The Impossible Murderer Page 3

  Joe couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips. Darling child? He tried to imagine a younger Irene and could only picture more curls in her hair, the same cheeky grin on her face, and a clever vocabulary that could outwit most adults. The mental image reminded him of his own sister, Alice, who was just shy of ten, and had more smarts than she knew what to do with. Joe would have to introduce Irene to her one day and watch the conversations between them with interest and intrigue.

  Joe stared at Irene for a moment as she drove them out of London, his brow coming together in curiosity. He knew she’d glossed over many interesting stories about her life, and made vast generalizations, but it soothed him knowing she thought of her childhood as generally good. He wondered just how growing up in the shadow of a figure as grand as Sherlock Holmes would’ve been, and the pressures put on her. He couldn’t imagine having to live up to such high standards and he suddenly regretted being so short with her earlier this morning.

  “I apologize for my foul mood earlier,” he said. “Sometimes, my negative thoughts overwhelm me and bring my entire demeanour down.”

  Irene waved him off. “It’s over now, Joe. Do not trouble yourself.”

  “Are you certain? I felt I was rather rude.”

  She sighed and gripped the steering wheel hard as if about to unload a confession at his feet.

  “My thoughts overwhelm me at times as well,” she said. “Causing me to ignore other people in the room. Sometimes I don’t even realize they’re speaking to me.”

  Joe laughed. “So, you aren’t aware that you ignore people? I thought you were doing it on purpose.”

  “Oh, sometimes I am,” she said, sly grin on her lips. “Usually to Miss Hudson, or when you and Eddy blabber on about...whatever it is you two discuss. Football? The weather?”

  “Is that all you think we talk about?” Joe asked. “I certainly haven’t spoken about football at any great length with Lestrade.”

  She stared out the window as if she’d stopped listening. “I am glad you decided to join me. I will get farther on this case –and solve it quicker– with you by my side.”

  * * * * *

  Within an hour, Irene turned the car into the long laneway leading up to the Richardson farm. The tires bobbled and jiggled on the cobblestones of the small courtyard in the middle of the buildings. The place was not as grand as Joe expected, but lovely nonetheless. The main house was on the smaller side of estates and shaded with large oak trees growing from the back garden. A bunkhouse sat next to the main house, scaffolding and construction equipment all around. The stables sat on the far side of the courtyard, with a door leading into the boxes and out to a small riding arena, then to the paddocks behind the house. Three horses grazed in one of the smaller paddocks on the hillside. It was the perfect picture of a quaint and peaceful countryside and put Joe at immediate ease.

  “When we are settled,” Irene said. “Map out this farm in your notebook. It may prove useful for the case.”

  Irene parked in front of the house and a boy, barely a teenager, hurried down the stairs to greet them. They stepped out of the car, and the young man was all too eager.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Holmes,” he said. “Welcome! May I take your bags?”

  Irene nodded, gesturing to the back door of the car. Her gaze immediately went to the ground, surveying the front walkway and steps for clues.

  Joe followed the boy around the car as he fumbled with the two bags.

  “I’m actually Doctor Watson,” Joe said to him.

  “Yes, sir.” The boy hurried to the house with their bags. He opened the front door and a cacophony of barking came from inside. Five spaniels flew past him and down the steps, yipping excitedly. A grin broke out over Joe’s face as the dogs circled him and Irene, wagging bodies barely containing their excitement. Three were a lovely liver colour, the other two were red, and all of them were beside themselves that they had a visitor. Joe laughed and looked at Irene, finding that she was not as entertained as he was. She pivoted on the spot, trying to search for clues on the dogs.

  “Good luck,” Joe called, earning a familiar scowl from her.

  A sharp whistle came from the door and the spaniels rushed back up the stairs and into the house.

  Mr. Richardson stood in the doorway, tall and dapper, with a large white moustache.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Holmes,” he said, voice deep and commanding. “Please come in. We are eager to get to the bottom of this.”

