Gently at a Gallop (7 page)

Docking trailed his fingers in the moving air. ‘One thing’s certain, sir,’ he said comfortably. ‘They don’t have an alibi worth a wet fag.’

Gently gave his slow nod. ‘What did you think of the lady?’

Docking watched the road for some moments before replying. ‘I think she was doing a nice job, sir,’ he said at last. ‘Until you gave her a jolt with that poem. Now I think she was just trying to beat us to the punch. I reckon Berney did more than make a pass at her. And I reckon Rising knew about it, too, for all the front he tried to put up.’

‘You think it blew up at the party?’

‘Maybe afterwards, sir. There was something happened about that poem. Perhaps Rising saw Berney slip it to her, and somehow she got it back to Berney.’

‘Then Mrs Berney took it from him.’

‘That’d be how it was, sir. And Mrs Berney isn’t going to let on because then she’d be giving herself a motive.’

Gently eased for the junction with the coast road. ‘There’s another angle to it,’ he said. ‘I’m not so sure that Rising’s reactions were faked – not about the poem, in any case.’

‘How do you mean, sir?’

Gently smoothed a gear-change. ‘Lachlan Stogumber was also at the party.’

Docking stared at the road. ‘You think he did write the poem?’

‘It’s what everyone’s telling us,’ Gently shrugged. He paused to let the Lotus skim up to sixty. ‘Let’s look at it that way a moment,’ he said. It’s Lachlan Stogumber who’s Mrs Rising’s lover, who tried to slip her the poem at the party. Mrs Rising doesn’t get it, or if she gets it she decides it’s too dangerous to hang on to. So she slips it to her friend Marie, who is careless enough to let Berney get hold of it.’

‘I’m still not with you, sir,’ Docking said.

Gently stroked the wheel. ‘What would Berney do? He’s always had a fancy for Mrs Rising, and now he’s in a position to use blackmail.’

Docking sat up straight. ‘By crikey, sir!’

‘But where does that get us?’ Gently said.

‘He’d send a message to her, sir – perhaps risk ringing her – and make her come out to meet him on the heath.’ Gently hunched a shoulder. ‘And when she got there?’

Docking’s eyes were large. ‘It didn’t need a man, sir. Just a rider on a horse with a big enough motive – and that’s what she was when she met Berney.’

Gently chuckled. ‘It still leaves some loose ends – like Berney’s odd behaviour on Tuesday.’

‘But it fits the rest, sir,’ Docking said eagerly. ‘Including the point you just made about Rising and the poem. Of course, he’d never seen the poem. She just glanced at it, but he read it. And the way she behaved, sir, I think he was catching on. If he didn’t know before, he knows now.’

‘There’s still Berney’s behaviour to explain.’

‘He could’ve been scared stiff of Rising, sir.’

‘And our rider on his dark horse.’

‘Perhaps that fellow doesn’t come into it.’

Gently laughed at Docking’s fervent expression. ‘There’s one more objection. Would Mrs Rising have done it?’

‘We can show opportunity, sir. And a pretty fat motive.’

‘But would she have done it?’

Docking was silent.

The Lotus slid docilely into High Hale, where the clock on the flint church tower was showing four thirty. Above the trees above the cottages the bland front of The Lodge displayed its slatted windows. Gently eased to walking-pace.

‘It’s an amusing theory,’ he said. ‘But just now we’ll keep it on the file. Meanwhile there’s that stallion Rising was good enough to mention – I think we should take a look at that.’

‘That’s at Home Farm,’ Docking said glumly. ‘It’s at the back of the heath, off the Low Hale road.’

‘And the Manor House,’ Gently said. ‘Where would that be?’

‘It’s in the same direction,’ Docking said. ‘Sir.’

They drove up past the heath again and as far as the grove of oaks. Here one of the narrow roads to which Gently was becoming accustomed bore away to the right. It skirted the heath on one hand and standing crops on the other, separated from them by low banks where grasses tangled with stubs of hawthorn. Then a plastered farmhouse appeared to the left, half-concealed by the lift of the fields. It had steep roofs of glazed blue pantiles and was hemmed by brick outbuildings and bushy elders.

‘Does Creke have any neighbours?’ Gently asked.

‘No, sir,’ Docking said. ‘Farmers don’t go in for them.’

‘How far is the Manor House from here?’

Docking considered. ‘I’d say another mile, sir.’

They reached a junction with a concrete track which led across the fields to the farmhouse. The junction was marked by an island of trees in which nestled a farm building and a pond scummed with weed. In the field opposite a big combine-harvester was puffing steadily through a stand of barley, while under the hedge lay four or five bicycles. A man lounged by them, smoking, watching.

