Gently at a Gallop (3 page)

‘The Home Farm, High Hale,’ Bayfield said promptly. ‘It’s a stallion, belongs to the farmer, Nat Creke. Says it was in its loose-box all day, just went out for exercise in the evening. I think he was telling the truth, sir.’

‘Then there’s a gelding at the Old Rectory, sir,’ Docking said. ‘Belongs to a Mr Brooke, an accountant. It was in its paddock. Several people saw it.’

Gently nodded slowly. ‘And that’s the lot?’

‘Unless someone fetched a horse in from elsewhere, sir.’

‘And we’re quite certain that a horse and nothing else killed Berney?’

Docking stared. Then he opened his file.

In effect, they’d called in a vet; but the photographs showed what little doubt there could have been. Berney’s mangled body amongst the trampled heather evoked a frightful image of what had taken place. The horse had reared and come down on Berney, punching its hooves through flesh and bone; several times. Chest and skull were crushed, and a cruel trademark left in the face. Tantalizingly, this was the only hoofprint. The packed, gravelly soil showed nothing but scuff-marks. A report attached to the photographs revealed that a wide area had been searched with no better luck.

‘Could you get a car to the spot?’

‘Not into the valley, sir,’ Docking said. ‘You could perhaps get a Land-Rover somewhere near it.’

‘Any signs of that?’

Docking shook his head.

So that was it. There had to be a horse – local or imported, they’d have to find him. Though it meant searching every shed and farm building in the district, and perhaps checking horses over half the county.

Gently finished the tepid remains of his second lager. ‘Let’s get back to Berney,’ he said. ‘If Berney was running true to form, then there’s one person who’d probably know it. What does Mrs Berney tell us?’

‘Not very much,’ Banham said, mopping. ‘I’ve had a couple of talks with the lady, and either she doesn’t know or she’s not saying. The way she tells it Berney had reformed, had never looked at another woman since he was married. It was all sweetness and light, with him having found the right woman at last.’

‘How does she account for Berney’s actions on Tuesday?’

‘She just about called me a liar,’ Banham said. ‘She won’t believe he booked a room in Starmouth, nor that he never intended going to London. Berney was hoaxed, that’s her line. Somebody kidded him about the board meeting. Then, when somehow he tumbled to it, they lured him on to the heath and did him.’

Gently hesitated. ‘He did book that room?’

‘Yes. The manager of the Britannic knew Berney by sight. When he saw the paper he gave us a ring, and we collected “Timson’s” case. It was Berney’s.’

‘Intriguing,’ Gently said. He twirled his empty glass for a moment. ‘If Mrs Berney were only partly right, it might account for a point that’s been puzzling me.’

‘What point is that?’ Banham asked.

‘Berney’s behaviour,’ Gently said. ‘It sticks out the more because of what you’ve been telling me – that Berney was a sure-fire, hell-bent womanizer. Yet here we have him making extravagant arrangements, driving miles, waiting for hours – and for what? He isn’t even going to spend the night with this woman. At the most, he’s going to roll her on the heath. He could have taken her in on his afternoon’s stroll.’

Banham shifted uneasily, his chair creaking. ‘Perhaps he couldn’t shake off his missus.’

‘Why not? He needed only to tell her he was going in to the office.’

‘She might have checked, sir,’ Docking said.

‘She might have checked anyway,’ Gently said. ‘And if she did, a man of Berney’s calibre would have had a ready lie. No, it doesn’t add up. Berney had too much campaign experience. On top of which we have to remember he’s only just married a young wife. What’s she like?’

Banham wagged his shoulders. ‘Attractive. Struck me as being quite a bomb. One thing, though.’

‘What?’

‘She’s pregnant. It’s been known to put a man off.’

Gently shrugged. ‘All the same! Perhaps her ideas aren’t so crazy. Berney may have lied to her about the board meeting, and still there needn’t be a woman involved. If Berney was really in love with his wife then he’d be vulnerable to blackmail, and a blackmail threat makes a better motive for the way he behaved on Tuesday.’

Banham stared sweatily. One of the D.C.s murmured to Docking. Docking dug into the file again and came up with a report sheet.

‘About Berney’s relations with his wife, sir.’

Gently flicked the glass. ‘Well?’

‘Detective Constable Lubbock had a chat with Mrs Haynes, who’s the domestic help up at the Lodge. She was there on Monday evening, giving a hand with Berney’s birthday party. She says that Berney had a letter, and that his wife snatched it from him.’

‘Just like that?’ Gently said.

