Simon Brett - The Stabbing in the Stables

“Ah.” Sonia realised that she couldn’t keep the scarf up forever. Jude had seen the worst, anyway. She uncovered her face. “I’m sorry I look such a sight. I…er…I had a fall from Chieftain.”

“Chieftain’s lame,” said Jude gently.

“Yes, but he’s on the mend. I thought I’d have a go this morning and then unfortunately…”

“Sonia, I was up at Long Bamber Stables this morning. With Chieftain. In another abortive attempt to heal his lameness.”

“Ah. Yes. Of course.”

Rather than beautiful, her nakedness now looked only vulnerable. Seeming to become aware of this, Sonia reached round for a Yeomansdyke robe and wrapped it around herself.

“Do you want to talk?”

“What, Jude? About what?”

“About your face. About the bruises.”

“No. There’s nothing to say about them. I had an accident, that’s all.”

“But not an accident falling from a horse?”

“No.”

Clearly further information on that subject was not going to be forthcoming. “Actually, I’m glad to have bumped into you, Sonia.” Which was perhaps misleading given the amount of planning that had been involved. “What I’m doing with Chieftain just doesn’t seem to be working, so I’ve set up another healer to have a look at him.”

“Oh? Who’s that?”

“Donal.”

Under her tan Sonia went instantly pale. “Donal? No, I don’t want to have anything to do with Donal. I don’t want him ever to come near my stables again.”

“He’s not coming to your stables. Chieftain’s at Long Bamber.”

“Oh, yes. Of course.”

“Lucinda says he’s very good with the horses.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“I thought it was worth trying. I’ve set him up to come to the stables at eleven in the morning.”

“I suppose it’s worth trying.”

“Do you want to be there when he-”

“No.” The word, almost a shriek, came out far too quickly. “No, I’m booked in here for three nights.”

“All right, then. I can go in the morning, if you like. To the stables.”

“Yes, fine. Or Donal’ll be all right if just Lucinda’s there.”

“I think I might go, anyway.”

“Very well. See that the bill’s sent to me.”

There was a silence. Whatever ease had once existed between the women had dissipated.

“Sonia…”

“What?”

“Is the idea that you stay here till the bruises fade?”

“Maybe. After a few days I can cover anything up with makeup.”

“You make it sound like it’s not the first time you’ve been here in these circumstances.”

“What if it isn’t? I can’t stay round Fethering. I keep meeting people in the streets.”

“This is not that far away.”

“No, but there’s nobody I know up here, none of the members. Most of the members come on breaks from London. There are very few locals. And the staff are paid to be very discreet.”

“Right. Sonia, if there is anything you want to talk about, anything you want to say about-”

“No. Thank you, Jude. There isn’t.”

For Carole Seddon, lying was a big issue. She didn’t have her neighbour’s airy relationship with the truth, something that could be assumed or removed like an extra scarf. But Carole did need to lie. Well, no, to be accurate, she didn’t need to lie, but if she wanted to get to the next stage of investigation, then she had to lie.

And she did want to get to the next stage of investigation. Thinking about Walter Fleet’s murder was the only way she knew of allaying anxieties about Stephen and Gaby’s marriage.

But she was frankly feeling out of the loop on the case. Jude was the one with all the connections to Long Bamber Stables; she could move easily between individuals in an attempt to piece together how Walter Fleet died. But Carole had no one she could contact. Except Hilary Potton. And she couldn’t make that contact without telling a lie.

Having decided she was going to tell one, Carole devoted considerable thought as to what that lie should be. Her former career hadn’t trained her for this. In the Home Office the lying took place at a much higher level than she had ever attained. There it was a reserved occupation for higher civil servants and cabinet ministers. Down at Carole Seddon’s level, the most one was allowed to do was to finesse the truth.

But she was still quietly pleased with what she did eventually come up with. The lie had two qualities that all good ones should have: it couldn’t be disproved by evidence, and it predisposed the person being lied to towards the liar. Having made her selection, Carole was quick to put it to the test. She looked up “Potton” in the local directory and dialled the number.

“Oh, Hilary, it’s Carole Seddon here. You remember, we met at the Seaview Cafe yesterday.”

“Yes, of course.”

“It’s just, after you’d gone, I noticed there was an Allinstore carrier bag with some shopping down near your table, and I wondered if it might have been yours. I gave it to one of the women behind the counter, so she’s going to keep it till it’s picked up.”

Carole reckoned that was pretty safe. Since the carrier bag didn’t exist, Hilary was extremely unlikely to go checking whether it had been handed in.

“Oh, Carole, that’s so thoughtful of you. But no, in fact it wasn’t mine. Certainly not if it was in an Allinstore carrier. I get quite enough of that place when I’m working. The last thing you’re likely to catch me doing is shopping there on my day off.”

“Well, I did what I could. I’m sure the rightful owner will go and pick it up.”

“Yes.”

There was a lull in the conversation, and really no logical reason why it should be extended. Carole had done her good-citizen act, but-unsurprisingly-the conjectural carrier bag had not belonged to Hilary Potton. Time for a final thank-you and good-bye.

Before that could happen, Carole quickly interposed. “You know we were talking yesterday about Walter Fleet’s murder…”

“Yes. I don’t think anyone in Fethering is talking about anything else. Now the police have released their first suspect it seems to be open season on unbridled speculation.”

“I know.” Carole giggled winsomely. “Well, I’m afraid I’m also indulging in that unbridled speculation.”

“Don’t apologise. We all are.”

“I was asking you yesterday what Imogen’s view is-you know, because she knows the Long Bamber set-up so well…? You said she was very upset about what happened.”

“Yes. When I came back from work, she was in a terrible state. Looked like she’d seen a ghost.”

“But she hadn’t actually seen anything?”

“No. She was at school and then home with me. She didn’t go near the stables that day.”

“But has she given any indication of who she thinks might have done it?”

“Not really. She avoids talking about the whole business. But I get the impression…”

“Yes?” Carole prompted.

“…that Immy probably thinks Walter was killed by the Horse Ripper.”

“The one who’s been attacking horses locally?”

“Yes. She’s very devoted to the creatures, as you may have gathered. She thinks someone who’d be up to attacking them with a knife would be capable of any atrocity. In fact, she seemed less worried by Walter Fleet’s death than she was by the threat that the killer posed to Conker and the others.”

Rather the same reaction as his wife had, thought Carole.

“Mind you, that’s not what I think happened,” Hilary Potton went on assertively.

“Oh?”

“Walter Fleet was a bit of a ladies’ man, always chatting everyone up, the kind who always finds the opportunity to put an arm round your shoulder, hold your hand just that little bit longer than is strictly necessary. You know what I mean?”