“So now we go over and collect the horse and your car,” said Laura, “taking a posse of peelers with us.”
It was morning. A telephone message from the roadhouse on the previous evening had brought George, in Dame Beatrice’s larger car, to the rescue. The horse had been stabled at the roadhouse, the helpful American had been thanked and had insisted upon giving Laura cocktails and dinner, and Laura had given Dame Beatrice a lively account of the evening’s adventure.
“So you and George came back to the church and found the car and me both missing,” she remarked.
“We could not make out what had happened. However, having looked everywhere he or I could think of, George walked into New Seahampton, hired a car and a driver (so that the hired car could return as soon as it had deposited us) and we came back here, only to find that there was still no sign of you.”
“I’m terribly sorry. You must have had a pretty worrying evening. The only thing is that, for once, I really couldn’t help it. I mean, I couldn’t possibly envisage that gipsy fellow having the cool sauce to drive off with me like that, could I?”
“No, you could not, but we were most relieved to get your telephone message from the roadhouse. I wonder what was behind that kidnapping? He could not really have needed your help with the horse. I think you had better not leave this house for a bit. I do not think it will take me very much longer to get this affair cleared up, but, until it is cleared up and the right people are under lock and key, you will be much safer within doors.”
“But why on earth should I be in more danger than you are?”
“Because,” said Dame Beatrice, “it seems to me that judging from the internal evidence, you know something that I do not know. What that something is I have yet to find out.”
“But what could I know that you don’t? I’ve told you everything I’ve done, and I’ve reported all the conversations I’ve had ever since I first heard of John Mapsted’s death.”
“I know, I know. But there must be something. Kidnapping is a serious offence.”
“You don’t think the gipsy intended to murder me?” Laura sounded interested, not alarmed.
“Not the gipsy, no.”
Laura raised her eyebrows, but Dame Beatrice chose to be uninformative. Laura turned plaintive.
“Something went wrong with the plan, then? I’ll swear there was nobody at that camp but myself and the gipsy—oh, and, of course, the horse. But, look here, the gipsy couldn’t have known that I should be alone in the car at that time. We didn’t even know ourselves. It should have been George, if you remember.”
“That lends colour to my theory. They were not expecting to capture you yesterday. The gipsy saw his chance, as he thought, and took it, but had no opportunity to let his friends know what was afoot.”
“Bad luck on him. Forewarned is forearmed, so far as I’m concerned. All right. I’ll be careful.”
“Good. Well, now for Campbury Rings and, we hope, the gipsy Zozo.”
“I only hope I haven’t done him any lasting damage. I hit him pretty hard. He went all of slump on me. It’s a blow that can kill, and I gave him of my best.”
George drove them to the roadhouse and Laura claimed the horse. She was in riding clothes and proposed to take him to the Blue Finn. This was a plan approved of by Dame Beatrice, as two policemen had been put on guard over the stabling there. Laura was somewhat put out to discover that Paddy Donegal was waiting at the roadhouse for her and was to accompany her through the Forest to Old Seahampton.
“Good heavens!” she said reproachfully to Dame Beatrice. “I don’t need Paddy to protect me! After all, nobody who matters to us knows that the horse is here.”
“Nevertheless, as Mr. Donegal has kindly agreed to escort you, it would seem churlish to refuse his good offices,” said Dame Beatrice blandly. Paddy was on Barb, hired, to Cissie’s surprise and (Dame Beatrice was sure) to her consternation, from the Elkstonehunt stables because it was a horse to which Iceland Blue, in his capacity as Tennessee, must at times have been stable-mate.
Laura knew better than to argue with her employer. She and Paddy rode off to Old Seahampton, and Dame Beatrice, driven by George and accompanied by the superintendent, who, like Paddy, had been waiting at the roadhouse, went off to Campbury Rings. There was no sign of Zozo, dead or alive, but the superintendent remarked there should be little difficulty in pulling him in.
CHAPTER 19
THEY ENDED THE RIDE
I will still, however, tell you how to find the golden horse if you will do as I bid you.
