Jump! (28 page)

In the following week, Etta received offers for Mrs Wilkinson from the finest trainers in the land. She refused them all but yielding to pressure from Martin, Carrie and her Willowwood friends, who felt she shouldn’t deny Mrs Wilkinson a brilliant career, she allowed her mare to have a DNA test.

Sensational findings came back that Mrs Wilkinson was a five-year-old named Usurper. Her sire was Rupert’s Derby-winning stallion Peppy Koala, her dam a National Hunt mare called Little Star, who’d won several races. More disastrously it transpired that Usurper had once belonged to Shade Murchieson and Harvey-Holden. She’d been born on 6 March.

‘She’s a Pisces and she’s got the same birthday as Ouija Board,’ said Dora ecstatically. ‘No wonder she pissed all over that point-to-point. She’s going to need lots of counselling, like my sister Emerald, before she meets her real parents.’

Joey, to protect a distraught Etta, tipped off the police, who immediately rolled up at Ravenscroft to interview Harvey-Holden, waving photographs of a bloodstained, lacerated Mrs Wilkinson from when Etta first rescued her. Harvey-Holden immediately protested he had no idea how his filly had got into that condition. He would never have dreamt of hurting her.

Shade, he said, had bought her for his daughter Chantelle’s eighteenth birthday, but Shade’s ex-wife, from whom he had parted with colossal acrimony, had refused to let Chantelle accept the filly. Usurper had been returned to Harvey-Holden to await further developments. Harvey-Holden had been very fond of the filly and wanted her back.

Etta’s fears intensified because Harvey-Holden’s fortunes had changed dramatically. He had not witnessed Mrs Wilkinson’s
point-to-point victory because that weekend he’d married a very rich, very large widow called Judy Tobias.

Tipped off in the Fox by Joey, Alan arrived to commiserate and brief Etta.

‘Judy Tobias, now Judy Harvey-Holden, talk about Tobias and the Devil,’ said Alan, helping himself to a large glass of red, ‘is a big, blowsy philanthropist, horribly politically correct and heavily, she couldn’t be anything else at that size, into animal welfare. So H-H better start treating his horses better. Jude evidently fell in love when she saw H-H crying on television after the fire.

‘Taking her to bed must be like a ferret mounting a hippo. With any luck H-H will get squashed flat before the next National Hunt season. If she walked past that window she’d darken the room more than Valent’s mature hedge. Oh cheer up, Etta darling. They’ll never be allowed to take her back to that dump.’

In the days that followed, the on dit was that Judy’s money would enable H-H to rebuild his yard to the lushest specifications, adding new gallops, a solarium, an indoor school the size of a football pitch and an equine swimming pool for Jude to romp in.

‘Which means lorries rumbling through Willowwood wrecking the roads, holding up the traffic,’ observed Alan. ‘Joey will no doubt get the contract to build it.’

Deadliest of all, Jude was determined to help H-H fight the case for the repossession of Mrs Wilkinson with a crack QC called Cecil Stroud.

Martin Bancroft was appalled by the news. On returning a week later from fundraising in America, he set out for Little Hollow, determined to persuade his mother to give back Mrs Wilkinson at once. Judy Tobias, particularly if she were going to be living round the corner, was someone to get in with. Martin was outraged to find his egregious brother-in-law and that slyboots Dora Belvedon in situ drinking a bottle of Moët.

‘Cecil Stroud has never lost a case, Mother,’ were his opening words. ‘You’ll end up in prison for horse-rustling.’

‘No, she won’t,’ crowed Dora. ‘Marti Gluckstein’s going to act for her.’

‘Don’t be fatuous,’ thundered Martin. ‘How can Mother possibly afford him?’

‘Rupert Campbell-Black’s helping with the bill,’ drawled Alan, then, at Martin’s look of disbelief: ‘Never look a gift horseowner in the mouth.’

Rupert had been secretly gratified that all the press had picked up on the fact that he had recognized Mrs Wilkinson’s star quality
and tipped her in the point-to-point. He loathed Shade, ‘Mr Chip and Grievance’, and Harvey-Holden, the little twerp. Mrs Wilkinson had turned out to be the daughter of one of his favourite stallions, which was good for business, and if he helped Etta out she was more likely later to sell him Mrs Wilkinson. He had therefore instructed his friend Marti Gluckstein QC, who’d got him out of numerous scrapes over the years, to look after Etta.

