JACK OF DIAMONDS

Sonia checked her look in the small compact’s mirror one last time. One last time, she told herself, before turning the key and shutting the engine down. She pulled on the handbrake before touching the corners of her lips and wiping a small smear of lipstick she’d missed the first two times she checked. She had to ask herself if it even mattered anymore.

Really, who am I trying to impress?

There were no men in her life, which only made it sadder, she realized. She pushed a blonde strand into the hastily tied bun she'd made and picked up her hat. Carefully settling it into place and pushing the stray blonde strands back under the hat, she pushed up on her breasts, a refelex more than anything else. Make myself look bigger, fuller, firmer, for all of one second, she thought, laughing at herself. Gerald used to laugh at her whenever she did it. He said it was the way she confronted her own nerves.

She had to admit that she was nervous.

Admit it.

There was no reason for her to be nervous. She’d been in more than a few nerve-wracking situations in her life. But her widowed father taught her a great many things more than he would’ve had her mother lived longer. One of the most important life lessons her father instilled in her was her self-confidence. He was hard on her, always pushing her to study harder. He told her that as a woman in a man's world it would never be easy for her. He tested her medical knowledge relentlessly. He told her she had to be able to assist in the operating theater even if she never went inside one again.

It was a work ethic that would get you through anything. Like the War, for one thing. But this is different, isn’t it?

This morning, she felt like a nervous little schoolgirl entering class for the first time rather than the first female police Inspector reporting to her new assignment in the Chumley Grove Constabulary. It's a new station, they told her. They call it the Barracks. The whole building's new.

"And I should be excited by this? You're dumping me out there. You're a coward; you know that, right? You don't want to make a decision. Just tell the Chief Constable you're planning to make me Detective Inspector."

"Which is why I'm sending you to Chumley Grove. They don't usually have any problems out there, and the timing couldn't be better. It seems a thief broke into one of the big houses out there--you know the kind. The my-shit-don't-stink-type of Manor houses you see in the countryside; servants and sychophants and full of entitlement. It seems they've had a robbery in one. Some jewels and old coins, and a Stradivarius violin called The 1848. This could be a big first step for you."

"And you want me to find the violin?"

"It valued as pricelss."

"What does that mean? Is there a reward being offered?"

"The Chumley Grove Constabulary is supported by the Manor Houses in the area. There's six of them. Each one of them is monied--new money, old money--and the Constabulary answers to them, as well as the District Council."

"And what does that mean? I asked you if they offer a reward for the violin."

"If there's going to be a reward, I'd think it's decided by the District Council."

"The what?"

"It's as simple as that. No matter what you think, you're not allowed to make a move without permission from the Council."

"The Council? And they tell the Constabulary which laws to uphold?"

"“The Government is overseeing a fundamental shift of power away from Westminster to councils, communities and homes across the nation. A radical localist vision is turning Whitehall on its head by decentralising central government and giving power to the people. The Council assists with housing, leisure and recreation, environmental health, waste collection, planning applications and local taxation collections. At best, four of the six families make a quorum and control the Council. That's important to know, because if there's a camp of gypsies and the Council wants them out, it'll be you upholding the law. It'll be up to you to keep to the letter of the law, but at the same time, arrest the trouble-makers. This will hardly be a walk in the park."

She told herself it wasn't nerves, but excitement. She’d felt the same way on her wedding day, she thought, laughing at the memory. But that was a different type of nervousness, she reminded herself, thinking how she’d been looking forward to finally being alone with Gerald for the night. She missed him, even after all these years--there was no denying that--and she told herself she had to move on with her life.

Don’t think about it now, it’ll only make you sad.

One final check in the compact’s mirror and she pushed the Bentley’s door open, holding the top of it to stop it from hitting the automobile next to her. An Austin 7, she noticed. A good, dependable car, probably owned by an older man—well, someone older than herself, she hoped—and next to it, a Triumph motorcycle. She’d seen plenty of those during the War. The messengers were usually young and foolish--teenagers mostly--willing to go anywhere, under any circumstances because they all thought they were invincible. They never questioned any orders they were given. She’d seen plenty of motor messengers in the wards with missing arms and legs, shattered bodies as well as shattered minds.

