The Hyde Park Headsman - Anne Griffin Perry [143]
Pitt went upstairs to the butler’s room and searched it meticulously; he found no more than Tellman had. He came down again and looked through the house, the main reception rooms and the servants’ hall, butler’s pantry, housekeeper’s sitting room and kitchen, laundry, scullery and still room, and found nothing of interest Lastly he went out into the mews and stables, where the footmen told him Carvell kept one horse and a light two-seater gig which he sometimes used on a summer afternoon, driving himself with considerable skill and pleasure. The animal was looked after by the bootboy, who took delight in escaping from the house on any pretext, and really there were few enough boots to occupy his time. He also assisted the gardener when there was little to do outside, and the winter mud necessitated extra grooming and polishing.
“Yes sir?” he said in a businesslike fashion when Pitt approached him, his broad, good-natured face full of concern.
“May I look at your stable and carriage house?” Pitt asked, although it was a formality. He would not have accepted a refusal.
“Yes sir, if you want to.” The boy looked surprised. “But there’s nothing missing, sir. Gig’s there, and all the harness, like.”
“Nevertheless I’d like to look.” Pitt walked past him and up to the stable door. It was a long time since he had been near horses. The warm smell of the animal, the paved yard under his feet, the odor of leather and polish brought back memories of long ago on the estate where he had grown up, of the stables and tack rooms there, and then of the feeling of a horse under him, its power and speed, matching its will to his, the art and the joy of being one with the animal. And then the work afterwards, the brushing and cleaning, the putting away, the aching muscles and the exhilaration, and then the peace. It all seemed a very long time ago now. Dulcie Arledge would have understood, with her love of horses, the long ride to hounds, the exhaustion of muscles, the ache that was half pleasure.
Absentmindedly he patted the animal’s neck. The boy was just behind him.
“Have you brushed him this morning?” Pitt asked, looking at the horse’s hooves and seeing a few smears of mud on them, a few dry grasses clinging to the hair of its fetlocks.
“No sir. What with Mr. Scarborough being gorn, like, and nobody knowing what ’ad happened to ’im, the ’ole kitchen is in a state.”
“Did you brush him last night?”
“Oh, yes sir! Shone like a new penny, ’e did. ’E’s got a real good coat on ’im. ’aven’t yer, Sam?” he said, patting the animal and receiving a gentle nuzzle in reply.
Pitt pointed to the mud.
“Well that weren’t ’ere last night!” the boy said indignantly. ’Ere!” His face paled and his eyes widened. “Yer mean someone ’ad ’im out? In the night, like?”
“Looks like it,” Pitt answered, gazing around the stable floor just to make sure there was no mud tracked in and that the horse could have stood in it, but it was immaculate. Bootboy or not, he was a diligent groom. “Let’s have a look at the gig.” He turned towards the carriage house. Now the boy was almost treading on his heels.
He swung open the carriage house door and saw a smart gig propped up, its shafts gleaming in the sunlight, its paintwork spotless. He turned to the boy. “Look at it carefully. Look at the harness. Is it exactly how you left it?”
There was a long silence while the boy looked minutely at everything, every piece of leather or brass, without touching a thing. Finally he let out his breath in a long sigh and faced Pitt.
“I can’t be sure, sir. It sort of looks the same, but I’m not certain about them straps up there. The harness was on that ’ook, but I don’t think them bridles next to it was that way ’round. I couldn’t swear to it, mind!”
Pitt said nothing but went over to the gig and peered inside. It was clean, polished, doors fastened, seats bare.
“ ’As it bin used, sir?” the boy asked from just behind him.
“Not so far as I can see,” Pitt replied, not sure if he was relieved or disappointed.