The Stabbing in the Stables

by Simon Brett

  7

  IT WASN’T WORKING. Jude couldn’t identify what was wrong, but she knew it wasn’t working.

  She could feel the warmth from Chieftain’s knee, which felt almost as though it were burning between her hands. But she was imparting no answering warmth to the horse.

  Healing doesn’t always work, Jude knew, but on this occasion she felt it was her fault. Her concentration was straying. While she should have been channelling all her energy into the injured knee, she was distracted by other thoughts. She was aware of the unidentified pain within the woman standing at her side. She was aware of the confusion within the apparently carefree child cantering round the paddock on Conker. Usually she managed to shut her mind to such extraneous concerns, but that afternoon she couldn’t.

  Maybe if she was alone with Chieftain, in his stall perhaps, with no distractions? But would he tolerate that? Would he feel sufficiently at ease without the familiar presence of his owner?

  Jude released her hold on Chieftain and straightened up.

  “Done the job?” asked Sonia eagerly.

  A rueful shake of the head. “Doesn’t feel like it, I’m afraid.”

  “But there is something wrong with the knee? That’s where the trouble is?”

  “Oh yes, I can feel that.”

  “Well, what are you going to do about him?” In Sonia’s voice there was both disappointment at the failure and the peremptory expectation of someone who had always expected good service.

  “All I can do is try again another day. I’m sorry. I’m wrong today. I can’t clear my head sufficiently to get a proper focus. Maybe I’m the wrong person, anyway. You should have gone to someone who specialises in horses in the first place.”

  “Ah.” Sonia didn’t pick up the suggestion, or explain why she hadn’t consulted an expert. “Oh, well…” She shrugged. “I’ll put him back in his stall. You won’t like that, will you, boy? Whenever I bring him out, he thinks we’re going for a ride. Gets very disappointed when nothing happens.”

  Chieftain expressed his disappointment with a bit of half-hearted rearing and some disgruntled whinnying, but, bowing to the strength of his mistress’s personality, allowed himself to be shut back into his loose box.

  “Come on, Imogen,” Sonia called out as she locked the bottom half of Chieftain’s door. “That’s enough.”

  “Oh, can’t I stay out a bit longer?”

  “No. It’s getting dark. Now, I can trust you to put Conker back safely, can’t I?”

  “Yes, of course, Mrs. Dalrymple.” Imogen walked back towards them. Girl and pony looked equally dispirited by the curtailment of their fun. The dark clouds of the real world seemed to gather over Imogen’s head.

  And the dark clouds of the encroaching night also lowered over the three women.

  “You remember where the saddle and tack go, don’t you?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Dalrymple.”

  “Make sure it’s all neat. And, before you leave her, check Conker’s got plenty of water…and that her hay net’s full.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Dalrymple.”

  “Then come through to the kitchen. I’ll have some tea ready.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Dalrymple.”

  In the kitchen Sonia produced a very tasty-looking fruitcake, and Jude had no inhibitions about taking a slice.

  “Shop-bought, I’m afraid. My cake-making skills are not up to much.”

  “I don’t think anybody’s are these days. Nobody’s got the time.”

  “Oh, I’ve got the time,” said Sonia rather bleakly. Then quickly she recovered herself. “I keep buying cakes—it’s mad. Keep thinking the twins are going to come thundering in from school, as hungry as horses and…well…”

  “A time of adjustment,” Jude suggested.

  “Yes. Just that.”

  But this wasn’t the moment to probe deeper into Sonia’s unhappiness. In a strange way, it would almost have felt unprofessional. The woman was a client, but this afternoon’s meeting was not being conducted on that basis. Jude moved the conversation on.

  “Are Imogen’s parents actually divorced yet?”

  “No, it’s in the process. That awful stage where they haven’t quite got their accommodation sorted. They’re both round the house at different times, trying to avoid each other. And then occasionally they do meet and there’s yet another row. Or at least,” she added hastily, “that’s what Imogen’s told me.”

