A Racing Murder (The Ham Hill Murder Mysteries) Read online

  A Racing Murder

  Frances Evesham

  For Ed and Marina, Pete and Wendy, Ron and Sheila, our racing buddies.

  Contents

  Map of Lower Hembrow

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Acknowledgments

  More from Frances Evesham

  Also by Frances Evesham

  About the Author

  About Boldwood Books

  Map of Lower Hembrow

  1

  Couch to Five

  Imogen Bishop squinted at the sky. Those black clouds looked about ready to burst, but if Harley, her faithful canine companion for the past year, didn’t get his walk right now, he was going to complain all day.

  One pleading look from the friendly brown mutt’s enormous eyes could persuade the most hard-hearted of Imogen’s guests to scratch behind his ears, rub his stomach or even – although The Streamside Hotel’s rules forbade the practice – sneak him a mouthful of bacon from breakfast. As a result, he was developing quite a tummy. Imogen fought the tendency with more and longer walks, pleading notices in the hotel foyer, and instructions to her hotel staff to police Harley’s diet.

  This morning, she’d been tempted to let him exercise within the hotel grounds. It was a race day at nearby Wincanton Racecourse and the hotel was full to bursting with racegoers in khaki tweeds, poring over the Racing Post, arguing over promising newcomers and planning bets, so she had plenty to do.

  But Harley needed his walk around the village at least twice a day, so Imogen gave in. The early-morning February wind had, in a spirit of adventure, morphed from the mild south-westerly of the past few days to a chilly north-easterly, so she marched more briskly than usual down the lane that ran at right angles from Lower Hembrow’s single paved road, Harley by her side.

  She longed for better weather, so she could walk Harley up Ham Hill. It rose, temptingly, above the village, only a ten-minute walk away, but the slope from the village was steep and she’d no intention of climbing up to the country park in this wind.

  Harley trotted quietly, close to Imogen. After several months of hard work, she’d finally trained him not to pull on the lead, so his sudden bound forward took her by surprise. ‘Hey, slow down, Harley. Heel.’ She took a tighter grip on the lead, turned a sharp corner in the lane, and stopped dead. She was just in time to avoid cannoning into a short, bald man in horn-rimmed spectacles. Dressed in brand-new running gear that strained over a sizable paunch, he swerved to avoid her, skidded to a halt and doubled over, wheezing, his round face damp and bright red.

  Tail wagging furiously, Harley pounced.

  ‘Get down, you daft ha’porth,’ the man gasped.

  Harley dropped back onto all fours, leaving two muddy pawprints on the man’s sweatshirt. Imogen’s lips twitched.

  ‘When I’ve got my breath back,’ panted Adam Hennessy, Imogen’s friend and the owner of The Plough Inn, Lower Hembrow’s public house, ‘I’ll have something to say about Harley’s manners.’

  ‘You’re the only one he ever jumps on. You know he adores you –he chose you when he was a stray and wandered into Lower Hembrow. He’s happy at the hotel, but he misses you and gets over-excited when you appear. He’s perfectly behaved the rest of the time. Well, almost…’ Imogen’s voice tailed away. There’d been an unfortunate cushion-chewing incident last week.

  Adam’s breathing now back to normal, he pulled off his glasses and polished them on his top. ‘I’ll forgive him for trying to bowl me over if you promise not to tell anyone you saw me running. As a pub landlord, I have a reputation to uphold.’

  Imogen considered this. ‘I didn’t exactly see you running,’ she pointed out. ‘You appeared round the corner, skidded a bit and stopped, but I’ll take your word for it. Are you sure you’re not overdoing it? You look shattered.’

  ‘Nonsense. I’m fitter than you think.’ Adam squared his shoulders. ‘Don’t forget I used to be a police officer. I’ll have you know I’ve passed a few fitness tests in my time.’

  She contemplated his stomach. ‘Recently?’

  He chuckled. ‘Not for years.’

  ‘Well, don’t kill yourself.’ Imogen looked him up and down. ‘Why the sudden rush to get fit? Oh—’ A sudden light flashed on in her brain and she fell silent. They were good friends, she and Adam, but there were some boundaries they hadn’t yet crossed.

  She eyed the new kit. Was this sudden desire to get trim anything to do with Adam’s interest in Imogen’s friend, Steph Aldred?

  ‘Take it easy, won’t you? We’d all rather have you in one piece than on a slab at the mortuary after a heart attack.’

  He opened his mouth but before he could speak she grasped the nettle and said, ‘By “we”, I mean everyone who cares about you, including Steph.’

  Adam looked away, narrowed his eyes and tapped his Smartwatch briskly ‘Actually, I’ve been running for a while now. I’m doing Couch to 5K. It’s a nine-week programme.’

  So, he wasn’t yet ready to talk about Steph. She’d let it go for now. ‘I’ve heard of the programme, but I haven’t seen you running before.’

  ‘I try to avoid sightings. Hence the early hour and the back lane.’

  ‘How many more weeks do you have to go?’

  ‘Eight and a bit.’

  ‘Out of nine? Nearly there, then,’ she spluttered.

  Harley, eager for exercise, pulled on the lead and they all walked on together.

