rung back. She couldn’t put off much longer making a phone call to David.
The evening after their meeting with Lucinda Fleet, she steeled herself to do the deed. Sunday, he was sure to be in. In his little flat in Swiss Cottage. The flat she had never seen and never intended to see. How did retired civil servants like David Seddon spend their time in little flats in Swiss Cottage? That was a question towards which she did not allow her mind to stray.
She had to look his number up. It was the only number she ever had to look up. Every other one she remembered. A psychologist would have had a field day with that.
“Hello.”
“David, it’s Carole.”
“Ah. Erm…hello.”
He didn’t sound either surprised to hear her, or particularly moved by the fact that she’d rung him. It was impossible for her to know what he was thinking-as indeed it had been right through their marriage.
“How are you?”
“Not so bad. You, Carole?”
“Mustn’t grumble.”
Neither of them contemplated volunteering more about their lives than this. In the run-up to Stephen and Gaby’s wedding, David had tried to make some kind of rapprochement towards his ex-wife. Now he seemed to have given up the unequal struggle. Carole preferred it that way.
“I was just wondering, David, whether you’d heard anything of Stephen and Gaby recently.”
“Erm…not very recently.” Apparently it was the first time he’d thought about them for a while. “No, I suppose I haven’t, not…erm…very recently.”
Carole had forgotten how much his little habit of hesitation grated on her. “So you haven’t seen them?”
“Not since…well, not since Christmas, now I come to think of it.”
How could he not have thought of it for so long? How did David actually spend his retirement? What thoughts did actually go through his head?
“No, I haven’t either. I spoke to Gaby a few days ago, but…I just wondered if you had any news of them.”
“No, I haven’t. But I’m…erm…sure they’ll be in touch…you know, when they’ve…erm…when they’ve got something to say.”
Yes. So that was it. As she put the phone down, Carole wished bitterly that she hadn’t made the call. Hearing David’s voice had only upset her more, and brought back to her mind Stephen’s inheritance of bad relationships.
“Jude, it’s Sonia.”
“Hello. Everything all right?”
“Well, yes.”
Tuesday had come round again. Walter Fleet had been dead for nearly a week. There had been no word of funeral plans, and there wouldn’t be any for a while. Police forensic investigations had not finished; they had yet to release the body.
“You sound a bit uptight, Sonia.”
“No, no, I’m fine.” But the tension in her voice contradicted her words. “I just, um…I just wondered whether you would come and have another look at Chieftain.”
“I’m happy to, but I didn’t do him much good last time.”
“No, but you were distracted. With Imogen around and everything. I really do think it’d be worth you having another go.”
“Okay If that’s what you want.”
“When could you come up here?”
“I thought the horses had gone back to Long Bamber.”
“Yes, most of them have. But Chieftain and Conker are still here.”
“Right. Well, I could come when you like, really…”
“This afternoon?”
After the call ended, Jude had the very firm impression that Sonia Dalrymple wanted to see her about something. And it wasn’t Chieftain.
As she walked up from the towpath towards the house, Jude surmised that she was not the only visitor that afternoon. A BMW, built on the lines of an ocean liner, stood on the gravel, and its appearance was quickly explained. As soon as she had opened the door to Jude’s ring, Sonia whispered, “Nicky’s here. He’s come back unexpectedly early from Frankfurt. He mustn’t know that you’ve come to see Chieftain.”
“Oh?”
“I’m afraid he’d be rather sceptical about the idea of healing a horse.”
“Just like my neighbour Carole. Well, look, don’t worry. I’ll just-”
“Good afternoon. I don’t think we’ve met.”
The man who stepped out of the sitting room behind Sonia moved in an aura of charm. Nicky Dalrymple was tall, dark-haired and almost unfeasibly handsome. His welcoming smile was formed by perfect teeth, and though his life seemed to be spent shuttling from one international hotel to another, he clearly spent plenty of time in those hotels’ gyms. The polo shirt, casual jacket and chinos he wore looked like a catalogue illustration. He and Sonia did make a dazzlingly attractive couple, entirely in keeping with their luxurious home and fleet of expensive cars.
“Hello, I’m Jude.” She could see the panic as Sonia searched for an alternative explanation for her arrival.
“Nicky Dalrymple.” His handshake was predictably firm and strong.
“I just popped by to talk to Sonia about a charity event I’m setting up, but I can easily call another time.” Jude had never had a problem with lying when the necessity arose.