  “Can’t be much fun for her.”

  “No, and she spends most of the time with her mother, which can’t help.”

  “Oh?”

  “Hilary Potton is a Grade A cow. Very self-absorbed and neurotic. I don’t think Immy gets much support from her—poor girl has to use most of her energy propping up a hysterical mother.”

  “And what about the father?”

  “Don’t know a lot about him. Think he’s called Alec, but…”

  “Is he fond of Imogen?”

  “Oh yes. Well, I assume he is. Fathers usually are fond of their daughters, aren’t they? Not to say besotted.”

  “Is that how Nicky is with your girls?”

  The question seemed to take Sonia by surprise. “Yes,” she replied formally. “He’s very fond of them.”

  “But, going back to the Pottons’ divorce…”

  “I don’t know much about it, really. Just that it’s proving very difficult to everyone involved. And of course they’ll both suffer financially. I mean, before the marriage broke up, there was talk of them buying a pony for Imogen—you know, she’d had riding lessons at Long Bamber, she was very keen…but no chance of that now. Alec—Alec Potton works as a salesman of some kind—fitted kitchens, I think—so they never had much. And with the divorce happening, there’s certainly no spare cash. Which is another reason why I feel I shouldn’t make a fuss about Immy riding Conker, in spite of the way I know Alice and Laura will react and…” Sonia Dalrymple shook her perfectly coiffed blond hair in exasperation. “God, everything’s so bloody complicated.”

  “Yes, but surely—”

  Jude was silenced by a finger to Sonia’s lips and a nod towards the door from the utility room, where Imogen was just entering.

  “Conker all settled, is she?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Dalrymple. She wanted me to stay.”

  “Well, you must come and ride her another day.”

  “Can I come tomorrow?”

  Sonia looked flustered. If she wanted to wean Imogen off riding Conker before her daughters’ term finished, the task wouldn’t be an easy one. “I’m not quite sure what I’m doing tomorrow, Imogen.”

  “You don’t have to be here. It’s Saturday. I’m off school. And I know where everything is.”

  Jude observed the set-to with amusement. Imogen Potton was a very strong-willed young woman, but Sonia Dalrymple’s experience with her daughters had taught her how to stand up to strong-willed young women.

  “No, I’m sorry. I’m afraid I can’t allow you to ride Conker when I’m not here.”

  “But, Mrs. Dalrymple, you let me when she was up at Long Bamber.”

  “That’s different. There are people up there keeping an eye on things. Mr. and Mrs. Fleet…well, Mrs. Fleet now. And her helpers, and other riders. It’s totally different here.”

  “Oh, I—”

  “Imogen, I’m sorry. You have to obey me on this. You are not to ride Conker unless I am here. If you had a fall, I’d be responsible.”

  The words were said with finality, but as Jude had expected, Imogen wasn’t going to be silenced that easily.

  “But I won’t have a fall. Conker knows me. She behaves when she’s with me, Mrs. Dalrymple.”

  “Imogen, I don’t want to have to say this again. You are not to ride Conker unless I am here. Apart from anything else, you couldn’t get her saddle and tack if the house was closed.”

  “But I could borrow some—”

  “No. I am telling you you are not to ride her unless I am here! And if I find out you
have been disobeying me on that, I will stop you riding her altogether. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Dalrymple,” the girl mumbled.

  For a moment there was a silence. But Jude was unsurprised when Imogen came back again. “So, what, can I ring you tomorrow lunchtime, see if it’s all right?”

  Sonia looked flustered. “Well, er…I’m not sure exactly where I’ll be at lunchtime tomorrow. Maybe it’d be better if you left it a couple of days.”

  “I’ll ring you lunchtime tomorrow,” said Imogen firmly, and with satisfaction. She reckoned she’d won the round. Then, remembering her manners, she added, “And thank you very much for letting me ride Conker today.”

  “My pleasure. Now, as you see, Jude and I are having some tea and cake. Shall I get you a cup?”

