A Three Day Event (35 page)

Because it would have had to be all or nothing between us. It couldn’t have been just a fling. And what kind of life can you have with someone in this world? Horses. What kind of life is horses? Isolated, cultish, meaningless to outsiders. No…purpose. No intellectual engagement with the world. I would have withered and died. Talk about your two solitudes. And yet Polo’s so smart. A really first rate mind. And a mensch. He could have been successful in the real world. He could have done anything. Such a waste. And no children. What will he do when he can’t ride anymore? I would have driven him crazy with all these thoughts. He would have wanted to kill me. You’d have to have a woman who’s in horses too, and who understands, who doesn’t judge. He’s lucky to have Nathalie.

“Hey, Ruthie,” Polo said with a relaxed smile, as he idly caressed the horse’s neck. She was afraid to make eye contact, but noted that his colour was up and he had been sweating. It
was
work. She also saw that he had shed his austere and monkish air of urgent concentration. His eyes rested on her with lazy good humour, and he seemed altogether loose, refreshed and dreamily replete.
Omigod
, thought Ruthie, Polo has a
buzz
on.

“You know what, Ruthie, I can guess exactly what you’re thinking right now,” Polo said.

Please God, don’t let him notice me blushing. “
Y–you can?”

“Yeah, you’re saying to yourself, that was the most boring half–hour of my life.”

Ruthie laughed out loud, hoping he didn’t hear the slightly hysterical tone of relief.
“Au contraire, Polo.
This has been a wonderful learning experience. Fran is a great teacher.”

She felt rather than saw Fran’s appreciative smile. She couldn’t take her hungry gaze off the sweet languor of Polo’s expression. She said, “It seems to have done you good. Is riding always such a stress reliever?”

Polo spanked the horse smartly on the neck, and Ruthie saw the sweat–darkened satin of the skin ripple swiftly in a delicate shiver. “Not always. Depends on the horse. In fact, I didn’t feel like riding today. Glad I did, though. When a horse puts out for you like this guy–yeah, it’s a good trip.”

Ruthie bit her lip, and looked for a diversion and somewhere else to put her eyes. “May I touch him?” She pointed at the horse’s head.

“Sure. Scratch his nose, they like that.”

Ruthie tentatively petted the moleskin–coated rubber of the gelding’s nose, and smiled when he blew a huge, sighing puff of moist, oaty air into her face. “What’s his name?”

“Robin’s Song. Out of Rockin’ Robin. That’s the stallion that was cut.”

“Oh, I see.” And she repeated, under her breath, “Robin’s Song. Robin’s Song…”

Polo asked Fran, “So what do you think?”

“You tell me first. How feels he to you?”

Polo stroked the horse’s neck, then moved his hand forward to cup an ear and pull gently up on it. “I love this guy. He’s beautifully made. Someone took a lot of trouble bringing him along. An angel’s mouth. Very responsive to the seat and lower back. Gorgeous trot, you can get in deep and stay there. You lay two ounces of your lower leg on, and he yields like a kitten. Gets in the rhythm and keeps it without making you nag. Didn’t need spurs at all, never mind a whip.”

Ruthie felt herself blushing and feigned a sudden interest in the jumping rails stored in the corner.

“I agree,” said Fran. “He is not the super big mover for a Grand Prix, few thoroughbreds are, but no matter, his gaits are all regular, excellent even, and for an amateur dressage rider, yes, he would be ideal.”

“It’s funny, though. Michel said he could be a bit nappy. I didn’t see a hint of it.”

“Riding in an arena tells you but one third of the story for an event horse,
ja
? You must take him out,” said Fran.

“Yeah, I was going to anyway. I think I’ll have some fun with him, pop him over some of the jumps on the course, do the water, maybe part of the steeplechase.”

“This girl, she was riding him in a full three–day event when the accident happened?” Fran asked.

“That’s what I understand,” said Polo.

“And before that she did only the horse trials?”

As they talked, Polo moved each leg in turn forward of the saddle flap while his hands shortened his stirrups by several holes on the leather straps. “I think so…ah, I see what you mean. You’re thinking of the Roads and Tracks of the Three–Day?”

Fran nodded thoughtfully. “The nappy horse, I look first to the feet. In here is kind to the feet. If the problem is in the feet, the roads will tell you.”

