An unsolvable crime, p.4
AN UNSOLVABLE CRIME, page 4
"That next one looks like a challenge!" The track led across a field to a high, thorny hedge with a large ditch on the other side. The field had already thinned. A few loose horses were galloping alongside the others, and a few more had veered off, deciding that slowing down and grazing was a better option than following the herd.
Would he make it? She was feeling lightheaded as Lucas headed into the next, biggest jump.
Gray George stumbled on landing, and Mary felt as if all her muscles were turned to stone. Lucas tipped forward again, but managed to grab hold of the horse’s thick neck and push himself back again. Shaking his head as if angry with himself for that misstep, Gray George carried on. But now, his speed was lessening. Mrs. Powell had been absolutely right. He was a frontrunner who tired quickly. And behind him, inexorably, Lord Hardwick was catching up.
Mary stared in concern as the lord’s flashy bay stallion closed in on the doggedly galloping gray.
And then, with a rush of horror, she realized the lord’s motive. He was not intending to catch up with Lucas and pass him.
Instead, he was going to draw level with him, and harm him. Mary could see it in every twitch of his body language, in the way he was watching Lucas, and in the way he was guiding his bay ever closer.
He was going to send him flying over the horse’s neck – and now, they’d left the muddy section behind and were galloping over summer-hard grass.
This, Mary saw with a terrible sense of inevitability, was going to end very badly for Lucas. She could hardly dare to watch what happened next, but nor could she look away.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Watch out! Lucas, he’s coming for you!” Gripping Gilbert’s hand, Mary yelled at the top of her voice. She knew that atop a galloping horse, about two hundred yards away, Lucas could not possibly hear. But maybe, somehow, her frantic message could get to him.
“Lucas! He’s behind you!” Gilbert yelled, too, feeling as ineffective and desperate as she was. This showdown was going to be horrendous to watch. Stride by stride, the bright bay was angling in and edging closer to the gray. And Mary saw now that Lord Hardwick had his reins in his left hand, and he was leaning over to the right. He was preparing to push Lucas out of the saddle and send him somersaulting off his horse’s shoulder, to crash down onto the firm, unyielding ground below.
“No!” Mary cried.
But then a strange thing happened.
It was as if Lord Hardwick lost his balance for a moment, reeling in his saddle and sitting hastily upright. With bated breath, Mary waited for him to regain his balance and his agenda. But he faltered again, swaying in his seat and then lurching to the left.
Shock filled her as she saw another fence approach, this one a high timber fence. Gray George pricked his ears and swished his tail and Lucas hung determinedly on, and meeting the fence perfectly, Gray George was over.
But now, as if waiting for communication from his rider and not receiving it, the bright bay stallion was hesitating. He met the fence badly, coming in too close, and corkscrewed in the air, an athletic move to save himself from trouble.
Atop the stallion, it didn’t seem as if Lord Hardwick had even seen the fence. He lurched in the saddle, tipping back as the horse landed, and then slipping sideways.
“Something’s wrong,” Mary whispered. Her grip on Gilbert’s hand felt as tight as steel. “Something has gone wrong – with him.”
“You’re right,” Gilbert whispered back. “It has.”
Lord Hardwick lurched again, and this time, he slipped, letting go the reins and sliding off the galloping horse, who was now veering away from Lucas, spotting an easier route that led through a meadow instead of toward a thick, dark hedge.
And then, in a tumble of limbs that looked completely slack and uncoordinated, Lord Hardwick hit the ground and lay there, still and unmoving.
Mary turned to stare at Gilbert. She saw the same panic in his eyes as she felt churning inside her.
“We need to get down there!” he shouted.
The straightest route was down the steep, slippery hillside on foot. Mary’s blood was racing as she slid and slithered her way down the grassy bank. At the bottom, where the ground leveled out, she charged forward with all the speed she could summon up. Horses and riders were still galloping past Lord Hardwick’s prone body. Mary flinched as she heard a shouted, “Watch out!” from behind her, and the thunder of hooves.
