The chaff room was lined with large wooden bins where the horses’ oats and feed were stored. Peter went to the furthest bin and lifted the lid. On first sight, it appeared to be full of chaff. Peter leaned over the edge of the bin and rustled around in the chaff. With a grunt, he pulled out a large, awkward sack and set it on the table.
He pulled off the covering to reveal an elegant, modern saddle. The leather around the pommel had been heavily tooled and bore the Somerton arms. Bennet recognised the stars, from escutcheons all around the house.
As Peter watched, Bennet turned the saddle over. He may not have liked horses but he knew enough to recognise the girth strap, which still hung buckled to the saddle. It had broken high up beneath the saddle flap on the off side. Bennet held up the torn edges. In his hands, the leather still felt new and firm. Even he could see there should have been no reason for the girth to fail. Unless …
He drew a deep breath as he looked more closely at the broken ends.
To the casual observer, the strap appeared to have torn, but now, as he looked at it, he was not so certain. The first half-inch on both sides of the strap betrayed a clean cut—a knife cut. He turned the strap over in his hands, looking at the underside. Unless he was very much mistaken, the underside of the strap had been scored with a knife as well. It meant that the girth strap had been severely compromised and, put under any kind of stress, would have failed.
Bennet frowned, letting the implication of his discovery sink in. Someone had cut the girth strap. Someone had intended for it to fail. Someone had intended Lord Somerton to suffer a serious fall. He ran his hand over the embossing on the pommel.Someone had intended for Lord Somerton to be injured or ... killed. His blood ran cold.
‘It didn’t seem right,’ Peter said. ‘I thought if anyone asked the question...’ He tailed off.
Bennet nodded. ‘You did the right thing, boy.’
‘What should I do with it?’
‘Just you put the saddle back where you’ve been hiding it,’ Bennet said.
‘Are you sure? Do you think his lordship should know?’
Quite possibly, Bennet thought.
‘Just put it back and I think we will keep it our secret for now, lad.’
He watched as the boy returned the parcelled saddle to the bottom of the feed bin. As the boy turned around, Bennet looked around the room.
‘Now where’s his lordship’s ’at?’
Bennet stampedinto the bedchamber carrying Sebastian’s hat. Sebastian set his book to one side and considered his batman from over his steepled fingers. He knew Bennet’s moods as well as he knew his own. And something troubled his batman.
Bennet stood by the window, absently brushing chaff from the beaver skin.
‘Something on your mind, Bennet?’ Sebastian enquired.
Bennet started as if he hadn’t noticed Sebastian.
‘Beg pardon, m’lord,’ he said.
Sebastian raised an eyebrow and, taking his silence as it was intended—an invitation to talk—Bennet set the hat down and crossed over to Sebastian’s chair.
‘Mind me speaking out of turn, sir?’
‘When has that ever stopped you? What’s troubling you?’
‘Well, you know as how the late Lord Somerton died?’
‘Girth broke and he came off his horse.’
Bennet nodded. ‘I... No, it don’t make sense.’
‘What are you talking about, Bennet?’
‘I’ve just seen the saddle and the girth strap was cut.’
Sebastian stared at him. ‘Are you sure?’
‘As certain as I am standing here talking to you.’