THE BROTHERS GRIMM
A petrified Cissie Gauberon denied all knowledge of Zozo and his methods. Dame Beatrice told her curtly that the police were not concerned at the moment with the crookedness which had been going on in connexion with the racehorses, but had other business in hand, and invited her to tell all she knew. Cissie would say nothing until Dame Beatrice decided to ask the superintendent to withdraw while she talked with her alone.
“I never had anything to do with the Turf side of the business while John was alive,” said Cissie at last. “He and Jed Nottingham ran it between them, I think.”
“And Farmer Grinsted?” asked Dame Beatrice.
“I didn’t know he was in it. He must be new to it, I think, if he’s mixed up with it at all. I should think I would have known if he was one of them. You see—well—”
Her tone did not carry conviction and Dame Beatrice cut her short by asking another question.
“You remember the man from the airport who came to warn Mr. Mapsted shortly before his death?”
“I heard about that from Mrs. Mapsted,” said Cissie, thoroughly nervous.
“Did you think he was talking about this substitution of horses?”
“What else could anybody think?”
“That is not an answer.”
“All right, then. I did think it was about the horses. Lots of the men at the airfield liked to have a bit on, and I believe John used to give them a tip now and again.”
“In other words, whether a horse named, we’ll say, Ohio, really was Ohio and not Tennessee. To put it bluntly, whether the horse was to win the race or lose it.”
“Something of the sort.”
“It sounds a dangerous practice to me, if he wanted to keep his deeds secret.”
“There was a small syndicate in Lymington or somewhere, I believe,” said Cissie. “They used to share their winnings with John. It was one of the ways he had for keeping off the rocks.”
“How did Mr. Nottingham come into it?”
“He bought a half-share in Tennessee, Criollo, and Appaloosa. They had to have more than one horse to make the substitution possible if they were to cover all eventualities, and John couldn’t afford to buy them on his own.”
“What about Farmer Grinsted’s Iceland Blue?”
Cissie did not reply. Laura and Paddy appeared at that moment riding Criollo and Appaloosa which they had brought back from the stables at the Blue Finn, leaving Iceland Blue still under police surveillance.
“Wonder how Cissie feels about it all?” said Laura, when Paddy and Cissie had rubbed down and stabled the pair, and Laura and Dame Beatrice were alone. “Incidentally, the superintendent’s men who are in charge over there were quite agreeable and said their orders covered the removal of any horses except the blue roan, so I thought we might as well bring those two back.”
“Yes, they will be useful here. There would be no point now in leaving them at the Blue Finn. Well, I have obtained nothing from Miss Gauberon, and the superintendent is anxious to talk to her. You, my dear child, are to accompany Sir Mallory, who will be at our house by now, to Campbury Rings to bring back the other car. You have its ignition key, I believe?”
“Yes, I have. All right. I suppose we shall go in a police car driven by some ham-fisted Hampshire policeman. I hope that at least I can drive your car home. By the way, was Zozo all right when you and the superintendent got to Campbury Rings?”
> “I suppose so. He was not there. The police are looking for him.”
“Are they? Not very surprising. When we do get to the bottom of all that’s been going on, do you really think we shall find out who murdered John and now Turnbull?”
“I know quite well who killed them, and Jenkinson, too.”
“Spoof? You’re going to make the murderer give himself—or is it herself?—away? Not cricket.”
“Neither is murder, no matter what its reason. Go along to Campbury Rings, please, and get the car. Sir Mallory has already touched the hooter of his car and is ready to go with you.”
“All this police escort,” grumbled Laura, but she enjoyed the trip as she and the chief constable, behind the broad backs and thick red necks of two bucolic policemen, drove through the spring-time of the Forest, past tenderly-unfurling bracken fronds and the first brilliant green of the hawthorns; past the tiny red and the tasselled catkins of hazel; beside beeches whose long copper buds were beginning to break; past sleepy oak and great-branched elm; past black-tipped ash and evergreen, legendary pine. Here and there, where soft banks heaved like the long, green graves of giants, the first primroses had appeared, and by the side of little brown streams the kingcup leaves were lush, although the butter-golden flowers were still to come.
