Twelve Horses and the Hangman's Noose (Mrs. Bradley)

by Gladys Mitchell

  “You can find out who is the owner of the horse.”

  “But can you? Better to leave things as they are. Nothing can bring poor old John back, and if he was where he’d no business to be—well, literally, that was his funeral.”

  “Do you know of a rogue horse in these parts, Paddy?”

  “Maybe I do, and maybe I don’t. Brer Rabbit is my middle name when it comes to saying nothing.”

  “Give me a hint, Paddy! You see, I don’t believe it was John’s own fault he was killed.”

  “Here! What are you getting at? Do you know what you’re saying?”

  “I’m not saying anything,” Laura replied with spirit, “except this: nothing is going to make me believe that Percheron savaged John Mapsted.”

  “But the kick on the head?”

  “Some other horse did it, I tell you—that is, if it was done by a horse at all!”

  “Look here,” said Donegal impressively, “you keep your fingers out of this particular pie. You’ll be getting yourself into trouble if you go spreading rumours, you know.”

  “I have no intention of spreading rumours, but, if you know of a vicious horse in these parts, I think you ought to tell me.”

  “There isn’t one. Now, then, will that content you? There’s just one hint I can give you and perhaps it’ll convince you that it’s better for you not to get yourself involved in Mapsted’s affairs. He’s been taking some chances in connexion with those three racehorses of his, Criollo, Appaloosa, and Tennessee. He’s not a licensed trainer, and, apart from that, some of his transactions have been rather fishy. You take my advice and steer clear of anything to do with Mapsted.”

  “I don’t need advice. What I need from you is your opinion of Jenkinson. Now, he is fishy, if you like!”

  “Like master like man, then. I wouldn’t put very much past him, but you surely don’t connect him with Mapsted’s death?”

  “No, of course not. We’ve only his word for it that there was blood on the stable floor and on Percheron’s hoof, though.”

  Diana Donegal came in at that moment and, after a few minutes’ general conversation, Laura took her leave. As Paddy and old Matt watched her ride away, the groom said, “Women! Natural born interferers is women. Why can’t her leave well alone?”

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Paddy.

  “Same as you talked about to her, Master Paddy. I be talking of John Mapsted’s death.”

  “The devil you are! What do you know about it, anyway?”

  “Only as nought but a savage stallion, or else a mare that had madness in her, would have served John Mapsted like that there. Now, what I say is, Percheron is a biter, and a nasty kind of feller at times, too; but he enna a stallion and he enna a broody old mare. That be what I knows about it and everybody round here as can tell a skewbald from a piebald be saying the same. I reckon old Jenkinson could say a goodish bit if he liked.”

  “You crept up and listened under the window, you old—!”

  “Why not, Master Paddy? Mrs. Gavin, her have a nice, clear carrying sort of a voice, and I got my hearing, same as I had when I was a youngster, so I can’t help what I hears.”

  “Well, for goodness’ sake keep your mouth shut. Mrs. Gavin is talking through her hat, as usual, and we don’t want a lot of rubbish going the round of the neighbourhood. Mind what I say, now, and don’t you let her pump you about Mapsted’s affairs.”

  “All right! All right,” grumbled the old man. “I can keep my mouth shut when I warnts to.”

  “Well, mind you do want to. And keep an eye on that new mare. She’s nervous and she’s inclined to break out after exercise.”

  “True enough, sir. I went back to her yesterday after Mrs. Major had had her out, and she was all of a black sweat. I stripped off her rugs and rubbed her down well and pulled her ears to quieten her…”

  “You put the rugs back again on her, I hope?”

  “I been looking after horses nigh on fifty years, Master Paddy, so you don’t require to teach me my business.”

  “All right. But keep your trap shut.”

  Laura decided that she and Mustang had had enough for one day. She rode him slowly, dismounted half a mile from home, and after she reached the stables she groomed him herself when he had had his feed. She then went home to a very late lunch, a crime for which anybody but Laura would have incurred the cold displeasure of Henri, Dame Beatrice Bradley’s French cook. With him, however, Laura was so firm a favourite that he did nothing but emit sounds of Gallic distress at the thought of how hungry she must be, and set to work immediately to reprieve her from death by starvation.

