Styles nodded and appeared relieved. He picked up his tray and set off eagerly with his pot of tea and his budget of news to enliven his weekly heart-to-heart with the housekeeper.

AN INVENTORY OF the guests seemed to be Joe’s next most urgent task. Who was where and in whose company was something he had to establish without raising an alarm. He hurried along to the breakfast parlour where he came upon a convivial scene. The usual male breakfast club seemed to be forming up, helping themselves to bacon and devilled kidneys from heated chafing dishes laid out on a sideboard. A pair of footmen, one of them the indefatigable Ben, were standing by in attendance at the tea and coffee urns. Joe caught sight of a dish of fragrant kedgeree and was sorely tempted to join the party but he had things more urgent than smoked haddock on his mind.

Two of the gentlemen, Ripley and Somerton, were well into their breakfast, judging by the state of their plates. A third had just arrived. Alexander, to Joe’s surprise, was languidly questioning the footman on the provenance of the coffee and extending a shuddering hand to reject his suggestion of sausages and bacon.

Joe sidled up to him. “Early riser, Truelove?”

“Not by nature, Sandilands. Exceptionally—on a Sunday. Mama sent up a footman to boot me out of bed. She won’t countenance my missing the Parade of Stallions. Especially not the Midsummer parade. The whole village will be there on the lawn with flags and ribbons and bells and babies. They may even have put up a maypole.” Alex shuddered again.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Joe said, grinning.

“Good man! I say, Sandilands …” Alex leaned closer. “Not so bleary-eyed I hadn’t noticed … You might like to nip up to your room and change your shirt. Blood-stained cuffs not really acceptable at the breakfast table, you know.”

Joe stared at his cuffs in dismay.

“So that was you out there popping off a gun at some unearthly hour, was it? Bothering God’s creatures?” Alex delivered the reprimand with a smirk and tweaked a sprig of bracken from Joe’s tweed jacket. He dusted off Joe’s shoulders with the concerned reproof of a good valet.

“Styles sent me out to bag a brace of woodcock for breakfast,” Joe said lightly. “They’re probably under some chafing dish already masquerading as délice de bécasse on toast.”

“No woodcock to be had in Suffolk before they come flighting in halfway through October, old man. I wonder what it was you bagged?”

Annoyed and preoccupied, Joe muttered, “Woodpigeon then. Excuse me—before I go up …” He turned and addressed the room: “I say, you fellows … Has anyone clapped eyes on Mungo McIver this bright A.M.?”

The two married men looked about them checking the company as though just noticing that the news baron had not yet come down. Looks were exchanged and then Basil Ripley offered a kindly but mischievous, “Last seen staggering upstairs with a half-drunk bottle of Napoleon after losing badly at snooker. He’s probably still in bed, sharing a pot of tea or something with the delightful Mrs. McIver. ‘Do Not Disturb’ and all that, Sandilands.”

Joe cocked an eyebrow at Ben who nodded confirmation.

“Of course! I understand,” Joe said. “It can wait. Look, I’m just going up to change and then if anyone wants to see me in the next half hour, will you tell them I’ll be down in the stables?”

They all mumbled that they’d oblige, speared another kidney and returned to the racing tips in Saturday’s newspaper.

A MEDDLING SCOTLAND Yard heavyweight was the last man they wanted to see in the stables at this busy time. Joe knew that and was doubly impressed by the quiet civility with which he was greeted. The head groom, Wallace Flowerdew, stepped up to deal with him, drawing him carefully aside as a great horse clumped by. A team of men and boys was moving purposefully about in the gloom in an atmosphere of suppressed excitement that seemed to have communicated itself to the animals.

The Suffolk Punches, Joe could have sworn, knew that this was a special morning. Their wise old faces had taken on an animation, their ponderous movements seemed lighter. Joe noted how a hoof would be obligingly raised to the groom’s hand a second before he asked for it. They were enjoying the attention. Some oily unguent was being applied on cloths to their hides and rubbed in until their bulging sides and quarters glowed like conkers. Others, more advanced in the preparation, were having their manes and tails plaited up with red and blue ribbons. Everywhere, brass shone, leather gleamed and lads whistled cheerfully.

“That’s all right, sir. We can manage. I know why you’re here,” Flowerdew began when they had retreated to a quiet corner of the yard. He gave Joe a succinct account of the events of the April night when Lavinia had ventured into his stables. “It was my sons took her there, sir, to her death,” he concluded. “I feel responsible. Expected to get the sack. I’d have tanned their hides if the master hadn’t stepped in. ‘No, you don’t, Flowerdew!’ he says. ‘It was no fault of the boys. They were just obeying a very thoughtless command under pressure. Send them to me. I intend to give them a half crown each for their trouble.’ And he did.”

Flowerdew’s knowing old eye slid across Joe’s, catching a flash of approval which emboldened him to add: “Aye! He’s a good master, sir. The best. You can always rely on him to put right what’s gone wrong as soon as he hears of it … An”e loves ’is ’osses!” He delivered the ultimate accolade in broad Suffolk. “He bought four new Punches this season and cancelled ’is order for two o’ them new-fangled tractor ploughs.”

Joe thanked him for his account and told him he had one or two quick questions for him. “What was the condition of the stallion Lucifer when he was bought by Sir James?” he began.

“Well, first, he wasn’t called ‘Lucifer.’ He was called ‘Joey’ when he arrived. Good price paid for him. He was perfect. Would have made a good breeding stallion. But then, he started playing up. Refusing the bridle, kicking about and playing silly buggers. Then he started refusing to come out of his stall and he took to biting anyone who came near him. That was when the master gave him, joking like, his new name.”

“Tell me, was Goodfellow involved with his care at any time?”

Flowerdew frowned. “As little as I could manage. I like to use my own lads. Oh, don’t get me wrong—Goodfellow’s a practised hand with horses right enough. Cavalry groom in the South African war. But he wasn’t home-trained. A bit harsh, if you know what I mean. I expect that’s war for you. No time to do things the proper way. In these stables we don’t ‘break’ horses, sir, we ‘gentle’ them. Master understands and wouldn’t have it any other way. Goodfellow’s better off larking about in the woods if you ask me. But once a horseman, always a horseman, I suppose. He’s always buzzing about getting in our way. Telling us our business.”

Joe took a deep breath. “Flowerdew, if I told you that the horse’s crazy behaviour was caused by a deliberate laceration to the soft tissue on the sides of its mouth, discovered and recorded in his equine post-mortem by Mr. Hartest, the vet, would you be surprised?”

“No, sir. I’ve heard of that. Folk do it to ruin an animal at auction. Never happened around me before though. Wouldn’t have thought to look even if he’d let us get near enough to look inside his mouth.”

“If I suggested that Goodfellow might have inflicted the wounds?”

“No one else would have or could have done it. I had wondered. Will you tell Sir James or shall I? I think he should know. He won’t be best pleased.” The old horseman’s normally placid features became almost animated as satisfaction vied with anxiety.

“That’s all right, Flowerdew. I’ll tell him. I have some other news—not unrelated—to break to him. Leave it to me.”