you give me the facts from the beginning. When was the animal’s loss discovered—and how? Let me have the full particulars, please.”
The major sighed and dropped heavily into a chair.
“For an affair of such far-reaching consequences, Mr. Cleek,” he said gloomily, “it is singularly bald of what might be called details, I am afraid; and beyond what I have already told you there is really very little more to tell. When or how the deed was committed, it is impossible to decide beyond the indefinite statement that it happened the night before last, at some time after half-past nine in the evening, when the stable-boy, Dewlish, before going home, carried a pail of water at Farrow’s request into the building where Highland Lassie’s stall is located, and five o’clock the next morning when Captain MacTavish strolled into the stables and found the mare missing.”
“A moment, please. Who is Captain MacTavish? And why should the gentleman be strolling about the Abbey stable-yard at five o’clock in the morning?”
“Both questions can be answered in a few words. Captain MacTavish is a friend who is stopping with us. He is a somewhat famous naturalist. Writes articles and stories on bird and animal life for the magazines. It is his habit to be up and out hunting for ‘specimens’ and things of that sort every morning just about dawn. At five he always crosses the stable yard on his way to the dairy where he goes for a glass of fresh milk before breakfast.”
“I see. Captain a young man or an old one?”
“Oh, young, of course. About two or three and thirty, I should say. Brother of a deceased army pal of mine. Been stopping with us for the past two months. Very brilliant and very handsome chap—universal favourite wherever he goes.”
“Thanks. Now just one more question before you proceed, please: About the trainer Farrow getting the stable-boy to carry in that pail of water. Would not that be a trifle unusual at such a time of the night?”
“I don’t know. Yes—perhaps it would. I never looked at it in that light before.”
“Very likely not. Stables would be closed and all the grooms, et cetera, off duty for the night at that hour, would they not?”
“Yes. That is, unless Farrow had reason for asking one of them to help him with something. That’s what he did, by the way, with the boy, Dewlish.”
“Just so. Any idea what he wanted with that pail of water at that hour of the night? He couldn’t be going to ‘water’ one of the horses, of course, and it is hardly likely that he intended to take on a stableman’s duties and wash up the place.”
“Oh, gravy—no! He’s a trainer, not a slosh-bucket. I pay him eighteen hundred a year and give him a cottage besides.”
“Married man or a single one?”
“Single. A widower. About forty. Lost his wife two years ago. Rather thought he was going to take another one shortly, from the way things looked. But of late he and Maggie McFarland don’t seem, for some reason or another, to be hitting it off together so well as they did.”
“Who’s Maggie McFarland, please?”
“One of the dairymaids. A little Scotch girl from Nairn who came into service at the Abbey about a twelvemonth ago.”
“H’m! I see. Then the filly isn’t the only ‘Highland Lassie’ in the case, it would seem. Pardon? Oh, nothing. Merely a weak attempt to say something smart, that’s all. Don’t suppose that Maggie McFarland could by any possibility throw light upon the subject of that pail of water, do you, Major?”
“Good lud, no! Of course she couldn’t. What utter rot. But see here—come to think of it now, perhaps I can. It’s as like as not that he wanted it to wash himself with before he went over to the shoer’s at Shepperton Old Cross with Chocolate Maid. I forgot to tell you, Mr. Cleek, that ever since Dawson-Blake made that attempt to buy him off, Farrow became convinced that it wouldn’t be safe to leave Highland Lassie unguarded night or day for fear of that cad’s hirelings getting at her in some way or another, so he closed up his cottage and came to live in the rooms over the filly’s stable, so as to be on the spot for whatever might or might not happen at any hour. He also bought a yapping little Scotch terrier that would bark if a match fell, and kept it chained up in the place with him. When the discovery of the filly’s disappearance was made that dog was found still attached to its chain, but as dead as Maria Martin. It had been poisoned. There was a bit of meat lying beside the body and it was literally smothered in strychnine.”
“Quite so. Keep strychnine about the place for killing rats, I suppose?”
“Yes, of course. They are a perfect pest about the granary and the fodder bins. But of course it wouldn’t be lying round loose—a deadly thing like that. Besides, there never was any kept in that particular section of the stables, so the dog couldn’t have got hold of it by accident. Then there’s another thing I ought to tell you, Mr. Cleek: Highland Lassie never was stabled with the rest of the stud. We have always kept her in one especial stable. There are just two whacking big box stalls in the place. She occupies one and Chocolate Maid the other. Chocolate Maid is Lady Mary’s personal property—a fine, blooded filly that will make a name for herself one of these days, I fancy. Dark-coated and smooth as a piece of sealskin, the beauty. To-day she is the only animal in that unlucky place. Yes, come to think of it, Mr. Cleek,” he added with a sort of sigh, “that is probably what the poor fellow wanted the pail of water for: to wash up and ride her over to the forge at Shepperton Old Cross.”
“Singular time to choose for such a proceeding, wasn’t it, Major? After half-past nine o’clock at night.”
“It would be if it were any other man and under any other circumstances. But remember! It is but three weeks to Derby Day and every hour of daylight is worth so much gold to us. Farrow knew that he could not spare a moment of it for any purpose; and he is most particular over the shoeing. Will see it done himself and direct the operation personally. Sort of mania with him. Wouldn’t let the best man that ever lived take one of the horses over for him. Go himself, no matter what inconvenience it put him to. Farrier at Shepperton Old Cross knows his little ‘fads and fancies’ and humours them at all times. Would open the forge and fire up for him if it were two o’clock in the morning.”
“I see. And did he take Chocolate Maid over there on that night, after all?”
“Yes. Lady Mary and I attended a whist drive at Farmingdale Priory that evening; but her ladyship was taken with a violent headache and we had to excuse ourselves and leave early. It would be about a quarter to eleven o’clock when we returned to the Abbey and met Farrow riding out through the gates on Chocolate Maid. We stopped and spoke to him. He was then going over to the shoer’s with the mare.”
“How long would it take him to make the journey?”
“Oh, about five-and-twenty minutes—maybe half an hour: certainly not more.”
“So then it would be about quarter-past eleven when he arrived at the farrier’s? I see. Any idea at what time he got back?”
“Not the ghost of one. In fact, we should never have known that he ever did get back—for nobody heard a sound of his return the whole night long—were it not that when Captain MacTavish crossed the stable-yard at five o’clock in the morning and, seeing the door ajar, looked in, he found Chocolate Maid standing in her stall, the dog dead, and Highland Lassie gone. Of course, Chocolate Maid being there after we had passed Farrow on the road with her was proof that he did return
