Flowerdew’s knowing old eye slid across Joe’s, catching a flash of approval which emboldened him to add: “Aye! He’s a good master, sir. The best. You can always rely on him to put right what’s gone wrong as soon as he hears of it … An”e loves ’is ’osses!” He delivered the ultimate accolade in broad Suffolk. “He bought four new Punches this season and cancelled ’is order for two o’ them new-fangled tractor ploughs.”
Joe thanked him for his account and told him he had one or two quick questions for him. “What was the condition of the stallion Lucifer when he was bought by Sir James?” he began.
“Well, first, he wasn’t called ‘Lucifer.’ He was called ‘Joey’ when he arrived. Good price paid for him. He was perfect. Would have made a good breeding stallion. But then, he started playing up. Refusing the bridle, kicking about and playing silly buggers. Then he started refusing to come out of his stall and he took to biting anyone who came near him. That was when the master gave him, joking like, his new name.”
“Tell me, was Goodfellow involved with his care at any time?”
Flowerdew frowned. “As little as I could manage. I like to use my own lads. Oh, don’t get me wrong—Goodfellow’s a practised hand with horses right enough. Cavalry groom in the South African war. But he wasn’t home-trained. A bit harsh, if you know what I mean. I expect that’s war for you. No time to do things the proper way. In these stables we don’t ‘break’ horses, sir, we ‘gentle’ them. Master understands and wouldn’t have it any other way. Goodfellow’s better off larking about in the woods if you ask me. But once a horseman, always a horseman, I suppose. He’s always buzzing about getting in our way. Telling us our business.”
Joe took a deep breath. “Flowerdew, if I told you that the horse’s crazy behaviour was caused by a deliberate laceration to the soft tissue on the sides of its mouth, discovered and recorded in his equine post-mortem by Mr. Hartest, the vet, would you be surprised?”
“No, sir. I’ve heard of that. Folk do it to ruin an animal at auction. Never happened around me before though. Wouldn’t have thought to look even if he’d let us get near enough to look inside his mouth.”
“If I suggested that Goodfellow might have inflicted the wounds?”
“No one else would have or could have done it. I had wondered. Will you tell Sir James or shall I? I think he should know. He won’t be best pleased.” The old horseman’s normally placid features became almost animated as satisfaction vied with anxiety.
“That’s all right, Flowerdew. I’ll tell him. I have some other news—not unrelated—to break to him. Leave it to me.”
SO DISCREET WAS the police presence Joe thought that Hunnyton had not received his message. A few yards from the open door of Virbio’s cabin, a uniformed bobby stepped forward, large right hand extended to bar his way. Recognition followed and he asked, “Commissioner Sandilands? Go right inside. The inspector’s waiting for you.”
“Not waiting exactly,” said a cheerful voice from inside. “I’ve just about solved this one while you were toying with your toast.”
The corpse was still in place, as was the rifle. Hunnyton’s murder bag lay open at the foot of the bed. The superintendent was in control and relishing it. He was making a sketch of the scene on a sheet of graph paper. Joe was about to step forward and help himself to a pair of rubber gloves when Hunnyton called out crisply, “No! Stay where you are! Sorry, Sandilands, but would you mind plonking your plates of meat on that piece of newspaper I’ve laid out for you behind the door?” He peered meaningfully at Joe’s feet. “Ah! Changed into your brogues, have you? Those were your tennis shoes the constable and I found traces of in the vicinity of the body? Dunlops, ribbed soles, size twelve, scarcely worn? Your left foot was rather dramatically outlined in blood. Just stay out of the way, will you? I can’t be doing with a fresh pair of Lobbs blundering on stage. I shall have to log four pairs plus any imprints the killer might have left, of course. So far no trace of him.”
“I’m just on my way to church. Blood-stained shirt and shoes … wouldn’t want to frighten the vicar …” Joe began.
“He’s seen worse! The Rev. Easterby was a front line padré in the last lot. Just help me out here—I’m assuming this fingerprint in blood on the neck of the body is yours.”
“I’ll supply my prints for the record, of course. Yes, the man was still alive when I got here. I rushed forward to offer assistance. Nothing I could do for him. I stood there by his side and said a prayer to Diana …”
“Crikey! Super Plod turns up to administer the last pagan rites? That must have sent him off rejoicing!”
Hunnyton looked up, puzzled, from his notebook and focussed on Joe’s face. “Good God, man!” And, more seriously, “What’s happened to you, Joe? You look bloody awful! Your face is bleeding.”
“The recently deceased threw a log at me yesterday. The wound opened up again when I was rolling around on the forest floor dodging bullets on my way back to the Hall an hour ago. Is this Suffolk or the Somme? Not sure.”
Hunnyton listened intently to Joe’s story, jotting down his estimate of the time of his arrival at the scene, the time Goodfellow had expired, and the time he’d been shot at in the woods without comment or question. “Well, kindly drip your blood type onto the paper provided. I’ve got a neat little sketch here and I’m not about to add any extraneous bodily fluid contributions from Scotland Yard.”
“That villain tried to kill me. We’re lucky it’s not my corpse you’re waving off in an ambulance.”
“Everybody’s lucky this is the corpse if I read his letter aright.” Hunnyton sniffed. “Not before time and I’ll raise a glass to the perpetrator. Those are my deathbed sentiments, if anyone wants to hear them. Now, I hope you don’t mind, I borrowed Timmy and his flash new bike to run a few errands for me. First he summoned PC Godestone from his allotment to act as guard dog, then he belted off to the vet’s with a phone message for Adelaide to transmit to the force back in Cambridge. We’re going to have to put that lady on the pay roll. Or me on the phone line.” He sighed. “And there goes my privacy. There’ll be a squad out within the hour. I haven’t alerted the Co-op funeral services yet—he’s going straight onto a slab at the morgue. I want a proper postmortem done by a doc I can trust in Cambridge. This is one case that’s not going to come back and bite me in the bum.”
“Not a suicide, then, Hunnyton?”
Joe received a scathing look. “I think you know that as well as I do. Could easily have been, though. I’ve come across these cases before. Bankrupt farmers usually. Their guns are old friends. If your arm is long enough, you can reach the trigger and fire it upwards into your head. Toe grip not unknown. Remote place like this—he’d have kept his gun at the ready under the bed in the country way. It’ll be interesting to see whose fingerprints are on the trigger.”
“I’m betting—Goodfellow’s.” Joe sighed.
“So am I. This is murder, Sandilands; we both know that. But it’s murder by a bloke who’s very sure of himself. Cool as you please. No emotion in evidence—no fight, nothing broken. Familiar with the victim’s habits. Knew he’d find him sleeping off a hangover. Knew he kept a loaded gun to hand. This was planning so careful, the bugger’s left not a trace of his presence. I tell you, Joe—I haven’t found so much as a hair so far. That’s worrying. They always leave something … Perhaps the forensics boys will see more than I’m seeing. Our careful friend would take the time to apply the dead man’s fìnger to the trigger when he’d wiped it clean, don’t you think? He might even have been wearing gloves and needn’t have bothered with the dead man’s finger. What he hadn’t counted on was that his target might be more alert than usual this morning. Planning an early get-away, Goodfellow might have drunk less than his usual eight pints at the Sorrel Horse.