Willowwood, devastated at the prospect of losing Mrs Wilkinson, also vowed to chip in if Etta needed help. A shell-shocked Etta was overwhelmed with gratitude but she knew that honour demanded she pay back her benefactors.

The court case opened at Larkminster Magistrates’ Court, during a heatwave on a Tuesday in late June. Etta, Alan, Alban, the Major, Debbie and Painswick, whispering as though they were in church, sat in a waiting room flipping through old magazines. Painswick was excited to find a picture of Valent and Bonny Richards in
Hello!

‘He’ll be moving in soon. Surely they ought to be working on Badger’s Court,’ observed Debbie, nodding disapprovingly through the window at a smoking Joey and Woody. Alan should have been working too, but as no one could be more depressed than Etta, he could justify this as research.

Miss Painswick had now discovered a glamorous picture of Seth and Corinna, who were also rumoured to be returning to Willowwood in a week or two. Pocock, who did their garden as well as Ione’s, hadn’t therefore felt justified in taking the day off. The vicar had.

‘Surely he ought to be visiting the sick,’ chuntered Debbie.

Tilda was heartbroken not to be present but couldn’t desert her children. She had, however, instructed her class to draw a poster of a grey horse appearing through willows, with a large caption, ‘Mrs Wilkinson belongs to Willowwood’. Joey and Woody, alerted by Dora, were brandishing it for the press outside the court. Shagger, Toby and Phoebe, who’d sent a good luck card, were all in London.

Etta, who was valiantly trying to be cheerful, had thanked everyone a hundred times. She sat mindlessly gazing at a sign which said ‘Usher’, beneath which were three yellow arrows pointing downwards as if he’d passed out on the carpet. The receptionist, who’d kicked off her shoes, Alan noticed, had nice ankles.

Small claims courts are usually presided over by a magistrate, but in more complicated cases a judge is called in. On this occasion, Judge Stanford Wilkes, a sometime barrister who would understand the complications, sat in the courtroom at one end of a long table, surrounded by books and files, making notes with a green malachite fountain pen. The judge had small but amused eyes, thick grey hair with a five-eighths parting, and a grey and black beard and moustache which emphasized a kind, firm mouth.

‘Rather attractive,’ murmured Etta, feeling slightly comforted as they filed into court.

‘Wearing a wedding ring,’ murmured back Painswick, wondering if she would be too much like a tricoteuse if she got out her knitting.

‘Think we can take our jackets off?’ asked a sweating Major. ‘The court is very small for so many people.’

‘That’s why it’s a small claims court,’ said Alan.

Bright blue curtains blended into the cloudless blue outside. On the white wall was a very dull etching of Regent Street, Swindon, and a surprisingly undull print of lots of naked nymphs and warriors in helmets enjoying an orgy.

‘Looks like one of Seth and Corinna’s parties,’ whispered Alan.

On the judge’s right was Marti Gluckstein, who looked like a leather eagle, watching everything, poised to swoop on any lapse. Next to him sat Etta, gazing at the photograph of Mrs Wilkinson lying entwined with Chisolm, which Dora had put on her mobile. After today, would she be gone? She must not cry.

Yesterday, when it had been chilly, Dora and Trixie had frog-marched her into Larkminster to buy a periwinkle-blue cotton jersey suit.

‘I can’t afford it,’ Etta had protested.

‘If you’re going to be broke,’ said Dora, ‘you might as well be really broke.’

‘And if you look pretty, the judge will rule in your favour,’ said Trixie.

Alas, today the cotton jersey was too hot. Etta rammed her arms together to cover the damp patches. Unable to sleep last night, she had got up and found Mrs Wilkinson lying down in the orchard and, sitting on her plump grey quarters, had chatted to her and Chisolm as the sun rose, praying that they’d still be together in the evening.

She was unable to look Harvey-Holden in the eye in case he had really done those terrible things to Mrs Wilkinson. In a sharp new cream suit, he was reading about his proposed new
super-yard in
Horse and Hound
, but his hands clenched and unclenched on the magazine.

