Golden Horse - Chapter 17 Part 4 adapted from the scandalously provocative, politically incorrect Latin classic 'Asinus Aureus'

Accidentally turned into a horse by his lover (who’s a witch) a young lawyer's plan to defraud a billionaire goes wildly wrong. Destined to see the cruel crazy erotic world through equine eyes, finally he manages to escape to become an animal rights activist.

Retranslated and (liberally) adapted in today’s world (of London) from the original Latin of Lucius Apuleius (a Tunisian Roman citizen), which itself came from the Ancient Greek he wrote it in.

WARNING: The Greeks and Romans had no problem with 'adult themes' and outlooks on life (from 2,000 years ago!) which are sometimes very different from today's and may shock some readers to the core.

As Yogi Berra said, "When you come to a fork in the road. Take it."
"Golden Horse" is your fork.
Afraid of what lies on the very rocky road ahead? Then turn back.

Chapter 17 Part 4

Very early the next morning, before the sun had properly risen and while the lawns were still sparkling with dew, Jilly arrived with a new bale of hay and fresh news on the on-going saga of the valetudinarian.
"She sent a message that she wants to spend the day completely alone. No Daddy, no me, no Sister Bossy Irish nurse. She was particularly insistent that she didn't want to see Peregrine. Peregrine. No one calls him that unless they're really annoyed. Which just proves my point. Mummy and Perry have fallen out big time. Anyway, all this Zsar Zsar Gabor - I vant to be alone - isn't even true. I know for an absolute fact that, right now, as we speak, she's holed up with that stupid fat Nanny of hers. You know who I mean? You must have seen her around. Face like a Christmas pudding and legs like last year's Derby winner."

Actually, that did ring a bell. In the manner of Julia, in Brideshead Revisited, the current Mrs O-H had brought her nanny with her when she married and installed her in a self-contained flat in the West Wing, where she whiled away her days listening to CDs of the Archers. Nanny was so wholly and utterly stupid as to be text book proof of the folly of rural inbreeding. All she was able to do was darn socks, wipe noses and smack bottoms. She might, I suppose, have earned an independent income in one of those niche clubs in Soho or Kings Cross, but she had long ago decided to opt out of the employment market and stick like glue to her now not-so-young charge. To Mrs O-H she showed an unflinching and unquestioning loyalty. She refused to see that her little girl had grown up to be a vicious, self-centred, cuckolding bitch. I was just brooding on what possible mischief the two were concocting, when I realized that Jilly was taking her gracious leave.

"Anyway. I can't stand here talking all day. I've got birds to shoot. It is a bit disappointing that Charlie isn't here yet. He'll miss all the best shots. But it serves him right. I bet he isn't even out of bed yet. And don't be sad, Jodie. You should know by now that horses aren't allowed on shoots. We'll go out hunting together very soon. Next week. I promise. They've spotted the old vixen over that way, near the Fletcher's farm. It should be a synch to get her. She's practically a cripple."
The little girl laughed a sadistic little laugh.
"And with their dear old mummy dead, the cubs will be rounded up like chickens."

It's amazing how being part of the animal kingdom changes one's views on such matters. I now recall with horror how, in one of my many doomed attempts to curry favour with the head of chambers, I had actually taken part in a grouse-shoot on the North York Moors. I could also remember, horribilissime dictu, how I had more than once enjoyed horse steak, horse sausage, horse pate and other Gallic delicacies. What did that make me? A cannibal? I now felt an empathetic, zen-like connexion with all those feathered, scaled and furry creatures with whom we share this crowded planet. If I ever managed to reverse this bizarre metamorphosis and become a man once more, I would devote my entire life to animal rights. But, for the time being, I was stuck with being a horse. A horse with an owner who shot birds out of the sky for the sheer hell of it.

Jilly waltzed off in her Barbour and flat cap, accompanied by her similarly attired and unexpectedly jaunty father. And so it came about that I was, so to speak, home alone. The only one on the scene to witness the tragedy that unfolded just a few hours later. The clever Miss Rheinstein had been right all along. This particular tragedy could indeed have been written by Sophocles himself.
True to his word, at about one o'clock, the dashing young Charlie arrived home. Younger sons like Charlie Ormsby-Harmsworth lead a charmed life, waited on hand and foot, from the cradle to the grave (to the family vault in the Pevsner recommended Norman Church). It was not, therefore, surprising to Charlie that a tempting collation had been laid out for him in the sun-filled drawing-room. Nor did it surprise him to read the gushing, Montblanc-penned note:
'Welcome back, darling. All my love, Mummy xxxx.'

But it surely was surprising to find both the venison sandwiches and the single malt liberally laced with arsenic and to find himself stone-dead on the parquet floor within two minutes of the first mouthful.
I watched this scene with mute and mounting horror. If there were ever a time when I most needed a human voice, this was surely it. I tried desperately to attract the attention of the bovine Mrs P and the love-lorn Mrs O-H. I hammered my hooves as noisily as possible on the flagstones and neighed as loudly as possible. I even kicked the glass of the French windows. All to no avail. Charlie lay alone and very dead in the empty, silent room.

After about five minutes of this doomed attempt to summon help, the penny dropped. I suddenly realized what had happened. As Jilly had told me only yesterday, his mother was not expecting Charlie at the Hall. As far as she was concerned, he was gallivanting around the bars of London with the noovo Bella, as per. The poisoned chalice was clearly meant for her other son, the heartless Peregrine. As in all the best tragedies, love had turned to murderous hate. Over night. In the twinkling of an eye. And, as in all the best myths, the faithful old retainer, dear Nanny, had unquestionably carried out the instructions of her darling girl. It was Hippolytus all over again.

There was nothing I could do, but stand disconsolately at the window, awaiting the return of the shooting party. They weren't long. Before an hour had past, I heard the high, excited voice of Jilly telling her father just had many pheasants she'd killed.
'And it will serve stinky old Charlie right if all the best birds have already gone. Serve him right for shagging that bimbo of his when he should be with us.'
'Gillean! I will not have you speaking like this in my house.'
'Whatever.'
Jill had recently affected the style of a teenager from Croydon pretending she was from Hackney.
The two of them carried on a desultory conversation until they reached the French windows. How I longed to warn them! How I longed to prepare them, to tell them that their world was about to come crashing down. But all I could do was watch and listen, forever condemned to be the mere bystander in this particular story.
'What's that on the floor, Daddy? That funny brown thing, covered in blood? Is it a deer?'
Jilly peered, short-sightedly across the lawn

'Oh, the beast! I bet I know what's happened! I bet Charlie's been playing a typical mean trick. I bet you anything he sneaked back last night and shot a stag while we're were out! Mummy won't like those blood stains!'
It didn't take long, of course, even for these two to realize that the Body in the Library was not in fact a deer, but a man. And not any old man, but Charlie. I waited for the screams, the wails of grief, the howling and gnashing of teeth. The ensuing silence was ominous. As was the drawing of the library curtains. I'm afraid that I can't tell you what happen next, because I don't know. It was all maddeningly frustrating. There I was, right in the middle of vintage Agatha Christie and unable to know the end.

© 2017 Mimi L. Thompson

For previous chapters (some of which are posted as nsfw because of 'adult themed' content not photographs) please visit my blog page. Your support is much appreciated and comments are most welcome

You can find my other ebooks on Amazon Kindle Unlimited "Under The Shadow of Vesuvius" - Coming of age in the age of depravity in the Malibu of the Ancient World.

Amazon page https://www.amazon.com/Mimi-L.-Thompson/e/B06XZV8347/ref=dp_byline_cont_ebooks_1