A galloping horse and rider were on a collision course with her! She froze in place as the red-faced man, on a massive bay mare pounded toward her, snorting with every stride. The mare’s hooves were the size of dinner plates, her nostrils flaring, but she eyeballed Mary and altered her course slightly to avoid her, passing so close she was nearly swept off her feet.
Gilbert was also in danger, she saw, anxiety flaring. He leaped for the nearest tree as two riders raced toward him. Taking cover by pressing himself against its trunk, he narrowly missed being trampled as the two sped past on either side, branches crackling. One of the riders was shouting, “Go! Go! Go!” The other was screaming, “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!”
Another pounding of hooves made her flinch. Spinning around, she saw that a loose horse was on track toward her, with no rider to control or direct it. His ears were pricked, his legs flying, and he seemed hell-bent on winning the race on his own.
“Go around me, please, boy!” Mary yelled shrilly, waving her arms, hoping this horse wasn’t running too blindly to notice her.
Veering aside at the last minute, the horse galloped off to join Lord Hardwick’s stallion.
And then, the race field was past, and they could rush to the fallen man.
She hurried over to Lord Hardwick, noting that his face was sheet white, and that he was still and unmoving.
Gilbert grasped his hand, putting his fingers at the wrist and feeling for a pulse. After a moment, he shook his head.
“He’s gone,” he said, scrambling to his feet and staring at the corpse in consternation.
Mary felt as if she needed to swallow her heart down again. What had happened? Had the lord, who looked fit and healthy before the race began, suffered a heart attack? It hadn’t been the fall that had killed him. He’d definitely looked ill before he’d lost his seat. Something had been wrong.
Maybe it was natural causes. But, still gasping with shock and tension as she stared down at the unmoving form, Mary had a horrible feeling that it was not natural causes at all.
Somehow, there had been foul play. And Lord Hardwick had died as a result.
***
Half an hour later, the spring fair had a muted feel about it. The band had stopped playing, and the revelers were dispersing. She and Lucas were sitting in the main marquee, which was crowded with people, but had a somber air.
The race had been won by a woman from one of the neighboring hunts, and Lucas had managed to finish in the top ten, having lost both his stirrups, and cantered across the finishing line with his arms wrapped around the neck of the now tiring Gray George.
But he’d finished it in one piece and bravely stayed in his saddle, and if circumstances had been different, Mary would not have been prouder.
Now, Lucas looked as agonized as she did.
The doctor was still in attendance on site, and now, Mary saw two policemen had arrived, and were making their way down to the slumped body. That didn’t bode well.
She looked around for Gilbert, who’d walked back with her to the marquee and then told her he had to go. Mary wondered if that meant he was leaving the fair and saying goodbye to all his prospective customers.
All the brightly dressed guests who still remained at the venue were speaking in whispers. Almost nobody was eating the food that had been set out, apart from one or two determined people who were munching their way through the snacks regardless.
“I don’t even know what happened,” Lucas said, leaning forward, his hands on his knees. “One minute I was galloping along and heard hoof beats behind me and the next minute there was nobody there. Then two ladies passed me, but I never saw Lord Hardwick at all.”
Mary could believe it. Lucas had not had an opportunity to look around.
“It looked so strange,” she admitted. “One minute he was – well, riding aggressively. And the next, he was tumbling off his horse.”
It was better not to tell Lucas that Lord Hardwick had been making a beeline for him before he died. She didn't want him to know about that. He'd been ignorant of what had been going on behind him, and it was Mary's instinctive opinion that right now, it was better to keep it that way.
“Where were you before the race?” she asked, feeling a flicker of sudden doubt. Lucas wouldn’t have – wouldn’t have sabotaged his rival in any way. Would he?
