Page 17 of Murder at the Polo Club

He picked up the rake. “Does the major know you’re here?”

“We’re on our way to meet him.”

Bert followed us to the last stall. The bloodied straw had been cleared away, but it was otherwise the same. I described the position of the body to Harry.

“What do you know about the victim?” he asked Bert.

“Nothing!”

“Nothing?”

“No more than anyone else. People liked him. He was popular with the other players and the public.” There was a glaring omission in that statement.

“Didyoulike him?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I s’pose.”

“You hated him,” came a voice from the next stall.

I followed it and peered over the low door into the stall where a young groom was inspecting a horse’s hoof. The animal lazily turned its head to look at us, then turned away again to munch on the feed in the trough.

“And you are?” Harry prompted.

“Robbie.” Robbie set the hoof down and straightened. He wiped his hand on his overalls, then emerged from the stall to join us.

“Why do you say Bert hated Mr. Rigg-Lyon?” I asked.

“Not just me!” Bert cried, one hand in the air. The other still clutched the rake. “All us grooms hated him. He wasn’t kind to his horse, and if someone ain’t kind to their horse, then they ain’t a good human.”

It seemed an excellent means by which to judge a person’s character.

“They were just possessions to him,” Robbie went on. “Something to own, like a chair or watch. But horses have character, like people.”

“In what way was he not kind to his horse?” I pressed. “Panther’s his name, isn’t it? Was Mr. Rigg-Lyon cruel to him?”

Robbie looked at Bert, but Bert studied the floor. “Go on, Bert. You took care of Panther every time he played here. You tell ’em what Rigg-Lyon was like.”

Bert looked to the exit as if he’d rather be anywhere but here, answering our questions. “It was nothing specific. He just rode the poor thing to exhaustion, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” Robbie clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. “Panther is quick into his stride and has a rare turn of speed. Real magnificent, he is.”

“I saw the match yesterday,” I told him. “Panther was faster than all the other horses, it’s true. The opposition’s mounts couldn’t keep up. Panther and Mr. Hardwick’s horse, too, were lightning fast.”

“Not just that, but Panther can start at a touch.”

“I don’t understand the problem,” Harry said.

“Rigg-Lyon pushed him so hard out on the field that Panther always came back near-exhaustion. Almost as soon as we got his saddle off, he’d be restless and wouldn’t settle. Then he’d get tired. His muscles twitched like he had an electric shock through him, and he wouldn’t let Bert near him. He even kicked you last week, didn’t he, Bert?”

“It was nothing,” Bert muttered.

I’d noticed Bert’s limp yesterday. I’d also noticed Panther’s restlessness and put it down to sensing death in the stables.

“His feeding habits changed, too,” Robbie went on. “Sometimes we couldn’t give him enough, and other times he wouldn’t eat a thing.”

“Was Rigg-Lyon cruel to Panther in any other way?” Harry asked.

“No,” Bert said.

---