Simon Brett - The Stabbing in the Stables

But the thought came too late, the phone was already ringing, and-to her surprise-it was answered. By Gaby.

“Oh, sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone to be there.”

“Carole. It’s good to hear you.” But Gaby’s words sounded automatic. There was no energy. The natural bubbliness of her personality seemed to have gone flat.

“I just thought it had been a while since we…”

“Yes.”

“So you’re both all right, are you?”

“Fine, yes. Stephen’s very busy at work.”

“So what else is new?”

“Exactly.”

“And you?”

“Yes, fine.”

“I meant work, because surely today’s a working day…?”

“Yes, I’m having a day off. Few things I’ve got to catch up with round the house.”

“But you’re okay?”

“Absolutely fine, yes.” But the listlessness with which the words were said was at odds with their meaning.

“Well…I was thinking it would be nice for us to get together again soon.”

“Yes, yes, it would.” But no pursuit of the idea, no suggestions, no consultation of diaries.

“Fine, Gaby. Well, I’ll give you a call again when…maybe an evening…talk when Stephen’s there.”

“That might be better. He has so many more demands on his time than I do, I don’t dare make arrangements without consulting him.” As an excuse, it was perfectly acceptable, but Carole still sensed an unwillingness in Gaby to fix a meeting.

“Right. Well, I’ll call soon then. And,” she went on haltingly, “do give Stephen my love.” Such words of effusiveness did not come naturally to her.

“Yes, of course I will.”

“Well, good to talk to you, Gaby.”

“And you.”

“And look forward to meeting up soon.”

“Mm.”

“Good-bye then.”

“Bye.”

As she switched off the phone, Carole wished she hadn’t made the call. Her paranoia had only increased. Before she had spoken to Gaby, she could still nurture the fantasy that everything was all right, but now she’d heard the lack of enthusiasm in her daughter-in-law’s voice, that was no longer possible.

What on earth could be wrong? Feeling lousy and taking a day off work could be a sign of early pregnancy, but if that were the case, surely Gaby would have told her. And she wouldn’t have sounded so doomy. That was the really distressing thing about the call-that the normally ebullient Gaby had sounded so down, so positively depressed.

Oh dear. Please God there wasn’t something going wrong in the marriage. Guilt for the effect her own breakup with David had had on Stephen swelled within her.

She had another look at the Times crossword. The clues might as well have been written in a foreign language.

It wasn’t working. Jude couldn’t identify what was wrong, but she knew it wasn’t working.

She could feel the warmth from Chieftain’s knee, which felt almost as though it were burning between her hands. But she was imparting no answering warmth to the horse.

Healing doesn’t always work, Jude knew, but on this occasion she felt it was her fault. Her concentration was straying. While she should have been channelling all her energy into the injured knee, she was distracted by other thoughts. She was aware of the unidentified pain within the woman standing at her side. She was aware of the confusion within the apparently carefree child cantering round the paddock on Conker. Usually she managed to shut her mind to such extraneous concerns, but that afternoon she couldn’t.

Maybe if she was alone with Chieftain, in his stall perhaps, with no distractions? But would he tolerate that? Would he feel sufficiently at ease without the familiar presence of his owner?

Jude released her hold on Chieftain and straightened up.

“Done the job?” asked Sonia eagerly.

A rueful shake of the head. “Doesn’t feel like it, I’m afraid.”

“But there is something wrong with the knee? That’s where the trouble is?”

“Oh yes, I can feel that.”

“Well, what are you going to do about him?” In Sonia’s voice there was both disappointment at the failure and the peremptory expectation of someone who had always expected good service.

“All I can do is try again another day. I’m sorry. I’m wrong today. I can’t clear my head sufficiently to get a proper focus. Maybe I’m the wrong person, anyway. You should have gone to someone who specialises in horses in the first place.”

“Ah.” Sonia didn’t pick up the suggestion, or explain why she hadn’t consulted an expert. “Oh, well…” She shrugged. “I’ll put him back in his stall. You won’t like that, will you, boy? Whenever I bring him out, he thinks we’re going for a ride. Gets very disappointed when nothing happens.”

Chieftain expressed his disappointment with a bit of half-hearted rearing and some disgruntled whinnying, but, bowing to the strength of his mistress’s personality, allowed himself to be shut back into his loose box.

“Come on, Imogen,” Sonia called out as she locked the bottom half of Chieftain’s door. “That’s enough.”

“Oh, can’t I stay out a bit longer?”

“No. It’s getting dark. Now, I can trust you to put Conker back safely, can’t I?”

“Yes, of course, Mrs. Dalrymple.” Imogen walked back towards them. Girl and pony looked equally dispirited by the curtailment of their fun. The dark clouds of the real world seemed to gather over Imogen’s head.

And the dark clouds of the encroaching night also lowered over the three women.

“You remember where the saddle and tack go, don’t you?”

“Of course, Mrs. Dalrymple.”

“Make sure it’s all neat. And, before you leave her, check Conker’s got plenty of water…and that her hay net’s full.”

“Yes, Mrs. Dalrymple.”

“Then come through to the kitchen. I’ll have some tea ready.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Dalrymple.”

In the kitchen Sonia produced a very tasty-looking fruitcake, and Jude had no inhibitions about taking a slice.

“Shop-bought, I’m afraid. My cake-making skills are not up to much.”

“I don’t think anybody’s are these days. Nobody’s got the time.”

“Oh, I’ve got the time,” said Sonia rather bleakly. Then quickly she recovered herself. “I keep buying cakes-it’s mad. Keep thinking the twins are going to come thundering in from school, as hungry as horses and…well…”

“A time of adjustment,” Jude suggested.

“Yes. Just that.”

But this wasn’t the moment to probe deeper into Sonia’s unhappiness. In a strange way, it would almost have felt unprofessional. The woman was a client, but this afternoon’s meeting was not being conducted on that basis. Jude moved the conversation on.

“Are Imogen’s parents actually divorced yet?”

“No, it’s in the process. That awful stage where they haven’t quite got their accommodation sorted. They’re both round the house at different times, trying to avoid each other. And then occasionally they do meet and there’s yet another row. Or at least,” she added hastily, “that’s what Imogen’s told me.”

“Can’t be much fun for her.”

“No, and she spends most of the time with her mother, which can’t help.”

“Oh?”

“Hilary Potton is a Grade A cow. Very self-absorbed and neurotic. I don’t think Immy gets much support from her-poor girl has to use most of her energy propping up a hysterical mother.”

“And what about the father?”

“Don’t know a lot about him. Think he’s called Alec, but…”

“Is he fond of Imogen?”

“Oh yes. Well, I assume he is. Fathers usually are fond of their daughters, aren’t they? Not to say besotted.”

“Is that how Nicky is with your girls?”