Death of a Friend (31 page)

‘Nor me,’ Den admitted. ‘But we’d better be ready to head it off if it tries to get back onto the road.’

On foot they followed the girl’s route, through the open gates leading to the house. Feeling important, Den dragged the big iron gates closed after them. ‘That should do it,’ he boasted.

The house at the end of a long, curving drive was ivy-covered, gabled, lead-mullioned. It appeared to boast two or three acres of well-tended lawns and gardens. ‘That horse could do some damage if it starts playing up,’ said Phil.

Simultaneously they saw the animal half-hidden in a shrubbery, and the stable girl walking calmly towards it, hand extended.

‘She’s brave,’ said Den. ‘That’s a big horse.’ Abruptly, the words triggered a vivid flashback to the death of Nina Nesbitt. This horse was very nearly as big as Fairfield’s hunter and probably
every bit as agitated. ‘Christ!’ he exclaimed. ‘What if—’

‘Steady!’ Phil soothed. ‘She’s got it, look.’

Den began to shake. Two people had died already because of horses. He couldn’t be sure it wouldn’t happen again, especially if this horse, belonging to Frank Gratton, was the very one that had killed Charlie. He tried to run, but his legs had become boneless. ‘Be careful!’ he called.

His voice didn’t carry very well, but either his shout or the presence of three strange people and a large animal in the garden, alerted someone in the house. A woman in her thirties emerged from the front door and started shrieking. ‘What’s going on? What are you people doing?’ At her heels a Jack Russell dog ran round in lunatic circles.

Den, to his shame, screwed his eyes tight shut as the girl held onto the halter on the horse’s head. On the insides of his eyelids he saw it pull back, rear up, strike down on her with murderously sharp hooves. A hissing intake of breath from Phil confirmed his fears and he forced himself to look.

She had grasped the halter, but the horse was indeed yanking backwards, dancing nervously as the dog skittered up to it and yapped even louder. The girl kicked out unambiguously.
‘Shut up, you stupid little beast!’ she shouted, loud enough to make the creature pause for a moment.

‘Jacky!’ called the woman. ‘Come back here!’ The pause extended. The horse jerked its head once more, pulling the girl’s arm up to its full extent, but she didn’t let go.

‘Come on,’ said Phil. ‘Let’s do something useful.’

Order was quickly restored. The woman from the house cornered the dog and tucked it firmly under her arm, where it continued to yap, though with less urgency. The horse gave itself up with a good grace, Phil bravely holding onto the halter alongside the girl. ‘That took guts,’ Den said to her, a little embarrassed. ‘I thought it was going to … hurt you.’

She laughed. ‘No way. This is Jasper. He’s as gentle as a kitten. Gentler – he hasn’t even got claws. You could lie on the ground with nothing to protect you and he’d just step carefully over you. These are riding school horses, for heaven’s sake! They have to be a thousand per cent trustworthy.’

‘They’re all like that, are they?’ Den was watching his theories about Frank scatter to the four winds. ‘Wouldn’t he have kicked that dog if it had run at him from behind?’

‘Definitely not. It was
me
that kicked the little
bastard, not Jasper.’ She glanced apologetically at the woman holding the dog. ‘Oops! Sorry, but he was being an awful pain.’

The woman did not seem very forgiving. ‘This is the second time one of your horses has churned up my lawn. It’s not going to be a regular occurrence, is it?’

Den felt called upon to make a gesture. ‘I’m really sorry,’ he said ruefully. ‘It was our fault. We’re here on a Ministry inspection. One of our men let the horse out – very stupidly. He’s a novice around horses, I’m afraid.’

The girl and Phil both stared at him for a few seconds, before deciding to let the story stand. Then with a sense of anticlimax they trooped back to the stables, where the forensic men had shyly retreated some time earlier.

‘Have you chaps got those hoof prints yet?’ Den asked them briskly.

‘Not quite,’ one of them admitted, in stark exaggeration. It was obvious they had not even begun the task.

‘Well, we’ll leave you to it. Miss … um … will help you. We’ve got to be somewhere.’ The fact that he had neglected to ask the stable girl her name struck him as both deeply unprofessional and rather fitting. He was confident there would be no need to officially report her testimony. The forensic examination of all the riding school
mounts and their hooves was a waste of time, too, but he didn’t say so.

‘Have we?’ Phil blinked.

Den watched as horses and people milled about the paddock, and then shook himself. ‘Yes, we have. I don’t know about you, but I’m going to pay a call on Lady Hermione Nesbitt.’

There was an increasing sense of urgency as Den and Phil sped back to Okehampton, exacerbated by Phil’s implacable insistence on stopping at a garage and buying two large sandwiches and two bottles of sugary fizzy drinks. It was almost six-thirty when they finally pulled up at the police station again. ‘You can make the report – what there is of it. I’m going straight off again,’ said Den, practically pushing his colleague out of the car.

Phil tried to speak, to ascertain for certain whether they really were abandoning the notion that Frank Gratton was their killer. ‘What’s the DI going to say?’ he worried. ‘We never did what we were meant to.’

