Gently at a Gallop (8 page)

‘Someone much closer,’ Gently said.

‘Nobody I know,’ Creke said.

‘From the village,’ Gently said.

Creke shook his head.

‘From the Manor.’

‘No,’ Creke said. ‘No. There’s nobody.’

‘Not Gerald Rising.’

Creke’s laugh was genuine. ‘I’d like to see that Aussie try!’

‘Mrs Rising.’

Creke hesitated. ‘I’m not saying
she
couldn’t. But she bloody doesn’t.’

‘So,’ Gently said. ‘That just leaves you. He’s a one-man horse, and you’re his master. He was safe in his box all Tuesday, and you were up on the glebe land along with your men.’

Creke stiffened slightly. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘And it’s the truth. You’ll never make it different.’

‘I wonder,’ Gently shrugged. ‘Was Berney a friend of yours?’

‘Maybe he was,’ Creke said. ‘Maybe.’

‘And a friend of your wife’s?’

‘You’d better ask her,’ Creke said. His mouth twisted. ‘She’s up at the house.’

‘Sir,’ Docking said quickly. ‘We’ve spoken to Mrs Creke. I understand she has some disability.’

‘In fact, she’s a bloody cripple,’ Creke said. He spat in the pond. ‘But you go and see her.’

T
HERE WAS NOTHING
more to be got out of Creke – certainly nothing more he proposed to tell them. He stuck his pipe in his mouth, leered, and strutted away to join the workers. Not a man you’d easily over-reach . . . Gently watched him till he’d disappeared through the field-gate: a hard, obstinate, confident figure, a man used to wrestling with lands and seasons.

‘Do you reckon he was lying, sir?’ Docking said, also watching.

Gently grunted. ‘One thing’s certain. If anybody rides this horse besides Creke, the odds are that Creke knows who.’

‘You don’t think it might have strayed, sir?’

Gently shook his head. ‘That theory was never on. If Berney went on the heath for a clandestine meeting, he wouldn’t advertise it by returning stray horses. No, if this was the horse, then it had a rider – and the rider is someone known to Creke. He may not have known the horse was out, but even that . . .’ Gently shrugged. ‘Let’s take another look at him.’

They went back into the building. The black stallion hadn’t shifted from its post by the gate. It stood quite still, ears alert, its prominent eyes staring fixedly. A huge presence of a horse: it had the power of making them feel intruders. It showed no fear, no uneasiness – here were men: lesser creatures.

‘Do you ride?’ Gently asked Docking.

‘No, sir – at least, I haven’t ridden since I was a nipper.’

‘If he was a strange horse, would you tackle him?’

‘Not unless I was tired of life, sir,’ Docking said.

‘I think he’s our horse,’ Gently said.

He walked up to the gate, to the stallion. It sent loud warning breaths through its nostrils, but didn’t budge or twitch a muscle.

‘I’d come away if I were you, sir,’ Docking said. ‘I fancy Rising wasn’t so far out.’

The stallion breathed faster and showed its teeth; its ears flattened along its skull. Then it dropped its head quickly with a shrill neigh. Gently lunged backwards. Teeth clashed on air.

‘God – the black devil!’ Docking burst out.

‘He’s our horse,’ Gently said.

‘If he is I’m getting a destruction order,’ Docking said. ‘The black bastard. He should be in a zoo.’

The stallion backed off, its hooves scraping, and came to a stand in the centre of the box. There it raised its head high and gave a clamorous neigh.

Gently watched it musingly. ‘But it’s a horse,’ he said.

They got back in the Lotus and continued driving along the narrow road. Soon the fields on the left gave way to trees, a deep plantation of beech and conifers. Then these thinned. An amphitheatre appeared, edged with copper beeches, elms and chestnuts; and here, perfectly sited, lay a long, low, Elizabethan house. It was built of the local rust-red brick and presented a front of irregular small gables. Shallow wings flanked either end and there were three clusters of ornamented brick chimneys.

‘We’re rather proud of this place, sir,’ Docking said. ‘It’s been here since 1584.’

‘What about the Stogumbers?’ Gently said. ‘Are they an old family?’

‘Probably been here as long, sir,’ Docking said. ‘Once they used to be important people, but I reckon death duties took care of that. They still own some land around here.’

‘Including the Home Farm?’

‘Yes, sir – including that.’

Gently turned off between tall stone pillars, each topped with a stone gryphon, and drove between hedges of clipped yew to the gravel strip that fronted the house. Here there was a circular flowerbed where an elderly man knelt weeding. He looked up as the Lotus arrived, then got stiffly to his feet. Gently parked and got out. The man came over.

