Simon Brett - The Stabbing in the Stables

All of this seemed possible. Yolanta, as she proudly told them, had designed the room herself, and Yolanta’s design style favoured excess. If you had one object you liked in a room, how much better to have two. Or three. Or four.

And her approach to decor had its own consistency. Having taken the controversial decision not to attempt recapturing the house’s original Georgian period style, she eschewed all other period styles too. The room was a one-off. It could never be reproduced anywhere else. So, thought Carole and Jude, there was a God after all.

As they looked around, the phrase “tart’s boudoir” sprang to Jude’s mind (and would have sprung to Carole’s if she’d ever heard it).

Yolanta ushered them in to sit between turquoise teddy bears on the silver leather. “I would offer you hot drinks, but”-she shrugged-“as I say, the kitchen…”

“Don’t worry.”

“I have alcohol.” She gestured to a wrought iron and onyx drinks trolley, which-quite an achievement in the narrow field of wrought iron and onyx furniture-managed to clash with the wrought iron and onyx bar.

“No, really, thank you.”

“A bit early in the day for me.”

“Yes…” Yolanta looked rather wistfully at a vodka bottle, but seemed to decide, now she had moved into the area, she’d better conform to the customs of other members of the local equestrian society.

“Is your husband not here?” asked Carole.

“No. He is away all this week. In Nigeria. Victor has to work.” Yolanta made a wide gesture, encompassing the whole room. “To pay for all this.” She laughed, in a way that was not entirely kind.

There was a silence. Jude was tempted to break it, but that would have shown lack of trust in Carole’s agenda. The first part of the plan had certainly worked. Yolanta Brewis had fallen for the social-climbing bait. Would Carole be able to move with equal success on to the subject of blackmail? No doubt she had some subtle approach up her sleeve.

But “subtle” was probably not the best word to describe what Carole said next. “We’re really here to talk about blackmail.”

“Blackmail?” Yolanta Brewis was totally thrown. “You are here to blackmail me?”

“Good heavens, no. I’m sure there’d never be any reason for someone like you to be blackmailed. But there is someone connected with the local equestrian community who is going around blackmailing people.”

“You are suggesting I am a blackmailer?”

Dear oh dear, Yolanta did seem very touchy on the subject of blackmail. Perhaps with reason, thought Carole, as she went smoothly on. “Of course not, Mrs. Brewis! What an idea! No, we are trying to find the person who is perpetrating this blackmail, and so we are speaking to anyone in the area who rides, and particularly people who have some kind of connection with Long Bamber Stables. I gather from my friend Jude here that you and your husband have horses there.”

“We do. Tiger and Snow Leopard,” came the automatic reply.

“There’s a man who hangs around the stables at Long Bamber, an Irishman called Donal Geraghty. I don’t know if you know him…?”

“Perhaps,” she replied cautiously. “Round the stables there are always so many people. Perhaps I recognise this man but do not know his name.”

“Well, we’re desperate to find him. This is why we are going round asking everyone who has any connection with Long Bamber if they know where he might be. We need to find Donal Geraghty very urgently.”

“But why is this so urgent for you?”

It would be hard to say whether Yolanta Brewis or Jude was more surprised by what Carole said next. “Because he’s blackmailing me. I need to find him to hand over a payment or”-she really was getting carried away with her performance; there was a genuine sob in her throat as she said, “or he’ll reveal everything.”

“Ah.” Yolanta was thoughtful. And she also seemed a little amused by this middle-aged, middle-class woman, this apparent icon of Fethering rectitude, admitting to being blackmailed. What criminality or deviancy, she was clearly thinking, could this paragon have committed to make her valuable to Donal Geraghty?

She made her decision. “I can tell you where Donal is.”

“Oh?”

“He is very close. Here in the estate there are stables. Not the stable block behind the house, the one we are going to turn into a swimming pool. But in the estate there is a small farm- was a small farm I should say. Now it is-what is the word? Delerict?”

“Derelict.”

“Ah. Yes. It is over”-she pointed out of the window-“over there, beyond the trees. You see?”

“Yes.”

“That is where Donal is at the moment…living, I don’t know…hiding, perhaps? He has been giving us some advice on buying racehorses. We say thank you by letting him stay in the stables for a while. Tit for tat-is that the expression?”

It didn’t seem worth saying that that wasn’t exactly the expression, no.

“It is very convenient for him to be here, I think. Just for a little while.”

Also very convenient for you. You can keep an eye on him. And if his blackmail demands become too pressing…Neither Carole nor Jude could forget the implicit threat they had overheard from Victor Brewis at Fontwell.

“Do you mind if we go and see if Donal is there now?” asked Jude.

Yolanta opened her hands wide in a gesture of permission. Very much Lady Bountiful. Yes, she would enjoy the condescension that went with her position as lady of the manor. Whether the Great and the Good of West Sussex would welcome her and Victor with open arms, well, that remained to be seen.

“Can we drive there?” asked Carole.

“No, is not possible. I think once there was a track went from the house across there. Not anymore. Then there is an old gate from the farm out onto the road, but you have to drive right round the walls of the estate. Five miles perhaps. You are quicker to walk.”

They took their leave of their hostess, both complimenting her on her “lovely house,” and Jude even mischievously saying, “I’m sure you can’t wait till you get the rest of the place up to the standard of this room.”

As they walked across the damp grass towards the old farm, Jude made a mock obeisance to her neighbour. “Well, what a performance. I didn’t know you had that kind of deviousness in you.”

“Oh, it just seemed the most sensible approach to take,” said Carole, outwardly casual, but inwardly delighted.

Though the grass was wet underfoot, fortunately both of them were wearing sensible shoes (Carole scarcely possessed any others). As they approached the wooded area, they could see the outlines of what had once been the estate’s home farm, but was now in a worse state of dilapidation than the manor itself. Many years had elapsed since the premises were last inhabited, and many before that since any maintenance work had been done on the property. The farmhouse appeared to have suffered from a fire at some point. Its roof was a cage of blackened rafters, and the barns around sagged, broken-backed. Presumably, in an area of barn-conversion mania like West Sussex, only the fact that the buildings belonged to Cordham Manor had prevented their being developed.

“I bet the Brewises have got planning applications in for this lot,” murmured Carole. “Didn’t you say he made his money in property development?”

“Yes. I wonder what Yolanta would like to convert this into.”

Carole’s shudder was as evocative an answer as any number of words would have been.

They stopped for a moment to assess their next move. There was an element of potential danger in what they were doing. Donal Geraghty was presumably lying low because he didn’t want to be found, and, though they didn’t really represent any threat to him, Carole and Jude knew his propensity for violence. Caution was advisable.