  ‘We’re on our way to the shop,’ Imogen said. ‘It’ll be open now and I want a loaf of bread before it all goes.’

  ‘Don’t you have bread at the hotel?’ Adam raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Wyatt’s already baked ours for lunch.’

  Imogen grinned. ‘Nice one-upmanship. Gerald, our snooty chef, bakes every morning. He prides himself on his rolls and the guests love them but I want a loaf of lovely, unhealthy, sliced white bread for my toast – just for a change.’

  ‘Wyatt would agree. He complains he can’t get Texas Toast here. Apparently it comes in a special packet and it’s extra thick.’

  Imogen groaned and kissed her fingers. ‘That would be perfect. Unfortunately, I don’t think Mrs Topsham sells anything so exotic in the village shop. Warburtons Toastie would be the nearest thing.’

  Adam turned back. ‘I’ll give the shop a miss today. I’m improperly dressed for shopping and just a bit sweaty. Also, it’s starting to rain.’ He raised his hand. ‘See you later.’

  As Imogen pushed the shop door, its bell rang cheerfully. She stepped inside. Jenny Trevillian from the nearby farm turned, nodded and went back to her shopping list. Edwina Topsham, perched on a stool behind the counter, leaned on one elbow, her ample chest engulfing half the worktop where her ‘Present from Llandudno’ mug of strong brown tea balanced precariously on a roll of
toilet paper. She beamed at Imogen over cans of beans, packets of rice and bottles of sunflower oil.

  Alfie, the Saturday boy, stopped stacking boxes of apples and grinned. ‘Where’s Harley?

  ‘I tied him up outside. There’s not much room in here…’

  Edwina eased herself around the counter. ‘Nonsense,’ she cried. ‘Bring him in, m’dear. We can’t leave the poor chap outside, can we? Not in the rain.’ She bustled across to fling open the door, unhook Harley’s lead and usher him inside. ‘And you, Alfie Croft, can stop gawping and start fronting up those cans if you’ve finished with the fruit.’

  Harley accepted Edwina’s enthusiastic hug with no more than a resigned glance at Imogen. At last, Edwina struggled to her feet. ‘Now, what can we do for you, Mrs Bishop? Running out of supplies, are you, what with all these foreigners up at your place?’

  To Edwina, all visitors from outside South Somerset were ‘foreigners.’ In fact, the description covered anyone who’d been resident in Lower Hembrow for fewer than twenty years.

  Imogen had inherited her late father’s hotel a little over twelve months ago but she wasn’t a total incomer. She’d lived at The Streamside Hotel as a teenager when her father first bought it.

  Alfie’s eyes slid to Harley then back to Edwina. Imogen took pity on him. ‘Harley needs dog biscuits.’ She reached for a box from the nearest shelf and shook it. Harley’s ears pricked.

  She handed the box to Alfie. ‘Will you give him a couple? Not too many, mind.’ She brushed raindrops from her coat and shivered. ‘You’re right, Mrs Topsham. The hotel’s full this weekend. It’s not the best weather for racing, though.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ Edwina returned to the counter. ‘Soft going, they call it. It suits some of the horses better than others. Take Butterfly Charm, from Leo Murphy’s yard up the road near Misterton. She’s running today and she likes a bit of give in the ground. Leo’s offered young Belinda Sandford her first professional ride on the mare.’

  Alfie piped up, ‘My dad says she don’t stand a chance. No stamina in that ‘oss, he says. Can’t stay the pace. Needs a jockey with the guts to use the whip on the final straight, not some girl.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Jenny Trevillian thrust her shopping list in her pocket, juggled a variety of cereal boxes and frowned at Alfie. ‘Young Belinda knows what she’s doing. Butterfly’s only a four-year-old and she needs encouragement, not punishment. You bring a young animal on with kindness. That’s my opinion.’ She dumped the boxes on the counter with her other purchases.

  Alfie grunted. Jenny Trevillian’s word on upbringing was pretty much law in the village. With her husband, Joe, she ran the nearby mixed farm, rearing cattle, sheep, pigs and six noisy children with equal fearsome efficiency.

  ‘In any case,’ Edwina agreed, ‘the final furlong at Wincanton slopes downwards and the drainage is good. It’s a perfect ride for Belinda. She’s the most promising apprentice in Leo Murphy’s yard, you know, and a local girl, at that. Lower Hembrow, born and bred.’ She glowed with pride. ‘All her mother’s family lived here.’

  Imogen was nursing a precious piece of gossip. Now, she savoured her moment of triumph. ‘Belinda and her mother are staying at the hotel this weekend.’

  Three sets of eyes turned her way. ‘In fact,’ she continued, ‘we have several members of Butterfly Charm’s syndicate dining with us. They’re very excited, especially Belinda’s mother, Diane, of course.’

  Jenny Trevillian beamed, smugly. ‘I was at school with Diane Webber. Of course, she’s a Sandford, now. Maybe I can catch up with her while she’s here.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Secretly, Imogen wondered if that would be wise. Reunions could be horrendous, rekindling all sorts of ancient jealousies and grievances. When Imogen’s husband and father had died within weeks of each other, turning her world upside down, she’d met many old school friends for the first time in years. Those encounters had thrown her life into turmoil for months.

