Death of a Blue Blood

by 1 Donald Bain

  “Give her a bit of time to be a proper mother, and don’t wipe down the foal,” Dr. Ford told Colin. “Cleaning her foal is an important part of the mare-foal bonding process.”

  Jemma tried to look over Dr. Ford’s shoulder. “What do we have?” she asked.

  “A colt,” the vet replied.

  Jemma and Colin grinned at each other. Then Jemma’s face crumpled and she started to cry. I knew she was thinking about her father. “This is the start of the Norrance racing string,” she said.

  Dr. Ford smiled at her. “You two will do fine, carrying on with the stock.”

  “That we will,” Colin said.

  “Congratulations!” I whispered when Jemma came out of the stall.

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling through her tears.

  Bearing witness as the prize mare Lamia gave birth to her foal was a tense but exciting experience, to say nothing of life-affirming. Dr. Ford, Colin, and Jemma had worked smoothly as a team as they aided Lamia to deliver her colt. If the earl had been right, the newborn would one day go on to become a prize-winning, money-generating racehorse. This gangly little foal, already trying to pull himself up on his spindly legs, had no idea of what was expected of him. Would he be able to live up to those expectations? The earl was no longer alive to confirm that his purchase of Lamia from a breeder in Kentucky had been a wise investment. It had been a costly one. Fitzwalter had said the earl paid sixty-two thousand pounds for her. That was more than one hundred thousand dollars. Between the earl’s gambling and spending, would there be sufficient funds for his heirs to carry out his dreams of breeding racehorses in the Norrance stables?

  The veterinarian examined the youngster briefly. “I’ll come back tomorrow to check them both. Let’s allow them some private time together.” He followed Colin out of the stall.

  “Well done, my friends,” Dr. Ford said, stripping off his rubber gloves and dropping them in a satchel that he’d left next to the stall. He slapped Colin on the back and shook Jemma’s hand. “He’s a fine-looking foal, healthy as can be. He’ll be tearing up racetracks across the UK in no time. His mother is looking good, too, not the worse for wear.”

  “Have to be grateful surgery wasn’t required,” Colin said.

  “Much better this way, but you’ve got to keep your eyes on them both.” He gave Colin a list of instructions regarding the mare and her colt.

  “I can’t wait until he’s old enough to ride,” Jemma said, leaning over the gate and smiling at the newest horse in the barn.

  “You’ve never met a horse you didn’t want to ride,” Colin said to Jemma while washing his hands in a bucket of clean water, then drying them on one of many towels brought to the stable in anticipation of the birth. “It’s a shame that your dad isn’t here to enjoy it.”

  “I know,” Jemma said, her attention still focused on the newborn colt. “He would have been so pleased.”

  “Sorry to learn about the earl,” Dr. Ford told her. “Rumor has it that your father might have been poisoned. Did I hear that right?”

  “That’s what has tongues wagging around the village,” Colin said, putting his arm around Jemma’s shoulder. “If you ask me, the constable in charge of investigating is a bit of a bumbler.”

  “Mardling’s a good man,” the veterinarian said in defense. “Of course he hasn’t had to poke into many murders, a good thing for us here in the Cotswolds. But I hear there’s a Scotland Yard fellow staying at the castle who must have seen plenty.”

  “That would be Mrs. Fletcher’s friend,” Jemma said, suddenly seeming to remember that I was still there.

  “How are you, Mrs. Fletcher?” Colin asked, realizing that I was standing silently in the shadows.

  “Me? I’m just fine,” I replied, “although I admit that I’m still in awe at the miracle I’ve just seen. Does he look like he has the makings of a champion racehorse?”

  “Never know at this stage,” the veterinarian replied, “but I’d say he’s a fine specimen. Wouldn’t be surprised if he became a champ. Well, I’d better get back home. It’s gotten dark—not fond of these shortened winter days—and the missus will be getting supper ready. Please give your mother my condolences,” he said to Jemma. “Hope she’ll be pleased about this new life we’ve brought into this questionable world.” He closed up his leather bag. “Pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Fletcher. Now, if someone can drive me back to my car . . .”

