The Hobby Horse Murder

The Hobby Horse Murder

Banbury Cross Murder Mystery Series Book Three

Ben Westerham

Also by Ben Westerham

BANBURY CROSS MURDER MYSTERY SERIES

The Hide and Seek Murders

The Club of Death

The Hobby Horse Murder

A Legacy of Death

The Golf Club Murder

DAVID GOOD PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR SERIES

The Strawberry Girl

Good Investigations

Good Girl Gone Bad

Too Good to Die

Smart Way to Die

The Good Con

Good and the Vanishing Act

As Good As Dead

ALEXANDER TEMPLEMAN SPY THRILLER SERIES

The House of Spies

The Meyer-Hoffman Affair

SHORTS IN THE DARK SERIES

Harry Minch

Memory of Murder

Collector of Crimes (anthology)

Shattered Dreams (anthology)

50FOR30 SERIES OF MICRO SHORT STORIES

50for30 Series One

50for30 Series Two

MULTI-AUTHOR ANTHOLOGIES

Breakneck

Published by Close9 Publishing

Copyright © 2020 Ben Westerham

All Rights Reserved

ISBN 978-1-911085-27-0

This story is a work of fiction.

It’s all English to me

A word on the language that’s used in this book, so you know what to expect. The version of English that is used here is British. This ought not to present much in the way of a problem for non-British readers. If you do find the occasional word or phrase a little odd, then I hope you still understand the essence of what is being said.

Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross

Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross,

To see a fine lady upon a white horse;

With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,

She shall have music wherever she goes.

This is a typical modern version of the popular nursery rhyme. There are numerous earlier recorded versions that start with the same opening line.

Table of Contents

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 One

James Puncheon couldn’t settle. The coffee no doubt hadn’t helped. Perhaps he would have been better advised to have stuck to a glass of water. He placed his half-empty cup on the sideboard and pushed himself up and out of the leather armchair he’d occupied for the previous five minutes. His copy of The Daily Telegraph already lay discarded on the floor of the hotel room he had checked into the previous day.

The coffee might not have helped his mood, but that wasn’t the cause of his irritation. Irritation? He scratched the back of his neck as he began to walk slowly towards the door. Was it irritation or something else? Damn it, the room was too warm. And the bloody coffee had been too hot. Worse, it had arrived with cold milk. Idiots. He shook his head. Perhaps he ought to open the curtains and maybe one of the windows. Yes, but not yet. There were things on his mind.

A woman’s voice, shrill and young, passed along the corridor, tailing off towards the stairs. He didn’t recognise it. As he reached the door, he turned, tapped his fingers on the sides of his legs, then retraced his steps across the heavy, dark carpet, the pristine condition of which made clear it was new. A shame it was such a hideous pattern, he mused.

This wouldn’t do, it really wouldn’t. They were all there now. The usual crowd, plus some awful woman Sally Dingle had brought with them, quite clearly with the intention of foisting her on him in yet another effort to find him a new lady friend. No doubt Sally meant well enough, but she really should know better than to engage in matchmaking. Anyway, he wasn’t in the market for a romantic relationship; although Sally wouldn’t know it. He was already seeing someone. At least, he hoped to high heaven Sally didn’t know.

And that was it, wasn’t it? That was the cause of his… frustration. That was it. He wasn’t so much irritated as frustrated. They were so close to each other and yet they might as well have been a hundred miles apart. Who wouldn’t be feeling frustrated?

He picked up his teaspoon and gave the coffee a slow, thoughtful stir, then dropped the spoon on the tray and drew the fingers of one hand across his chin. Bloody hell, a man at his age ought to be able to show some patience. He was nearly fifty now, not some hopeless teenager desperate to jump into bed with a girl for the first time.

Laughter came from the street outside. Happy people in a happy world. He lingered, looking down at the dark swirling liquid in his cup. He knew where his happiness lay, but that was the problem. Right now his happiness was out of reach and, despite what they told each other, there was no certainty things would ever change. Damn it.