Polo clapped the chestnut’s silky neck once more, and said, “Okay, partner, no more Mr. Nice Guy. We’re going to find out if you have the right stuff on the battlefield.” He picked up and shortened the reins. “Fran, I really appreciate you coming out to keep me honest. Thanks.” Turning to the corner, he called out, “Ruthie, see you later.” He picked up a posting trot and Ruthie rejoined Fran, her composure more or less restored, as he swept through the wide door at the far end of the arena.

As they watched Polo ride out, something tickled Ruthie’s memory. “Fran, you said I would see two remarkable things here, and one would be the schooling. What was the other?”

“Oh yes,” nodded Fran. “The other remarkable thing was to see an experienced jumper rider without so big the ego that he has no problem to ask a dressage instructor to observe and correct him, also who understands the importance of consecrating the time for these fundamentals over and over again. Such humility and respect for the art of dressage is rare in North America, I may tell you. In Europe, of course, it is a commonplace.”

“Well, it’s true. Polo never had a big ego.” She was silent for a long moment.

“Fran,” Ruthie then segued briskly into French, Fran’s mother tongue, as a way to change the subject from horses completely, but still keep him comfortable. “Fran, I was wondering if I could talk to you a little more about yesterday’s events. Polo and Roch and my brother and his wife and I are trying to work out what might have happened to this stable boy, because nobody seems to want to get the police involved. We’ve given ourselves until tomorrow. And–it seems that I’ve been assigned to talk to you–and I had hoped to your wife as well.”

“To me you may speak, by all means. My wife is–well, perhaps it will not be necessary after we have spoken. We both wish only to cooperate, but she is fragile, as you no doubt have remarked. I try to spare her unpleasantness when I can. So–what is it you want to know?”

“Oh dear. Well, I guess the short answer to that question is–did you kill him–although I daresay a real detective wouldn’t go about things so directly.”

Fran chuckled smoothly. “Ruth, you are a most charming and intelligent lady, if you permit me to say so. And I am not one to beat around the bush, so let us dispense with the subtleties and strategies of the so–called ‘real detective’.” He gestured toward a raised viewing gallery behind the interior long side of the arena. They climbed the short flight of steps and settled themselves on a bench.

Fran said, “This morning I listened very carefully to the responses of everyone when they were asked their whereabouts at the estimated time of the murder, which was late afternoon to early evening. It became clear to me that almost nobody has a real alibi for that time period. I had been worried that I might be the only one on whom suspicion might fall, that the others had waterproof alibis. But now I am convinced that even if you find who you think is the killer, you will never have the evidence or an eyewitness to prove it. This makes me feel freer to elaborate on my original story.

“Eva told you I returned home at my usual time. Her nervousness probably struck you as suspicious. You are right to be so. I returned home an hour later than usual. The reason? I was intent on finding this Liam and doing something to make him stop persecuting my wife. I had in mind to threaten that I would go to the police with what we knew of his vile activities”–

“Oh, so you know about his racist connections!” Ruthie cried.

“But of course. This was his vehicle for tormenting us. He seemed to know something troubling about everyone, I don’t know how”–

Ruthie interrupted excitedly to tell Fran about the hole in the wall and the telephone.

“Ah, I see. But”–he shrugged–“this makes no sense for us. I never use the telephone there except perhaps to call to Eva to say I would prefer potatoes to cabbage for dinner. And in any case with Eva I speak German. No,” he shook his head, “in our case our so–called secret was something he falsely inferred from our language and from his finding out somehow the birthplace of my wife.”

“Which is”–

“Passau, Bavaria.”

Ruthie sucked in her breath. “
Passau
! Oh, but that’s where all those terrible things happened. That girl from Passau, Anna Rosmus, who had so much trouble finding out what happened, because nobody wanted to talk about it. She wrote a book, Hy read it, he was so impressed–oh, and some of that horrible hate literature Liam had, it came from there…”

“Ah! You have seen it!”

