I found I was holding my breath, peering into the mist at the ghostly shapes of the runners. I heaved a sigh of relief as they reappeared a minute later with Monty and Darcy at the front of the pack, together with a slim youth. Badger and Johnnie Protheroe came lumbering up toward the rear of the pack.

Behind me two men were chatting. “You have your money on young Monty, then? I’m not so sure myself. Don’t know if he has the stamina.”

“Who else is there?” the other male voice said. “If poor old Freddie Partridge had been alive, I’d have backed him. Always a good sport, old Freddie. Who’d have thought he’d shoot himself, what?”

I was holding my breath again, not because I was thinking of the racers this time, but because something incredible had just dawned on me. Something so obvious and simple that I wanted to shout out loud. Freddie Partridge. I believe I had heard his last name before, but it had never really registered. I peered to my right, through the mist, trying to make out the shapes of the first trees in the orchard. And in my head I heard Sir Oswald saying clearly, “It was a pear tree.”

“Oh, golly,” I said out loud. Freddie had been the first of the deaths and he was the Partridge in a pear tree.

Chapter 33

Chapter 33

DECEMBER 29

The Lovey Chase.

I wasn’t even conscious of the race continuing. I vaguely heard cheers as the racers thundered past us, stirrups jangling. But suddenly it all made sense. It all fitted perfectly: Ted Grover had been to visit his lady love, the publican’s wife. They were the two turtledoves. And the Misses Ffrench-Finch of course were the three French hens. And Gladys Tripp—she was a calling bird, wasn’t she? My heart was hammering so loudly I was sure it must be echoing around that field. And the five gold rings? Mr. Klein, the jeweler—the only one the murderer had not tried to kill, for some reason. Mr. Skaggs the butcher had been bringing us the geese—which were not a-laying, but a-lying, which might be significant. And the master of hounds had disappeared into the mere where the swans were a-swimming. . . .

And golly, it was true. My instincts were right. The previous night’s affair was no accident. Mrs. Sechrest was one of the nine ladies dancing, which meant . . . my eyes were suddenly riveted to the track again . . . that these were the ten lords a-leaping.

The first runners emerged from the mist, their breath now ragged and gasping as they came toward us. Monty, Darcy and the thin lad were running neck and neck. One by one the others straggled behind them, fighting for breath. One of them stopped to throw up, then staggered on.

“Last lap,” someone shouted and the crowd cheered them on.