Not as invincible as they thought, were they?

A good, dependable machine, all the same, she thought stepping onto the running board while holding on to the edge of the windscreen. She stepped down, making a quick adjustment to her skirt before looking around to see if anyone was watching. It was just like her to do something in public and not think about the consequences until later she could hear her mother's voice in the back of her mind. She’d gotten herself into more trouble that way. She looked up at the sky, deciding the threat of rain was no more than that—a threat—and picking her purse up off the front seat proceeded across the wide street. If it did rain, she’d come out and pull the canopy up, hopefully before everything got too wet.

The Chumley Grove Constabulary was part of a nondescript box-shaped building five stories tall. She looked at it closely as she crossed the street. The height of the building made it one of the taller buildings on the block. It was the most modern building on the street, and she wondered if that was supposed to represent a step in the right direction? The forward thinking everyone was always talking about? As well as the local Constabulary, it also housed the City Manager, and the Assistant City Manager; the City Attorney, and the Financial Officer.

It served as more than just the local Constabulary and City Hall, it also served as the post office. Made of red and yellow bricks with narrow windows, she could see barred windows on the basement and ground floors, wondering if that was where the jail was located. It looked as if it might hold out against a siege should Civil War suddenly erupt. She pulled the door open. There was an antiseptic odour of bleach filling the entryway. A short three steps led to another set of doors and a stairway facing her as if it was a deterrent.

Never scoff at the idea of Civil war, her father told her recently, one had only to look at everything happening in Russia to see that. England had seen its fair share of wars. Civil Wars; insurrections, and rebellion.

And he was right, she realized. The last war was supposed to end the threat of war for at least two generations, but it hadn't, had it? Once everyone realized the treaty they’d spent all that time hammering out was nothing but a means by which the other Nations might punish Germany--or that Germany would falter and probably collapse under the weight of so much financial hardship--Germany would be ripe for proper plunder.

The people won't stand for it, she thought with a slow shake of her head. Does he really think anyone'll want to fight another war like the last one?

A placard at the bottom of the stairwell told her the Constabulary was located on the top floor, which made no sense. There was a lift, but she preferred using the stairs. Seventeen steps—she counted them—a turn and a small landing which led to the Land Office, another set of doors and then another dozen steps. Counting stairs was a habit she’d carried out of her childhood. She knew there had to be a medical name for it, but at the moment it didn’t matter. She could hear her heels clicking against the marble stairs, echoing through the narrow stairwell, and thought it must be a horrendous climb if you were bringing a drunken prisoner up the stairs, hoping to process him. There were posters that had been tacked to the walls in places, and she wondered if they’d been placed there to cover the chipped, or scratched walls. It wouldn’t be the first time, she told herself. That was how the Station House at Okehampton resolved the issue of whether or not to repaint.

She pushed through the double doors at the top of the stairs and paused. She could hear two voices at the end of the corridor, not so much raised in argument, but definitely loud enough to be heard. There was the sound of a typewriter in the distance, and a telephone ringing.

Well, at least it’s not empty, she told herself, but still decided to wait.

“I don’t give a fuck what Okehampton told you, Charlie,” the one voice was saying. “I didn’t tell you to fuckin' call them, did I?”

“You fuckin' did,” the other man—Charlie—replied. He sounded bored by the whole thing.

“For fuck's sake, man. Are ye fuckin' daft? I didn’t mean for you to call them direct! Jesus Fuckin' Christ, Charlie. You have to go through proper channels. Going through Okehampton isn’t going through the proper fuckin' channels, is it?”

“Who did you want me to call?”

“Don’t you think Exeter would’ve been a good place to start? Rose?" he called out in a louder voice. "Exeter? Isn’t that going through proper fuckin' channels?”

“Don’t get me involved,” a woman’s voice called from the other side of the room. “I’m not the one wanting to run around and play Sherlock Holmes.”

“Nige? What Fuckin' difference does it make?” Charlie asked. “Exeter rings up Okehampton and tells them to send some dumb-fuck dickwad out; which is exactly what they’re doing. I’m not fuckin' giving up my investigation, Charlie.”