  “No, thank you. I’d better get home.”

  “But you can’t go home on your own.”

  “It’s fine. I walked here. I’m only in Fethering. It’s not far.”

  “When you walked here, it wasn’t pitch dark.”

  “But, Mrs. Dalrymple—”

  “No.” Sonia sighed. “I’ll give you a lift. Just let me finish my cup of tea.”

  “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

  “Tell you what,” Jude interposed. “I’m walking back to Fethering. I’ll see you home, Imogen.”

  The girl didn’t look enthusiastic, but Sonia leapt on the idea with relief. “Yes, that’s a very good solution.”

  “Where do you actually live, Imogen?” asked Jude.

  “River Road,” came the sulky reply.

  “Perfect. It’s on my way. I live in the High Street.”

  “Well, Imogen, now that’s settled, will you have a cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Dalrymple. I really should be getting back. Mum worries.”

  “She’d worry more if she thought you were walking round on your own in the dark.”

  “She wouldn’t care.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she would.”

  Jude decided it was time to halt the development of another disagreement. Draining her tea and picking up her coat, she announced that she was ready to leave. “Have a look at Chieftain in the morning. Try walking him around a bit. Though I’m afraid you’re unlikely to find much improvement.”

  “I’ll live in hope. Now what do I owe you?”

  Jude raised a hand to banish the idea. “You can pay me if he gets better. If not, don’t worry.”

  “Paying by results? Is that how most healers work?”

  “It’s how I work.”

  “All right. If you insist.”

  “I do. Anyway, many thanks for the tea, and good to see you.”

  “Yes. And I’ll give you a call about…” In the presence of Imogen, Sonia Dalrymple was embarrassed about her client status with Jude and didn’t want to discuss the details of her next appointment.

  “Yes, fine,” said Jude, understanding immediately. “Well, Imogen, shall we be on our way?”

  The television chat show that Carole wouldn’t admit to anyone she watched was beginning to exercise quite a strong hold over her. Though the idea appalled her, she was conscious of beginning to schedule her day around the programme. Oh dear, she was becoming old and set in her ways. Part of the afternoon elderly, target market for all those stairlifts, annuities and walk-in baths they kept advertising in the commercial breaks.

  Carole felt little guilt about her secret vice. She enjoyed the programme and there was nothing wrong with that—so long as nobody ever found out she was actually watching it.

  But even her favourite chat show could not completely eradicate from her mind the unease planted there by her nonconversation with her daughter-in-law. Stephen and Gaby hadn’t yet been married six months—surely things hadn’t soured that quickly?

  Maybe Carole would have to ring Stephen and question him about the situation. It wasn’t a prospect she relished.

  Her programme came to an end, and Carole stayed to watch the news. That was an indulgence she could always justify. It was important, as one got older, to keep abreast of current affairs. That night’s offerings weren’t very edifying—more people killed in pointless international wars and intractable civil ones, a minor royal committing yet another gaffe, the government setting up another target destined never to be attained. The mixture as before.

  It wasn’t until the local news came on that there was an item to surprise Carole. And the surprise wasn’t a pleasant one. The previous night two mares had been slashed at with knives at a stable yard in West Sussex. The incident had taken place west of Horsham, some way away from Fedborough and Long Bamber Stables, but the news was still unsettling.

  Jude had an exceptional knack of getting people to talk to her. Even the most buttoned-up individuals usually succumbed after a few minutes to the easiness of her company. But she made very little headway with Imogen Potton.

  As they walked back along the Fether through the gathering dusk, overtures about school, tastes in music and television, even her beloved Conker, were cut short by curt monosyllables. The girl kept just to the right side of rudeness, but she left no doubt that she’d rather be on her own. Her instinct was to run off and leave Jude; only the fear of her behaviour being reported to Sonia Dalrymple and ending her riding rights prevented her from doing so.

  Imogen had started by trailing behind her minder, swinging her battered riding hat at her side, but, soon realising that this formation opened up too much danger of Jude looking back and making eye contact, she now marched resolutely ahead.