‘Farmer Creke, sir.’

Gently parked the Lotus. Creke made no motion to come across. A lean, hard-framed man with greasy black hair, he leaned against a field-gate, his eyes inspecting them. He was around fifty, probably six foot, and his black hair extended to ghostly sideboards. He was smoking a small, sooty briar from which smoke rose in regular puffs.

Gently got out and walked over to him.

‘Mr Creke?’

Creke looked him over with quick grey eyes. He shifted his pipe to the side of his mouth. ‘That’s me,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’

Gently introduced himself. Creke nodded. He nostrilled a couple of wisps of smoke.

‘So what’s on now?’ he said. ‘Your blokes were here Wednesday. I can’t tell you more now than I could then.’

‘Do you know Gerald Rising?’ Gently asked.

Creke took a few draws. ‘What about him?’

‘We’ve been talking to him.’ Gently said. ‘About your black stallion. About the way you can handle it when it’s out on service.’

Creke spat past his pipe. ‘He’s a big-mouth,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a word with him too when I see him.’

‘But he’s right about the horse?’

‘Right nothing,’ Creke said. ‘Prince is quiet as a baby if you don’t rattle him.’

‘But if you do . . . ?’

Creke eased himself off the gate. ‘Let me give you a tip,’ he said. ‘Rising’s an Aussie. He didn’t know the first blind thing about horses when he came up this way a few years back. His missus taught him all he knows and that’d go on a picture postcard. He doesn’t know a horse and he can’t ride one. What he says about them is squit.’

‘So,’ Gently said. ‘The stallion’s a quiet horse.’

‘He’s quiet as a dozen others I know.’

‘You’d let your child ride him?’

Creke wagged his head. ‘He’s eighteen hands,’ he said. ‘He’s a bloody horse!’

As he spoke a deep clear neigh sounded from the building amongst the trees.

‘That’s him,’ Creke said. ‘He could hear my voice. If you want to see a horse, come and look at him.’

The building stood well back in the trees with the weed pond lying in front of it. Great, double doors were yawning open to reveal a shadowy, unlit interior. Creke marched them in. They were met by stable-smell and the sound of ponderously moving hooves. From a loosebox in the corner protruded the serpent-like head of a huge, jet-black horse.

‘Prince boy, Prince, Prince.’

Creke strutted up to the massive animal. At once it arched its glinting neck and began to fuss his face with its lips. It snorted and made low whinnying noises. Creke buzzed and patted and ruffled its forelock. Then he gave it a firm slap on the neck, when it snatched its head up with a chuckling neigh.

‘There,’ Creke said. ‘There. Would either of you gents like to shake hands with him?’

Gently shrugged and glanced at Docking, who shook his head very firmly.

‘Ah, you’re no horsemen,’ Creke said, grinning. ‘It’s a privilege to meet a horse like Prince. Look at his shine. Look at his eye. There isn’t a better sire in England.’

The horse chuckled again, its head held proudly, its smoky eyes staring down at them. Then it made a little dart in Gently’s direction, its lips curling from great yellow teeth.

‘Wheesh, Prince boy!’ Creke said, patting him.

‘Where does this horse come from?’ Gently asked.

‘He comes out of Leicestershire,’ Creke said. ‘My brother put me on to him. He farms out that way.’

‘A hunter, was he?’

‘That’s right. He used to hunt with the Quorndon.’

‘But they decided to sell him.’

Creke nodded.

Gently paused. ‘Why?’ he asked.

Creke leaned back against the rails of the loosebox, his hand toying with the great beast’s mouth.

‘I could tell you a lie,’ he said. ‘But I won’t. They had some trouble with him over there.’

‘Go on,’ Gently said. ‘What trouble?’

‘I reckon someone treated him wrong,’ Creke said. ‘He’s a proud bugger, he won’t have it. He laid into a stable-boy in his box.’

‘He killed him?’

Creke shook his head. ‘Otherwise he wouldn’t be here today. But he duffed up the bloke enough so’s the owner thought it was smart to get rid of him. That’s the tale, and I don’t mind telling it. He’s never been any trouble with me. He’s a stallion mind you, he needs handling – but that’s all. He’s no problem.’

‘A stranger could ride him,’ Gently said.

‘That’s right,’ Creke said. ‘If I told Prince he could.’

‘And a stranger could catch him.’

Creke’s quick eye flickered. ‘Would this be one of Rising’s notions?’ he asked.

Gently hesitated, then nodded.

