The following morning, Jude went down to High Tor for an early coffee. The two women pooled their individual progress on the investigation, and made arrangements for the rest of the day. Then Jude set off to meet Chieftain’s latest healer.
The Donal who jumped out of the horse box that had given him a lift to Long Bamber Stables was unrecognisable from the drunkard in the Cheshire Cheese. His clothes weren’t different, nor was the stable-yard smell that surrounded him, nor the alcohol on his breath. But his manner transformed him. He was the professional horse expert, at ease in his chosen setting.
Lucinda Fleet was in the yard, overseeing a delivery of hay, and Imogen Potton, who was mucking out the stable of her beloved Conker, emerged when she saw Donal was there.
He greeted Lucinda casually, and she seemed little concerned by his presence. He was part of the occasional furniture at Long Bamber Stables, and the fact that he had recently been questioned by the police about the murder of her husband did not trouble her. Or maybe they had already met since his release and discussed the matter. Jude could still remember Lucinda’s disproportionate anxiety about Donal’s having been taken in for questioning and her insistence that he was guiltless. That was something which, at some point, would need explanation.
Imogen grinned at the Irishman. She seemed as relaxed with him as she was with Conker. Here was an adult who didn’t bring all the baggage of most of the other adults in her life. Donal knew about horses-that was all that mattered-and in his company Imogen’s conversation need never stray from the subject of horses into more treacherous areas.
“I’m going to take Conker out for a long hack today,” she announced excitedly. “She’ll like that, won’t she, Donal?”
“I would think it would be exactly what she wanted, young Immy. Conker’s a pony that gets bored when she’s not working.”
“You have cleared it with Sonia Dalrymple?” asked Lucinda. “She’s happy for you to take her out for a hack?”
“Yes, she said it’s fine. So no problems.”
“Good.” But then a thought struck her. “Just a minute, Immy. It’s term time-shouldn’t you be at school?”
“We’ve all got the morning off. It’s an Ofsted day.”
Lucinda Fleet, having no children, had no idea what an Ofsted day was, so ceased to raise any objections, and Imogen returned to her mucking-out duties.
The morning was cold. Jude was glad she had managed to track down a fine pair of black leather gloves that a lover had once bought her in Florence. They were warm and fitted so well that her hands felt naked.
Donal led Chieftain out of his stall, breathing endearments or instructions at the horse’s nose. The sight of the tethered Conker prompted a whinny of greeting, which was reciprocated. Donal stopped the horse in the centre of the yard, away from any tethering hooks, rings or rails.
“Aren’t you going to tie him up?” asked Jude.
The Irishman shook his head. “He’ll be more relaxed if I don’t.”
“And he won’t try to get away?”
“He won’t try to get away.”
“It’s his front right knee.”
“I can tell that.”
But it wasn’t the knee that Donal concentrated on first. He ran his gnarled hands over the horse’s back, fingers hardly making contact with the dark hair. Then he concentrated on the neck, digging more deeply into the flesh beneath the black mane. And all the time, he kept up a murmuring commentary of comfort, in a language that was all breathing and no words.
Chieftain relaxed visibly under Donal’s ministrations. Through his huge nostrils, his breath steamed evenly out into the February air. Apart from that, the great body was entirely still.
Only when that state had been achieved did Donal curve his body forward, and let his hands move down towards the injured knee. They didn’t touch the animal, but seemed to close around a force field, an invisible ring some two inches away from the flesh. Donal tutted at what he felt there.
“I thought so. He’s been ridden too hard.”
“But I’m sure Sonia would be very gentle with him.”
“It’s not Sonia I’m talking about. It’s that husband of hers. He’s the bully.”
After what she’d seen at Yeomansdyke the day before, Jude could well believe that. Donal continued to read the information he was feeling from the horse’s knee. “He turned it, poor boy. Probably slipped. It was very wet underfoot a couple of weeks back, before everything froze up again. If the rider had jumped off as soon as he felt the slip, the horse wouldn’t be in this state now. But no, Mr. Nicky Dalrymple doesn’t like weakness-in an animal or a human being.”
“Do you mean anything particular by that?”
He looked up from the horse’s knee, the blue eyes either side of his broken nose glinting with mischief. “And what might I mean…Jude?” Mocking, he teased out the vowel of her name.
“I was wondering if you were referring to Sonia…to Nicky not liking to see any weakness in her.?”
“Well, I might have been meaning that…and I might not. There are certainly things I know about that marriage, but they’re not things I would reveal”-he winked-“at least not unless the price was right.”