“Your investigation?” Charlie laughed. “You’ve got a thief who can climb a wall like a fuckin' bug. He robs a house, beats a man, and steals a horse to make his get away. Who steals a fuckin' horse? He does know we can just follow it home, right? I hardly think Home Office is going to send out the Chief fuckin' Inspector, do you?”

“I didn’t want you to ask them to send us an investigator. I told you, we might need help with the investigation. That’s not the same fuckin' thing!”

“What difference does it make? You’re going to need help on this, Nigel. You haven't got a fuckin' clue. And who's going to believe that you're the lead investigator? You're not even twenty-five. People don't want to see a pretty boy leading up an investigation. The want older, they want them to look fuckin' mature. So now they’re sending help out whether you want it or not.”

“And what does someone living in Exeter know about Chumley Grove? Or Okehampton, for that matter? Nothing! That’s what. All they know about the place is that most of it’s owned by a railroad tycoon—that’s the right word isn’t it, Rose? That’s what the Americans call someone like that, isn’t it? What was his name? That Standard Oil fellow?”

“How the fuck would she know what they call it in America? She’s never been there. It’s a good thing they’re sending someone from Okehampton,” Charlie laughed.

“Look, I went through that place last night, and I want to go back and see what I can see with the daylight. I’m bound to have missed something in the dark, but I don’t want to have to explain things. Like this hankie,” he said, lifting up a small paper bag Sonia could see him holding up as she rounded the corner.

“It’s only obvious what it is—”

He stopped talking as soon as he saw Sonia; Charlie looked up as her slender figure blocked the light; Rose stopped typing.

There were three other desks, all of them unoccupied at the moment, and four offices that she could see. Rose, sitting under a cloud of cigarette smoke at a corner desk, looked up briefly, smiled, and continued typing.

The older of the two looked at her, taking in the uniform—the hat, skirt, shoes—and then looked over at the younger man standing in front of his desk. Suddenly everything she'd overheard made sense. He's a very pretty boy, she decided, and turned to look at the man she suspected was Charlie.

“ ‘Allo, miss,” he said with a forced smile as he shifted uncomfortably on his seat. “Come here from Home Office, have you? Sent out to help with the investigation, are you? Well now, Nigel, how’s that for you?" he said, looking up at the youth. "They’ve sent you your help,” the man said, with an undeniable note of sarcasm.

“Are you from Exeter?” The man who was obviously Nigel asked. He was looking her up and down from head to toe, and being obvious about it; too obvious, she thought. She was used to that look from men, though. She knew she was attractive, and quite often used it to her advantage. It was one of the reasons she’d made certain her uniform was clean and pressed. She wouldn't let herself be caught up on any infraction. Her hair was always done up in regulation style, and what little make-up she wore, wasn't obvious. One little thing was sometimes all it took.

“I’m in from Okehampton,” she said with a note of confidence. “Special Constable, Sonia Nazar.”

“Nazar? What kind of name is that?” Charlie asked, laughing at what he thought was his quick wit.

“It’s Arabic. Persian. It means sight, or perhaps surveillance? Or maybe it's attention, or other related concepts?” she said with a forced smile. She opened her tunic and the top button of her blouse, pulling out a small necklace, the pendant shaped like an eye. She held it out for him to see in the soft light of the room.

“What’s that supposed to be?” Charlie asked, looking at it.

“Lapis lazuli. It's a stone,” she said, dropping it back into her blouse and doing the button of her tunic up again. “It’s supposed to protect one against the evil eye. It looks like it doesn’t work, does it? But Hindi, Urdu, Pashto, Bengali, Kurdish, Persian, Punjabi, Turkish and any other language you can think of, they all use the term.”

“What term?” Charlie asked

“In Turkey, it’s called nazar boncuğu—”

“Enough!” Charlie said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m sorry I asked. I didn’t mean to imply that you were a Commie, or something like that, when you’re so obviously a wog.”

“A wog?” she asked.

“Never mind, Charlie,” the woman behind the desk said, picking up her cigarette from the overstuffed ashtray. She blew the ashes off it, and then added a cloud of smoke into the air. “He’s a simpleton when it comes to women, aren't you Charlie? Thinks all he has to do is stick his little wick in ‘em, after that, they give him a kid and that’s all there is to it. Real simple. Doesn’t really know how to talk to one though, do you Charlie? Well, that's what his wife says behind his back.”