‘I guessed it would be,’ Creke said. ‘Next time I’m over at Clayfield I’ll turn Prince loose and see if Mr. Jerry Rising can catch him.’ He gave the horse’s cheek a ruffle. ‘Not Berney nor no one could catch him,’ he said. ‘Once he was off on his own on that heath, I’d be the only one who’d get near him.’

‘And, of course, he never is on his own on the heath?’

‘Do you think I’m stupid?’ Creke said.

Gently motioned to the two strong bolts that secured the gate of the loosebox. ‘People do make mistakes,’ he said.

Creke checked a moment, staring at the bolts, but then gave a decided shake of his head. ‘There’s only me sees after this horse,’ he said. ‘And I never make mistakes like that.’

‘He was here Tuesday evening?’

‘He was here. I came down about seven to give him his run. And the gate was shut then, and the bolts shot, the way I’d left them in the morning.’

Gently nodded. ‘Where did you exercise him?’

‘Up round the farm,’ Creke said.

‘Not on the heath?’

‘Why should I?’ Creke said. ‘It’s the farm I want to keep my eye on.’

‘Then you wouldn’t have had him out there this afternoon?’

Creke stared from under his dark brows. ‘Would that be likely?’ he said. ‘In the middle of harvest, with a fine spell due to break any time? We’ve been up on the fifteen-acre all day, and just now got a start on the barley. The only time I have for Prince is in the evening – and not always then, this time of year.’

The big horse whinnied, as though in confirmation.

‘And that’s how it was on Tuesday?’ Gently said.

‘Just like that,’ Creke said. ‘We were over on the glebe land. Ask some of the chaps, they’ll soon tell you.’

Gently was silent. His eyes glanced round the building, at the corn-bins, hay-rack, the shelf of brushes; at the fine black saddle that hung from a peg, with matching reins and bridle beside it. His glance came back to Creke, who was watching him closely.

‘So now you know about everything,’ Creke said. ‘It wasn’t old Prince who did that job Tuesday.’

Gently’s stare was expressionless. ‘Let’s step outside,’ he said.

They left the great stallion snuffling and tramping and went out into the sunlight. The pond stretched peacefully before the building and the trees clustered thickly behind and above it. From the field across the track came the sound of the combine, but it was distant and muffled by a line of hedge. The track slanted away between hedges and crops and vanished at last behind the trees.

‘A quiet spot . . .’

Gently picked up a stone and tossed it in the water to ripple the pond-weed.

‘And a handy spot.’

He picked up another stone and tossed it over the hedge, where it rattled on the road. He turned to Creke.

‘Quiet and handy – and invisible from the house. And nobody here from morning till night. Just the horse . . . and his saddle.’

Creke’s black brows hooked up ‘Now, listen—’ he began.

‘Do you walk down here from the house?’ Gently said.

‘I’ve got a bike, but—’

‘You don’t bother to get a car out?’

Creke stood staring, his mouth open.

Gently pointed to a space beside the building. ‘Someone’s parked a car there lately,’ he said. ‘Out of the sun. Out of sight. Where you wouldn’t see it from the track.’

‘But that was my car—’

‘What’s the make?’

‘Morris. A Morris Oxford Traveller.’

Gently gave the confused markings an appraising look. ‘This was something smaller,’ he said. ‘Perhaps an 1100.’

‘But I’m telling you it was mine!’ Creke exclaimed. ‘Last night I fetched a sack of oats down here.’

‘And you parked over there,’ Gently said. ‘Not beside the doors?’

‘That’s right,’ Creke said. ‘That’s just what I did.’

Gently shook his head. ‘In my book,’ he said, ‘someone parked his car there who didn’t want it seen. And there’s only one reason to park in this spot.’ He jerked his head towards the doors.

Creke’s sharp eyes bored at Gently, and for a moment his knuckles were white. Then the eyes flickered, and he loosened. He gave an ingratiating little chuckle.

‘All right – you’ve got me! Someone could have parked there, and I should never be the wiser. But I reckon it was more likely a couple of lovers than a person interested in the horse. That cock won’t fight.’

‘Why?’ Gently said.

‘Isn’t that obvious?’ Creke said. ‘If a stranger went in there interfering with Prince, he’d likely finish up the same way as the stable-boy.’

‘Who’s talking about a stranger?’ Gently said.

Creke’s eyes jumped at him. ‘Aren’t we?’ he said.

‘I’m not,’ Gently said. ‘I’m talking about someone who knows that horse, who can ride him.’

Creke looked at him; looked away. ‘I reckon you know more than I do,’ he said. ‘There’s maybe chaps over at Melton who can ride him, but they aren’t around here.’