“And would the price be charged in Jameson’s?”
He chuckled. “No, I think for information of this kind I’d be looking for payment of a more foldable nature.”
“Ah. Well, I don’t believe in paying money for information.”
“And why would you want the information, anyway? From what I’ve seen of you, you’re not one of the bitchy Fedborough gossips. Why do you care what’s going on inside a couple’s marriage?”
“I don’t care at all.” She had to say it, though of course she was anxious to know everything she could about anyone involved with Long Bamber Stables. “But do you think there are people who’d pay for the information you have?”
“I don’t see why not. There are things I’ve seen which people might want to keep quiet…things they might not want an irresponsible drunken Paddy to spill out…in his cups.”
As when he’d referred to himself the previous day as a “stage Irishman,” there was a knowingness about Donal’s words. He was aware of the image that was expected of him, and was quite prepared to live up to it. But again Jude got the feeling that he was a lot more intelligent than he allowed himself to appear.
“So who would you hope to get the money from?”
He grinned, still playing with her. “If it’s something discreditable about a marriage, I’d have thought the people most likely to pay for it being hushed up would be the people involved.”
“Yes, and in this case they could certainly afford it.”
“My thinking exactly, Jude.” A complacent smile cracked his wizened face, and he looked back down at Chieftain’s leg. While they had been talking, he had kept his hands circling the invisible wrapping around the knee. Now he pointed his hands, swollen knuckles tight against each other, at the joint, and slowly, as if directing a hose, moved them up to the horse’s shoulder. After a few moments of intense concentration, he took his hands away, and straightened up, wincing from the stiffness in his back.
“He’ll be all right now.”
“You mean he’s cured?”
“I mean he’s ready now for nature to cure him. It’ll take a couple of weeks. The muscle was torn. But it’s on the mend now.” He reached up to take hold of Chieftain’s head collar and lead him back to his stable. As he did so, Lucinda emerged from the tack room. “Got him sorted, have you, Donal?”
“Yes. Can’t be ridden for a couple of weeks, then he should be fine…until his owner does the same thing again.”
Lucinda looked rueful.
“Aren’t you going to say anything to Mr. High-and-mighty Dalrymple then?” asked Donal.
“I can’t risk them taking the horses away. I need the money.”
Just what she’d said about Victor and Yolanta Brewis. Her financial situation must be pretty serious for someone as devoted to horses as Lucinda to risk their being hurt by bullying owners. Jude wondered whether money pressures at Long Bamber Stables had anything to do with Walter Fleet’s death.
Donal didn’t seem surprised by her reaction, and led Chieftain on into his stable. Conker, still tethered in the yard, whinnied, perhaps feeling it was about time he too was reinstalled. But the sound of broom on cement flooring indicated that Imogen hadn’t finished mucking out.
Donal locked the bottom half of the door with practised ease, though he moved stiffly, his body still adjusting from the bent pose he had held so long. Lucinda stood waiting when he turned back from the stable. “What?” he asked.
“I just wondered-I suppose as the widow of the victim I have a right to wonder-whether the police gave you any indication of what they thought might have happened to Walter.”
Ah, thought Jude, so Lucinda and Donal hadn’t had an earlier conversation about the murder.
He grinned, without much humour. “While they were questioning me, they gave the pretty firm impression they thought I’d topped him. Perhaps they still do. But they hadn’t got a shred of evidence, so they had to let me go.”
“Didn’t you have an alibi for the time of the murder?” Jude’s words were out before she realised how unnaturally nosey they sounded.
Donal smiled, as if realising she’d jumped the gun. “Whether I had an alibi or not, I didn’t mention it to the police. I wasn’t going to make their work too easy. I knew they couldn’t pin anything on me, so I let them sweat.”
“I thought the police were meant to make their suspects sweat,” said Lucinda, “not the other way round.”
“That is indeed the traditional way they like to do things. But it’s not the first time I’ve been questioned by the bastards-though probably the first time I’ve been questioned about something I didn’t do. You get to know the form after a while. So I wasn’t going to let them have an easy ride.”
“But they didn’t give any indication of where their investigations were taking them?”
“No. Their investigations were taking them as far as me, and that was it. Whether they’re now making some other poor sod’s life a misery, I don’t know.”
“There’s been nothing on the news about anyone else being questioned,” said Jude.
“Oh. And do you not have a personal hotline to the police to find out how their investigations are proceeding?”
He was sending her up. She grinned ruefully. “Sadly, no. I wish I had.”