  They entered the house, stopping in the front foyer as the maid rushed to take their hats and Irene’s purse and gloves. Mr. Richardson shook Irene’s hand, then turned to Joe, who tried his correction again. “I’m actually Doctor Watson-”

  “A doctor!” Mr. Richardson exclaimed, grasping Joe’s hand and giving a hard shake. “Even better. Though, we could’ve used you earlier this morning. No matter. Come in Doctor and Mrs. Holmes. I’ve left the stables like it was, blood and all, just as Detective Inspector Lestrade instructed us. The sooner you take a look at it, the sooner we get this place cleaned up and get these horses back to normal.”

  * * * * *

  Within ten minutes, Joe and Irene sat in a nice office, at a sizable desk, ready to interview everyone in the household. A large painting hung on the wall of a magnificent grey dappled horse, the gold plate engraved with the name Maximus. Mr. Richardson volunteered to speak to them first and sat across from them, a stern look on his face. He reminded Joe of an old cowboy and showman he’d read about in a few of his American western novels named Buffalo Bill Cody, with his large moustache, broad shoulders, and no-nonsense attitude. He sat like he expected to be the centre of any room he frequented and to lead any conversation with his choice of subject. Joe tried to deduce anything more about the man, but the only read he managed was that Mr. Richardson was a businessman through and through and enjoyed a good hunt, as witnessed by his well-trained spaniels, who dotted themselves around the room.

  Joe had his notebook out, ready to jot notes and it didn’t take long before Mr. Richardson started into his story.

  “I saw and heard nothing.” He slapped the desk as if his statement cleared up the whole investigation. “I can be a light sleeper, so I have a few drinks of straight whiskey and it knocks me right out. Trust me, if I had heard something, I would’ve been out there with the rifle and pulled the trigger before anyone could get near my stallion.”

  A smile tugged at Irene’s lips and she glanced at Joe, clearly enjoying the forwardness of Mr. Richardson. Before she could ask a question, he started talking again.

  “I don’t have many workers,” he continued. “I’m a hands-on man myself, but the workers I have are decent and good. I can’t think of a single one who is unhappy. The farm got a bit run-down during the war, but we are slowly rebuilding into a championship stable once again. I certainly have the horses for it. Or, I did.”

  “Does your wife tend to the horses at all?” Irene asked.

  “Occasionally,” he said. “She doesn’t touch the dressage horses, but she does love Snowball. She runs the bed-and-breakfast out of the guest home. We let a group of Canadian soldiers occupy it for some time during the war, and we decided to fix it up and she wanted to run a business of her own. I thought that was a great idea. Keeps her busy, brings in some money. Women can do that sort of thing nowadays, as you clearly know.”

  He didn’t mean it as an insult, and Irene didn’t seem to take it as one. Joe kept jotting notes, waiting for her to ask another question.

  “She had no reason to want to hurt the other horses?” Irene prodded. “Or disrupt them in any way?”

  “Heaven’s no,” he said. “Her focus was always on that bed-and-breakfast, and her dear Snowball.”

  Irene watched his reaction, giving no indication of her thoughts. Joe honestly couldn’t tell if the man was lying or not, but by the passion in which he spoke these words and the frustration in his voice, Joe figured he was a man that was angry at this whole affair and just wanted to train hi
s horses and live his life.

  “Tell me about Snowball,” she ordered.

  “Best horse I ever owned up until this incident.” He smacked the desk again. “If he only knew dressage, he’d be a star. Ironic that a horse bred for dancing would rather plod along a trail and nap. He’s gentle, kind, and patient. After everything he’s been through, you think the poor sod wouldn’t want anything to do with humans ever again.”

  “What happened to him?” Joe asked, leaning forward. He paused his writing and found himself almost more curious as to the horse’s story than the actual case.

  “He was rescued during the war,” Mr. Richardson said. “Apparently, he was from the lot that came from Austria, though I thought they all went to America. Either way, I purchased him from an auction and was told there were old scars on his body as if he’d had a terrible life.”

  Joe sat back, feeling a bit queasy. He’d done well until this point and regretted the question as soon as he’d asked about Snowball’s history. It was too similar to his own story, which only made him feel that much more ill. He started scribbling a small circle in his notebook in an attempt to pull himself from the brink of the horrid memories.

