Twelve Horses and the Hangman's Noose (Mrs. Bradley) Read online

  “I suppose I should, your worship.”

  “There is no need to give me that title. You may stand down now. Call Doctor Rollins.”

  Rollins was called and sworn. He agreed to his name and address and to the fact that he was in private practice in Wandles Parva.

  “Now, Doctor,” went on the coroner, “you were called to the Elkstonehunt riding stables at just before seven on the morning of last Tuesday, twenty-third February?”

  “Yes. I received a telephone message from the last witness.”

  “Will you tell the jury, please, about your visit? They will wish all relevant details.”

  “I was still in bed when the call came through, but I made what haste I could to the Elkstonehunt stables. I was met at the gate to the stables by Richard Jenkinson and he conducted me to number five loose-box. He had provided a stable lantern so that I could examine the interior of the loose-box. John Mapsted was lying across the middle of the floor. He was dead. His skull had been fractured. I don’t know whether you want the scientific anatomical terms?”

  “Now, Doctor, in your opinion, was the fractured skull the cause of death?”

  “And shock. I conducted a post-mortem examination later, under better conditions, and there is no doubt in my mind that death had probably followed a short period of unconsciousness, and had taken place some five to seven hours before I was called to the stables.”

  There was a considerable stir in the court.

  “In your view, could the fatal injury have been caused by a blow from a horse’s hoof?”

  “Yes, but I couldn’t swear that it was so caused, of course.”

  “Thank you, Doctor Rollins. Recall Richard Jenkinson.”

  Jenkinson, looking startled, returned to the witness-box.

  “Now, Jenkinson, just one more thing.” said the coroner. “You have heard Doctor Rollins’s evidence that Mr. Mapsted’s death could have been caused by a kick from a horse. Can you tell us anything which might serve to show that the horse in question was—er—” he referred to his notes—“the horse named Percheron?”

  “I can that,” said Jenkinson. “’is left-fore was sticky wi’ blood before I washed it down.”

  “Thank you. That is all. Would any member of the jury like to ask the witness a question before he stands down?”

  “Yes, I ’ud,” said a farm-hand named Green. “I know the horse Percherong and I know his reppitation. Will Dick Jenkinson tell us how it were safe for Doctor Rollins to go into his stable to examine poor Jack as it appear he done?”

  “An excellent point, Mr. Green. Well, Jenkinson?”

  “I ’ad the ’orse out of the stable before Doctor Rollins went in. It wouldn’t have bin safe for ’im otherwise. Any fool except Freddie Green ’ud know that.”

  “I also should like to ask a question,” said another juror. “Who else, besides Jenkinson, saw blood on the horse’s forefoot?”

  “Nobody,” growled the witness. “Soon as I’d tied ’im up I ’osed ’is ’oof and the floor of the stable, too. ’E’d ’ave gorn mad, otherwise, wi’ the smell of the blood.”

  “Thank you,” said the juror, and Jenkinson stood down. The next witness was the veterinary surgeon, Andrew Scott. After the usual preliminaries the coroner said:

  “You asked to be called. What is it you have to say?”

  “Only this, sir. I understand that Mr. Mapsted’s death took place somewhere around midnight.”

  “That is so.”

  “Well, in my experience—and I’ve been in my profession fifteen years—if a horse is going to make a noise, squealing and so on, while he’s savaging a man, he makes the noise at the time he’s doing the job. He doesn’t wait for several hours and then put on a fit of hysterics.”

  “And what conclusion are we expected to draw from your remarks, Mr. Scott?”

  “Either that Doctor Rollins misread the signs of the time of death,” said Scott bluntly, “which I don’t for a moment believe, or else there’s some mystery here which I think we ought to fathom.”

  “Mystery?” said the coroner. “When a man is found kicked on the head, and is lying dead in the stable of a notably savage horse, I don’t see much mystery, Mr. Scott.”

  “I should like to ask the witness a question,” put in Miss Rye. “Mr. Scott, you have told us that you have had fifteen years’ experience in your profession. How many times have you known a horse to savage its owner?”

  “Once only, madam.”

  “Will you tell us the circumstances?”