  “Sound!” said Laura, regarding her plate with satisfaction. “Very sound indeed. Congratulations, Henri, and sober, prayerful thanks. And now, I feel orphaned. What’s happened to the D.B.E.?”

  “Madame went to Seahampton, Mademoiselle—pardon me—Madame.”

  “Oh, so she’s really made up her mind to open that new Grammar School, has she?”

  “I cannot say, Madame. Madame had lunch at half-past twelve, a barbarous hour, and called for Georges to bring round the car. She did not know at what hour to expect you, she said, so that the early lunch would put out nobody.”

  “I see. Henri, don’t go. Tell me all about John Mapsted. You must have heard some gossip.”

  Henri shrugged.

  “But what is there to tell, Madame? He was a gentleman amiable and well-loved.”

  “You really think so? My own opinion is that somebody didn’t love him very much. At any rate, somebody’s horse didn’t.”

  “Georges, Madame, says that Monsieur Mapsted was murdered.”

  “Does he, by Jove? What has he got to go on?”

  “He says that Monsieur Mapsted was not the man to get on the wrong side of a horse. To me, the idiom is without meaning. What is it, to say that one mounts not from the wrong side of the horse?”

  “He means that John Mapsted was a friend to horses, so that a horse would not be likely to savage him and kill him. Good for Georges! He’s got sense. But has he anything to back up his ideas, I wonder? I’d like to talk to him.”

  Henri made no reply, but watched proudly as Laura wolfed the excellent food he had prepared. He took her plate away when she had finished and produced a rich trifle, her favourite sweet. Having put it before her, he went back to his kitchen to commune with his wife. Laura scooped up great dollops of sherry-soaked sponge-cake topped with jam and cream, and finished the meal with coffee brought in by Célestine. She sat smoking a cigarette and pondering over her problem in detection until, at four, Dame Beatrice came home.

  “Did you enjoy your ride?” asked Dame Beatrice.

  “Yes, in a way. But I don’t think I got much farther in the John Mapsted business.” Laura recounted her conversation with Paddy Donegal. “And there’s not much doubt about what Paddy thinks,” she said in conclusion. “What’s more, he didn’t want old Matt, the groom, to overhear what we were saying, and that, I fancy, was because he and Matt had already discussed the thing. The trouble is that although I’m positively certain there’s something to detect, I don’t in the least know how to set about detecting it. There’s only one pointer. I formed the opinion that Paddy knows of somebody in the district who owns a rogue horse. He won’t tell me who it is, though, so I shall simply have to set inquiries afoot and see what comes of them.”

  “I think you had better leave the whole business alone,” said Dame Beatrice. “Ring for tea. I had an early lunch.”

  Laura rang the bell and waited until Célestine had gone out again before she returned to the subject of Mapsted’s death.

  “I shall go over to Linghurst Parva tomorrow, after I’ve attended the inquest,” she said, “and talk to Merial. She’s always up-to-date with the local gossip. Besides, she has a peculiarly personal interest in John’s death. She was engaged to be married to him, it seems.”

  “Indeed? Then might it not be somewhat tactless—not to say unkind—to d
iscuss his death with her?”

  “Oh, they couldn’t have been fond of one another! It was to connect the two stables, I expect. Still, if you think it would be better, I could ride over to Jed Nottingham’s place first and find out what he has to say.”

  “I really wish you would not.”

  “Oh, I should only introduce the death as an aside, so to speak. My reason for going to see him would be to ask his advice about partnering Cissie Gauberon.”

  “Nobody in his senses would ever dream that you could contemplate going into partnership with Miss Gauberon.”

  “Well, perhaps you’re right. Certainly Paddy didn’t think I would, but Paddy knows me better than Jed does. I shall be terribly discreet and clever. You needn’t worry.”

  “You will set free a host of rumours.”

  “Perhaps that might be as well. Something useful might come up.”