  “The two grooms,” Irene said. “The one who was killed, and Ronald, the one we have in custody. Were they friends?”

  “They got on well,” Mr. Richardson replied. “Terrance was a good lad. Too young to join the war, so he tended to the horses along with Ronald. Though Ronald kept charge of Snowball. Brought him around for the guests at the bed-and-breakfast, helped with the horse rides and such. That was his focus. I hate to believe he had anything to do with this, but Scotland Yard needed to haul someone away.”

  “And this mystery man you found dead,” Irene said. “Did no one recognize him?”

  “Not one, Mrs. Holmes,” Mr. Richardson leaned on the table as if to drive his point, and the seriousness of the conversation, right to Irene. “I even called Anthony, a trainer from the farm down the road, to see if he could place the dead man, but he couldn’t. Said he’s never seen him before. The strange thing? The gates were all locked, from the inside. I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Holmes, if you find my horse in one piece, I’ll give you half his winnings from his next competition plus your regular fee.

  “Oh.” Joe let loose a nervous laugh, not wanting to overstep. “That’s not necessary–”

  “That would be very kind of you,” Irene said. “Because I intend to find your horse, and the person responsible for those murders. Now, if you’ll fetch Mrs. Greenly, I shall interview her and Phillip separately.”

  * * * * *

  Margaret Greenly sat across from them, her small dark eyes on the verge of tears and her shoulders bunched. Joe instantly felt sorry for her but quickly caught himself. If he’d learned anything from Irene and their past two cases, it was that women were often craftier than given credit and could be the best actresses in the world.

  “What did you and your husband do last night?” Irene asked without so much as an introduction.

  “Usually, I’ll check on the horses if I so fancy,” Margaret replied. “Or I’ll go for a late ride on Bradbury, but the weather’s been so dull that there’s not much to do. Last night, I set the curls in my hair then waited for my husband. He tends to the horses before coming into the house and last night was no different. He had a bath, which is nothing out of the ordinary before you go asking. He is a man that loves his horses, but he does not like to smell like them. No matter how tired, he always bathes. Then we went to sleep. I am not a light sleeper, but our bed is such that if my husband moves, I tend to wake. Well, I never woke up the entire night, and he was by my side in the morning.”

  “You heard the commotion in the morning?”

  “Certainly,” she said. “Phillip was out of the house before me. It was a horrid sight. Blood everywhere. Maximus missing. Phillip spent all morning looking for him. He loves that horse to death.”

  “And what of Snowball?” Joe asked. “Does he get the same love?”

  “Everyone loves a good horse, Doctor.” Margaret smiled as if keeping some secret from them. “He was no competitor, but he was gentle and sweet. All the guests loved him.”

  “So, it would be out of the ordinary for him to attack two people,” Joe said. “And kill them.”

  She shrugged. “The horse has a dark past. Something could’ve triggered outrage in him, but I’m not sure. Everyone is still settling from the events of the war.”

  Joe jotted down her answer but wanted to argue. Yes, horses were inclined to act out, but he found that once a horse was truly sound, it often gave warnings before its attitude changed.

  “You tend to the horses?” Irene asked.

  “Of course,” Margaret nodded. “I used to ride them. Quite well, as a matter of fact.”

  “Until your accident.”

  “Uh, yes,” she said, a bit taken back. “How did–”

  “Your gait,” Irene said. “You walk with a slight hitch in your step. One might deduce leg, but it is a hip or lower back injury.”

  Joe wrote down Margaret’s injuries and sighed inwardly. He did his best to observe things like Irene did, but he’d failed to notice Margaret’s limp when she walked into the room.

  “My back,” Margaret said hotly. “I was bucked off while breaking in a horse and I landed wrong. I can only ride perfectly sound horses now because my injury makes me sit at an odd angle, and bounce in the saddle. It confuses the horses that are still learning.”

  “This mystery man on the floor of the stables,” Irene continued, showing no sympathy for Margaret or her injured back. “Did you recognize him?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “I don’t know how he got into the stables unless that young groom let him in.”