“Fuck off, Rose.”

“All that talk, eh Nigel? And they couldn’t even be bothered to send you a Sergeant,” she smiled, looking over at Charlie. “You're still the senior officer, Charlie. Obviously you’re not interested in taking over Nigel’s investigation, are you? And what about you, Miss? Nigel outranks you,” she added, pulling the paper out of the typewriter and walking to a large filing cabinet across the room. There was another ashtray on top of the cabinet where she butted her ashes, blowing at the little bit that spilled over. "Of course, if you've written your exams and the decision is pending, that would mean when you get your results, you'll outrank both o them."

“Did you really think they’d send an investigator over to look into a horse thief?” Sonia smiled. “I’m as good as it gets,” she added.

"Pending," Rose reminded her.

"Pending."

“Have you ever investigated a crime before?” Charlie asked.

“Have you ever had one?” she responded.

“Oh, I like her,” Rose laughed.

“This isn’t something to be trifled with, is it?” Charlie said quickly. “Tell me then,” he snatched the bag Nigel was still holding and tossed it at her. “What do you make of that?”

Sonia opened the bag and looked at the hankie inside. She smelled it and looked at Charlie who was beaming at her.

“Like that do you?” he asked.

“It's dry semen,” she said matter of factly. “And if you think you can shock me, or embarrass me with that, that’s not about to happen, is it? I was a Nurse in France. There isn’t much I haven’t seen.”

“Ha!” Rose called out as she sat down and rolled another three sheets of paper into the typewriter.

“You were in France?” Nigel asked, a slight tilt to his head.

“You mean, you were one of the Sisters?” Charlie said, not sounding as much of a question as it did a statement.

“Again,” Rose said with a smile. “That’s Charlie. You’ll get used to him,” she added.

“Do I have to?” Sonia smiled.

“She means she was a nurse, Charlie,” Rose replied.

Charlie shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“All right then,” Nigel said with a laugh. “Perhaps we should ride out to Bedloe?”

“Ride?” Sonia asked. “I take it that motorcycle out there is yours? The little Austen's yours, then?” she asked, turning to look at Charlie.

“I didn’t mean that you should ride on the motorcycle with me. That would hardly be proper, now then, would it?”

“No, it wouldn't would it? Perhaps it's good that I have a proper Bentley,” she smiled.

“A Bentley?”

“A coupe,” she added.

*

Sonia followed Nigel around the circular driveway, looking at the front entrance of Bedloe Manor. The masonry was trimmed with a light cream coloured brickwork, the building itself was brownstone; there were hedgerows and garden-beds running along the length of the foundation, as well as manicured walking paths that would have done any groundskeeper proud.

It had been a quick drive out, and she'd watched carefully as Nigel negotiated the potholes and larger puddles on the road with the ease and comfort of a practiced rider. It seemed obvious to her that he was more than capable. Because of his lead, she was able to avoid the bigger holes—still feeling the jarring jolts of the smaller potholes she was unable to avoid—most of them hidden under pond-sized puddles spanning the width of the lane in places. The spray sent up by the Bentley was a cascade of brackish water she was certain was coating the sides of the automobile—almost as if someone had thrown a can of paint at the machine.

I’ll wash it on the weekend, she told herself as she turned the key and shut off the engine. She sat back and took in the size and grandeur of the place, while Nigel hiked the Triumph up. As Nigel took his goggles off he smiled a mud smeared grin. She’d seen Manor houses before, driving through the countryside, but only from a distance. She’d never been up close to one before. It was an impressive sight, she had to admit. Her father would’ve appreciated the grandeur of it all. The gables and columns. The sharp edges and angles—what was the proper name for that, she wondered? She knew there had to be a proper name for it, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember what it was called. There were large masonry bricks with even faces and square edges leading to oversized windows and balconies.

There must be a hundred rooms in there.

The door opened and a Butler appeared on the stairs; he quickly ran out to meet them.

“Detective,” he said, looking at Sonia as he crossed the drive. “I was not expecting you today. Today’s not a good day,” he added gently.