But it was Laura’s comments that had set him so on edge. Did she really know all about his clandestine relationship or had she just been fishing, hoping he’d take the bait? As his ex-wife, she was more likely than anyone to spot what was happening under their noses. She used to be able to read him like the proverbial book and, even if they’d been divorced for a few years now, things weren’t very likely to have changed as far as that sort of thing was concerned. She seemed pretty clear in her own mind what she thought was happening, but did she really know? Christ, he hoped not. Had he said too much to her? He began to reply their conversation in his mind, but promptly found himself interrupted by a solid rapping at the heavy wooden door. He walked back across the room and opened it, wondering who it was disturbing him at this hour.

Yes?

*

The weather had been fabulous all morning. Bright sunshine and warm with it. In fact, it was so good, Inspector Leslie Dykeman had gone out on a limb and decided to leave his coat at home, settling for his well-worn brown woollen jacket. No doubt it would rain at some point, but what the hell, he was up for taking a chance, for living life in the fast lane. Anyway, there were always plenty of shops to duck into if things did get a bit on the wet side.

Banbury’s annual Hobby Horse Festival did not always enjoy such accommodating weather. In fact, mused Dykeman over his breakfast toast and tea, they’d not had a dry day for the Festival in any of the previous three years. Last year was an almost total wash out. Bad for business, was that, or so the Chief Inspector had kept telling him. Meant the public stayed at home, where it was warm and dry, and didn’t show up to spend their hard-earned money. What the hell he was supposed to do about it, God only knew.

As it happened, there was another reason he was particularly looking forward to this year’s Festival. He smiled to himself as he wondered at the possibilities. Sometimes, things were simply and helpfully served up on a plate for you; all you had to do was tuck in and gorge yourself. And he was going to gorge himself on this one. His shoulders jiggled up and down as he laughed. For once, he wished he owned a camera, just so he could take a few pictures for posterity. Hilarious. But all was not lost there. He was certain the photographers from the newspapers would be thick on the ground and a quiet word or two from him would ensure he got his wish.

Nine-fourteen. He was due to meet his sergeant, Shapes, in half an hour at the top end of the market place, outside the old cinema. Half an hour after that, the procession was supposed to set off on a meandering loop around the town centre. Nearly two hours of humiliation and embarrassment for the less enthusiastic members of the group who would be taking part, prime amongst whom was Shapes. Dykeman began to laugh so much he had to put his cup and saucer down before he spilt the contents all over his lap.

*

Dykeman made his way along the High Street, heading for the Market Place. The number of people out on the streets was already highly impressive for such a small market town. On two or three occasions he found himself struggling to squeeze through the heaving masses in places where temporary stalls and entertainers narrowed the space available.

Even the snotty-nosed, squealing kids seemed to be well-behaved, distracted by all the fun on offer. That was a rarity. In his experience, kids, especially the youngest ones, were best avoided. Too bloody demanding and prone to thinking the whole wide world revolved around them. He might well be keen on having a little more romance in his life, but kids were definitely not part of what he had in mind.

He was tempted to stop at one or two of the stalls; to have a go at hurling balls at coconuts perched on top of metal posts or firing off air-guns at plastic ducks wobbling past on a ferocious torrent of water that ran along a metal trough. Any other time he would have given in to the temptation, but he was too keen to catch up with Shapes before it was too late. He quickened his pace.

A narrow alleyway brought Dykeman out into the top end of Market Place. The place was packed, busy even by the standards of a normal market day, when it would heave and throb with eager shoppers. He marvelled at where so many people could have come from. It was amazing what a bit of decent weather could do. He stopped for a moment and took it all in. Amongst the general frenzy, he could pick out several groups of Morris dancers, wearing their ridiculous outfits and those annoying bells that rang every time one of them so much as sneezed. And the sticks they used when they were dancing, well they were potentially lethal weapons, ones that made his trusty old truncheon look pathetic and inadequate. He knew, too, that it wouldn’t be long before every last one of those Morris men was drunk as a skunk.