  “The man was a brute, and the horse turned berserk on him.”

  “Was John Mapsted brutal to his horses?”

  “On the contrary. He was one of the best fellows with horses I’ve ever known.”

  “Nevertheless,” said the coroner, “you would agree, I take it, that horses, like human beings, do unaccountable things at times?”

  “They are much less likely to do unaccountable things than human beings, sir, in my experience.”

  “But Percheron was known to have been a savage horse. It is common knowledge in the neighbourhood, I believe.”

  “I don’t agree he was a savage horse, sir. That is an exaggeration. I would call him a naughty horse. Actually, I suspect him of having a sense of humour. I believe he gets a kick out of frightening people.”

  “A kick seems to be the mot juste,” commented the coroner acidly. “Call Miss Cecile Gauberon.”

  Cissie, trim in a black costume which somehow indicated the French nationality which, up to this time, had rarely been suspected by the village, tripped cosily into the witness-box and took the oath in a tragic and theatrical voice.

  “Now, Miss—er—Mademoiselle Gauberon,” began the coroner.

  “Miss, please.”

  “Very well. You were John Mapsted’s business partner, I believe?”

  “Yes. We were partners for seven years.”

  “You have heard the witnesses Jenkinson and Scott, and you have also heard Doctor Rollins. Can you suggest any reason why John Mapsted should have gone to Percheron’s loose-box at about midnight last Monday—Tuesday?”

  “I don’t think he did,” said Cissie Gauberon with the calmness of a woman who is about to create a sensation.

  “But, Miss Gauberon, you have Doctor Rollins’s professional opinion that death took plate at about midnight.”

  “I don’t doubt that it did. What I doubt is whether it took place in Percheron’s stable, or, in fact, at Elkstonehunt at all.”

  “Now, really, Miss Gauberon!”

  “Well, I’m sorry if I seem to be throwing a spanner into the works,” said Cissie blithely, “but considering that at ten o’clock on Monday night John spoke to me on the telephone from Seahampton, you’ll see why I’m a bit doubtful about this Percheron business, especially as I don’t believe for a moment that the horse would savage anybody.”

  “Percheron is a valuable horse, I believe?”

  “It depends on what you call valuable. He could be, I suppose, if he’d run a bit faster, but that’s past praying for.”

  “I was not referring to his speed. I refer to the fact that if it is proved he killed John Mapsted you would be morally bound to part with him—in fact, to have him shot.”

  “It won’t be proved he killed John,” said Cissie Gauberon, flatly. “The people who know the horse know to the contrary. If John was killed by a horse, that horse wasn’t Percheron.”

  “You are naturally prejudiced, Miss Gauberon. The jury believe that you mean what you say. They also believe that you are mistaken. What happened seems quite clear. You say that John Mapsted telephoned you at ten o’clock from Seahampton, but Seahampton is not so far away that he could not have reached the Elkstonehunt stables between eleven o’clock and one, surely?”

  “But the message was to say that he wouldn’t be back until Thursday, and to remind me to get the vet—that’s Andrew Scott there—to have a look at Viatka, who’d got a nasty kick that he couldn’t account for.
”

  “He could have changed his mind about coming back, I presume? And his mother, Mrs. Emily Mapsted, said nothing in her evidence of his having been absent from home on the night in question.”

  “You’d better recall her, then.”

  “Well,” said the coroner, “it does need a little explanation, this Seahampton business, for the groom, Richard Jenkinson, did not mention it either.”

  “It could be he didn’t know.”

  “But Mrs. Mapsted, you think, did know?”

  “I couldn’t say, I’m sure.”

  Recalled, old Mrs. Mapsted adhered firmly to her previous statements.

  “I went to bed at my usual time, nine-thirty,” she said, “leaving my son downstairs. If he went out after that, I know nothing of it.”

  The jury retired for five minutes and returned a majority verdict of Death by Misadventure.

  “And,” said the foreman, “us would like to put on to that as four on us don’t believe it was Percherong, sir.”

  “You cannot put such an opinion forward,” said the coroner.

  “Us ’ud like to add,” said the unabashed farmer, “as how we’m puzzled, like, about the disagreement, so to say, atween young Cissie Gauberon and old Mrs. Mapsted as to where Jack Mapsted got himself to last Tuesday night.”