“Mr. Berry,” Nigel said, dropping his goggles on the motorcycle's seat and at the same time removing his long riding coat. “I told you, I’m not a detective,” he added with a laugh.

“Constable,” he corrected himself with a slight nod of his head. “You said nothing last night of coming back. We’re in the process of preparing for tonight’s costume Ball.”

"I thought the Ball was being hosted elsewhere?" Sonia said.

“We’ll try not to get in the way,” Nigel said, quickly. “But I wanted to look at last night's evidence before it gets washed away with another rainfall,” he added.

“Evidence? What evidence would that be?”

“The physical evidence, my good man? Like footprints, perhaps? If we could see the stables, or wherever the horse was taken from--maybe talk to someone? Follow the horse. Shouldn't be that difficult with all this rain.”

“You mean hoofprints?”

“Perhaps we can find the tracks and they'll lead us in a general direction?”

“Do you mean to track the horse? Like an American cowboy?”

“I don't think it’s the cowboys that did that, but it's not unlikely with the ground being as wet as it is,” Sonia said sensibly.

Mr. Berry looked at her.

“I’m sorry,” Nigel said quickly. “This is Sonia.”

“Sonia?” Mr. Berry asked, with a tilt of his head. It was obvious to her he was confused by the introduction. She wondered why men didn’t think it was necessary to introduce her properly.

“Special Constable, Sonia Nazar. I’m in from Okehampton to assist in whatever capacity I might.”

“A detective then?”

“Not officially,” Sonia smiled. "It's in front of the Review Board, pending I think the word is."

“So neither one of you are detectives?”

“That doesn’t mean we’re not capable of recognizing evidence when we come across it,” Nigel was quick to say.

“And you want to see the stables?” Mr. Berry asked. He sounded somewhat doubtful.

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Sonia was quick to say, smiling, reminding herself that's what men expect from a woman—any woman. It never hurts to give them what they want, her father told her—well, to some degree, she told herself.

One does have to know where to draw the line—as if I ever knew where the line actually was.

“Perhaps you’d like to clean up, detective?” Mr. Berry asked, looking at Nigel.

“If it’s no trouble?”

“We'll go in through the kitchen. It’s around the back, if you remember? It may be a bit chaotic at the moment, but I’m sure the cook will find you a spot to use at the sink to wash some of that mud off yourself,” he added, directing them to the back of the house.

As they walked, Sonia looked up at the high walls of the Manor. Many of the windows on the top floor were open, the lace curtains flowing gently in the breeze, and she marvelled that a man could scale such heights unaided, and in the dark.

“And you say the man climbed up the walls unaided? Without a rope?” she said, shaking her head in wonder. "In the dark?"

“Yes,” Nigel said, looking up at the sheer walls. “Quite the daunting task if you ask me.”

“How'd he do it?”

“With a lot of daring, if I may say so, Miss Nazar,” Mr. Berry smiled.

“But how would he get from the one landing to the other? There are no visible handholds I can see.”

“He jumped,” Nigel said. “I’ve seen it before.”

“Jumped? But that must be six feet, if not more.”

“It’s what the witness claims he did.”

“Ah yes, the witness,” she said gently.

The kitchen was in state of chaos. There were maids and Footmen, servants and scullery maids, three cooks in total with the head cook, who seemed to be the only one who knew what was going on and who was doing what. Sonia was amazed at the size of the place. It was larger than her two bedroom flat in Okehampton. The heavy cast iron stove was larger than her kitchen table. There was the scent of fresh bread—a heady perfume that reminded her of her childhood—the sound and smell of sizzling bacon, as well as onions—forty individual meat pies prepared and waiting to be put in the oven.

“You said there’s a Ball tonight?” Sonia asked Mr. Berry as Nigel scrubbed himself clean in a large washtub.

“It's not here, but yes. We have one every year after the Fair; in celebration of the Hunter’s Moon. It's a local celebration that's become something of a tradition.”

“The Hunter’s Moon?”

“Tell me that you’ve heard of it?”

“I have. I never knew there was a costume Ball celebrating it, that's all. I must have misplaced my invitation.”

Mr. Berry laughed. “Like I said, it’s a tradition, and around these parts, the Manor houses like to keep up with their traditions.”