‘Sir,’ D.C. Lubbock said, flushing. ‘It was after the party, when the guests were gone. Mrs Haynes was collecting dirty glasses. The lounge door was ajar, and she glanced through it into the hall. She saw Berney reading a letter, then Mrs Berney grabbed it off him.’

‘Was there a row?’

‘No, sir. Berney just stood there looking foolish.’

‘And this, of course, was a love-letter?’

D.C. Lubbock blushed silently.

Docking rustled the report sheet. ‘
I
reckoned it would be a love-letter, sir,’ he said ‘It seemed to make a bit of sense, knowing what we do about Berney. So then the lady would be lying when she says Berney’d finished with other women. And that makes sense too, sir – she wouldn’t want to admit he was still at it.’

Gently flicked the glass again. It produced a sharp musical note. ‘Still using sense,’ he said. ‘How do you reckon Berney came by that letter?’

‘Sir?’

‘The party is just over. Berney’s been seeing off his guests. Then suddenly he has a letter.’ Gently gave the glass another flick.

Docking’s eyes rounded. ‘One of the guests!’

‘Have we a list of them?’

‘Well . . . no.’

‘I know of a couple,’ Banham said quickly. ‘Jerry Rising and his wife.’

‘That’s the man with the riding-stable?’

Banham nodded, dashing at his sweat.

‘What’s his wife like?’

‘Pretty,’ Banham said. ‘And Berney used to go riding there.’

Gently sat broodingly for some moments, one finger still stroking the glass.

‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘But let’s not rush it. We don’t even know that the letter was a love-letter.’

‘But it fits,’ Banham urged. ‘Rising has horses. He’s only three miles away, at Clayfield.’

‘And he’d have opportunity, sir,’ Docking put in. ‘His wife was out with the children that day.’

Gently waved a hand. ‘So we’ll keep him in mind! But just at present it’s still conjecture. Meanwhile, what we need is a complete list of guests – it may have some other interesting names on it.’ He looked at Banham. ‘Do we know of any more?’

‘Only two of her people,’ Banham said grumpily. ‘Leonard Redmayne, that’s her father’s cousin, and of course, her brother. He’s the poet.’

‘Lachlan Stogumber?’

Banham looked surprised. ‘I didn’t think you’d have heard of him,’ he said. ‘I tried to read some of his stuff once. It didn’t make much sense to me.’

Gently grinned. ‘He’s a famous man. Our Assistant Commissioner knew about him. Who’s Leonard Redmayne?’

‘He’s the naturalist fellow. He lives with the family at the Manor.’

‘And those are all you know about?’

Banham nodded. ‘It didn’t strike me to ask about the guests,’ he said. ‘It was a tricky business anyway, talking to the widow. Never knew when she’d burst into tears.’

Gently chivvied the glass a little more. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘We’re beginning to get the picture. A couple of other small points, then perhaps we can plan some action. Who was the witness who saw that horseman?’

‘A Mrs Bircham,’ Docking said. ‘She’s a pensioner. She has a cottage on the edge of the heath.’

‘Any details?’

‘Not really, sir. She thinks the horse was a dark colour. Says it was a long way off, on one of the ridges, not much more than a silhouette. She thinks she saw it at about a quarter to four, which fits the E.T.D. nicely.’

‘Good,’ Gently nodded. ‘Second point. Who was the man who found the body?’

‘Name of Cator,’ Docking said. ‘He works at High Noon Farm. He was crossing the heath to the village to pick up a bus there.’

‘Does he work with horses?’

Docking shook his head. ‘Cator’s a tractor-driver,’ he said. He hesitated. ‘He was pretty shaken up when I saw him. Told me something I didn’t put in the report.’

‘What was that?’

‘Says he saw a ghost.’

‘A ghost!’ Gently said. ‘What sort of a ghost?’

‘The ghost of a horseman,’ Docking said. ‘A big ’un. Up in the mist above the body.’

Gently paused. ‘Was there a mist that morning?’

‘It was thick early on,’ Docking said. ‘Then the sun broke it up. It was clear enough when we got there.’

‘Did the horseman move?’

Docking stared. ‘Just sat there looking at him, he says.’

Banham laughed sharply. ‘It must have been Old Shanks. He’s the regular headless horseman in these parts.’

Gently gave his glass another nudge. ‘I think what Cator saw was a rainbow-shadow,’ he said. ‘Meaning there really was a horseman there. Watching Cator. Watching the body.’

‘Is that . . . possible?’ Banham gaped.

