Ernest straightened from his crouch and paced to the wrecked fence that the mare had supposedly kicked at to escape – a simple affair of three horizontal slats affixed to oak posts set at ten-foot intervals, and if she’d been restless or fearful, she could easily have broken through yet…
Something niggled.
Afore noon, Ernest had ridden over to Will Skelton’s estate, the exterior of the manor house a little more tattered than he remembered, the lawn overgrown and the dovecot unused. The ancient butler Knollis – the same one he remembered as a boy – had stated that the squire was in Witney on business so Ernest had sought out the head groom. A stalwart fellow with an honest tanned face and local accent, he’d been bewildered by the ferocity of their previously docile mare. The forest adjoining Skelton’s paddocks had already been searched and posters were readied, and it all sounded so damn similar.
Yet the mention of theft was still met with a scratch to the head and a murmur of, “Ain’t seen no strangers ’bout these parts of late.”
So different to London where horse theft was a residential hazard.
Tugging his hair in frustration, Ernest inspected the smashed slats, fragments scattered in all directions. He fingered the torn wood either side of the fence post, followed the jagged shards…
Facing the wrong way.
Of course.
He kneeled, realised that the slats had been smashed from the outside, the torn wood twisted inward to the paddock.
This had to be theft.
A thief who likely knew the stable timetables and the way of the land. One that could splinter a fence with a hammer and lure the horse out. One that knew the woods and where to hide.
Gritting his teeth, he scoured the patchy grass for more… But naught, no conveniently dropped monogrammed handkerchief or imprint of boot.
“Well, Stanley,” he declared, glancing up to the undulating hills and the manor house nestled within their gentle beauty. “Nothing more we can do here. Perhaps Skelton will be at the masquerade too.”
Stanley ignored him, nose snuffling in the long grass…
“What are you eating?” And Ernest grabbed the bridle to draw his head up.
Stanley continued chewing, eyes as innocent as a rabbit caught in a cabbage patch, so Ernest was forced to prize his teeth apart and extract a…
Soggy brown paper wrapper.
Frowning, Ernest brought it to his nose…
“Well done, Stanley,” he declared with a pat.
Peppermint bonbons were oft a horse’s favoured treat and his own Sir Oswald had been like a dog with a sausage for them.
The thief’s lure, perhaps?
SHEEP WERE STREAMINGover the drawbridge once more as Hebe and her aunt neared the castle, a scarlet-faced Garvey shaking his fist.
“Who left the bloody door open again?” he bellowed. “And how in damnation did they get into the secret tunnel?”
“Not such a secret now,” Hebe whispered, nudging Aunt.
Cripps followed, broomstick at the ready to brush their leavings into a pile on one side.
“All be well wi’thee, Mrs Locke? Mrs Cassell?” called Mr Grampy Tom from his bench outside the stable as Daniel opened the carriage door for them to descend. “Tha Sir Henry ain’t backward in coming forward with the ladies.”
“Alas, you are correct,” replied Hebe, “and although he’s some fine steeds and I did many sketches, I’m not sure it’s worth it.”
Mr Grampy Tom whacked his cane upon a cobble with a growl. “I may be an old’un with a gammy leg, but if him lays a finger on thee, make sure to tell I.”
Hoping against hope that a finger was indeed all Sir Henry had laid upon her, Hebe merely nodded, and as Aunt had declared her fancy for a glass of champagne and a bath, Hebe joined Mr Grampy Tom on the bench, quietly watching the goings-on in the stable yard.
Mary Merreck wandered past with milk pail in hand, twirling a curl as she watched Daniel strut with a mare; Redmond’s gaze was fixed to Aunt Beatrice’s retreating skirts; and a frisky stallion yanked a groom by the name of Thos Frickett to his knees.