“So they all have a Ball?”

“They do. But there's only one Costume Ball, and it's quite special. The Lord Protector's Ball, they call it. It's hosted by a different House each year. This year's will be hosted by Prince Igor.”

“Prince Igor?” Nigel asked, turning as he rubbed himself dry with a small rag. He'd dropped his braces and taken off his shirt so that he was standing with his undershirt. Again she thought, he's a pretty boy.

“I don’t really know him by any other name," Mr. Berry confessed. "I'm sorry. He’s a Russian. Some say he’s a real Prince, but no. He was here long before the War, and if he was a prince of anything it would be Capitol. People are also saying his family lost everything in the Revolution. If that's true, it's only a matter of time before he'll be forced to leave. Who can say what’s what about anything going on out there?”

He looked at Nigel, wiping his hands on a small rag.

“Well, all done then, sir?”

“Take me to the stables,” Nigel said with a grin.

The sun was bright in a clear blue sky when they came out of the kitchen. Sonia had to hold her hand over her eyes, and thought it was a small price to pay if they wanted to have clear skies for the day. A light breeze from the North whispered a lonely song through the trees, the only sound to accompany it, the sound of distant birds.

Richard the StableMaster was also the Blacksmith. He stood almost a head taller than both Nigel and herself, Sonia noted; his thick, tattooed arms looked bigger than Nigel’s thighs. His face, what little was seen under the large beard he had, appeared ruddy; his nose, what her father called a Drinker’s Nose, was red and swollen. He dropped a horseshoe into a bucket of water as they approached—a hissing plume of steam enveloping his bearded face—and as the three of them approached he stood silent, wiping his forehead with a dirty rag he took out of his back pocket.

He dropped the shoe onto a small pile and its sweet note sang out a true melody as he stepped out of the smithy and leaned against the rails. He turned, facing a small, enclosed paddock, watching a young stablehand with a long lead letting a young colt run the circuit. The horse was kicking and whinnying, and the boy let out more rope. Richard wiped his hands on the rag he was holding before stuffing it in his back pocket and turned to face his visitors.

“She’s beautiful,” Sonia said as they approached.

“That she is,” Richard said. “But she’s wanting her momma’s teat. And what brings you out here, Murray, me lad?” he grinned.

“Richard, these Constables would like a word with you concerning the horse that was taken last night.”

“Isobelle,” the man said with a slow nod.

“Isobelle?” Sonia echoed.

“Lady Jenny’s horse,” he smiled. “Her father bought her for her fifteenth birthday as I remember. Isn’t that right, Murray?”

“Uhm, yes. I believe that’s correct.”

Richard laughed.

“You do, do you?”

“What would you have me say?” Mr. Berry said quickly. “See here, Richard, I have to attend to my duties in the big house. Do be kind enough to show them about, let them see what they wish? And when they're done, perhaps you might direct them back to the house, would you?”

He watched as Mr. Berry walked back to the house after excusing himself.

“Ah, Feast Week,” Richard laughed. "It's the arrogant little shit's time to shine one would think with the way he walks about lording it over everyone."

“Feast Week?” Sonia asked.

“That’s what we call it. It starts with the Fair. Every weekend after that—leading up to Christmas—every house holds a major Ball. Tonight's is supposed to be the first of the season, as they like to call it. Imagine that? Having a season of Balls and celebrations just because you can,” he said with a slow shake of his head, taking the heavy leather apron off he was wearing.

“You don’t approve?” Nigel asked, stuffing his pipe.

“It does little to interfere with my day out here,” he smiled. “I make certain the horses are fed and ready to go out in case someone needs a horse, or cab. But people are more likely to bring their own automobiles now. Riding's more for pleasure these days, than it is necessity.”

“And you have automobiles on site here?” Nigel asked, bringing his pipe to life.

“We do. Five of them.”

“Then why did he take the horse?” Sonia asked, sounding as if the question was something more of a curiosity.

“It does seem strange,” Richard agreed.

“Were there any automobiles here? I mean, if they used them to drive out to the Fair?”

“There were still three left behind,” Richard pointed out.

“And the keys?” Sonia asked.