  Jemma didn’t seem eager to leave the stable, but she held up her hand.

  “The police wouldn’t let me through the back entrance,” Dr. Ford said to me. “Had to come through the front where the constables could use their radio to confirm my legitimacy to pass.”

  “I wondered why you hadn’t driven to the barn directly,” I said.

  “I’m sorry you were inconvenienced, Dr. Ford, but as I told you, we’re trying to keep the reporters out,” Jemma said.

  “Not such an inconvenience. Always appreciate the company of a beautiful young lady, especially one so knowledgeable about horses.”

  “I’d offer you a ride, too, Mrs. Fletcher,” she said, “but the pickup truck only has two seats.”

  “Think nothing of it,” I said. “I’ll enjoy the walk back. You run along. Nice to meet you, Dr. Ford. Congratulations to all on this new addition to the family.”

  “Are you going back up to the castle?” I asked Colin after the veterinarian and Jemma had departed.

  “Afraid not, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll be here in the stable the better part of the night to make sure nothing goes amiss.”

  “It was a fascinating experience. I’m so glad I got to see it.”

  “Maybe you can use it in one of your books,” Colin said through a laugh.

  “How do you know that I’m a writer?”

  “Me mam called me. Said she met you today, that you were the one to find my aunt in the garden.”

  “I did. There have been a lot of losses here at Castorbrook. I’m sorry about your aunt.”

  “Me, too. She was a kind lady. Used to take me with her to play with the Grant lads and Jemma when we were little.”

  “Then you’ve known Jemma a long time.”

  “Yeah, she’s like a little sister to me. We’re very close.”

  “Did the earl and countess approve of your friendship?”

  Colin snorted. “Not hardly. The earl sent me up to Scotland to get me out of the way. But it worked out for me anyway.”

  “How so?”

  “I got to apprentice with a famous trainer there, Aaron Elgard. Mr. Elgard used to work for the royal family. Balmoral is the queen’s Scottish home. Jemma was jealous that I got to go and she didn’t. Ended up being a great education. I’m grateful for it.”

  “Maybe that was his plan all along. Maybe the earl was trying to help you.”

  Colin raised his eyebrows at me. “Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe he didn’t like his daughter associating with a stable hand. But it’s too late now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, he’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Are you happy about that?”

  “What an odd question. If you think I had something to do with it, you’re wrong. I wasn’t even at the ball.”

  “Weren’t you? I thought perhaps you were one of the costumed guests.”

  “Well, well, you thought wrong.” He turned his head, his eyes looking anywhere but at me.

  I had a feeling he was lying.

  “I hope you’re not carrying that tale to the constables,” he said, frowning.

  “If it’s not true, you have nothing to worry about.”

  While we’d been talking, Lamia had gotten to her feet and was cleaning her foal. The colt was also standing, although he wasn’t very steady on his legs. He tottered toward the mare and poked his nose around her underside until he found the milk.

  Colin’s frown turned into a smile. “Nice picture that, huh?” He seemed relieved to change the subject.

  “Very. I’d better get going,”
I said, slinging the strap on my purse over my shoulder. “The night’s not going to get any lighter, and it’s not going to get warmer.”

  Colin looked outside. “It’s quite dark now. You’ll be all right getting back to the castle on your own?”

  “Heavens, yes. It isn’t very far. You can see it from here.”

  “Just be careful walking through the orchard. The trail is narrow, and at night—”

  “Don’t give it a second thought,” I said. “You take care of this fine-looking foal. Don’t worry about me. And thank you for allowing me to be here during this wonderful event.”

  The earl had said Colin was a fine young man, I thought when I walked from the stable into the Cotswold darkness. But Colin believed his employer distrusted him, at least where Jemma was concerned. Was Ruby right when she said the relationship between Jemma and Colin was like a fairy tale of the princess and the groom? Now I wasn’t so sure. It seemed unlikely that Colin would have a motive to kill the earl if there was no romantic relationship between him and Jemma for the earl to come between. And it didn’t sound like Colin was planning to leave Castorbrook to go off to work somewhere else. Perhaps the earl hadn’t had an opportunity to tell him about the offer from the peer in Wales. But if he had told him, would that news have upset Colin enough to act to safeguard his position on the estate?