  Still, at least she’d met Steph and Dan again. Her heart flipped over at the thought of Daniel Freeman. It was ridiculous at her age, turning fifty, just as she’d decided romance was over, to be as excited as an eighteen-year-old. She felt a hot blush creeping across her cheeks and quickly bent over, fiddling with Harley’s collar to hide her face. No need to give the village grapevine more fertiliser.

  2

  Racecourse

  That afternoon, the rain stopped and a watery sun shone over the gathered crowds at Wincanton Racecourse.

  Diane Sandford’s stomach clenched with nerves. Her maternal fears never left her. They’d first appeared when she watched Belinda, as a toddler, struggle up a rope ladder on the climbing frame in the park. The terrors flourished when Belinda moved on to her first bike, and almost overwhelmed Diane as her daughter played rugby, swung a hockey stick and rode her first Shetland pony.

  But no fear could scramble Diane’s stomach more than the thought of Belinda riding the sleek, excitable, head-tossing racehorse, Butterfly Charm, in today’s steeplechase.

  Her smile stitched firmly in place, Diane wished Rupert, her late husband, were here to experience the agony and pride of watching their daughter in her first professional race. Rupert had encouraged Belinda’s love of racing. Diane had never liked horses – they were far too big and strong, with potentially deadly hooves – but nevertheless she’d kept her share in the horse’s ownership syndicate even after her husband died.

  She watched, outwardly calm, as Butterfly Charm sashayed round the parade ring for the last time, watching the spectators from the corner of one eye. The beautiful grey lapped up the admiration; as big a diva as an opera singer, she knew all eyes were drawn to her sleek coat and immaculate oiled hooves.

  Diane would never admit her fear of horses to her horse-mad daughter. She was shielded from the animals today by Belinda and the other owners and trainers in the parade ring, but she still wished she could watch from a safer distance.

  The bell rang and the trainers approached for final checks, and to give the jockeys a leg up into the saddle.

  ‘Quite a girl, your daughter.’ Diane started as Henry Oxon’s voice boomed in her ear. He slipped an arm round her shoulders. ‘Rupert would be proud.’

  One of Rupert’s oldest friends and colleagues, Henry, along with his wife, had been a tower of strength during the depressing months of Rupert’s illness and eventual, inevitable, death. ‘Time to get to the rails and watch young Belinda see off the competition.’ All Henry’s statements sounded like commands.

  Diane accompanied Henry and the other three members of the Butterfly Charm owner’s syndicate to the rails at the edge of the racetrack, close to the finishing post.

  Henry’s wife, Ling, smiled at Diane. ‘Look at the odds.’ She pointed to the line of bookies, whose boards proclaimed which horses were most – and least – fancied to win. Butterfly Charm merited only a humble 25-1.

  ‘Belinda’s going to surprise everyone.’ Ling squeezed Diane’s arm. ‘She’s an outsider so no one’s expecting her to win, but that’s because they don’t know her. Their eyes are all on Season’s Greetings, the favourite, but I think Belinda’s in with a great chance.’

  ‘I can hardly bear to watch,’ Diane confessed.

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ Henry insisted. His voice grated on Diane’s already stretched nerves. All the words used to describe successful barristers applied to Henry. He was confident, gregarious and clever with a wide streak of ambition – a very different man from Rupert, who’d spent much of his working life on legal aid cases.

  Somehow, Diane was never quite sure how, Henry had persuaded Butterfly Charm’s trainer, Leo Murphy, to take Belinda on as a stable hand. It was due to merit alone, though, that he’d sponsored her through jockey training and offered her this, her first professional race as a conditional jockey.

  Belinda was fond of Ling. Sometimes, Diane thought with a spark of envy, she seemed closer to Ling than to her own mother.

  Nevertheless,
Diane would be eternally grateful to Henry and Ling for their friendship; grateful enough to forgive Henry’s habits of loudly discussing money, sneering at anyone who hadn’t attended public school, and standing, always, just a little too close for comfort.

  She stepped sideways, closer to Magnus and Laura Wilson, the other couple with shares in Butterfly Charm. Magnus murmured, ‘Nervous?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Don’t be. Just enjoy yourself. Belinda has nothing to prove. No one expects her to win.’

  Diane managed a smile. ‘I don’t care whether she wins. I just want her to get round safely.’

  Magnus squeezed her arm. ‘She’ll be loving every moment.’ He turned away, holding a pair of binoculars to his eyes. ‘Here they come. What a sight.’

  Just then, as the rain returned, the first horses thundered past on their way to the start. The ground trembled beneath pounding hooves. There was Belinda, crouched forward, eyes straight ahead, focused. Butterfly Charm stretched her legs, glad to be active at last. The Ham Hill Handicap Chase was a two mile race with six huge jumps, taken twice, and including a dicey-looking water jump. Diane squeezed her eyes shut, terrified at the mere thought of it.

  Now the horses and riders were at the starting tape, under starter’s orders. Diane squinted at the big screen as the flag dropped and the runners headed for the first jump, their jockeys’ silks a riot of colour.