Fortunately Martin and Romy were fundraising in Bristol and, worried that Drummond and Poppy might be corrupted by a potential jailbird, had bussed in Granny Playbridge to hold the fort. On the judge’s left sat Cecil Stroud QC, a smoothie with a deep throbbing voice, a dark brown toupee, and black eyebrows big as steeplechasing fences, which he raised to great effect.

On the train down, he and Marti Gluckstein had agreed to wrap the matter up in a day.

Facing the judge at the far end of the table were rows of chairs, the left-hand side occupied by Etta’s supporters, the right hand by Judy Tobias. Each thigh in her pink trouser suit was as large as a young sow. Her ankles flopped over her flat red shoes and her breasts, jacked up together, created a vast cleavage.

‘My God, they are big,’ muttered Alban.

‘Jude the Obese,’ grinned Alan. ‘We could go pot-holing down her later. She must have bought that colossal diamond herself.’

‘Quite a pretty face,’ conceded Alban, noticing how fondly, as she made copious notes in a mauve diary, Jude’s black starfish-mascaraed eyes rested on the ratty little profile of Harvey-Holden, who totally ignored her.

‘He ought to get her on the horse walker,’ said Alan.

Niall glanced round the packed room. If only his church was a quarter as full. Since he had come out, his mother had gone into deep depression at the prospect of no grandchildren.

‘Respect is so much more important than love, Niall. Surely you could find some nice girl?’

Harvey-Holden obviously had, thought Niall with a shudder. And how could he meet a nice man? Vicars couldn’t go clubbing. He admired Woody’s strong suntanned neck in the row in front of him and longed to stroke it, his heart twisting with loneliness.

The usher came over and told them the proceedings were about to begin and they should address Judge Wilkes as ‘sir’. Then, pausing beside Alban, he murmured: ‘My brother was in the army in the Middle East, sir. Said you were the best person from the Foreign Office they ever had. Said you really understood the Arabs.’

‘Good God.’ Alban, already flushed from the heat, turned maroon with pleasure and leapt to his feet. ‘How awfully kind of you to say so. Made my day. Thank you so much, and to your brother. What regiment was he in?’

But the usher had put his finger to his lips, as Judge Wilkes cleared his throat and welcomed everyone.

‘I’d just like to point out that once a decision is made on this case, it is unappealable.’ Then, with a half-smile: ‘My word is law.’

Woody turned and smiled at Niall. ‘You better get praying, Rev.’

‘Awfully kind of that chap,’ said Alban.

Cecil Stroud opened the batting, claiming Mrs Wilkinson was an extremely valuable mare of impeccable pedigree, who must have been stolen from Ralph Harvey-Holden’s yard, but had been believed to have perished in the fire.

Marti Gluckstein consulted his notes.

‘After the fire, your client claimed insurance on the mare.’

‘And will shortly be paying it back,’ said Cecil Stroud firmly.

‘Can he explain why Mrs Wilkinson was found in such an appalling condition?’ asked Marti.

‘She was always a strong and wayward filly, sir. My client’s theory is that whoever stole her couldn’t get a tune out of her and beat her up, perhaps additionally trying to starve her into submission and denying her water to weaken her, a common practice among reprehensible trainers.’

‘Your client should know,’ observed Marti dryly.

‘Objection,’ snapped Cecil Stroud. ‘Whoever treated Usurper so badly, leaving her to die in the snow, gouged out her microchip to avoid detection.’

‘Why didn’t Mr Harvey-Holden report the mare missing?’

‘Because he assumed she’d perished in the fire. His horses had been so badly burnt, it was impossible to identify them afterwards,’ said Cecil as though he was explaining to a half-witted child.

‘But if he believed her to have perished in the fire on the twelfth of December,’ persisted Marti, ‘and she was actually found by Mrs Bancroft on the twenty-third of December, this would not have been enough time for her to be reduced to such a skeleton. Had Mr Harvey-Holden starved her himself ? If not, surely she would have had to go missing several weeks if not months earlier.’

Cecil Stroud had been about to object but changed legs like an Olympic dressage horse:

‘My client was going through a very upsetting marriage breakup at the time. He was further traumatized by the fire at the yard and when his head lad, Denny Forrester, confessed to starting the fire. My client thinks it likely that Mr Forrester, who admitted in his suicide note to being in financial straits, secretly sold some of the young horses to passing travellers for cash. One of these, he believes, could have been Usurper.’