Death at Dawn: A Liberty Lane Thriller. Caro Peacock

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      I had the story of Rancie from Amos Legge, sitting in a broken-down chair in the tack room, saddles and harness all round us and flakes of chaff floating in the sunbeams that pierced the curtain of cobwebs over the window. He stayed respectfully standing at first.

      ‘You see, miss, it all starts with a Hereford bull, look. Red Sultan of Shortwood ’is name was in the ’erd book, only we called ’im Reddy.’

      He was clearly one of those storytellers who liked to take his time. I suggested he should sit down. He settled for a compromise, hitching a haunch on to a vacant saddle tree. I’ll abandon my attempt to record his accent because in truth the broad Hereford he talked is the hardest thing in the world to pin down. Those dropped ‘h’s, for instance, are nowhere near the carelessness of the Cockney, more like the murmur of a summer breeze through willow leaves over a slow-flowing river.

      ‘Reddy belonged to this farmer I used to work for, name of Priest. Well, there was this Frenchman at a place called Sancloo, just outside Paris, decided he was going to build up a herd of Herefords. They do well anywhere, only you can’t get the same shine on their coats away from the red soil at home, no matter how –’

      ‘But Rancie and my father?’

      ‘I’m getting to them, miss. Anyways, this Frenchman got to hear about Reddy and nothing would content him except he should have him. He offered old Priest a thousand guineas and all the expenses of the journey met, so we made Reddy a covered travelling cart fit for the sultan he was, and off to Sancloo we went, old Priest and Reddy and me. It took us four days and ten changes of horses to get to the sea, then another six days once we got to the French side, but we got Reddy safely to the gentleman, Old Priest pocketed his thousand guineas, and what do you think happened then?’

      ‘You met my father?’

      ‘Not yet, I’m coming to that. What happened was the old dev—, excuse me … He just took off for home and left me. He said all that travelling had brought on his arthritics, so he was going home the quickest way by coach. I was to follow him with the travelling cart and he’d give me my pay when I fetched it safely back to Hereford. So there I was in a foreign country, not knowing a blessed soul. So I took myself into Paris, thinking I’d have a look at it after coming all this way, and that’s when I met your father. After he’d settled my bit of trouble, he mentioned he had a mare he wanted to bring back, and it came to me that if the cart had been good enough for Reddy, it would do for the mare, as long as I washed it down well to take the smell away.’

      ‘Did he tell you how he came by the horse?’

      Amos swatted a fly away from his face.

      ‘Won her at cards, from some French fellow.’

      ‘Did he say if the French fellow was angry about it?’

      ‘No. From the way he told it, the mare had already changed hands three times on a turn of the cards. Your father was thinking of selling her in Paris, only he looked at her papers and decided to keep her.’

      ‘Papers?’

      ‘Oh yes, she’s got her papers. And he wanted you to see her.’

      ‘He said so?’

      ‘He said he’d got a daughter at home with an eye for a horse as good as any man’s, and it would be a surprise for her.’

      I had to blink hard to stop myself crying again. My father loved a good horse as much as he loved music or wine or poetry, and I suppose I caught it from him.

      ‘Was my father to travel with you?’

      ‘No. He had things he wanted to do before he left Paris, he said. Me and the horse were to start right away and he’d probably go past us on the road, because we’d be travelling slowly. But if we didn’t happen to meet in France, I was to wait for him at Dover and leave a message, which I did.’

      ‘How was he, when you saw him?’

      ‘How do you mean, miss?’

      ‘Well or ill? Harassed or anxious at all?’

      ‘Blithe as a blackbird, miss.’

      ‘Did you talk much?’

      ‘I told him I didn’t think much to France, and he laughed and said it was the best place in the world, apart from England. He’d missed England, and you, and he was glad to be going home and settling with a bit of money in his pocket. Quite open about that, he was, and paid me expenses for the journey.’

      ‘Did you meet any of his friends?’

      ‘Yes, I did. When he’d finished sorting out my bit of business it was late so I had to stay the night in the same hotel where he was. He had friends there and they were up all hours talking and playing music. I looked into the room at midnight to say did he want me any more or could I go to bed? He said to sit down and take a glass of punch to help me sleep, which I did.’

      ‘These friends, how many would you say?’

      He thought, rubbing his head. ‘Half a dozen at least, maybe more.’

      ‘English or French?’

      ‘Mostly English, but a couple of Frenchmen. Your father was jabbering away to them in their lingo, easy as I’m talking to you.’

      ‘Did they seem angry?’

      ‘Not in the world. They were as comfortable a crew as you’d see anywhere; bowl of punch, pipes going, some books open on the tables – quite a few books, I remember – and fiddles and flutes and so on all over the place.’

      It rang true. My father had a knack of finding friends wherever he happened to be. As children, many’s the time Tom and I had crept out of our beds and looked through keyholes at exactly the scene Amos was describing.

      ‘Were there any women there?’

      ‘Not one. All gentlemen.’

      ‘Do you remember what any of the men looked like?’

      ‘Not to describe, no. Truth was, I was dog-tired by then.’

      ‘Was one of them a thin, elderly man with a greyish face, dressed all in black?’

      ‘I don’t recall any elderly men there. They were mostly about your father’s age.’

      ‘Or a very fat man?’

      ‘A couple of them stoutish, I wouldn’t say very fat.’

      ‘Or a young fair-haired Englishman in a blue jacket?’

      ‘I don’t recall a blue jacket, no.’

      A blank. If my father’s convivial party had included a snake in the grass, I was no nearer to him.

      ‘Can you describe anybody there at all?’

      Amos thought hard.

      ‘There was this little black-haired gentleman, played the fiddle like he was possessed by Old Nick.’

      ‘Not much taller than I am?’

      He nodded.

      ‘In his mid-thirties, and very thin?’

      ‘Thin as a peeled withy.’

      ‘With