The Suffolk Punches, Joe could have sworn, knew that this was a special morning. Their wise old faces had taken on an animation, their ponderous movements seemed lighter. Joe noted how a hoof would be obligingly raised to the groom’s hand a second before he asked for it. They were enjoying the attention. Some oily unguent was being applied on cloths to their hides and rubbed in until their bulging sides and quarters glowed like conkers. Others, more advanced in the preparation, were having their manes and tails plaited up with red and blue ribbons. Everywhere, brass shone, leather gleamed and lads whistled cheerfully.
“That’s all right, sir. We can manage. I know why you’re here,” Flowerdew began when they had retreated to a quiet corner of the yard. He gave Joe a succinct account of the events of the April night when Lavinia had ventured into his stables. “It was my sons took her there, sir, to her death,” he concluded. “I feel responsible. Expected to get the sack. I’d have tanned their hides if the master hadn’t stepped in. ‘No, you don’t, Flowerdew!’ he says. ‘It was no fault of the boys. They were just obeying a very thoughtless command under pressure. Send them to me. I intend to give them a half crown each for their trouble.’ And he did.”
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.”