  “I shall put down your verdict and nothing else,” said the coroner sternly, “and I may add, for your information, that I concur in it. One of the two witnesses you name must be mistaken. Ladies are notorious, I believe”—he smiled acidly—“for having very little sense of time.”

  “Well!” said Laura Gavin to Dame Beatrice when they were in the open air again. “What on earth made Cissie Gauberon tell those lies!”

  A figure familiar to both joined them.

  “Interesting little murder-case,” said Detective Chief-Inspector Robert Gavin.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” demanded his wife. “I thought you were on that Teddy-boy business in—”

  “Cleared up, I’m glad to say. The chap didn’t die, fortunately for those miserable little thugs, but they’ve got theirs! I’ve only popped down for the day, though. Got to get back tonight.”

  “Did you tip him off about our inquest?” demanded Laura of Dame Beatrice.

  “I thought it might interest him.”

  “It did,” said Gavin with emphasis. “You saw the body, I believe, Dame B?”

  “Yes, I saw it.”

  “What did you think?”

  “It could have been a kick from a horse.”

  “Or it could have been our old pal, the blunt instrument?”

  “There was nothing to show which it was.”

  “I still want to know why Cissie Gauberon lied,” said Laura.

  “For the best of reasons, if she did,” said Dame Beatrice. “Maybe Miss Gauberon, like you, and like our dear Robert here, strongly feels that the death was no accident; therefore perhaps she has done what she can to make certain that the police, whose olfactory organs function well when the odour of rodent is in the least perceptible, will at least undertake a watching brief in the affair.”

  “Why do you think it was the young woman who was lying?” demanded Gavin. “Why shouldn’t it have been the old mother?”

  “Just a hunch,” said his wife airily. “I don’t think old Mrs. Mapsted would lie, especially on oath, whereas Cissie, who’s done a bit of horse-dealing in her time, has about as much respect for the truth as a professional witness in the Orient.”

  “I think the two of them may be in collusion,” said Dame Beatrice. “Flatly contradictory evidence, such as they gave, was very likely a mutual arrangement, I would say. But, of course, the main point is that Miss Gauberon doesn’t want Percheron shot.”

  “Good Lord!” said Gavin. “You do see life in rural Hampshire! Well, this is where I put you into your limousine while I myself roll away in the direction of the Forest Pony. I want my lunch. All this ‘old swearing’ has created a vacuum in my interior, and it is well known that nature, especially male human nature, abhors a vacuum.”

  “Oh, they do an awful lunch at the Forest Pony,” said Laura. “Can’t you come to lunch with us?”

  “I shall be mortally offended if he does not,” said her employer, “and Henri would never forgive me. He has for our dear Robert a passionate admiration. He dotes on his figure, his clothes, his prowess as an officer of the law, his brains, his charm, and his uncanny fluency in the Gallic tongue; and Célestine has been in love with him for years.”

  “You dare smirk!” muttered Laura to her spouse.

  CHAPTER 5

  STABLE TALK

  To Ditto ½ years Horse Tax pd 0. 10. 0. I pay for 1 Male Servant, 2 Female Servants, and for 2 Horses. For every Male Servant per Annum 2. 10. 0. For every Female Servant per Annum 0. 10. 0. For every Horse, for riding per Annum 0. 10. 0.

  PARSON WOODFORDE

  Laura, undeterred by Dame Beatrice’s broad hints that she would do far more harm than good by interfering in matters which would only become a source of village gossip, or worse, if she persisted, rode over to Hurst St. Johns on the following day to talk to Merial Trowse.

  She found the proprietress of the riding-school there dosing a seedy-looking mare, and stood by sympathetically while this was accomplished.

  “Poor old Susan,” said Miss Trowse. “Pump for me, would you?” She rinsed her mannish-looking hands under the icy water which Laura obligingly drew for her, and added, as she dried them on the coarse apron she was wearing over her breeches, “I suppose you don’t want a job as unpaid stableboy?”