“On a hook tacked to the wall,” he nodded.

“Again...why take a horse?” Nigel asked.

“The roads up in the hills ain’t much good, and worse still in the night when you can’t see but for the moonlight.”

“You mean he took it for practical reasons?” Sonia smiled.

“That’s what I’d do; it’s easier to go overland than it is to use the muddy lanes.”

“If he went overland, we should be able to follow the hoof prints then?” Nigel said, looking down at the slick mud of the yard.

“Shouldn’t be too hard to follow.”

“Wouldn’t there be other hoof prints out in the fields? I mean, I don’t know if I’m right, but don’t people in the country quite often go out for a ride?” Sonia asked.

“That they do. But it shouldn’t be too much trouble sorting out who belongs to what when it comes to this weather.”

“And why’s that?” Nigel asked.

“I put a knick on all my shoes.”

“A knick?”

“We sometimes let the horses run free. It’s not intentional, mind you,” he said with a grin. “But there are times when someone’s out riding, and, well, to put it delicately like Mr. Berry would have me say, they have to answer the call of nature.”

Nigel laughed, which only seemed to encourage the man.

“They don’t properly tie the horse up, on account of them being in such a damned rush with it all. Oh, not the women,” he said, looking at Sonia. “No proper woman would ever let herself be caught like that.”

“Just the men?” she smiled. Having gone through the war, she knew to what extents men would go when it came to relieving themselves.

“And so the horses wander off?” Nigel smiled.

“And so the horses wander off,” he agreed.

“But you came up with a solution?” Sonia said. It wasn’t so much a question as it was a statement of the obvious; why else bring it up, she thought?

“I did.”

“Are you going to tell us?” Nigel asked.

“Can’t a man gloat for a moment?”

“Of course,” Sonia laughed.

“I put a notch on the horseshoes.”

“A notch?” she said.

“Like this,” and he walked to the pile, picking up the horseshoe he’d been working on. He turned it over and they both leaned in closer, seeing the notch, which was about the width of a nail.

“And that leaves a mark on the ground?”

“See for yourself,” he said, and guided them around the corner of the smithy where they could see hoof prints in the mud, as well as the obvious notch.

“And you could follow those prints up into the hills?”

“Myself? I'd just wait until the horse shows up.”

“Why do you think that would happen?”

“Because there’s a man riding in over the hills with it right now,” he laughed, pointing behind them. Sonia turned and saw a man coming in over the hill at a lazy pace. It was difficult to see who he was, but from the way he sat on the horse, she could see he was familiar with the animal.

*

“He can’t possibly have stolen the horse,” Sonia said, looking at the man approaching.

“Why do you think that?” Richard asked.

“What man would be stupid enough to bring it back?”

“A good point,” the man agreed, and laughing with a quick nod, looked at the stablehand in the paddock. The colt was starting to kick up a fuss and the boy looked confused. In a moment he pulled in the lead, taking control of the animal. Richard smiled.

“Besides, the man knows how to ride.”

“Which means what? What’s that have to do with anything?” Nigel asked, stuffing his pipe again.

“A man that’s that comfortable on a horse, obviously grew up near horses,” Sonia said softly.

“That’s what you think, is it? And that means he should be our suspect?”

“I didn't say that. But look at the way he’s dressed,” she added.

“The way he’s dressed? What about the way he’s dressed?” Nigel laughed.

“He’s wearing riding pants, and boots as well. He's come in at an easy trot, because he's not splattered with mud. He looks like he might be coming here to join the famiy for lunch.”

“And you think the man grew up with horses?” Nigel scoffed.

“No. But it makes me think he comes from money,” she said, looking at him—daring him to offer up an argument. “Only people who live in places like this have horses. You don’t have one, do you?”

“He could be a farmer for all you know,” Nigel insisted.

“He could be, but I doubt it,” she said.

The man didn’t appear to be in any kind of a hurry, and she turned, startled, when Richard called out to the stablehand.

“Aye, Toby, take care of Isabelle when she comes in. Give her a brushing and a good rub down along with her oats,” he added. “Take Rodney inside and give him off to one of the grooms.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Wilson,” the boy said, sounding grateful.