  While I’d been in the confines of the stable, I hadn’t been aware that a wind had blown up. The current of air took what was an already chilly January night and dropped the temperature even lower—or at least it felt as if it had, with the wind chill factor. I’d dressed appropriately for the season, but I clutched the collar of my borrowed barn jacket tightly around my throat as I headed back in the direction of Castorbrook Castle.

  I was not really looking forward to getting there. A festive atmosphere was out of the question. Where the scene on this first day of the New Year should have been celebratory, I was returning to a house in mourning. I wondered whether George and I would be expected to meet with the family again or whether Lady Norrance had even left her room all day after bidding most of her guests good-bye. Whether we dined with the family or found ourselves alone for dinner, it promised to be an awkward evening. Death has a way of casting a pall over things.

  I looked in the direction of the castle, its lights visible in the distance. I shuddered. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to walk back by myself. Colin could have called for someone to drive down and provide a lift, but he was busy enough without having to worry about me. Or maybe if I’d waited long enough, Jemma would have returned with the truck.

  As I proceeded toward the castle—and warmth—it started to sleet; the ice crystals blown sideways by the wind felt like tiny daggers pricking my face. I thought of Cabot Cove as I trudged forward, past the three stone buildings that comprised the stables, and started up the steep hill that I’d come down only a day earlier with our host, the earl. We have severe winters back home, with lots of heavy snow and biting winds that come off the water, so this weather was not unfamiliar. Yet there was something different about winter in the Cotswolds, a feel, almost a discernible scent in the heavy gray air.

  I shivered as I started up the hill. While I consider myself to be in pretty good shape for my age—riding a bicycle around Cabot Cove keeps my legs toned—it was a lot tougher going uphill than it had been the first time. I’d made that return trip in the daylight, in dry weather, eager to find George and tell him about my conversation with Lord Norrance. This time I was aware only of the vertical pitch of the hill, how slippery it was underfoot, and how difficult it was to see through the sleet and snow and into the dark orchard ahead. The cold wind managed to creep under my jackets and chill my body. I paused to catch my breath at the top of the hill—panting out little white clouds in the freezing air—before continuing on to the head of the trail that wound its way through the now-dormant orchard. As I recalled from having accompanied the earl, the trail wasn’t marked, which shouldn’t pose a problem, not with the castle’s lights as my beacon. I entered the path and slowly made my way, being careful not to lose my footing on the dead leaves. Although the center of the trail was solid, it sloped off on either side, a prescription for someone to misstep and twist an ankle—or worse.

  The sleet pasted wet strands of hair to my face. I swiped my hand across my forehead. A snap as if a branch had broken sounded behind me. I whirled around. What was that? I held my breath for a few seconds to listen. Funny how even the sound of your own breathing can interfere with your hearing.

  I turned back toward the castle when I heard it again. Another branch snapped. I gasped at the sound of heavy breathing, and of leaves or bushes being rustled. Had the dogs gotten out of the garden? They would have barked at seeing me, wouldn’t they have? Was someone stalking me?

  “Hello?” I said into the darkness. “Is that you, Colin?” Had he been upset with my questions? Was he trying to scare me off? He’d warned me about the orchard. “Colin?”

  There was no response.

  I moved ahead again, picking up my pace. Now the sound was more distinct. I was being followed. I glanced over my shoulder, but the lights of the castle were not strong enough to illuminate whoever or whatever was behind me. I couldn’t see any movement through the darkness. Only the silhouettes of the trees nearest me were visible. My mind conjured up terrifying scenarios. Did they have bears in the Cotswolds? But if they did, wouldn’t they be hibernating? Badgers didn’t hibernate. Was I too close to their den? Did they chase people who ventured near their tunnels? Did they bite? I stumbled and turned to face Castorbrook, wondering whether I could outrun my pursuer. I started to trot, hugging my shoulder bag to my side. If attacked, I could use it as a shield. But for how long? I quickened my pace. I was almost running when a husky male voice shouted, “Stop right there!”