“Yes! Yes! Polo found a whole boxful of it under his bed. He brought it to my brother’s house. It’s there now. I don’t understand”–

“It is simple, really. This idiot malcontent puts what he thinks is two and two together, and is convinced that we must be secret nazis waiting for our chance to do harm to the Jewish stable owner. He refuses to retreat from this craziness in spite of our frequent warnings. Finally my wife cannot take it any longer. She refuses to come to the barn. She has suffered her whole life because she resisted everything her town stood for. If you knew what happened to her”–his voice broke a little and he looked away.

Ruthie was distressed and alarmed. What she was hearing, coming from a determined and opinionated man, healthy and probably very fit in spite of his age, a protective and devoted husband furious at a senseless invasion of his and his wife’s contented lives, was beginning to sound very much like an excellent motive for murder.

Fran continued, calmer and dignified. “I knew that Liam was working on the cross–country course. I set out on foot, as I did not wish my car to be seen in the area. Walking, it took about ten minutes to arrive at the course, and a further ten minutes to find the jump he was repairing. With wire, naturally. There was a roll of it in the wheelbarrow beside him, along with his other tools.”

“And what did you say to him?” Ruthie asked, wide–eyed with
suspense.

Fran smiled wryly. “Nothing. You may believe me or not, but I was close enough to see the wheelbarrow, yet still hidden by a screen of trees, when another person appeared, and immediately engaged the boy in an angry discourse concerning their own grievances with him.”

“You don’t wish to name this person?”

Fran sighed. “I am reluctant to tell you, because I did not see what happened for long. I was nervous about being discovered. I slipped away. And therefore I do not know if the person I saw was the killer, or was just angry with him, and then left, only to have a third person turn up after that. So if I give you a name, then I am implicating that person,
n’est–ce pas
?”

“I suppose so,” Ruthie sighed, “but don’t you think it looks a little suspicious if you don’t give us a name? I mean, it’s an awfully easy way to exculpate yourself without backing up your story, do you see what I mean?”

Fran was pensive for a long minute. “You are right, of course. I will tell you then, but I ask that you make no automatic assumptions. Because the problem is, this person, from the depth of the anger I saw, was as motivated as I was to see that boy disappear forever.”

“Well, I can certainly promise for myself, Fran. I’ve been trying all along to see this thing from as many angles as possible,” said Ruthie.

“It was Bridget who I saw, who was so angry, and so determined to intimidate Liam. He was insisting that the cross–country jumps at the Timberline three–day event were not of an official height. He reminded her that he had been there, working for the owner, Mr. Jones. He seemed to imply that the accident to the girl who died there had something to do with that, because Bridget had been the course designer for that event. She was furious at his intrusion into her affairs. But as well there was something that struck me very strangely. As a language student you may have some opinion. It may or may not have something to tell you about her guilt or innocence.”

Ruthie cocked her head encouragingly.

“As you know, English is the language in which I am least expert. I speak it well enough, but my ear is not as attuned, shall we say, to the nuances. Liam was speaking with that very distinctive Irish accent of his. And yet, it was my strong impression that Bridget was speaking in a different voice, or rather in a different accent, than she normally does. Of course there are so many subtle variations in every language between regions, so perhaps I am mistaken, but you know, I could almost swear that her accent, normally very upper class, was distinctly more–how shall I say–
col bleu
perhaps? Working class?”

“That is actually quite fascinating,” Ruthie breathed. Impulsively she added, “Look, Fran, do you think Eva might come with you up to my brother’s house for a glass of sherry and a quiet hour of conversation later this afternoon, 5 p.m. perhaps? Your story is rather amazing, and if for no other reason, I would love for my brother to have a chance to actually speak to someone from Passau. He’s a tremendous history buff, you see, and she would find herself in the most sympathetic company imaginable.”

Fran’s eyes widened as he considered this proposal. “Nothing would give me more pleasure, Ruth, than to spend a civilized hour with cosmopolitan and historically aware people. This is a sadly lacking component of our lives here in this little town–I do not complain, we are living the most enviable of lives–but still, at times one is nostalgic”–

Ruthie and Fran parted company outside the tack room. He exited to the parking lot and Ruthie wandered down the stable aisle, peeking in at the various horses over the stall doors, and reflecting on what Fran had just told her. He seemed very honest. Her tendency was to accept what he said at face value. But then that was the story of her life, wasn’t it? Having been so sheltered and doted upon and cushioned against the colder realities, she saw the world–well, her personal world, anyway–as a friendly place.