He shrugged. “I was with Mr. Powell, Gray George’s owner, the whole time. He came and fetched me from Bellamy Hall, and we discussed our race strategy on the way to the fairgrounds. In the end, I think we both agreed that the best strategy was for me just to try to stay aboard, and steer, if I could. George was such a good horse,” he said, brightening momentarily. “What a ride that was. I thought I’d be scared, and I was a bit, but it was a huge, exciting rush from start to finish. I’m just sorry this happened. It’s really put a dampener on things,” he said.
At least the one benefit from this dire situation was that if there had been any foul play, Lucas couldn’t be blamed for it. And perhaps there hadn’t. For a moment, Mary hoped that the doctor might come in and announce that the death had been due to natural causes.
But Mary then saw that the doctor and the larger of the two policemen had finally left the scene and were walking back, talking together in low voices.
Then, with a purposeful air about him, the policeman turned and headed in their direction.
“There’s trouble. I can tell,” Mary whispered.
A loud cry caught her attention and caused heads to turn all over the marquee.
Looking out, Mary saw Lady Hardwick, well dressed in a sky blue frock and a matching hat, hurrying down to where the sprawled body still lay. She was waving her arms, looking deeply distressed, stumbling as her heels, unsuitable for walking over the sticky turf near the woods, caught in the soil.
The other policeman was hurrying along behind her. Watching her, Mary felt a thrill of sadness. She’d lost her husband. Obnoxious he might have been, but he was her husband, who she’d been married to for at least twenty years, and this was simply tragic.
Whispers, and murmurs of sympathy, erupted from around her.
“Mary,” a quiet voice behind her said. It was Gilbert, and she turned to face him. He was looking as stressed as she’d ever seen him.
"I've just had news from home," he said. "This is terrible, and the timing couldn't be worse, but I have to leave now. I – I feel so bad about this. I wanted to stay. But I need to get back home as soon as possible. I – I’m sorry.”
He grasped her hand, squeezed it tightly, and then turned, and was gone.
For an appalled minute, Mary sat, taking in the fact that Gilbert would not be here to help her face whatever trouble came her way. What was the problem? Why had he needed to rush off so suddenly? Would she get a letter from him explaining?
As the afternoon sun lowered, she had to admit, things were looking increasingly bleak.
And then, the policeman arrived, to stand in the marquee’s entrance.
The solid, large, uniformed man stared around him, hands on his ample hips, surveying the crowd. All around the marquee, people were rising to their feet. Conversation tailed off, and an expectant silence filled the large, warm space as the policeman cleared his throat.
The constable had a round face, a noticeable double chin, and a neatly cut, graying hairstyle which was visible below his helmet. His uniform was well pressed, although it strained somewhat around the belly area. But his pink-cheeked face was stern, and his graying brows were frowning.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “My name is Constable Higgins, and I’m going to be handling the investigation into this untimely death.”
There were gasps from around the room, and Mary shivered, despite the heat that was now gathering under the marquee’s striped roof.
So it was untimely. She’d feared at the moment she’d seen the lord collapse, that there had been foul play, but she had no idea how it could have happened.
“The deceased, Lord Hardwick, shows clear signs of having been poisoned,” the constable said.
Mary clenched her fists, tension filling her. With an inexorable sense of fate, she knew that the blame was going to be pointing in her direction. After all, she’d been the one in charge of handing out those stirrup cups for all the competitors to enjoy before the race began.
Sure enough, the constable then said, “I need to start by speaking to everyone who was involved in the foods and drinks preparation before this race began.”
But, wild eyed and wild haired, Lady Hardwick then appeared, and stood beside him, with the other policeman anxiously following. Her hat was askew and there were grass stains on her knees, probably from when she’d reached her husband’s body. Her legs must have given way at the shock.
Clearing her throat, she spoke in a dramatic, husky voice.
“My husband has never eaten on race days! Never! He always said food slowed him down. The only thing that could have passed his lips before he got into the saddle, was the stirrup cup he took before the race! How I wish I'd arrived at this fair earlier to stop you from giving it to him.” She pointed a quivering finger in Mary’s direction.
