Twelve Horses and the Hangman's Noose (Mrs. Bradley) Page 3

  “Go, by all means, but beware of stirring up a hornets’ nest. You know what a village is for gossip!”

  “I’ll be as cunning as a serpent, I promise you.”

  Mrs. Bradley had no great faith in Laura’s discretion, a fact which, mercifully, was hidden from that seeker after truth, but she made no further attempt to warn her against saying anything which the village might misconstrue.

  Laura, convinced that fact, not theory, was in question, disguised the true object of her visit next day by changing into breeches and boots before she walked over to the riding stables. The stables formed two sides of a large rectangle and wooden railings enclosed a grass paddock. The house in which John Mapsted had lived with his widowed mother and his helpers was distant about a hundred yards from the eastern side of the paddock, and was separated from it by a large chicken-run, a modern piggery, and a sizeable kitchen garden, these three additions to the establishment being the province of old Mrs. Mapsted herself, who made a modest living out of them and had never been dependent on her son.

  The old lady was flaking mud off a promising porker when Laura arrived. Laura stood and watched. Mrs. Mapsted continued her operations until she was satisfied with the result, then she straightened up and remarked, as though in echo of Dame Beatrice, “Well, and what do you think?”

  “Think?” said Laura, playing for time and a cue. She was accustomed to the old lady’s abrupt conversational methods, but realised that the question could have been applied to the death of Mapsted, the pig’s toilet, the latest news about the Russians, the state of the weather, or the previous night’s television programme. It was always as well to give Mrs. Mapsted time to indicate the subject of her choice.

  “Think? Think?” squealed the beldame. “I mean, what do you think of Percheron now?”

  Laura looked her in the eye and answered:

  “Just what I always thought of him. He’s a pest of an animal, but he isn’t a killer.”

  “Glad you think so. Come along and see him before you go for your ride. Cissie Gauberon’s a fool. Always said so. All I could do to keep that idiot Jack from marrying her, but I managed it. And as for Jenkinson, he ought to get the sack. That’s what I say. Drunk more than half his time. Can’t think why Jack and Cissie kept him on.”

  “I’ll have to talk to Mustang first,” said Laura, referring to the horse she invariably hired. “He’ll never get over it if I make him play second fiddle to Percheron. Has anybody else been in this morning?”

  “Yes, the colonel’s three children came in a while ago and took out Basuto, Shan, and Connemara as usual. This new governess of theirs came with them. Bit heavy-handed for Palomino, but nearly everything else is on regular hire. Have you met her?—Temme by name.”

  “Palomino is too sweet-tempered, that’s his trouble,” said Laura. “No, I haven’t met Miss Temme.”

  “Haven’t missed much,” said old Mrs. Mapsted viciously. “Don’t like governesses. Why don’t they get an honest job? Outmoded, and so I told the colonel.”

  “I think the colonel has tried sending those children to school, but they don’t seem to fit,” said Laura. “Well, I’ll go and see Mustang and Percheron.”

  “Have a good talk with Percheron. He’s feeling ill-used and depressed. And the vet’s with Viatka. She’s off her oats again.”

  “She misses John,” said Laura. The old lady nodded.

  “I dare say,” she agreed, displaying indifference. “Jack was good with horses. Well, go along, then. You’ll like a gossip with Andrew Scott, but, remember, Jack’s horses come first.

  Laura went to Mustang’s stable. The horse, although showy, was a very mild, friendly creature. He whinnied as Laura approached and put his head out to be given sugar. Next to him in the stables was a mare named Jennet. She was let out on hire to any casual client who did not make regular use of John Mapsted’s stables, but when no such rider turned up, the partner, Cissie Gauberon, rode the mare. This meant that, to all intents and purposes, except during occasional weekends and for a few weeks in summer, Jennet was Cissie Gauberon’s mount, and it was known that Cissie hated it if anyone else should ride her.

  Laura spoke to Jennet and gave her some sugar, and then passed on to talk to a handsome chestnut gelding and to pass the time of day with the veterinary surgeon, Andrew Scott, who had been treating the mare Viatka for a kick.

