The Impossible Murderer Read online

  “You woke to the chaos,” Irene said. “And what did you find at the stables?”

  “Two bodies and Ronald in a panic,” he said. “I may have overreacted, but when Mr. Richardson came out, we had Ronald put Snowball back in his box, untouched, for you folks at Scotland Yard to look at. The vet hasn’t even arrived as he’s been away. Ronald examined Snowball as best he could, but most of the blood on him seemed to come from the bodies.”

  “I will examine him,” Joe said. “When we investigate the stables.”

  Phillip laughed. “Humans and horses are much different, Doctor.”

  Before Joe could retort, Irene tapped the table, bringing the conversation back to her.

  “Who is the mystery man on the floor of the stables?”

  “No idea,” Phillip said. “Never seen him before. We even called Anthony, the trainer from the next stable over, and he’s never seen him before either. He came to steal the horses, I suspect.”

  “Then how were the doors locked?” Irene asked. “Everyone has mentioned that the stables were locked with a key. How would someone that no one has ever met have a key and lock the doors after losing a horse and being trampled to death?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not the Detective Inspector.”

  Irene nodded and took a sweep of Philip. Her eyes crinkled slightly and Joe recognized that look. She’d picked up on something and she was not impressed. The three of them sat in silence for a few seconds, and when Irene didn’t ask another question, Joe threw one out.

  “Was Maximus a good horse?” He questioned. “I heard he was a good competitor, but his attitude, was it decent?”

  Phillip chuckled darkly. “A dressage stallion that’s half Arab and as hot-blooded as they come? He was a nightmare, Doctor Holmes. A real son of a bitch, if I may say so in front of your Mrs. But he could dance like no other. It was a beautiful sight once you got him in the ring. Whoever stole him is most likely to try to enter him in a competition or breed him.”

  “You’re really banking on the fact that he was stolen,” Irene stated, and Joe recognized immediately that she was pushing, hoping to get a rise out of him.

  “I don’t know,” he snapped, Irene’s gamble working. “I do know that he didn’t walk away and lock the doors behind him. If he did escape on his own, he would’ve been out with the other three horses and he’s not. See what you can deduce from that.”

  “We’re done,” Irene said, abruptly. “You’ve been helpful, if not a little rude.”

  Her insult didn’t seem to affect him in the slightest as he stood and started towards the door.

  “One more thing,” she said. “Where are the boots you wore yesterday?”

  Phillip looked down at his boots and Joe noticed they were shiny and perhaps polished. Brand new. At Phillip’s confusion, Irene pointed to the shiny leather.

  “Those have barely been walked in,” she said. “In fact, they are slightly tight. Judging by the rest of your wardrobe, you didn’t dress up to greet us, so there would’ve been no reason to put on brand new boots. And, at a chaotic time such as this, a new pair of tight boots is not something most people would reach for. So, where are the old boots you wore yesterday?”

  Phillip looked askance, neck muscle twitching as he clenched his jaw. Usually, Joe would be ready to intervene, but Irene still had a desk between her and the man.

  “The other ones were dirty,” he said. “I did help move bodies and wade through blood, hay, and other unmentionable substances attempting to find my horse. I didn’t need a reminder of what happened, so I tossed them. I’m sure I could find them if you so want, but it may take me a while.”

  “They may be important,” she said. “So, I would appreciate that, no matter how long it takes.”

  Joe was willing to bet she’d already made up her mind as to what happened to the boots, and she was just stubborn. Phillip looked ready to argue but must’ve thought better because he turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

  They interviewed Mrs. Richardson next, who was a pleasant and shy woman. She confirmed her husband’s statement and mentioned that she is a deep sleeper and never heard a thing. She had her own maid and a young man that helped her with the bed-and-breakfast, but they didn’t turn up anything interesting either. Both of the workers slept in the bed-and-breakfast, with the young man occasionally helping out with the horses, only if he was absolutely needed, otherwise he was kept busy collecting eggs from the hens and maintaining the grounds.