In the middle of the square were half a dozen tractors paired with trailers, each one decked out with bunting and wot-not. No doubt the farmers driving the tractors would also be half-cut by the time the whole convoy hit the road. Good job he and his colleagues were under strict instructions to go easy on the law enforcement, apart from tackling the plague of pick-pockets. There’d be armies of them on the go already, no doubt about that.

The old cinema was off to his left and, if he wasn’t mistaken, there was his sergeant, trying to keep a low profile amongst a small group of other people busy getting ready for their part in the day’s entertainment. Dykeman set off at a modest gallop, a grin so big on his face that he was sure he must have looked like some sort of lunatic. Shapes saw him coming and made a feeble effort at hiding from his boss; an effort that was undermined by the sizeable outfit he was wearing.

There you are, Shapes, declared Dykeman, keen that all and sundry knew who was hiding under the face paint. I was getting worried you might have set off already.

Shapes muttered something inaudible, well aware that Dykeman knew exactly what time they were due to start out, which wasn’t for another half an hour.

All ready then, are we? asked the inspector, affecting an entirely fake concern for the state of his sergeant’s preparations.

More muttering followed. Dykeman started to laugh so much he came close to collapsing.

Don’t see what’s so bloody funny, retorted Shapes.

In truth, he knew damn well what was so funny. The red and black make-up that covered most of his face and the Morris dancer clothes he had been forced into were bad enough, but the piece de resistance, the real cause of his humiliation, was the small, decorated wooden horse he was wearing. There was a big hole cut through the frame, so he could push himself up through the middle of the thing, which was then suspended from his shoulders by thick straps that were already biting into him. By the time they returned to the Market Place after their dance around town there’d be no bloody flesh left on his shoulders. And it had been made very clear to him that it was to be a dance around town, not a walk. What was wrong with a flipping walk, for God’s sake?

Shapes wanted to blame Dykeman for this embarrassing predicament, but he knew he had in fact been set up by the Chief Constable. The man had been keen on the police taking an ‘active part’, as he put it, in this year’s Hobby Horse Festival. Yeah, an ‘active part’ that didn’t involve him wearing one of these stupid outfits. Unfortunately, it seemed the Chief Constable was still bearing a grudge against him for some misunderstanding involving the top man’s car earlier in the year and had, therefore, volunteered Shapes and a couple of the beat constables for starring roles in the day’s festivities.

Dykeman hadn’t exactly put himself out to get the decision reversed. A request by Shapes to take the weekend as holiday, far away in Scotland, had been turned down flat, as had a proposal he feign a broken leg. Too risky, said Dykeman. For him, that was, not Shapes.

You need to see things from my point of view, Shapes. Then you’d see what’s so funny, replied Dykeman, trying to pull himself together. Nice colour make-up you got there. Matches your eyes.

As Dykeman collapsed into another bout of side-splitting laughter, Shapes seethed. Revenge might take a while, but a coming it was. You could bet your last penny on that.

Dykeman struggled back into some sort of standing position, thinking he ought to give his sergeant a few encouraging words – not too many, you understand, just a few – but was disappointed to find another half-horse, half-man combo had started issuing instructions to the whole flock, or whatever it was you called a group of wooden horses, demanding they gather around him. Happily, a bald-headed bloke wearing a worn, brown, leather jacket, whom Dykeman knew to be a photographer from one of the town’s newspapers, happened upon the scene. Wasting not a moment, Dykeman seized the snapper and started issuing instructions that seemed to involve ensuring every photo he took included Shapes.

As it turned out, it was a good job Dykeman made the most of this opportunity. As he stood by, making sure his instructions were filled to the letter, a familiar figure staggered to a halt alongside him, short of breath and red-faced.

Hello, Nevin. What’s up? You want to take part too, do you? Maybe Shapes can squeeze over and you can join him.

Constable Nevin, trying hard to get his breath back, shook his head as he leaned forward, hands on his knees.

Better speak up soon, Nevin. Shapes is due off the starting line any minute now. I’ve got two bob on him to complete the course first.

You’re needed, sir, stammered Nevin. There’s been a murder.

Do what? Dykeman wasn’t sure he’d heard the constable properly, what with all the wheezing.