There was silence in the marquee.
And then, every pair of eyes turned to Mary.
Curious, accusing, and fearful stares pinned her from every one of the hundred-strong crowd that was still waiting in the marquee.
Without meaning to, or wanting to, she had become a murder suspect once again. With compelling evidence pointing to her as the killer, she knew this was going to be a fight – for her innocence, and for her future.
CHAPTER SIX
“So,” Constable Higgins said to Mary in a heavy tone.
Watching his face, and the hard, uncompromising look in his eye, she gulped nervously. She didn’t see any doubt in his demeanor that she was the guilty one who had administered the poison to Lord Hardwick.
They were back at Bellamy Hall, sitting in the small drawing room decorated in soothing blues and grays. Smells of cooking wafted through the corridors, even though Mary was doubtful about how many of the guests were actually eating. It seemed that most of them were quickly preparing to leave.
The other policeman was stationed outside the door. Mary suspected his main role was to stop hordes of curious household staff and the few remaining guests from avidly listening at the door. The door itself was closed, and she and Constable Higgins were facing each other on two of the blue wingback chairs.
“So, you were the person who dispensed refreshments to all the riders in the race,” he said, glancing down at her notebook.
“Yes, officer,” Mary said. Her mind was racing frantically ahead, seeking a way out of this terrible dilemma, but she knew from experience that it would be unwise to start protesting her innocence now. Bitter experience had taught her that police got very annoyed when people didn’t answer their questions directly.
She clenched her hands together, feeling her damp palms crumple the folds of the bright green smock that she’d been given to wear by Mrs. Powell while helping out at the festival.
“And did you prepare those refreshments?”
“Yes, I did. I poured the drinks." At some stage, she was going to have to interrupt and give him her version of events. Otherwise, all these yeses might end up with her being locked up and accused of murder. She knew this was a very serious situation. She'd seen how upset Lady Hardwick had been. The lady would be baying for the killer's arrest, and Mary was the prime suspect.
“Now,” the constable said, raising a stubby finger and rubbing his wobbly chin, “I understand that there was some unpleasantness between yourself and Lord Hardwick at the stall. You were clearly trying to dissuade him from participating in the point-to-point. Bystanders who happened to overhear your discussion, noted that you were becoming confrontational with the lord, and that this seemed to be a long-standing dispute – that you had a historic grievance with him because he challenged your cousin to the race.”
Amazing, Mary thought, how easy it was for a woman, and a servant, to be labeled ‘confrontational’. The fact that the lord had started the argument was being conveniently overlooked. It was an unfair society and an unfair world. And right now, she knew, that unfairness could land her in serious trouble.
“I was not confronting him. We might have exchanged a few words, but there was no fight,” she insisted. She hadn't wanted the conversation to descend to this level. Now, she was fervently denying, which was exactly the tangent that could annoy a policeman.
“That’s not what the witnesses say. They said that you seemed very concerned about your cousin, and angry and resentful toward Lord Hardwick.”
“I was simply worried that my cousin would push himself beyond his capability and injure himself,” she said truthfully. “I didn’t think the race was a good idea. I tried to stop Lucas from taking part in the race so that I could prevent injury or death, not cause it.”
"Yes, I understand all about your motives for protecting your cousin," the constable said, getting completely the wrong end of the stick. "But what I'm interested in is how far you would have gone to protect him."
“I would never dream of poisoning anybody,” Mary protested.
“It’s what you’ve been doing while you’re awake that we’re interested in, Miss Adams.” He chuckled briefly, as if proud of his own wit. Then he hastily composed his face into seriousness again. “We are looking into this, and we are going to carefully track all of Lord Hardwick’s actions before mounting up and riding down to the start. So far, this visit to the spring fair kiosk is notable as being the only time he took a drink, and he was in the company of friends beforehand. However, we do still have some gaps that need filling in. For now, you are a very strong suspect.”