  “I shouldn’t mind if you lived a bit nearer,” Laura replied. She did not like Merial Trowse, but she knew that she was extremely poor and probably partially starved herself in order to feed her horses. “But, as a matter of fact, I didn’t come over on horse-business exactly. At least, I did, and yet not, if you take me.”

  “Can’t say I do, Mrs. Gav. Come again.”

  “I went to the inquest yesterday. It was all of a queer do. I can’t get John out of my mind.”

  “Oh?” said Merial, giving Laura a sharp glance out of eyes like two grey marbles. “That’s funny, because I can’t, either. Something very fishy there, Mrs. Gav.”

  “I’m glad you think so. What can we do about it?”

  “Do? Can’t do anything. What would there be to do?”

  “Find his murderer,” said Laura boldly. “You know more about the neighbourhood than I do. Is there a horse—not Percheron—anywhere around here capable of savaging a man as John was savaged?”

  “Oh, a horse!” said Merial, in a tone of great relief. “I thought for a minute that you meant a real murderer. Yes, there’s that stallion over at Grinsted’s farm. He’d eat a rhinoceros if he could get at one. Grinsted’s getting rid of him, I think.”

  “But what would John have been doing at Grinsted’s farm to be killed by the stallion?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” said Merial, gritting her teeth, which were almost as large as those of the mare she had been dosing. “You knew that John and I were thinking of teaming-up, I suppose?”

  “I heard something,” said Laura, suddenly embarrassed. “I say, I’m awfully sorry. I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have—”

  “Talked about him and murder? Why not?” asked Merial. “I wasn’t thinking of marrying him, if that’s what you understood when I talked of teaming-up. It was to be a business partnership. I was going to sell up here and take my nags over to his place. He’s got—he had—a better business head than mine will ever be; on the other hand, I’ve a better hand with the gees.”

  “I see,” said Laura. “You don’t suppose—I mean, is there any reason to think that somebody didn’t want that partnership to materialise?”

  “So you did mean a real murderer,” said Merial. “Yes, there is one person—I’ll leave you to guess who—who certainly wouldn’t have been very pleased.”

  “I see,” said Laura. “All your stri
ng out except Susan?” she added, in an off-hand tone. She wanted time to think.

  “All my string!” Merial Trowse snorted with laughter. “All my string nowadays consists of six old cart-horse types dignified by the name of hacks. I tell you I’m on the rocks. I’ll have to sell up and clear out soon. I’m going to be kennel-maid to those new Boxer-dog people on the other side of Ferndown.”

  “Kennel-maid?” Laura looked suitably horrified.

  “More. I’m booked at Easter for an equestrian act with Sachem’s, the big-top place just outside Seahampton. Know it? You know—all the fun of the fair, with a circus thrown in.”

  “Good Lord!”

  “I know. But what can I do? All my life I’ve been with horses. Dogs’ll be a change, that’s one thing, but I can’t live with nothing but dogs.”

  “How old are you?” enquired Laura, deeming this a question to be put as bluntly as possible in order to make it inoffensive.

  “I know,” said Merial again. “I’m forty-two. Still, I’ve kept my figure pretty well, and I’m going to wear breeches and boots. No tights and spangles, thank you. I’ve insisted on that. You wouldn’t like to help me finish mucking-out, I suppose, while you’re here? I can lend you some jeans.”

  Laura, good-natured “in spots,” as she herself expressed it, was so desirous of continuing what seemed to be a promising conversation that she agreed at once, and went indoors with Merial to change breeches and boots for the jeans. She took off her hacking jacket, too, and reappeared prepared for the work. Nothing would have induced Laura to lift a finger to perform any ordinary household task—a point which she had explained clearly to Detective Chief-Inspector Gavin before she married him, but cleaning out stables and pig-sties came under no ban where she was concerned. She would likewise hew wood and draw water, take a bicycle to pieces, knock a handy nail or two into a piece of wood, remove or put in screws correctly and competently—all, in her view, activities not prejudicial to human dignity; but the usual domestic work of women she held to be beneath contempt, an attitude which had freed her in her youth from several detestable chores.

  “Thanks a lot. You’re a sport,” said Merial, when the task was concluded. “They’ll be coming back soon. What about a drink?”