‘Just leave some notes on his desk,’ Den snapped. ‘Nobody’s going to read them today, anyway. If there are any matching hoof prints, it’ll be taken out of our hands.’ But he knew that wouldn’t happen. He knew for sure now that Frank did not possess a murderous horse. He was shouting the final words out of the window as he revved the engine and drove away.

He knew it had been a huge mistake not to interview Lady Nesbitt sooner. He remembered her at Nina’s death, how authoritative she had been, how genuinely concerned for her grandsons. He also remembered the contemptuous glance she had thrown at the weeping Charlie. Like a gradually developing photograph, the picture was coming into focus. Lilah had commented on how many strong women there were in this story – Hannah, Martha, the matriarchal Eliza and the daunting Hermione herself. And how weak the men appeared by comparison …

The drive to Hermione’s was once again indirect and time-consuming. A few Easter holidaymakers were still exploring the area along the Tamar, enjoying the fine evening and the westering sun. Their cars were either parked obstructively or dawdling down the narrow lanes. Den forced himself to avoid reckless overtaking and aggressive tailgating; his car was
not identifiably that of a police officer and he had no real justification for undue haste, other than desperately wanting to reach his destination before darkness fell. And to get his questions answered once and for all.

His map showed Hermione’s home as yet another imposing mansion, set on a hillside a few miles north of Gunnislake. It turned out to have a short approach drive and a view far superior to that from High Copse. The Tamar was an impressive river for much of its length, and at this point, sliding loopily between steep wooded hills, at its best. There was scarcely any sign of human habitation for miles. Villages straddled the two A roads – the 388 and the 384 – but the triangle between them was sparsely inhabited.

The land levelled out behind the house and a large paddock was bordered by a sturdy post-and-rail fence. Den shook his head at the plethora of equestrian facilities laid out before him. No wonder Hermione was friendly with Frank – his place must have been a home from home, despite the inferior quality of his buildings. Lady Nesbitt’s house and grounds, on the other hand, had been spared no expense in a comparatively recent refurbishment. The area in front of the house was immaculately tarmacked, the surrounding lawns well tended. But the
Range Rover was parked crookedly beside a wall – doubtless concealing a lavishly-stocked garden or tennis court – covered in mud and with one headlight broken.

Although obviously not a working farm, it appeared that there was a substantial area of land attached to the house. Den scanned the acres in the fading light in vain, for evidence of a horse, before leaving his car and rapping the heavy iron knocker on the solid oak front door.

He half expected a maidservant in a frilly apron to greet him, but it was Hermione herself who flung the door wide in an oddly appealing gesture. As with Gerald Fairfield, Master of Foxhounds, Den’s instant intuition was that here was an innocent person with nothing to hide.

She narrowed her eyes and cocked her head to one side like a big, heavy bird. ‘I know you,’ she said.

‘Detective Constable Den Cooper, ma’am,’ he confirmed. ‘I was present at the death of your daughter-in-law. I expect that’s where you saw me.’

‘Terrible business,’ she said, in a gruff voice. If he hadn’t been face to face with her, he would have taken her for a man. ‘It should never have happened.’

‘It must be very difficult for you,’ he offered.
‘Especially as she was trying to prevent the hunt—’

‘No,’ she corrected him, the deep voice now suggestive of something painful, something carefully buried. ‘No, it wasn’t unduly difficult. We’d got used to each other, but there was no love lost. I’d say it was far worse for the boys. Those children have known some very divided loyalties, one way and another. Anyway – do you want to come in?’ She opened the door wider, invitingly, but he felt her holding her breath; felt the tension – or was it apprehension? – in the air. ‘I admit I’m surprised by your timing,’ she remarked.

Den took a deep breath, and struggled to order his thoughts. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s been a very full day. And thank you, I will come in for a few minutes.’

She ushered him into a small room, furnished like a study. The window looked out onto the front garden and the paddock beyond. The gathering darkness made it hard to see much.

One by one, his suspects were turning into uncomfortably likeable characters. For a full fifteen minutes earlier that day, he had been quite certain that Hermione had killed Charlie Gratton, just as he had been sure about Frank and Clive Aspen, in their turn. Now the ideas all seemed ridiculous.

‘I came to talk to you about Frank and Charlie Gratton,’ he said. ‘We were told today that you’re on friendly terms with Frank, and you visit him regularly?’ Like someone sacrificing his queen in a final desperate move, he added, ‘You probably don’t know that he has been an object of our interest as a possible perpetrator of Charlie’s killing.’

Her weathered cheeks turned a darker shade and her eyes widened in disbelief. ‘That’s utterly stupid,’ she said angrily. ‘By what dimwitted thought processes did you reach that conclusion?’

Whatever Hermione’s background, she had a disarming way with words.

‘I can’t go into that,’ said Den politely. ‘But I do need to ask you certain questions. I understand you have a large horse here, which was responsible for hurting your arm a week or so ago?’

‘Boanerges, yes,’ she said shortly. ‘He’s out at the moment.’