“Nonsense. Come on in. We were just having some tea. Be easy enough to find another cup, won’t it, Sonia?”
“Yes, of course, Nicky.”
While she scuttled off to the kitchen, he led Jude into the sitting room. She had not been in this part of the house on her previous visit, but again the image was straight from the pages of an interior design magazine. The furthest wall was all glass, with a vista to a terrace, the garden-remarkably neat and sculpted for February-the paddocks, and then up towards the comforting contours of the South Downs.
Nicky Dalrymple gestured Jude towards one of the plethora of sofas.
“I gather from Sonia that you’re just back from Frankfurt.”
“Yes. A meeting didn’t last as long as it was scheduled, thank God, so I was able to get an earlier flight. Always love getting back here, but…I’m afraid what I do is very time hungry.”
“I can imagine. Banking, isn’t it?”
“In the broadest sense, yes.”
“Well, that’s a subject about which I cannot claim to know anything-and please don’t feel that you need to explain it to me.”
That prompted another of his perfect smiles. “Very well, I won’t. And what do you do…Jude-was that right?”
“Yes.” Having been tipped off about Nicky Dalrymple’s views on complementary medicine, she contented herself with, “Oh, I’m retired.”
Fortunately he didn’t have the opportunity to follow this up with questions about her past career, because Sonia came in at that moment with the required cup and saucer.
Jude commented on the beauty of the view, and some conversation ensued about the advantages of living in the Fethering area. Nicky asserted that, as soon as he got home, he felt he was shedding an accumulation of stress, like a snake discarding an old skin.
Though getting home may have had that effect on him, Jude didn’t get the impression it worked the same magic for Sonia. In the presence of her husband she seemed positively on edge, trying to anticipate his reaction to anything that was said, desperate perhaps to please. Jude received a new insight into the condition of Sonia’s marriage, and perhaps a clue to the reason why she had sought help in alternative therapy.
“I gather from Sonia that all Fethering is talking about the murder up at Long Bamber Stables.”
“Yes. Didn’t you know Walter Fleet?”
“No. Sonia does all the horsey stuff. I’m afraid I don’t have time. When we bought Chieftain I had this idea of riding him out with the hunt, but…God, life takes over, doesn’t it?” There was no doubt that Nicky Dalrymple knew how to ride. He carried an air of omnicompetence, a man who’d played all the right sports at all the right schools, and probably been captain of most of them. “Anyway, now the government’s banning hunting, that all becomes a bit academic. Perhaps we should think about getting rid of Chieftain…”
“Oh, we can’t do that,” said Sonia, shocked.
“I didn’t say we would, darling. I said we’d have to think about it.” But when he did think about it, if he decided that the horse should go, Jude knew no amount of argument would change his mind.
“Maybe the girls’ pony’s becoming surplus to requirements too.” Nicky continued. “What’s he called?”
“She. She’s called Conker,” Sonia replied, with a weary intonation that suggested her husband made a point of not remembering the name. “And we couldn’t possibly get rid of her. Alice and Laura would kill us.”
“Who knows? A bit of time at boarding school’s going to change their priorities. Entirely possible that they’ll come back for the Easter holidays without a thought of horses in their heads. They’ll probably have moved on to boy bands, or possibly”-he shuddered-“even real boys.”
“They don’t meet any real boys at that school.”
“Don’t you believe it. If they’re anything like I was at boarding school, they’ll somehow manage to arrange encounters with the opposite sex.” He laughed a man-of-the-world laugh.
“Well,” said Sonia firmly, “we’ll wait until we find out the girls’ views about Conker before we even think of getting rid of her.”
Interesting, Jude thought, how much stronger Sonia’s defence had been when her daughters’ concerns were at risk rather than her own. Chieftain was her horse, but she’d let him go if Nicky insisted. There was no way, though, that she’d let the twins be steamrollered. Jude was also getting the impression that Alice and Laura had inherited their father’s strong will, in fact that they were quite possibly right little madams. Sonia’s role in the family was that of making concessions to everyone.
Jude was also interested to note that Nicky Dalrymple was behaving as if the conversation was a kind of performance, including her in their domestic life. His ordered family circumstances were almost being paraded in front of her.
“Anyway, about this murder,” he said. “I gather from Sonia that the police have arrested someone?”
“Technically only taken someone in for questioning,” said Jude. “Some kind of itinerant horse expert called Donal.”
Nicky raised his eyebrows in the direction of his wife. “You didn’t tell me you knew the suspect’s name, darling.”
“I didn’t know it.”