  Irene dismissed all three, shaking her head at Joe. As soon as they were alone, Joe turned to her.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “Many things,” she sighed. “I need to look at the stables to start putting some of these thoughts together. I’ll leave you to manage the horse.”

  * * * * *

  Joe relished the smell of the stables. Hay, wood, grain. They wrapped him in a comforting hug and for a brief moment, he was reminded of home. Then the smell of old blood reached his nose and all the pleasantness was harshly swept away.

  The bloodstains were still on the floor. There was splatter by the door where the young groom was killed, and a large dry pool in the centre of the walkway, seeping into the new wood and spattered on the box door. A row of boxes lined one wall, ending at a large door that exited to the outer arena and paddocks. A bath and saddle area were at the far end, with the entrance to the front lawn.

  A snort came from the middle box. Snowball stuck his head over the door, greeting them. Avoiding the bloodstain, Joe approached the horse and stroked his soft nose. Snowball pressed his head into Joe’s hand, loving the affection. Behind Joe, Irene went to work, dropping to the ground, examining the blood. Joe left her to it and opened the box door, stepping in with Snowball.

  The horse was gorgeous, even covered in blood and dirt. Slightly stockier than a thoroughbred, with a small bend in his kind face, and a white coat hidden under all the blood.

  Joe started his examination, checking the horse’s teeth, then onto ears. He ran his hands down both sides of Snowball’s neck. As he patted Snowball’s shoulder, though, Joe’s chest tightened and he closed his eyes. The last time he saw a Lipizzaner was one of the worst days of his life.

  He took a few breaths as the horse nudged his chest. He wasn’t there anymore. He was back in England, helping his friend. He turned to Irene, focusing on her actions while trying to calm himself.

  She leaned over the bloodstain, twisting and bending her body, looking at the scene from every angle.

  Joe’s racing heart calmed enough to suit him, and he continued with his exam. As he investigated Snowball’s back and flanks, he found old scars and faded whip marks, and places a chain tie had dug into his skin. Whoever secured this horse to get him to Hitler did a horrendous job, which was odd. From the stories Joe had heard, the horses were treated far better than the human prisoners. Perhaps Snowball had a horrid captor who didn’t care how the horse got to the stables in Austria.

  The thought of captured and mistreated horses dredged up a wave of unpleasant thoughts and he turned to Irene again.

  “What do you think?” he asked, his voice cracking as he tried to keep himself calm. He needed to hear Irene’s voice to keep him in the present and keep him distracted from his own thoughts.

  “Two bodies, definitely,” she replied. “A scuffle here, judging by the blood pressed into the wood. The mystery man got trampled pretty badly. If he was killed by a human, I would say the human was angry, judging by the amount of damage. We shall confirm his injuries when Eddy brings those photos of the bodies down for us. There’s also damage to this box beside Snowball’s. Fresh scuffs and scrapes.”

  Again, Irene’s words calmed Joe and he continued with Snowball. He scooped up Snowball’s front leg, looking at his hoof. Some dirt and hay, but otherwise his hooves were relatively clean.

  “Hand me that hoof pick,” he said, reaching his hand out to gesture over to the tools. “Second hook to the left. Grab that
halter by the door for me as well, please.”

  Irene obliged, grabbing the tool and rope and handing them to Joe. He strapped the halter onto Snowball and led him out of the box, giving the murder scene a wide berth. The horse lowered his head, trying to sniff the blood, but Joe clicked his tongue, keeping Snowball moving forward. He led the horse to the hook-up in the middle of the stables, securing him with the rope, before picking up Snowball’s hoof again, grasping it between his knees. He dug out the dirt from the hoof and wiped it on the floor.

  Irene stood beside him, completely fascinated with his task. Her hands were clasped behind her back and she bent, watching the pick scrape Snowball's hoof, dust and dirt crumbling to the ground.

  Joe moved to each hoof, cleaning them out. When he was finished, they were left with four small piles of mud and dirt, and only small traces of blood.