“You’re lying. I’ll swear the police spend all their time coming round to consult you, like you were some kind of New Age Miss Marple.” But whatever game Donal was playing with Jude, he suddenly got bored with it, and turned back to Lucinda. “Afraid I can’t tell you anything about who else the police are talking to. You see, the police, having grabbed the obvious Paddy with form who’s known to hang around stables and got nowhere with him, probably don’t have the imagination to find another suspect.”
“And what about you, Donal? Do you have your own theory about who killed my husband?”
The blue eyes, embedded in their folds of wrinkles, twinkled sardonically. “I could ask you the same question, Lucinda. Do you have your own theory on the subject?”
She shrugged. “I really can’t come up with much beyond the random intruder. A person or persons unknown. Walter wasn’t a particularly popular man, he was irritating, but surely not enough for anyone to have killed him.”
“Well, there’s no way it was suicide, so somebody did.”
“Yes.”
He let out a dry laugh. “But if you really want my opinion, for what it’s worth-and the opinion of a drunken Irishman, in the opinion of many people, isn’t worth very much-I’d say it was definitely a woman who killed Walter.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The nature of the attack. Men lose their tempers and lash out, but they don’t go on doing it. They stop after a while. Once they know the blows have hit home. Also a man would never have used a bot knife for the attack.”
“It was the only weapon available.”
“A man still wouldn’t have used it. Whoever attacked Walter was hysterical-and I don’t need to tell you that means we’re talking about a woman-from hystera, the Greek word for womb.”
Again Donal was letting his facade slip to reveal his true intelligence and education. As if aware of the lapse, he felt the need to follow it with something crass. “And only a bloody woman would be as incompetent as to kill anyone that way.”
Lucinda Fleet’s lips thinned. “Well, thank you, Donal, for your most helpful assessment. I don’t know why I bothered asking.”
“Because you’re like every one else round here-a nosey cow.”
“Look, if you’re going to insult me, I can-”
She was interrupted by the flustered arrival of Alec Potton. He came rushing through the gates of the yard, what remained of his hair sticking out at odd angles. He was once again wearing his corduroy suit, which seemed baggier than ever, and no topcoat.
“Good morning, Lucinda. And hello.” He knew he’d met Jude, but he couldn’t place exactly where or how. And he was too rushed to work it out. “Is Immy here?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
The girl came out of Conker’s stable and stood leaning on a broom. There was an expression almost of insolence on her face, challenging her adoring father to be angry with her.
“I had a call from the school. They wanted to know where you are.”
“I’m here. As you see.”
“Immy, you can’t bunk off lessons like that.”
“Why not?” She jutted her lower lip and her right hip in the perfect posture of adolescent rebellion. “They never teach us anything.”
“That’s not the point. You’re breaking the school rules. You’re breaking the law, come to that.”
“Am I?”
Alec Potton wasn’t sure enough of his legal ground to answer that. “Never mind. Come on, you must come straight back to school with me. And you’d better think of something pretty good to tell your headmistress.”
“Why?”
“Because I say so, Imogen!”
This sudden outburst was the anger of a weak man, but it was so little expected by his daughter that she immediately burst into tears. Her mouth fell open, revealing the full ugliness of the braces on her teeth. Totally disarmed, and unable to maintain his pose of fury, her father moved instinctively forward and put his arms round the girl’s shoulders.
“Come on, Immy, let’s pick up something to eat on the way back to school.” And, with an embarrassed wave of good bye to the two women, he led his daughter away from the stables.
Jude moved to the gate and saw that, as arranged earlier in the morning and punctual to the minute, Carole’s Renault had arrived in the car park. “Donal,” she said, “can I buy you a drink by way of thank you?”
“What are you thanking me for? Chieftain’s not your horse.”
“No. But I tried to heal him, and failed. So I owe you a thank-you for getting it right.”
He nodded. “That’s fair enough. There’s no pub very close to here, though.”
“No. My friend over there will drive us.”
“Ah. Where to?”
“Just down the road to Fethering.”
“All right.” The idea seemed to amuse him. “Yes, I haven’t been to Fethering for a while now. And it could be just the place that I need to settle back into.”
With which enigmatic comment, he started towards the Renault. Jude looked forward with some glee to the incongruous introduction to Carole that lay ahead.
She said good-bye to Lucinda, who was standing on exactly the spot in the stable yard where her husband had died. For the first time in their acquaintance, the sole owner of Long Bamber Stables looked slightly vulnerable, as if the enormity of what had happened had finally sunk in.