He looked at her closely. ‘Out? In the dark?’

She moved to the window. ‘It’s not really dark yet,’ she said, as if trying to convince herself.

‘Is he with someone?’

‘Of course he is.’ He knew something was coming then; her face was hardening in some sort of inner struggle. She turned back to him and
looked up into his face, eyes hungry for something. Understanding? Forgiveness? ‘Boanerges is out with the boys,’ she said. He felt her admit defeat. A decision had been made.

‘Boys? Do you mean your grandsons?’

‘Clem and Hugh,’ she nodded. ‘They’ve gone off for a ride. Hugh takes Boanerges and Clem has a smaller mare. They’re both excellent riders. Well they would be, with their background.’

Den’s heart was in an icy grip. ‘But it’s
dark
,’ he repeated. ‘And are they due back soon?’

‘I promised them flapjack,’ she said distractedly, a hand to her throat.

‘Flapjack?’ he echoed.

She shook herself and blinked rapidly. ‘This is too much for me,’ she said abruptly and sat down on a leather chair in front of an oak desk. ‘I knew I wouldn’t be able to hide it if you people ever decided to come here. I knew I shouldn’t even try.’

‘Frank Gratton?’ he prompted, knowing he was being a coward, merely delaying the inevitable, knowing the question was completely beside the point; knowing too that he was no more ready than Hermione to confront the heartbreaking truth. ‘What makes you think we’ve made a mistake about Frank?’

‘One simple thing,’ she said, playing along
gallantly. ‘Frank didn’t care enough about Charlie to kill him.’

Den put a hand on her arm, slow and heavy with sadness. ‘Are you certain about that?’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I can believe it.’

‘Frank isn’t the person you’re looking for,’ she insisted, her eyes meeting his.

‘I think you’re trying to protect him,’ said Den, as if reading from a script.

‘It would be very unfair if he were to be blamed for Charlie’s death.’

‘I’d like to ask you about Charlie’s origins,’ he pursued with an effort. ‘I gather you were close to his mother.’

He could see the struggle going on inside her. ‘Who have you been talking to?’ she asked sharply. Then she shook her head. ‘Yes, I was the only friend she had when Charlie was born. The district nurse asked me if I would keep an eye on her. She had terrible postnatal depression, you see.’

‘But your own son was only a year old, and Frank Gratton is his godfather. So you knew her well before Charlie was born.’

‘It was a long time ago,’ she whispered.

‘Lady Nesbitt – we know who Charlie’s father was. I don’t want you to try and hide it from us.’

She looked at him again, the aristocratic matriarch, the indomitable countrywoman, and
her eyes filled with tears. ‘You mustn’t blame Frank,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t his fault. She was so
dependent
on him, and Bill was useless.’ A flash of anger crossed her face. ‘I’ve never been able to bear Bill since then. So righteous and punitive, and so cruel to the wretched boy.’

The noise outside was faint at first. A boyish shouting, the neigh of a horse. Hermione got up slowly and Den followed her to the front door. They stepped outside and stood on the lawn. The figures in the paddock were shadowy, mere patches of darker grey in the twilight.

‘The boys don’t seem to have been very fond of Charlie,’ Den commented, unnaturally casual, trying to defer the moment when he would have to fully understand, and live for the rest of his life with the understanding. ‘They only have eyes for their father.’

‘They don’t know what’s good for them,’ she said. ‘Children never do. They always seem to make the wrong choices. Has anyone told you how much Charlie loved them? If their father had come to grief on one of his outlandish jaunts, Charlie would probably have tried to adopt them. But they’d never have been won over by him. They were unshakeably loyal to Nevil, the little fools.’

Den was watching the two silhouetted riders. One was on a medium-sized pony,
trotting steadily towards the house. Clem’s face looked pale, his expression unreadable at such a distance. Behind him came a much larger animal.

‘Hugh’s a wonderful horseman,’ said Hermione again. ‘It runs in his blood. Not many boys of his age could handle Boanerges.’

Den didn’t ask. The answer was only too obvious. The animal was a rich chestnut, at least as big as the one that had killed Nina at the hunt. As he watched, the boy cantered it alongside the top rail of the paddock and then forced it to a violently sudden stop. The horse reared up, the boy clinging effortlessly to its back, laughing loud enough to carry across the intervening distance. ‘He’s always making him do that,’ Hermione remarked, almost idly. ‘It looks worse than it is. I don’t think he’s ever fallen off.’

Den wasn’t seeing the reality before his eyes. He was seeing a curled-up figure on the ground beneath the great hooves. He was seeing the boy deliberately charging at Charlie. Compelling the horse to rear and then stamp down on the unprotected man. Charlie, who had caused the death of his mother; Charlie, who would take on the role of father if anything happened to Nev; Charlie, who was probably going to marry Alexis and be there all the time, forcing
his unwanted love onto Hugh and Clem his brother.

Den’s heart inflated, impeding the operation of his lungs. This was the realisation he had never wanted to dawn.

‘You don’t have to protect him any more,’ he said tightly to Hermione.