  “If I was a horse that had just trampled someone to death,” Joe said. “I’d have a lot more blood under my hooves.”

  “Unless someone cleaned out the blood,” Irene said. “But all the dirt would be cleaned out too. Would that much blood get under the hoof?”

  “I had a patient one summer,” Joe said. “That would escape and run through the tomato plants. The seeds would get all up in her hooves, and she’d leave red hoof-prints everywhere.”

  “A patient?” Irene mumbled.

  Joe leaned over Snowball’s back, putting weight on him and watching his expression. His ears perked and he gave an excited nicker, but he stood statue-still.

  “A pregnant mare,” Joe continued, pushing Snowball from side to side, checking the strength and balance of his legs. “She wanted the dandelions on the other side of the tomato plants. She ended up having twins that fall, which was a treat for me as they were the first set I’d foaled, plus I made twice my wage that day. That family also had a bunch of dogs that always seemed to need care.”

  He patted Snowball’s rump. “This horse is in fine shape. And considering he let me check him all over, and practically climb on him bareback, he’s as sound as they come. I may have to pull out my old notes regarding certain psychologies of horses, but I’d guarantee that this horse wasn’t 'triggered into outrage' and remains innocent.”

  He turned to Irene and was met with the oddest expression he’d ever seen on her face. She appeared genuinely surprised, eyes wide, mouth slightly ajar, before an incredulous look took over her features.

  “Oh, my goodness!” She exclaimed, stumbling backwards, shaking her head hard enough for a curl fall from her hat. “Oh, Joe. I’ve been such a fool!”

  Chapter III

  A Curious Dinner

  Irene immediately turned from Joe, embarrassment and anger rushing over her. She shook her head and paced up and down the stables, avoiding the blood on the floor.

  “How could I not have known?” she said. “Has my head been buried in the sand this whole time? Have I been that obtuse? Oh, Joe! I have failed you and in doing so failed our friendship.”

  He grabbed her shoulders, keeping her in one spot. She couldn’t even look at him, not with her revelation still sweeping through her.

  “You are being overly dramatic. Usually, I can figure out why, but this time I can’t. Is this about the case?”

  “The case?” She stared at him for a second. “No, this is not about the case!”

  “Then, what is wrong?” Joe urged.

  She huffed, the embarrassment still at the forefront of her mind. Finally, she threw her hands up in the air.

  “You are a veterinarian!”

  A heavy pause hung in the air as Joe stared at her. He released her shoulders, eyebrows pulling together in confusion.

  “That is what you are losing your mind about?” he said, then gave a small laugh. “Of course, I’m a veterinarian. I thought it was obvious.”

  Not only was she embarrassed, but angry with herself. She usually saw the obvious. That was her job. People paid her money to figure out the hidden and obscure.

  “Why would it be obvious?” She snapped at poor Joe.

  “I have two shelves of textbooks,” he said.

  “I honestly didn’t pay them any mind.”

  “I tried to tell you several times when we met,” he said. “I attempted to introduce myself as ‘Doctor of Veterinary Medicine’, but everyone heard ‘doctor’ and they cut me off before I could finish.”

  “Veterinarian, Joe,” she waved her hands ecstatically. “Why didn’t you just say, 'veterinarian'?”

  “Because when I used to say that, all people heard was veteran. I was lost either way.”

  “I need a minute.” She stared at the blood on the floor. She felt terrible for not knowing her friend’s true profession, and she felt stupid for how obvious it was. He rarely offered any health advice when it came to humans, yet he was quick to diagnose the horse that pulled the Hansom carriage. He spent so much time at the animal shelter, but Irene never thought to ask why. She just assumed he liked animals and possibly enjoyed watching construction work.

  Irene looked at him. He’d turned his attention back to Snowball, and had found a brush from the shelf, running it through the horse’s mane. She was tempted to piece together a new hypotheses about his past, now that she had a crucial piece of information. Had he been a vet in the army? Did the military even have vets? If not, did he serve as a regular medic because of his medical training? Did he help with animals in the war?