‘Quite possible,’ Gently said. He pushed the glass aside and rose. ‘We’re dealing with an interesting fellow,’ he said.

Bayfield and his team received their briefing: Banham departed to H.Q. The locals had booked Gently in at the Royal William, and he took Docking there to lunch with him. In a cool room they ate a crab salad, made with fresh crabs from along the coast. While they ate Gently leafed through the file. Docking, a cautious man, offered no conversation.

Then they collected the Lotus from the yard, and Docking guided Gently to the High Hale road. Deserted and narrow, it led through a gentle country of russet fields and dark trees. Gently cruised the Lotus modestly, feeling his way into the silent landscape. Ahead, almost imperceptibly, the sweep of country was beginning to elevate.

They passed through a grove of thick-growing oaks, a sudden gloom after the brilliant light, then bracken and gorse began to replace standing crops on their left. The road was still rising. It ran straight for half a mile between tangled hedges, came to a point where it twisted downwards into a bracken-sided ravine.

‘Left, here, sir,’ Docking said quickly.

Left was a gap in the thick hedge. The Lotus bumped and pitched through it, wheels hopping on the ridged, iron-hard ground. Then suddenly they were out into an incandescent blueness, slanting dramatically to its own horizon: a fire-like, simmering blueness, bathing the eyes in its regal colour.

‘Do we keep going?’ Gently asked.

‘Take the track to the right, sir,’ Docking said.

Gently eased the Lotus into a stony path that carved deeply into the heather-bush. Slowly climbing, they bumbled along through smouldering plains of deep azure, stippled here and there with the hard gold and green patching of gorse.

‘Now you’ll see the village, sir.’

On their right the ground fell away precipitously. In a few more yards they reached a huge cleft, dropping dizzily to trees beneath. Gently parked. The cleft served as a frame for a majestic prospect of the coast: chequered fields, a clustering village, and the high-horizoned sea beyond. East of the village the land ran off in cliffs, backed by barrows and woody ridges; westward it sank into shingle banks and a tongue of salt marsh. The village was tree-sheltered, had its back to the sea, showed a flint tower and a white-sailed windmill. A tiny ship was moving below the horizon. A tractor tickered faintly in a field at their feet.

‘Strange,’ Gently said. ‘Strange country.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Docking said. ‘A place on its own. Used to be a well-known village for smuggling. There’s deep water up to the shore.’

Gently drove on. Steep, bracken-choked coombes guarded the approach from the sea and the village. Inland, the heath began to show ridges and a few dark thickets of gnarled thorn. At the summit of the rise the track came to an end in a dense covert of gorse, where, commanding a vast view along the coast westward, stood an O.S. triangulation pedestal.

They got out.

‘Reckon this’ll give you some idea, sir,’ Docking said. ‘That’s Clayfield up the coast, where you can see that round-towered church. It’s high heath mostly all the way along, just a strip of arable in between. The road comes along skirting the salt marshes. That bit of shine in the distance is Bodney Creek.’

Gently shaded his eyes. ‘This heath runs through to Clayfield?’

‘Apart from the strip I mentioned, sir.’

‘It wouldn’t stop a horseman coming this way?’

‘No, sir. Just a couple of field gates.’

Gently grunted. ‘But if Mrs Rising was teaching children, she couldn’t have been up here meeting Berney.’

‘We only have her word so far,’ Docking said. ‘The same goes for Mr Rising, sir.’

They left the pedestal, Docking leading, and struck into the heath where the heather was thinnest. It was sweaty work. The spiteful sun bounced back at them from the rashes of stones and grey, packed sand. Quarter of a mile on they came to a valley. It sloped down narrowly between steep, brackeny banks. The bottom was lined with heather-bush through which ran a grudging, uncertain foot-track.

‘This is the spot, sir.’

Docking pointed ahead to a hawthorn thicket on the left-hand slope. Ragged and gloomy, it offered a scant shade, its boughs reaching a little over the floor of the valley.

‘Somewhere to wait . . .’

Docking mopped and nodded. ‘That’s the way I saw it, sir. If you’re going to meet someone on the heath, it’s as good a place as another.’

They reached the thicket. Around, below it, the churned heather-bush looked stale and wilted. Thin, straw-like grass where the body had lain had begun to resurrect itself.

Gently peered at the place, his eyebrows lifting.

‘So . . . what did happen here?’ he asked.

‘How do you mean, sir?’ Docking queried.

‘Berney was killed on the spot where he met her.’