‘I’m looking for Mr Stogumber,’ Gently said.

The man inspected him with an amused eye. He wiped his hands on his baize apron.

‘Mr Stogumber isn’t in,’ he said.

Gently hesitated. ‘Where shall I find him?’

‘You’ll find him out here,’ the man said. ‘Talking to two policemen. One of whom doesn’t know Jimmy Stogumber.’ He chuckled and pushed out an earthy hand. ‘Don’t bother with introductions,’ he said. ‘My daughter was over here this afternoon, so I’ve heard all about you.’

Gently shook hands. Stogumber stood smiling. He was a fine-looking man in his seventies. He’d lost none of his cropped, grizzled hair, and he carried a strong body with little stoop. But there was tired flesh about his face and tired lines around his eyes. He was wearing decrepit flannel trousers and, in spite of the heat, a knitted pullover.

‘Yes, you upset my Marie,’ he said. ‘Her opinion of policemen is rather low just now. And she’s right, you know. Poor Charles did reform. I’ll be surprised myself if there’s another woman in it.’

‘This will have been a big shock to you,’ Gently said.

‘Yes, it’s a sad business,’ Stogumber said. ‘But here I am keeping you standing in the sun. Let’s go inside and talk there.’

He gestured courteously, and stood aside for Gently and Docking to precede him into the house. They went up an apron of brick steps, planted each side with chalk-blue hydrangeas, and passed through a spacious doorway, with a carved lintel, into a panelled hall with a pemmon floor. An oak staircase rose on the right to a gallery at first-floor level. Darkened portraits in oils ranged down the wall on the left. The pemmons were covered with woven rush matting, fragrant, yielding underfoot, and at the end of the hall, beneath the gallery, spread a wide, stone-shafted window.

‘All in the family,’ Stogumber said, waving a hand at the portraits. ‘The one at the end is old Aylmer Stogumber, who sailed with Drake and married an heiress. The family was Devonshire in those days, but Aylmer came this way when he married.’ He smiled. ‘We’re still foreigners, of course. We’ve only been here four centuries.’

‘So your son is last of the line,’ Gently said.

‘Yes,’ Stogumber said. ‘The last with the name. There’s Leo, of course, and Marie’s expecting, but Lachlan’s the only one with the name.’

‘No doubt he’ll hand it on . . . ?’

Stogumber clicked his tongue. ‘I sometimes wonder if I shall see the day. But he’s twenty-two, so there’s time yet. Though he’ll need another mistress besides the muse.’

He pushed open a door and ushered them into a long, low-ceilinged room with mullioned lattice-windows. It was furnished discreetly with a mixture of period pieces and of more comfortable modern furniture.

‘Sit you down while I rinse these hands.’

When he returned, he brought a tray of drinks with him. He handed them round with grave politeness, then carried his own to a high settle by the windows. He sat, resting one leg along the settle.

‘Now, gentlemen, we can get to business. But if you’ve come here hoping I can name the woman for you, then I’m afraid I must disappoint you.’

Gently shook his head. ‘That wasn’t the object. Though, naturally, I value your opinion.’

‘And I gave it to you,’ Stogumber said. ‘I doubt whether this woman ever existed. Heaven knows, I wasn’t in favour of Marie’s wedding, but one must give the devil his due. Charles was infatuated with Marie. Let me define what I mean by that. A man is infatuated with a woman when he is in love and she isn’t. And that’s how it was with Charles and Marie: he loved her, and she let him.’ He dropped his eyes from Gently’s. ‘She’s a wilful girl. I’m afraid her marriage was just an act of rebellion.’

‘Against you?’ Gently said.

Stogumber nodded. ‘Mine are a pair of sad children,’ he said. ‘They lacked their mother. She died with Marie. Poor Stella. She was never a strong one.’

‘But your daughter must have had some fondness for Berney,’ Gently said.

‘Aye, well . . . in her way,’ Stogumber admitted. ‘But it blew up suddenly on the tail of a row. I can never get that out of my mind. Charles would always hang around Marie, but Marie knew well enough how to snub him. Then there was a scene at quarter-day about Marie’s allowance, and after that she turned right round.’

‘Are you suggesting it was his money?’

‘No, no,’ Stogumber said. ‘I know Marie better than that. She was wanting to slip an old father she couldn’t manage, to take on a husband who she could.’ He gave a little sigh. ‘And she knew the way,’ he said. ‘One look at her must have told you that.’

‘What was her brother’s reaction?’ Gently asked.

Stogumber’s hand twitched. ‘He backed her up. Lachlan will always back up Marie, and she him, against me.’

‘And your cousin?’