The man spurred the horse, and the gentle trot he was riding became a practiced canter. When he reached the stables he pulled up on the reins, and sitting casually in the saddle looked down at the three of them with what could only be called an inviting smile. Sonia sized the man up immediately, from the knee high riding boots he was wearing, to the wool pants he had tucked into them, and the soft cotton peasant’s shirt and vest he wore. His hair was long, dark, and unkempt—as if he’d stepped out of a different century, she thought—his eyes equally as dark, and his smile quite dazzling with its bright, even teeth. He was unshaven, and though he looked youthful, she could see there was something in his eyes—a hardness that told her he was a man who'd seen pain and hardship.

A handsome man, she told herself, but probably flawed in some way or another.

It seemed that all the men she’d met since Gerald’s death were flawed in some respect. She wondered if it could all be blamed on the War, or if it was as simple as the generation itself.

We had to fight our fathers’ wars.

“Reggie tells me this horse belongs to you,” the man smiled, looking down at Sonia.

“That’s kind of you, but no,” she smiled back, looking at Richard.

“Reggie?” Richard asked. “O’Dowd? He sent you?”

“We were going into Chumley Grove to pick up baking needs for Claire, when we came across her tied to a tree--the horse, not Claire,” the man laughed.

“And where would that have been?” Nigel asked. “Constable Bannister,” he said, lighting his pipe. “This is Special Constable Nazar.”

“Special, is she?” the man laughed. “I won’t argue with you about that, Mate,” he added. “Oh, Artemus Spencer,” he was quick to say.

“Where was that you said you found her, Mr. Spencer?”

“Tied to an old burned out tree. Oh, it had this tacked on to the saddle here,” he added, pulling a battered playing card out of his pocket.

It was the Jack of Diamonds.

“What’s that supposed to be?” Richard asked.

Artie looked at it as he handed it down to Nigel.

“A playing card?” he offered.

“What do you suppose it means?” Nigel asked.

“Couldn’t tell you.”

“It’s too bad you didn’t leave it tacked to the saddle.”

“And why’s that?” Artie asked.

“We might’ve got some prints from it.”

“Prints? Oh! You mean finger prints! They can do that?” Artie asked.

“Why exactly are you here, Mr. Spencer?” Sonia asked.

“Reggie told me they’d probably offer a reward for the horse. Thought maybe I could spring for lunch...Although, I’m thinking this one didn’t run away as much as she was taken.”

“Oh?” Sonia smiled. “And why do you think that?”

He leaned forward on the saddle and looked her directly in the eyes. “Then why the fuck else would you two be here?”

“Do you know where this tree is he’s talking about?” Nigel asked Richard. Anything to avoid a confrontation with a man who had an easy thirty pounds on him. He looked at Sonia briefly, but she looked to be concentrating on Spencer.

“That'll be the one at the property line. It was hit by lightning some years ago, split it right in half, but it's still growing.”

“That’s the one,” Artie laughed, jumping down from the saddle and giving the reins to the young stable hand when he came back out.

Sonia looked down at the soft mud in the yard, noticing the nicked hoof print.

“Could you take us out to that tree?” she asked, turning to look at Richard.

“Why would you want to go out there?” he asked.

“He may have left a clue.”

“Can we go up in that fancy car of yours?” Richard smiled.

“I thought you said it was easier to go overland than use the muddy track?” Sonia reminded him.

“It is. But you have a Bentley.”

“I do, indeed,” she laughed.

“How does a girl like you afford a Bentley?”Artie asked.

“I suppose it helps to have a rich father,” she smiled.

“Indeed it does,” Richard laughed.

“Would you like me to come?” Artie asked.

Sonia looked at Nigel who shook his head, and then smiled at Artie in turn.

“This is an ongoing investigation,” she offered in explanation.

“It is? But the horse wasn’t stolen, was it?” Artie laughed.

“What do you mean?”

“It never left the property. The man said the tree was considered the property line, so technically, it wasn’t stolen, was it?”

“I suppose it wasn’t,” Nigel agreed.

“That argument would almost work if not for last night’s robbery,” Sonia said, making her way to the front of the Manor.

“What robbery is that?” Artie asked.

“The one where the thief left a similar calling card,” Richard grinned.