  “Will there be someone at home when you get there?”

  The girl couldn’t refuse to answer such a direct question. “I think my Dad’ll be there. Mum works late on a Thursday.”

  “What does your mother do?”

  “She serves at Allinstore.” Fethering’s only—and highly inefficient—supermarket. “Money’s been tight since they started the divorce proceedings. Mum thinks the work is very definitely beneath her.” Imogen seemed to derive some satisfaction from her mother’s discomfiture.

  “So what time will she be back?”

  But the brief window of communication was closing. All Jude got was a terse “Later.”

  “Well, look, if you have any problems, or you’re left on your own too long this evening, give me a call.” Jude stopped for a moment and scribbled down her mobile number. The girl hadn’t waited for her and Jude had to hurry to catch up and hand it across. Silently Imogen shoved the scrap of paper into the pocket of her puffa jacket, but not in the manner of someone who was ever going to use it.

  Jude tried again. Surely the murder of Walter Fleet would get some reaction from the girl.

  “Horrible, that business up at Long Bamber, wasn’t it?” Silence. “You know, the reason why Conker and Chieftain have been moved back to the Dalrymples’.”

  “I do know what you’re talking about,” said Imogen pityingly.

  “It must have been a shock for you.” Jude persevered. “I mean, because you spent so much time up at the stables.”

  “I didn’t spend much time there.”

  “But I thought you looked after Conker, helped with the mucking out?”

  “Not very often.”

  This seemed a direct contradiction to what Sonia Dalrymple had said, but Jude didn’t question it.

  “And you must have known Walter Fleet quite well.”

  “Not that well. He was just an old guy who was around, that’s all.”

  Old? Early forties. Jude wondered how old Imogen thought she was. “But he and his wife ran the place. You must have had quite a bit to do with him and—”

  “I didn’t know him well,” the girl said firmly, and to emphasise the ending of the conversation, ran a few steps ahead. “We’re nearly there.”

  The River Road destination to which Imogen led the way was a substantial family house, probably with four or five bedrooms. Though Sonia Dalrymple had dismissed Alec Potton’s earning potential, and it was as not
hing compared to her husband, he must have been doing pretty well to buy a property like that in Fethering. But the house was showing signs of neglect. The exterior paintwork was blistered and flaking, and the front garden had grown shaggy. Its lack of maintenance seemed all too straightforward a symbol for the dividing family within. The blank stare of the unlit windows with undrawn curtains was distinctly unwelcoming.

  “It’s all right. You can leave me here,” said Imogen when they reached the garden gate.

  “No, I’ll see you in, check there’s someone there.”

  “I am fourteen, you know. I am capable of being in the house on my own. In fact, I spend most of my time in the house on my own. It’s not a problem.”

  “Do you have any brothers and sisters?”

  “No.”

  “Well, let’s just see if there’s anyone in.”

  “For heaven’s sake, I can be left alone! You sound just like my mum, not letting me be on my own for a single minute. Either she’s got to be there, or she’s got to fix up for Dad to be there or…”

  Imogen let out one of those exasperated sighs that only teenage girls can do properly, and stomped off up the garden path, reaching for her house key. She opened the front door, turning to bar entrance to Jude. Her unwanted escort was being given a very definite message to leave.

  “So, is there someone in?”

  “Yes, of course there is. Da-ad!”

  But the only answer to her long call was an echo in the empty house. Imogen looked taken aback, then let out another louder wail, which again produced no response.

  “He said he’d be here. He promised to be here.” But resignation quickly overcame disappointment. “Don’t worry. I’ll be all right. You can go.”

  “But couldn’t you give your father a call on your mobile to—”

  “If he’s not here, he’s doing something else,” said Imogen sharply. “Work probably. He’s on the road somewhere. I can’t disturb him when he’s working.”

  “But surely he’s…”

  Jude’s words trailed away at the sound of a car drawing up behind her and Imogen’s eyes brightening with recognition.