  She was even more curious as to his military history now, but she knew she couldn’t press. Horses were an obvious trigger for some of his deeper memories, and perhaps being around all these horses would draw some of those stories from him.

  Or send him over the edge into a panic-induced fit.

  She knew her task would be to keep him from that, even if she had to send him back to London and finish this case with Eddy.

  He turned to face her and she was prepared for a judgmental look of disappointment for how badly she’d missed deducing an essential part of who he was. Instead, he smiled and nodded to Snowball.

  “I’m going to release him so he can get a good bath,” Joe said. “Want to give him a pat before he goes?”

  Irene did not, and not because he seemed like a mean horse, but because she was almost over her moment of failure and wanted to continue with this case. But she figured she owed Joe something, so she pulled off her glove and reached out her hand. Snowball took a few steps and pushed his nose into her stiff fingers. He was softer than she expected, and as she gently scratched his velvet nose, he closed his eyes.

  “You’ve got the magic touch,” Joe mused, then grabbed the rope hanging from the halter. “C’mon, big guy. Let’s get you to a bath.”

  He walked Snowball around the pool of blood and out the doors. Irene watched them go, marvelling at how naturally Joe’s task came to him. He was awkward at the best of times, but watching him examine Snowball from ear to hoof came as naturally as any of Irene’s own jobs.

  She let out an audible sigh and rolled her shoulders. That was not a detour she was expecting to take, but she had work to do.

  Her assumption that Snowball hadn’t trampled the mystery man was correct, and as she continued examining the stable floor, she found traces of blood in the grooves of the floorboards leading away from the pool. The surface looked like it had been washed quickly, but the blood in between the boards was unmistakable.

  She crawled on the ground, following the blood, and made it to the side door of the stables that led towards the inner paddock where the other three horses were. The blood trail went past the door, to the other side of the stables, and out to the front yard.

  Irene stood up and looked back at her path. It was challenging to find a track like this at the first door they entered because so many people had trampled through the blood at the crime scene, but these marks here were in a stretched-out pattern.

  As if a horse exited through this door.

  Joe entered the stables through the far door and met her at the front entra
nce.

  “Snowball’s getting a nice bath,” he said with a broad smile. “I told Mr. Richardson that he is a fine horse and not the cause of the murders. I will not let them send him to the slaughterhouse.”

  “Maximus left through here,” Irene stated, pointing to the door she stood at.

  “How can you tell?”

  “Blood between the floorboards.”

  Joe thought for a second. “Someone enters through this door, takes Maximus out of his box, chaos ensues, then Maximus is either led out or walks out this door by his own accord.”

  “The only hiccup in that plan, darling Joe,” she said. “Is that this door was bolted from the inside, and everyone attested to that. So, how does a horse leave out this door and bolt it behind him?”

  “Someone bolts it after he’s left,” Joe said. “But the blood leads right out of the stables, meaning he was here when these murders happened.”

  Irene unbolted the door and swung it open. Crouching, she followed the small traces of blood out of the stables. The ground was dark, the heavy clouds swollen with rain, but enough light still shone for her to see. She followed the trail from the small bit of pavement leading from the stables to the beginning of the wide front paddock going down the long laneway.

  She expected the trail to continue onto the gravel, but imprints in the grass led into the open paddock and aimed toward the massive fields separating this farm from the one behind it, its buildings hidden by the rolling hills.

  “Irene?”

  Joe spoke from behind her, but she ignored him. The hoofprints were so evident in the grass that she picked up her pace, stopping at a small wooden fence.

  “Here.” She plucked a tuft of horsehair from between the wood. “Grey hair.”

  Joe took the bit of fur. “Irene, I really think we should go back to the house.”

  She ignored him again and looked behind the fence post. Three feet of rope wound around the post and hung down to the ground, the end snapped and frayed as if something heavy pulled hard enough to break it.