  “How is she?” Laura inquired. Andrew smiled. He was a slightly-built, brown-haired man of thirty-five or so. He and Laura had known one another for several years and were friends.

  “She’ll be all right. Got a nasty kick—I can’t think how. Mrs. Cofts doesn’t hunt, and she rides alone or with the colonel’s kids usually. I asked her whether she could account for Viatka’s getting kicked, and she can’t. One comfort—it’s not a fracture, only a nasty bruise.”

  “Whereabouts is the bruise?”

  “Back of the near forefoot.”

  “Mayn’t she have over-reached?”

  “Could have done, but she never has before. Mrs. Cofts doesn’t jump her, either. It’s usually on a jump that horses over-reach.”

  “Mrs. Cofts may have galloped her over boggy ground, though.”

  “Yes, that’s true. There are boggy patches in the Forest at this time of year after snow. Anyway, I’ve given a fomentation, which ought to ease the pain. The skin isn’t broken, fortunately.”

  “I should have thought that Cissie Gauberon could have dealt with a bruise herself.”

  “She could have done, but she’s been very busy and has had a trying time since poor old John’s death. There’s a mystery for you, now. I should never have thought that Percheron was a killer.”

  Laura debated whether she should acquaint Andrew Scott with her own opinion on this matter, but decided against it, and they made the rest of the round together. When they had finished, Laura turned away from a charming Arab called Barb, and said abruptly:

  “I want to talk to you, Andrew. It’s about John’s death. Do you—this is off the record, of course—but do you believe that Percheron is a killer?”

  “Hard to say,” the cautious Scott replied. “It’s not a hanging matter for a horse to kill a man, and if it wasn’t Percheron it must have been Old Nick in the shape of a horse. I saw the body, you know. It wasn’t a very nice thing to see, either. The horse must have gone mad.”

  “Was there much blood?”

  “Not a lot, so Jenkinson says. He’d swabbed up as soon as he could, so, of course, I saw nothing of it myself, and neither, I believe, did Doctor Rollins.”

  “If I’d had anything to do with it,” said Laura in a low tone, “I should have had that blood examined to find out whether it was of the same group as John’s. I don’t believe for a single instant that Percheron killed him. Was there much blood on Percheron’s hoofs?”

  “On the near forefoot, it seems. It’s of no use, Laura. I don’t like to say so, but on the face of it, the horse must be guilty, and he’s a stubborn, awkward brute when he likes, as you probably know.”

  He got into the ancient car which he used on his rounds, waved his hand, and went off with a roar which made even the well-behaved Mustang fling up his head.

  “Steady,” said Laura reproachfully. “Now, where’s that besozzled old groom?”

  She shouted for Jenkinson, and a shambling gnome bearing a bucket came round the wall of the kitchen garden.

  “What be after, Mrs. Gavin?” he inquired in a husky voice. “Ee can have Mustang out if ee wants to. Master may be gone, but ’ay and corn still got to be paid for, I reckon.”

  “Look here, Jenkinson, before I have Mustang out, I want you tell me about Mr. Mapsted’s death.”

  The groom set down the bucket and scratched his head.

  “Minds me on a Shakespeare play I seed once at the Village Institoot,” he said surprisingly. “Chap in the play, ’e says, ‘I can as well be ’anged as tell on the manner of it,’ ’e says, and that goes for me, Mrs. Gavin. I can’t say any more
but what I’ve said a’ready. There was all this stampin’ and squealin’ and tossy-pottin’ about, and I pulls on me trousies and runs to see who’s murderin’ who, and I finds Mr. John layin’ there all mucky blood and ’is ’ead bashed in, and Percheron screamin’ the place down.”

  “But, Jenkinson, do you really believe the horse did it?”

  “Blest if there’s anything else to believe, Mrs. Gavin. If ’e didn’t what did? ’E’s got a wicious streak, ’as Percheron. Always ’as ’ad. If I’ve said once to Mr. John, I’ve said an ’underd times, ‘You did ought to get rid of that ’orse. Mark my words, ’e’ll do someone a mischief one of these days.’ Mind you, Mrs. Gavin, I never thought as it ’ud be the master ’e’d turn on. No, I can’t say I ever thought that.”