‘Leo’s neutral . . . perhaps a little on the old man’s side. But that’s no good. Against Lachlan and Marie, we might as well hold our peace.’

Gently sipped some of his drink (it was ice-cold bitter). ‘So you don’t favour the police theory,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t a woman who lured Berney on the heath. Perhaps you have an idea who did?’

Stogumber frowned at his blotched hands. ‘I haven’t,’ he said. ‘It’s a mystery to me. Charles’s actions on Tuesday make no sort of sense. It’s as though he went fey, was expecting death.’

‘I think there was a reason,’ Gently said.

‘Yes, that’s your business,’ Stogumber agreed. ‘But I’m an old man, I remember things. This reminds me very much of my father’s death.’

Gently stared. ‘Was he killed by a horse?’

Stogumber shook his head. ‘He gassed himself. But there’s the point. One day he went off, with no imaginable reason, booked a room in a hotel, and turned on the gas. Till then he was a normal, sane person. You couldn’t have guessed he’d do any such thing. No troubles with money, health or women. Yet suddenly he went fey and took his life.’

‘But that’s all the connection,’ Gently shrugged.

‘It’s the best I can do,’ Stogumber replied. ‘Just like my father, Charles went off on Tuesday, did inexplicable things, and died.’

‘Only,’ Gently said, ‘in this case there was a horse. And horses you don’t simply turn on.’

Stogumber’s tired eyes lifted. ‘Have you found the horse?’

Gently nodded. ‘It was Farmer Creke’s.’

‘Farmer Creke’s!’ Stogumber echoed, his eyes widening, searching into Gently’s. ‘But . . . can you be sure?’

‘Fairly sure,’ Gently said. ‘His horse would have been available on Tuesday.’

‘Oh my goodness!’ Stogumber exclaimed.

‘Is it really a surprise to you?’ Gently said.

Stogumber shook his head dumbly, his lips trembling. The beer was slopping in his glass.

‘This is a shock, truly a shock. Oh my goodness, poor Charles! Of course, I’ve wondered about the horse, but I wouldn’t let myself think it was that one.’ He set the shaking glass on the settle. ‘You will have seen Creke?’ he said.

‘We’ve seen him.’

‘It wasn’t . . . him?’

‘Creke has an alibi,’ Gently said.

‘Thank heaven,’ Stogumber said. ‘I couldn’t have taken that. Not my own tenant the guilty man.’ His face twisted and he pressed his hand to his chest. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry, but it’s a shock.’

Gently paused, watching him. ‘Are you all right, sir?’

‘Yes, yes, I’m all right,’ Stogumber said.

‘If you’d sooner we went—’

‘No, stay. It’s my cursed heart. But I’m all right.’

A little grey-faced, he picked up the glass and took two or three firm swigs. Then he returned the glass to the seat and faced Gently again.

‘That terrible horse! I had a premonition it would do some harm one day. I warned Creke, but he would never listen. Now he’ll have to put it down.’

‘You’re familiar with the horse,’ Gently said.

‘I’ve seen it once or twice,’ Stogumber said. ‘We’ve always been horse people in this family. We can never resist looking at a horse.’

‘Have you ever ridden him?’

Stogumber forced a smile. ‘I’m afraid he’s out of my class these days.’

‘Have you seen him ridden?’

‘I’ve seen Creke on him. He’s like a lamb with Creke up.’

Gently studied his glass for a moment. ‘I think you’ll appreciate the position,’ he said. ‘We’ve found the horse, now we have to find the rider. And we can only do that by elimination.’

Stogumber faltered. ‘Couldn’t Creke tell you that?’

Gently shook his head. ‘Creke couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.’

‘Well then . . . may I take it I’m eliminated?’

‘I’d sooner,’ Gently said, ‘that you didn’t.’

Stogumber looked aslant, his hand straying to his chest. ‘This is a strange state of affairs,’ he said. ‘Good heavens, I never thought it would come to this, with me being suspected of killing my own son-in-law.’ He pressed his chest. ‘But that’s your affair. Let it never be said that I obstructed your inquiry. On Tuesday afternoon I was in the kitchen garden. I was burning pea haulms and generally pottering.’

‘Have you a witness?’ Gently said.

‘No, I don’t have a witness. Tuesday isn’t one of Johnson’s days. But truthfully, I could never have saddled and ridden that stallion. Jerry Rising’s old cob is all I aspire to.’

Gently nodded deliberately. ‘I’ll accept that,’ he said. ‘But couldn’t your son have been your witness?’

‘Lachlan,’ Stogumber said. ‘He was writing in his study. I might have gone to the moon for all he’d notice.’