  I froze.

  “Don’t you move,” he said.

  I peered into the gloom and saw Angus, the castle’s rough-hewn gardener, approaching. A howl went up from the dogs that accompanied him. They trotted up to me and circled where I stood, their pants loud in the silent night.

  “Hello, boys,” I said softly, imitating the earl’s greeting to them the day before. One of the dogs nudged my leg. It didn’t feel like an aggressive move. Angus whistled and they raced back to him. But it was what the gardener was carrying that suddenly riveted my attention. It was a very large and menacing shotgun, and it was pointed directly at me.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “Oh, my goodness, Angus,” I said, “you scared the life out of me.”

  He jutted his large head forward to better see me. “Do I know you?” he said.

  “Yes,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. “I’m Jessica Fletcher.” I don’t know why I felt compelled to add, “I’m a guest of the Grants, along with Scotland Yard Chief Inspector Sutherland.” But I did. “You met us when we arrived, remember?”

  “You shouldn’t be walking around out here at night,” he said, shifting the shotgun from one arm to the other.

  “I was down at the stable where Lamia gave birth and—”

  “I already know about that,” he said gruffly. “You see any of those newspaper people around?”

  “Newspaper people? No.”

  “Bunch of leeches, bloodsuckers, that’s what they are, snooping where they don’t belong and tryin’ to dig up dirt on Her Ladyship’s family.”

  “I knew that the press was covering the earl’s death, but—”

  He interrupted me again. “I won’t stand still and see the countess, fine lady that she is, made a mockery of by those bloody Murdoch people.”

  “Murdoch people?”

  “The tabloids. Dirt peddlers—that’s what they are. Ought to be a law against them, but you can’t expect anything smart to come out of what the politicians do, that’s for certain.”

  “Is that why you’re out here tonight, Angus, to run off any members of the press?”

  “And they’ll feel a round of
buckshot in their rear parts, pardon the expression, if they don’t get off the estate. I suggest that you get yourself back to the castle, Mrs. Fletcher, before somebody mistakes you for one of those bloodsucking leeches.”

  That somebody meaning you.

  “Thank you for the advice, Angus,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady as the cold and wind penetrated my clothing and set me to shaking again.

  He turned from me without another word, the dogs flanking him, and disappeared into the darkness.

  By the time I reached the castle, I was thoroughly chilled. My legs ached as I wearily entered the mudroom, where I sank down on the bench to change out of my borrowed boots and shrug off the barn jacket that had failed to insulate me from the icy weather. The castle hallway was empty, but the door to the drawing room was open. I went directly to the hearth, where I stood in front of a freshly stoked, roaring fire, rubbing my hands together and over my upper arms.

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” Nigel said, startling me.

  “Oh, hello, Nigel.”

  “May I get you something—tea, brandy, something to warm you up? This is not a night to be walking about. We’re getting a spot of snow.”

  “So we are. Would it be too much of an imposition to have tea delivered to my room?”

  “Of course not, madam. I’ll see to it immediately.”

  Sufficiently warmed, and with the pleasant contemplation of a cup of hot tea in my immediate future, I headed for the wing where George and I were staying, pausing to knock on his door but receiving no response. I entered my room, shed my jacket, and took off my shoes, which were cold from sitting on the stone floor of the mudroom. I put on a pair of slippers, added another sweater to the layers I was wearing, and waited for my tea to be delivered. I remembered that George had given me the coroner’s report on Flavia Beckwith—his gift—and retrieved it from my purse. I sat at the desk, turned on the lamp, and spread the pages out in front of me. Someone had lit the coals in my fireplace, and the room felt cozy. Nigel arrived and placed the tea service and a small, doily-covered plate of cookies on a table. “Dinner will be served in an hour,” he said.