The chief constable was, by inclination, a meditative man and Laura, whose mind, although few would have guessed it, was that of a poet, had forgotten the nature of their errand by the time they reached the clearing flanked by pines where Iron Age warriors had made their entrenched fort. She came back to earth at the sight of Dame Beatrice’s car abandoned some fifty yards or so beyond the ditch. The gipsy, as she already knew, had disappeared.
“Glad I didn’t kill him,” she said. “I wonder where he went?”
“We’ll find him,” said the chief constable. “Our best plan will be to drive into Old Seahampton and talk to the landlord of the Blue Finn. You say he’s known there. Anyway, whether they can help us or not, we’ll soon pick him up. That’s one job the police can do better than anybody else. Now, then, if you’ve got the ignition key, one of my men can drive you back in Dame Beatrice’s car. Apart from a certain amount of mud from his boots, the fellow doesn’t seem to have damaged it.”
“Good heavens, I don’t want a policeman with me! The village will think I’m under arrest!” said Laura. She got into the car, waved to the chief constable, and drove back to the Stone House. Her employer was there to greet her.
“Ah,” said Dame Beatrice, “I perceive that, as usual, you have shown a naughty spirit of independence. However, since you have arrived here safe and whole, we will say no more about it.”
Concerned for Laura’s safety, however, she sent her to spend the week-end in London, where the Gavins had a flat in Dame Beatrice’s house.
When they had dined, Gavin said, with a grin, “Now tell me all about everybody concerned, and I’ll do the logic and tell you all the answers.”
“You do fancy yourself, don’t you?”
“Naturally. I’m good at solving problems. Didn’t I solve the problem of how to get you to marry me?”
“Well, that was only a problem because I didn’t want to hand myself over, lock, stock, and barrel, to a husband. I’ve always been a self-sufficient type. Still, it’s not so bad now I’m getting used to it.”
“Many thanks. Come on, then. The dope, please, and big gobs of it.”
“Well, you know most of it already.”
“Never mind that. I’ll stop you if I’ve heard it before, so fire away.”
He leaned back and prepared to listen. Laura clasped her large, shapely hands round one knee and rocked herself gently backwards and forward as she talked.
“I take it,” she said, “that the murderer is somebody I’ve met and probably talked to, and I also take it that he or she is somebody connected with horses. I’d like to think it was that beastly Grinsted, but I don’t suppose he’s worse than others.”
Gavin nodded, took out his cigar, studied the ash on it, and nodded again before he put it back.
“There are three riding stables near, or fairly near, the Stone House, but as John Mapsted and Jenkinson both came from the same one, it looks as though either Cissie Gauberon or old Mrs. Mapsted is guilty. Now, while I wouldn’t put much past old Mrs. Mapsted, whose morals are as twisty as one of her porker’s tails, I can’t see her murdering her own son.”
“I don’t really know the old lady, but it seems unlikely that she would.”
“But she could, and probably did, dope out Jenkinson. If she did, we shall never prove it unless she confesses, and, even then, I doubt whether they could bring it in as murder. They’d simply conclude that old age had clouded her brain. Well, that brings us to Cissie Gauberon, but, somehow, I can’t believe Cissie hit John on the head with a mallet.”
“Never mind about what you can’t believe. Let’s have the facts. Miss Gauberon certainly gained by Mapsted’s death, I take it, and if she murdered him she may have had to rub out Jenkinson, too, to cover her tracks.”
“Yes, I can see that. Jenkinson could have rumbled something. The trouble is, you see, that John Mapsted couldn’t have been killed where he was found—that is, in Percheron’s stable. That is established by the time the horse made his fuss. Now, to chuck the body in there, you’d need a lot more strength than Cissie’s got. Besides, the mallet came from Seahampton Grammar School. I just simply can’t see any connexion between Cissie Gauberon and that school. In fact, she couldn’t have got that mallet.”