Jude suspected that Sonia was lying.
“He’s not that Donal who came round once to look at the girls’ pony…erm…?”
“Conker.”
“Yes. Was it him?”
“I don’t know.” Sonia was flustered, and she looked to Jude for help. “Do you know anything more about this Donal?”
“Just that he knows about horses. He’s helped out Lucinda Fleet from time to time up at Long Bamber Stables. Bit of a reputation for being light-fingered…and for starting fights when he’s in his cups.”
“Got to be the same fellow.” Nicky Dalrymple grimaced with distaste. “Scruffy little Herbert, whose Irish charm I have to say didn’t go far with me.”
“But he did cure Conker of that coughing.”
“How do you know the pony wouldn’t have got better on its own?”
“Well, I can’t prove that, Nicky, but-”
“I think that Donal was full of blarney and Jameson’s. I told him so at the time. Just a bloody snake-oil salesman, getting money out of gullible housewives for his so-called healing. Do you believe in all that mumbo jumbo, Jude?”
She could feel focussed pleading from Sonia’s eyes, and replied sedately, “One does hear remarkable instances of alternative therapies working.”
“Huh. Mind you, there’s usually another explanation for whatever’s happened. A lot of injuries and illnesses just clear up under their own steam.”
Nicky Dalrymple was clearly not used to being contradicted. In other circumstances Jude would have happily introduced him to the concept, but for his wife’s sake she knew this wasn’t the moment. “Well, thank you so much for the tea. I’d really better be off.”
“But you haven’t talked about your charity thing to Sonia yet.”
For a moment Jude was thrown, having forgotten the lie she had told. Then hastily she said, “We can do that another time.”
“No, tell me what the charity is. We always try to do our bit, don’t we, Sonia? We’re personally major contributors to the I.L.P.H.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what that is.”
Sonia supplied the information. “I.L.P.H.” stood for “The International League for the Protection of Horses.”
“So what is the charity you’re working for?” Nicky Dalrymple insisted.
“Erm…well…It’s the N.S.P.C.C.” The only one she could think of on the spur of the moment. But a perfectly admirable charity. And it did help humans rather than animals, which Jude-unlike most residents of West Sussex-always thought was the greater priority.
“Let me give you a contribution then.” And Nicky Dalrymple’s cheque book was out of the pocket of his jacket. “Now who should I make it payable to?”
Jude looked across at Sonia, who made an imperceptible shrug. If Jude’s lie was going to bring benefit to some suffering children, then what harm was done? It wasn’t as if Nicky couldn’t afford it.
“Just to the N.S.P.C.C. then, please.”
Nicky filled in the cheque, pulled it out of the book and handed it across with a flourish. “But don’t you want to talk about the details of the event…because I’ve got some papers I should be going through, so if you want to be on your own…?”
“No, really. I’d better be on my way.” Jude had an instinct that, even if he were not in the same room, her husband’s presence in the house might inhibit Sonia from saying what she really wanted to.
“Well, I’ll say good-bye then. Pleasure to meet you, Jude. Jude…what? I don’t know your surname.”
“Everyone just calls me Jude.”
Nicky stayed in the sitting room, and Sonia closed the door against the potential draught as she led the way to the front door.
“What did you want to see me about?” Jude whispered.
“I just wondered if you’d heard anything from the police…you know, about what evidence they have against Donal?”
“No more than anyone else has. What I’ve heard on the news bulletins.”
Sonia looked disappointed, but not surprised at being disappointed. “You haven’t any idea what he’s said to them…?”
“How could I? I’m afraid it’s only in crime fiction that the police share all the latest developments on a case with nosey local spinsters.”
She’d said it as a joke, but Sonia didn’t smile. Instead, she whispered, “But if you do hear anything about what Donal’s said, you will let me know, won’t you, Jude?”
Odd. Two women, thought Jude as she walked along the towpath towards Fethering, both deeply concerned about a vagrant Irishman. For the same reason? Or for different reasons? More important, for what reason?
The weather had suddenly turned very cold. After a few mild days that had held the promise of spring, winter had reasserted its icy grip. The waters of the Fether, rushing fast past the towpath, looked icily uninviting, and the leaden sea beyond held no element of welcome. Jude’s hand, nestling for warmth into the pocket of her fleece, encountered something unexpected, and closed around Nicky Dalrymple’s cheque. She looked at it. A hundred pounds for the N.S.P.C.C. Oh well, it’s an ill wind. Who was it who had ever said that lying was a bad thing?