  “Oh, well,” said Laura, “it’s happened, anyway.”

  She did not give the groom, who had a local reputation for talking wildly in his cups, the doctor’s information as to the time of death. It would be soon enough to hear that at the inquest, where, she supposed, Jenkinson would be the star witness. She saddled Mustang, mounted him, and rode thoughtfully out of the gate which Jenkinson opened. A quiet amble along the Forest rides, followed by a gallop over the open country, was what her mood demanded. She turned Mustang’s head to the southward, along the sandy lane.

  When they arrived at the beginning of the woodland, the horse, from long habit, turned to the right and took Laura through an opening beside a stile and followed a narrow baulk of trodden earth which formed a path beside an arable field. On Laura’s right was a hedge broken here and there by oak-trees. On her left was the stretch of ploughland, but within two hundred yards of the stile the woodland began. The path continued as a natural avenue. The horse meandered on, the reins slack and his head free, and Laura, as much at ease in the saddle as a Mexican, thought her own thoughts and, because she was preoccupied, ignored the first signs of spring—the hazels drooping their catkins, the tall elms heavily flowered, the shallow brown brook, and the willows’ shining-stemmed palm-buds; every copse shouting with birds and the grass emerald-green after snow.

  Her preoccupation lasted until she reached an open glade of the Forest. Here she dismounted and led the horse. The air was keen but there was very little breeze. She put away the thoughts that had come between her and the sights and sounds of the spring and began to enjoy herself.

  The enjoyment, however, was short-lived. She came upon a pitiable dabble of blood and feathers, the remains of a battle and a feast, and pondered again the circumstances of Mapsted’s death. She remounted, left the reins loose, and offered the route to Mustang, who ambled amiably homeward.

  CHAPTER 3

  THOUGHTS ON A RURAL RIDE

  Though every prospect pleases,

  And only man is vile.

  HEBER

  On the way back to the Elkstonehunt stables, Laura was thinking hard. It seemed likely, in the absence of evidence to the contrary, that John Mapsted had indeed met his death by a kick on the head, and if this were so, and the kick had not been administered by Percheron, John must have received the blow from some other horse. As no horse in the Elkstonehunt establishment seemed likely to kick its owner, the logical supposition was that he had been killed at some other riding stables.

  “And, of course,” said Laura aloud, “riding stables are two-a-penny round here.”

  This statement, like a good many of hers, was an exaggeration, but within range there were certainly two stables besides Elkstonehunt. One was kept by the bold young man named Nottingham who had torn up his invitation to be present at the official Opening of his old school’s new premises; the other belonged to a pleasant Irishman named Paddy Donegal. There was also, at no great distance from Wandles Parva village, a farm owned by that other unpatriotic Old Boy, the surly and uncouth Grinsted. He also had one or two horses.

  Laura’s imagination, always extremely active, began to assert itself strongly. By the time the forest path ended and she came out on to the road, she had a workable theory about the cause of Mapsted’s death and the disposal of his body. This was that Mapsted had met with a fatal accident at the farm or one of the riding-schools and that the owner of the horse which had killed him had shipped his body back to his own place to make it appear that his own horse was responsible.

  “Save a lot of bother,” thought Laura. “Now who would think along those lines?”

  Grinsted, because of his known character, came first to her mind, but Jed Nottingham had a bad reputation in some respects and was, Laura thought, the type to shed the load if to retain it meant trouble or inconvenience.

  “I don’t think Paddy Donegal would have done such a thing if the accident had happened at his place,” Laura decided, “but fair’s fair, and if I go and pump the others I ought to see him, too.”

  Another thought came to her. There was still another riding-school in the vicinity. It was kept by a dowdy woman named Merial Trowse. She was known to be extremely poor. If she had a rogue horse she would be very reluctant to have it destroyed, even if it had killed a man. It might have been a great temptation to Merial, if Mapsted had died at her place, to shift the body and make the death look like Percheron’s work.