  “Something unforeseen and dangerous might come up, and I still feel responsible for your health and safety. However, I am not in a position to forbid you to meddle. If it will satisfy you, I will add that I am thinking of looking into the matter myself if the verdict tomorrow seems a doubtful one. Does that make any difference?”

  “Not noticeably. I’m bored, restless, and fighting-fit. I must follow my hunch and have a go. Besides, it will look much less suspicious for me to haunt riding stables and find out about rogue horses than it would be if you did it. Everybody knows you don’t know a snaffle from a bearing-rein!”

  “Very well,” said Dame Beatrice comfortably. “Go over and see Mr. Nottingham and Miss Trowse tomorrow, but do be careful not to let loose anything you cannot control. Nobody wants a flood of anonymous letters, and that’s the most likely thing if you start hares in a place like this.”

  “Nobody would think I had any common sense at all, to hear you on the subject!” said Laura, feeling insulted. Dame Beatrice cackled.

  “To change the subject,” she said, “let me inform you that on Thursday week we are going down to Seahampton to open that new Grammar School. I composed my speech in the car coming home. Perhaps, if I dictate it, you will be good enough to type it for the benefit of the local paper. If I am to be reported at all, I prefer to be reported in English.”

  “Right. Henri said that you went to Seahampton.”

  “Yes.”

  “To look at the school, I suppose?”

  “I had business in Seahampton, child. George told me that Jenkinson, Mr. Mapsted’s groom, has a favourite public house there. I wished to identify it, that is all.”

  “I don’t see why—oh, gossip, you mean? Some clue about John’s death? Did you go inside?”

  “No. Conversation in a public bar is beyond my scope. If the time comes when it seems that such a conversation is essential, George can be trusted to find out for us all that we need to know. In fact, the reason for my staying so long in Seahampton was to give George time to acquaint himself with the amenities offered by the hostelry. He then came on to Old Seahampton and picked me up at the church.”

  “The church?”

  “Certainly. It is of particular interest. Godwin, Earl of Wessex, worshipped in it. The chancel arch is raised on the stones of the original Roman basilica. The chancel itself contains a particularly interesting Easter Sepulchre of the time of Edward I, a Crusader’s chest, and a squint, so that the outlaws of the New Forest could sneak up and make their devotions.”

  “Didn’t you go to the school, then?”

  “I went as far as the gate. It is an impressive building.”

  Laura was far from satisfied.

  “You’re keeping something up your sleeve,” she said. “I feel that your secretary and amanuensis should be taken into your confidence. And talking of that, it appears that there really is something rummy about those three horses at the Elkstonehunt stables.”

  “Which three horses, child?”

  “Those I call the mystery horses—Criollo, Tennessee, and Appaloosa. Paddy Donegal either knows the secret or guesses it, but he’s being very unhelpful about sharing it. What did come out is that he thinks John Mapsted was some sort of crook.”

  CHAPTER 4

  INQUEST ON A DEAD HORSEMAN

  …opprest

  To think that now our life is only drest

  For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook,

  or groom!

  WORDSWORTH

  The inquest on John Mapsted was held in the village hall. The coroner, a local solicitor, sat with a jury of seven, five men and two women, whom he addressed with gloom.

  “Members of the jury, you are called together to make inquiry into the demise of John Mapsted, who was found dead in a stable on his own premises in the morning of twenty-third February. You have all heard of the unfortunate circumstances and may have formed an opinion as to the cause of death, but you will remember that your verdict is to be strictly in accordance with the evidence which is to be put before you. A brief résumé of the facts is as follows:

  “At approximately seven-fifteen in the morning of twenty-third February, being last Tuesday, John Mapsted, owner and manager of the Elkstonehunt riding stables, was found by his groom, Richard Jenkinson, on the floor of loose-box five. You will hear the evidence of Doctor Rollins, who was called in immediately by Jenkinson. He formed an opinion when he examined the body, and that opinion you will hear in due course. Call Mrs. Emily Mapsted.”

  Old Mrs. Mapsted was called and sworn, and gave evidence of identity.

  “When did you last see your son alive?”

  “On Monday night. I left him reading in the dining-room when I went up to bed.”

  “Is it your custom to retire to bed earlier than your son?”