“Has it been proved beyond doubt that it was done with the mallet, though? I didn’t know that it had. Never mind. What comes next?”
“Who, not what. Let’s take Jed Nottingham.”
“I can’t see why we should. He’s a fairly bad hat, if I’m any judge of a fellow man, and he might join in gang warfare, but I doubt very much whether he’d care to operate on his own. He might act to save his own skin, though.”
“He’s mixed up in the whole thing, anyway.”
“He’s in with the syndicate, certainly, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s guilty of murder.”
“All right, then. That brings us to Paddy Donegal. Do you really see Paddy as a murderer?”
“No, if you put it like that. The trouble is, you know, Laura, that we don’t really know what makes people commit murder. The gains are usually so little, and the risks are always so great. No murderer can really be sane, whatever the law may decide.”
Laura sighed. “It’s no good,” she said. “I can’t believe that any of these people committed murder.”
“You can’t believe it because, fundamentally, you think everybody is as decent and as level-headed as you are. That isn’t a fact, Laura. If only you could realise it, you’re tons better than most of the people one meets.”
“All the same,” said Laura obstinately, “I don’t see Paddy as a murderer.”
“All right, then. Who comes next?”
“Well, Merial, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, yes. That dim woman over at Linghurst Parva. Wasn’t there some story that she was engaged, or was expecting to be engaged, to Mapsted?”
“There certainly seems to have been some sort of understanding between them, but whether it was that sort we don’t know. The reports are contradictory. She herself denies it now.”
“Why should she deny it if it were true?”
“Heaven knows. There should be some explanation. The denial might be because she’s got some guilty knowledge about his death.”
“Well, we can’t get any further than that at present. What does the Dame think of her?”
“I don’t think she knows much about her. I’ve just realised something, though. That mallet. Cissie had no connexion with Turnbull or the school, but Jed Nottingham had. He told me once that he was an Old Boy, and Turnbull was, too.”
“We’ve decided that he’s not the type, though. Not that you can go by that, of course. What about Turnbull hims
elf?”
“Motive? There was something fishy about him, or he wouldn’t have got himself mixed up with that gang of fakers, but I can’t see any reason for his wanting to kill John Mapsted. Besides, now that he himself has been killed, well, I mean, there surely wouldn’t be two murderers in such a small area? And, anyhow—”
“Yes?”
“I’m as certain as I can be that there is one murderer and one manslaughterer.”
“Never heard the word, but I know what you mean. But, you see, my difficulty is this: nobody but Turnbull, surely, would have thought of using that mallet, if it was used. If I had had charge of the case, I should have taken a long and thoughtful look at Turnbull.”
“Yes, I know, but you can’t connect Turnbull with murder, really you can’t—especially now!”
“Illogical. Well, who else can there possibly be? What about that farmer chap you mentioned first of all?”
“Grinsted? Yes, he could be a murderer, I’m certain, but I can’t see why he should be. I mean, I know he’s been mixed up in all the jiggery-pokery, and I heard there was trouble once about the sale of a horse, but…Oh! Good heavens! So that’s it!”
At that moment the telephone rang. Laura took the call and popped her head in five minutes later.
“It was Mrs. Croc.,” she announced. “It sounds as though the case will soon be all cleared up, and—what do you think? Not only Turnbull, but another master at the school was mixed up in that business of substituting the racehorses.”
“Oh, the brains behind that side of it were those of Mr. Spencer, the mathematics master at Seahampton Grammar School. I realised that,” said Gavin, ruining Laura’s climax. “Don’t you remember he helped Turnbull build the boat, and sometimes went sailing with him? If you ask me, it’s a mercy that black sheep among schoolmasters are comparatively few, for, like doctors and lawyers, they have trained minds, special aptitudes, and considerable facilities—some of them—if they decide to take to crime. Have you, for instance, ever considered that in most school laboratories there must be enough poison to finish off the whole staff and most of the boys? As for the dirty running of racehorses, I should think that to gull the betting public must have been rather fun for a chap like that.”
Twelve Horses and the Hangman's Noose (Mrs. Bradley) Page 20