Simon Brett - The Stabbing in the Stables

“I am glad to hear it. Otherwise I might stamp my little foot”-at least size nine from where Jude was standing-“and be horrid to my little Vixy. Might even make my little Vixy sleep in the spare room.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t, Yolanta.”

“Not now my little Vixy has said he values his Yolanta’s opinion. Not this time. But you be careful, you naughty boy.”

Jude was glad that Lucinda, saddling up Tiger, was not facing her while this trail of yuckiness trickled out. If they’d made eye contact, she’d never have managed to control her laughter.

“I think we should put the gentler bit on him today,” said Lucinda firmly to Victor Brewis.

“What?”

“We used the slotted Kimberwick last time. That was too hard on his mouth.”

“But the slotted Kimberwick gives me more control, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, maybe, but-”

“Listen, I own the bloody animal. I’ll do with it what I think is fit.”

“I’m just thinking of the horse. I don’t want-”

“Mrs. Fleet, will you please put on the slotted Kimberwick! That’s the bit that gives me most control, and I like to be in control.”

Yolanta gigglingly complained about how masterful Vixy always was, while Lucinda pursed her lips and continued preparing Tiger for his master. Then she did the same for Snow Leopard. All the time the Brewises kept up their inane flirtation, stopping only occasionally to berate Lucinda for her slowness.

Their mounting was a sight to be seen. Snow Leopard was a much smaller horse-little more than a pony-and Yolanta had no difficulty getting one foot in the stirrup and swinging her other long leg over. From the way she moved, it looked like she had a personal trainer as well as a personal stylist.

But for Victor Brewis the task wasn’t so easy. Tiger not only towered over him, but the horse also was in no mood to cooperate for someone he had reason to dislike. As Lucinda held the bridle and tried to keep him calm, his owner kept getting one foot in the stirrup, while Tiger himself backed away. The three of them circled round the yard in some kind of grotesque square dance. Jude, who had long since given up any attempt to heal Chieftain’s knee watched, trying not to laugh too openly.

Eventually Victor was up, and with relief Lucinda opened the yard gate and let them out into the paddocks. Yolanta had clearly learnt about horses-perhaps in her Eastern European homeland-and she had quite a good seat. But her husband’s sum of skill was less than zero. From the back, his rotund frame, bouncing on top of the huge horse, had all the elegance of a sack of potatoes.

“They are funny,” said Jude, as Lucinda crossed back towards her.

“Maybe.” The reply was accompanied by a rueful smile. “But it’s less funny when people are actually cruel to the horses.”

“And are they?”

Lucinda screwed up her face. “Only by incompetence. I don’t think Victor Brewis actually does anything that could be reported to the R.S.P.C.A. And I’m afraid I wouldn’t be in a position to report him, anyway.”

“How do you mean?”

“The way things are at the stables right now, I can’t afford to lose two horses. The Brewises are right pains, but they do pay up on time, without fail-unlike some of my other owners.”

“Ah.”

“And they pay for a few little extras, as well. Like me getting the horses saddled up for them. I don’t do that for anyone else, you know…well, except very small kids. Long Bamber’s meant to be just D.I.Y. livery.” She sighed. “No, I’m afraid I’m stuck with them.”

“But the way he talked to you…”

“That’s how he gets his kicks, Jude. He doesn’t realise it, but he gets charged extra for being rude to me. Victor Brewis, you see, suffers from small-man syndrome-just loves throwing his weight around.”

“Born to rule, eh?”

“Far from it. People who’re born to rule never act so autocratically. It’s only people who’re embarrassed about where they come from who behave like that.”

“You’re right. And I’m sorry, I must ask you…slotted Kimberwick?”

“It’s a horse’s bit. Acts as brakes on the horse, actually. There are two slots for the reins, according to how much pressure you want to put on the horse’s tongue. It’s quite a tough bit for a horse with as soft a mouth as Tiger’s.”

“Okay, I think I get it. More or less.”

Lucinda smiled a smile of small triumph. “Mind you, I didn’t put the slotted Kimberwick on Tiger.”

“But Victor Brewis thinks you did.”

“Yes.” Lucinda Fleet winked. “Which shows exactly how much he knows about matters equestrian.”

Jude grinned and looked up at the tall horse beside her. “I’m sorry, trying to do any healing on Chieftain was impossible with all that going on.”

“I’m not surprised. Do you want to have another go, now that things have quietened down?”

“No. My concentration’s shot to pieces. I won’t be any good now.”

“Okay.” Lucinda undid the rope from the rail, and led the horse away. “Come on, Chieftain boy, you get back inside. Be nice and warm in there, and you can get back to your salt lick.”

Jude followed her, rather disconsolately. “I don’t know that I’m ever going to help him much. First time I’ve tried healing a horse, and it doesn’t seem to be going too well.”

Lucinda didn’t disagree or offer words of comfort. Instead she said, “Maybe I should get Donal to take a look at the old boy.”

“Is Donal around? Have you seen him since his little session with the police.”

“No, but he’ll be round the yard sometime soon,” said Lucinda as she bolted Chieftain back into his stall. “The original bad penny, that Donal.”

“I’d be interested to meet him.” Then, covering up, Jude added, “I mean, to talk about horse healing, that kind of thing.”

“Well, as I say, he’s bound to be round here before too long. Or, if you really want to find him…”

“Yes?”

“He always drinks up at the Cheshire Cheese-you know, up in Fedborough. It’s near George Tufton’s racing stables. All his lads drink in the Cheese. And, unless he’s been banned again, that’s where you’ll find Donal.”

Well, thank you, Lucinda, thought Jude. You really have been most helpful.

There were a couple of hostelries in Fedborough that Carole and Jude had got to know quite well during a previous investigation. But not the Cheshire Cheese.

It was a dark, low-ceilinged pub, which, unlike most in the town, had made no concessions to attracting the tourist trade. The others all claimed that the gleaming brasswork of their rustic interiors, their open fires and their hearty gastro-menus recreated how English pubs used to be. The Cheshire Cheese, however, was how English pubs really used to be: dingy, and quite possibly grubby beneath the gloom. The dark wood counter and tables looked as though they would be sticky to the touch. The smell of old beer and tobacco seemed to have permeated the very walls of the place.

Jude was subjected to another tradition of old English pubs as she entered: a cessation of the low-level chatter that had been going on and a circle of baleful eyes cast towards the unrecognised newcomer. Undeterred, but aware of the eyes following her, she strode boldly up to the bar. An anaemic girl looked up grudgingly from her copy of Hello! magazine, but didn’t say anything.

“Could I have a glass of white wine, please? Do you have a chardonnay?”

“We got white wine,” said the girl, who then produced a half-full screw-top bottle from a cold shelf. In the murk Jude couldn’t assess the cleanliness of the wineglass, which was probably just as well.

But she could assess that this was not a situation for subtlety of approach. “I’m looking for a man called Donal. Expert on horses. I’m told he often drinks in here.”