  “Yes. He stayed up until all hours.”

  “When and where did you next see him, Mrs. Mapsted?”

  “On the floor of Percheron’s loose-box at about eight o’clock last Tuesday morning,” said the old lady in a steady voice. “He was dead.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Mapsted. Call Richard Jenkinson.”

  Jenkinson, who had cleaned up into a bow-legged crab-apple with white side-whiskers, took the oath in a quavering falsetto which, in Laura’s opinion, was put on for the occasion, and then craned forward towards the coroner as though he was hard of hearing.

  “A few questions, Jenkinson.”

  “Certainly, your worship.”

  “Where were you at approximately a quarter to seven on the morning of Tuesday, twenty-third February?”

  “At the door of loose-box five at Elkstonehunt riding stables where I works.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “I heard Percheron creating, the nasty creetur, so I goed out to quiet un down.”

  “The horse was making a noise?”

  “Sounded ’arf orf ’is ’ead, ’e did.”

  “And to what did you attribute this when you arrived at the stable door?”

  “’E’d got Mr. Mapsted down and kicked ’is ’ead in, the ugly brute ’ad.”

  “I am afraid I cannot allow that statement in evidence. It is a matter of opinion, not of fact, and the jury will disregard it. I must ask the witness to speak only of what he knows, and not of what he surmises, no matter how logical the surmise may be. Now, Jenkinson.”

  “The ’orse smelt blood and went crazy with it.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I run right back to the ’ouse and told Miss Gauberon, her being up and about, and then I rings up Doctor Rollins, though I knew it wasn’t no good. Mr. Mapsted were dead, no doubt of it. Then I swabs down the loose-box to clean up the blood.”

  “Was your master in the habit of visiting the stables at that hour of the morning?”

  “No, ’e wasn’t, not so early in the year. It were pretty nigh dark in the loose-boxes. I can’t think what he were thinking of. I ’ad to light the old stable lantern to see what I were a-doing of. All I can think is—”

  “I am afraid we cannot accept your thoughts as evidence. Please
do no more than answer my questions. Now, then: can you suggest any reason why Mr. Mapsted would be in the stables at that early hour of the day?”

  “If a mare was in foal.”

  “But the animal Percheron is not a mare.”

  “Course not. He’s a gelding.”

  “Quite so. Any other reason?”

  “If a horse was took ill.”

  “Is there any reason to suppose that the horse in question had been taken ill?”

  “No. Just wicked, that’s Percheron.”

  “Has he ever been known to attack people?”

  “Yes. ’E chewed off Mrs. Hacker’s top-knot one time. Thought it was ’ay, I reckon. Nearly give ’er a nervous breakdown, ’e did. ’Nother time ’e bit Colonel May when ’e went to stroke ’is nose. ’E’s a kicker, too. If ’e was to go out ’unting ’e’d need a capital K ’ung on ’is tail as a warning to give ’im room. Wicious, that’s what ’e is. I was always warning Mister John.”

  The coroner looked at the jury and inquired whether there were any questions. One of the women members rose.

  “The witness said that he had to light the stable lantern in order to see. Would he not have expected it to be already alight if Mr. Mapsted had gone to the stables so early in the morning?”

  “Well, Jenkinson?” said the coroner. The groom took his time in replying.

  “It’s a good question, that is,” he said. “Yes, that’s an intelligent point. I never thought of that, no more I never.”

  “Answer it, man!”

  “Very good, sir. Yes, now I come to think of it, I did ought to have expected to see the lantern alight, but it never occurred to me, you see, as that wicked old devil ’ad savaged Mr. John. I just took down the lantern and lit it to see what all the fuss was about.”

  “Had Mr. Mapsted a torch?” inquired the woman juror.

  “Not on ’im. I found ’is torch in ’is room, laid out on the bedside table. ’E kep’ it there to see the time by ’is clock, it not bein’ luminious, ma’am.”

  The coroner took up the questioning.

  “Thank you, Miss Rye. Now, Jenkinson, if Mr. Mapsted had gone out to the stables at that hour, would you not have expected him to take his torch?”