Murder, sir. At the Marlborough Hotel. Shooting.

Nevin stood upright and puffed out his cheeks. He’d not been able to get a car through the crowds, so had been forced to run most of the way from the police station, the breath of the Chief Constable hot on his back.

The Chief had not been the least bit impressed to hear a guest at the Marlborough had been careless enough to get themselves shot dead on the day of the Hobby Horse Festival. It wasn’t good for business and the high and mighty of the town would be sure to point that out, often, until the horrid business had been put to bed. Nevin’s instructions had been clear, find Dykeman and Shapes, and be quick about it. Or else. It had been a relief to Nevin to find Shapes hadn’t yet set off on his little trip around town.

The old man want Shapes too, does he?

Nevin nodded. Dykeman felt all the fun of the fair leave him. You couldn’t make these things up, could you? Talk about spoiling his fun. Perhaps things could wait until Shapes had carried out his civic duties, by completing his dance around the town wearing that silly outfit.

Right now, I suppose?

Nevin nodded a second time.

Definitely can’t wait a while?

This time Nevin shook his small head.

This is going to ruin Shapes’s day, this is. He’s been looking forward to this all week. Reckons it’s the best thing he’s done in years. He even went so far as to say he might join a Morris dancing troupe. Look at his face. That’s the look of a deeply disappointed man, that is.

Dykeman and Nevin watched as Shapes dismantled his outfit with a remarkable turn of speed, the hobby horse landing on the floor with a clatter. He was free of the contraption in the blink of an eye and setting about wiping the worst of the make-up off his face with a hanky that was clearly nothing like new and unused.

Thank Christ for that, growled Shapes, as he spat a second time into his hanky before wiping off more of the thick colouring that clung to his skin with impressive determination. Where d’you say this murder is, Nevin?

Er, the Marlborough Hotel, Sarge. Nevin took in the strange outfit Shapes was wearing. You got any more clothes here? Want me to fetch ’em for you?

Nope, just this lot. Had to get dressed at home before I got here.

Shapes eyed Nevin like a fox might eye up a newborn lamb, but had to admit to himself the man was a fair bit smaller than he was. His clothes wouldn’t fit, not even at a stretch. Shapes turned towards the gloomy-faced leader of their Morris troupe, who was clearly disappointed at losing one of his happy band.

Here, Bob. The Chief Constable wouldn’t want to let you down. Nevin can take my place.

What? But...

Nevin’s face was an instant picture of panic. Bob, a big man with hands the size of plates, wasn’t slow to seize the opportunity. He had Nevin under his wing before the terrified constable could do a runner. There was no escape now.

I’ll put in a good word for you, Nevin, don’t you worry about that, sniggered Shapes.

As he and Dykeman exited the scene, heading for the High Street, Shapes was laughing like a drain.

Chapter Two

Five minutes later, Dykeman and Shapes stood outside the Marlborough Hotel, looking up at the three-storey building that occupied a large site all of its own part-way up the Oxford Road. The sun’s rays gave the limestone it was built with a warm, comforting glow, thought Dykeman, as it did with most of the older, stone buildings scattered across the town.

Nice-looking place, remarked Shapes. Not been here before.

I like these old stone buildings. A damn sight better looking than any of that rubbish the Victorians put up.

Isn’t your house Victorian, sir?

It’s one of the better ones, Dykeman wrinkled his sizeable nose. I came here once, what, four years ago, I reckon. Round Table charity do, it was. Posh place then. Don’t suppose it’s any different now, not by the look of things. Did a nice cheese and ham sandwich, if I remember rightly.

Food, thought Shapes. Must be time for his mid-morning cuppa and biscuits by now. Shouldn’t be much trouble getting his hands on some in a place like this. Maybe he could have a go at those cheese and ham sandwiches too. He couldn’t be expected to work properly on an empty belly.

Not the kind of place you’d expect to get yourself murdered, suggested the hungry sergeant.

"Happens in the best of places. Any place, any time. Come on, we ought to get on. The old man’s probably pacing up and down