  “Do you suspect him?” Irene asked, and Joe caught her eyes flicking to the notes he scrawled.

  “It’s not impossible,” Margaret said. “He was young and impulsive, but he loved those horses too.”

  “Why would he lock the door behind him, though?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, fidgeting. “It’s your job to figure out the whys, is it not?”

  Irene stared at her, a small smirk on her lips.

  “You and Phillip sleep in the bed-and-breakfast?” Irene changed the subject and Joe wrote quicker, trying to keep up with the rapid conversation between the ladies.

  “No,” Margaret flared with a look of annoyance. “We used to, but we were evicted when the business grew. So, we stay in the main house here, with the Richardsons.”

  “And you dislike it.”

  “I’d rather have my own house,” Margaret said. “We are in talks to start on our own in the fall, but that is still so far away.”

  “Thank you, Margaret,” Irene said, surprising Joe with the abrupt end to the interview. “If you’d leave out the far door, please.”

  Margaret hesitated, glancing towards the door where her husband sat outside, waiting.

  “The far door, please,” Irene repeated, glancing at Joe's notes and gesturing toward the other end of the room.

  Margaret nodded and stood, hurrying out the door.

  “Phillip Greenly!” Irene called, forgoing all decorum.

  Phillip all but barged in, appearing to try to catch them interviewing his wife. He looked right at Irene and she motioned to the chair.

  “Sit,” she ordered. “This won’t take long.”

  He sat across from them and looked ready to argue any point Irene threw out at him. He was a skinny man with thinning hair, hollow cheeks, and small shrewd eyes. Joe attempted a better observation this time, but simply saw an exhausted man who wanted to get this interview done and over with as quickly as possible.

  “What happened to your hand?” Irene asked.

  As she asked the question, Joe’s eyes fell upon Phillip’s bandaged hand. Yet another detail he'd overlooked. He scribbled down the injury under the new page he'd started for Phillip's interview.

  “In my rush to lo
ok for that damn horse I cut it,” Phillip said.

  “That damn horse,” Irene repeated with a small smile. “You seem agitated.”

  “Of course I’m agitated,” he snapped, a Cockney accent causing his sentences to bounce along with his frustration. “Someone stole Maximus and is doing god knows what with him.”

  “What makes you think someone stole him?”

  “Where else could he have gone?” Phillip demanded.

  “Where indeed,” she mused. “Your wife told us that your evening went as normal as it could. You tended the horses then came to bed. She said she is a light sleeper and heard you tuck in shortly after her. She didn’t mark it as strange, but I want to know if your story matches hers.”

  Joe paused his writing. Surely, Irene didn’t forget everything Margaret just said. Was this a tactic to gain a confession? Had she already pegged Phillip as a prime suspect? Joe couldn’t figure anything out yet, but Irene probably had a whole scenario rolling around inside her head.

  Phillip hesitated for a brief second, presumably recalling the events of the night, then he nodded.

  “I’m not one to argue with my wife,” he replied. “She speaks the truth.”

  If that lie impacted Irene, she never made a move to show the feeling. She intertwined her fingers and set her hands on the table.

  “You liked Snowball.”

  “Of course,” Phillip said, as if it were obvious

  “Yet you wanted to send him straight to slaughter,” Irene said, cocking her head. “As soon as you saw all the blood.”

  “There’s no denying that horse had something to do with this,” Phillip said. “We left the blood on him on purpose so you could see for yourself. I don’t know if he got scared because a stranger was in the stables, or if he was triggered into outrage by something. He came from such a terrible life. In my opinion, Mr. Richardson spent way too much money keeping him here. He’s a pack mule at best. Can’t hunt, can’t show. He’s just here to be patted by guests. The war hit this farm hard and we could use every penny to build it back up again.”

  Joe scribbled a phrase into his notebook that both Phillip and Margaret had used. 'Triggered into outrage'. Not an odd expression in and of itself, but strange when used by two separate people, both of whom were supposed to be giving independent accounts of the incident.