  “I’m not sure that she isn’t likelier than any of the men,” thought Laura. “Right! I’ll visit Paddy Donegal first and get him wiped off the slate.”

  She turned Mustang in the direction of Linghurst Magna. She had met Paddy in the hunting field and what she knew about him she liked. She had fabricated a reason for visiting him. It was to ask him whether he thought it would be worth her while to go into partnership with Cissie Gauberon, although she had already decided against this.

  She found Paddy and his groom watering and feeding horses, for it was almost midday by the time she reached Linghurst Magna. Paddy said:

  “Hullo, Mrs. Gavin! What’s on your mind?”

  “Mustang,” said Laura. “He’s thirsty, too.”

  “Water him, Matt,” said Paddy to the groom. Laura nodded her thanks, and then said,

  “Paddy, Cissie wants me to go into partnership.”

  “Does she?” He looked surprised. “Not your kettle of fish, Mrs. Gavin. Don’t touch it.”

  “Why not, particularly?”

  “Too much like hard work, for one thing; takes a lot of time, for another; no money in it, for a third.”

  Laura looked round at his well-kept stableyard and handsome, contented horses, and laughed aloud.

  “I suppose you’re not looking for a partner, Paddy?” she asked.

  “Me? No. If I did, I’d have a bloke, not a lady.”

  “Discourteous, unchivalrous man! Merial Trowse, though, doesn’t do too well, so I hear.”

  “John Mapsted,” said Donegal suddenly, “was going to marry Merial. Did you know?”

  “I certainly didn’t! What would she have done? Sold up at Hurst St. Johns and gone to live at Elkstonehunt?”

  “I have no idea. I heard about the engagement from Jed Nottingham. His comment was that he’d rather John than himself.”

  “I think I’d be inclined to agree. I don’t care much for Merial.”

  “Don’t you? Any special reason?”

  “Only a horsy one. She thinks that, for a horse when he hasn’t got a customer on his back, lunging is sufficient exercise. I certainly don’t agree.”

  “She hasn’t much help at Hurst St. Johns, you see. I don’t really know why she kept on the stables when her old man died. And now I think you ought to come clean. What are you up to, Mrs. G.?”

  “How do you mean? I came over to ask you a question and, after a fashion, you’ve answered it.”

  “Nonsense, my dear Mrs. Gavin! You haven’t thought once about teaming-up with Cissie! You came to get the low-down about something quite different. What was it?”

  “If you’re so clever,” retorted Laura, annoyed that her ruse had failed, “you can answer the question yourself.”

  “Come into the house for a drink, then, and I
will. As a matter of fact, if you hadn’t come to see me, I was going to contact your Dame Bradley.”

  “Dame Beatrice Adela to you! Then you think—?”

  “Wait until we get inside.” He nodded significantly towards the groom. “Matt’s all right, but he loves a gossip as much as does any old woman. We don’t want ugly rumours flying about.”

  They went into the house and Paddy led the way into his big, shabby dining-room which was also the family living-room.

  “How’s Diana?” asked Laura, seating herself by the fire.

  “Only so-so. Our third is expected in May and she doesn’t seem terribly fit. I’m a bit worried, as a matter of fact. She’s off her oats, yet when Pat and young Shaun were coming she ate like a cart-horse. Now, look here,” he went on, cutting short Laura’s civil expressions of concern, “let’s get down to it before she comes in from the kitchen.” He opened the door of the sideboard and brought out in relays a decanter, a siphon, another decanter, and two glasses. “Scotch or sherry? Scotch? Stout woman! Say when. Here you are, squirt for yourself.”

  “Thanks,” said Laura, taking the glass and squirting soda very carefully. “Yes, well, it’s about John’s death. It looks as though he was kicked and trampled by a horse. If that be so, the question is—whose horse?”

  “I know.” Paddy poured himself a generous three fingers which came nearly half-way up the tumbler, looked unenthusiastically at the siphon, shook his head slightly, and raised his glass. “Cheers. I know. That’s the devil of it. But what can anybody do? They won’t even adjourn the inquest. It’ll be all over and done with—Accidental Death—by this time tomorrow, and, anyway, you can’t hang a horse.”