“Annabelle isn’t sure that Edmund merely fell down those stairs,” said Marguerite to Shelley, raising her perfectly plucked eyebrows in a look they both knew to mean, “Oh no, here goes Annabelle.”
“I did not say that!” Annabelle stated firmly as she returned to the kitchen table where both her friends were now seated. “I just want to understand exactly how it occurred, that’s all.” She looked back and forth at their skeptical faces. “Don’t either of you think it’s strange that he was mysteriously late for dinner, then was just lying in a heap at the bottom of the stairs?”
Shelley gave a big sigh. “No one has used words like ‘strange’ and ‘mysterious’ to describe what happened to him but you, my dear. Edmund was an older man and he slipped and fell down a staircase. A fall down that staircase would have killed a man much younger than him.”
“Edmund was not young, but he was quite fit,” said Annabelle, in hot defense of the deceased.
“Well,” said Marguerite dryly, “surely you can’t think someone at the Ball would have wanted to harm Edmund.”
“I don’t know exactly what I think at this point.”
“Oh, no! Marguerite, did you hear that? Annabelle, what are you planning?” Shelley was shaking her head at her friend, her green eyes wide with concern.
“Let’s just forget it,” said Annabelle, who had no intention of doing so. She had seen her friends did not share her curiosity and skepticism regarding the true manner of Edmund’s demise. She couldn’t have articulated her reasons, and knew they could be a result of her desire to deny Edmund’s untimely passing, but she couldn’t reconcile herself to the idea that he was simply the victim of slick dress shoes on worn stair carpeting. Rather than worry or alert her friends that she might be up to something, Annabelle preferred to let the subject drop.
The three women continued to talk quietly while sipping coffee, entertained by the antics of Annabelle’s two Jack Russell Terriers, Fitz and Floyd, who seemed to be among the few creatures in Guilford not mourning the death of Edmund Evans.
The little church was uncomfortably crowded, certainly to the degree of violating fire and safety codes if there were any in the tiny town of Guilford. Although it was somewhat absurd to be having a memorial service for such a well-known and popular figure in such a small place, Edmund’s Last Will and Testament had specifically requested his official service be held there. It had doubtlessly amused the mischievous Edmund to picture the church filled with famous personages packed like sardines, the less fortunate having to spill out onto the lawn, all having gathered in his honor. Many were weekend residents who owned newly built or restored houses called hunting boxes from which they rode to hounds or spent relaxing off time. Others were Masters of various Hunts from all over the world. Great Britain and France were well represented, as well as most of the fifty States.
Annabelle noticed on one side of the church’s front, and conspicuously separate from the fox hunting crowd, were Edmund’s children from various marriages along with their long-suffering mothers. None of Edmund’s offspring hunted or even rode horses, which she knew had been a source of mystification and sadness to him. He had always said they particularly disliked fox hunting as it was such an expensive sport and feared it could deplete their inheritance. They had very rarely appeared in Guilford, shunning Edmund’s cozy hunting box in favor of his more lavish, less horsy properties in Nashville and Palm Beach. Annabelle watched as Edmund’s latest ex-wife sobbed with theatrical abandon.
Despite the families’ attitude towards fox hunting, the program was made up entirely of speakers from the horse world. John Swartzkof, former Olympic rider and trainer, and close friend of Edmund, would give the eulogy. Edmund’s fellow Joint Master of the Hill County Hounds, Warren Fitzpatrick, would also speak, along with Edmund’s lifelong friend, Samuel L. Harbison.
Annabelle surveyed the scene from a seat in the front row along with the other Hill County Masters and their wives. She recognized many of the attendees from the Masters’ Ball, and others from the pages of fox hunting publications such as Horse and Hound and Covertside. For a moment she felt elated at her good fortune in finding herself at the forefront of such august company, but recalled the occasion and felt that, somehow, VIP’s didn’t matter anymore. In fact, being among so many fox hunting celebrities wasn’t half as entertaining; without Edmund smiling at her from across the room, fully understanding her enjoyment.
To Annabelle, Edmund had been an ambassador of the glamorous sporting set who hunted and rode in exotic locales all over the world and, despite his impressive connections and busy social schedule had found time to encourage her in her own amateur riding attempts. She could recall numerous occasions when, discouraged by that day’s riding lesson and disappointed in her own inability to cope with the fear that plagues many adult riders, she would have ‘hung up her spurs’ in defeat until she received a long distance phone call from Edmund who was hunting stag in France or quail in Spain. He always managed to put small setbacks into perspective, and found ways around the larger ones. He had always called her “Kiddo”, and to a woman in her forties, that, alone, was reason to miss him.
The realization that all of his attention and encouragement were forever lost to her started a fresh flood of tears, by no means the first, but the most painful since Edmund’s death. Through the streams, generously mixed with mascara, Annabelle gazed dully at the pulpit and the current speaker, Shelley’s husband, Warren Fitzpatrick. Behind him John Swartzkof was preparing to speak, as was old Sam Harbison, another famous luminary of the fox hunting world who was of the same generation as Edmund.
As she looked down the row of those standing in the wings, what she saw next caused her to stop crying altogether and gasp, grabbing her husband’s arm in terror and surprise. Standing next to old Sam was none other than Edmund Evans wearing evening scarlet and a white tie! He winked at her mischievously and held a finger to his lips.
CHAPTER III
IN MEMORIAM
Luckily for Annabelle, Nick appeared to assume her most recent gasp was an expression of sorrow rather than amazement, and patted her arm. Annabelle blinked her eyes once, then again, but the figure of Edmund Evans still smiled at her from the pulpit.
Annabelle thought to herself that years of overindulgences had finally caught up with her. She had read, in a cursory fashion, descriptions of what alcohol, nicotine, and other forms of chemical recreation could do to the brain, but had always been skeptical of their veracities. She had considered such reports poorly disguised sermons preached by the puritans of the medical community against some of life’s more enjoyable vices. Now, she wished she had read them more closely. Perhaps there had been valuable information on how to react when one began seeing visions of dead friends in formal attire.
In her distress, Annabelle had not paid much attention to the opening lines of Sam Harbison’s portion of the program. Edmund, however, seemed to be listening closely and, judging from his facial expression, wasn’t too impressed with his old friend’s version of their mutual past.
“I can remember teaching Edmund how to blow the hunting horn,” said Sam in his slow southern Georgia drawl. “I believe he got real good at it after a few years because I let him in on all of my techniques.” Edmund rolled his eyes and grimaced at Sam’s self-serving reminiscing.
Sam continued, “I always loved Edmund Evans like a brother. That’s why I gave him such fine hounds to help his pack along. Hell, I can remember when he said to me, “Sam, I want Hill County Hounds to be able to run coyotes like yours at Fairfield.” I said, “Well, Edmund, you know I’ll help you in any way I can…”
Annabelle almost laughed out loud. With his upper lip curled almost to his rather large nose, Edmund’s face was a study in exasperation. He finally looked her way again and shook his head as if to say that Sam had certainly not been humbled by his friend’s untimely passing.
As Sam slowly droned on, Annabelle recalled one of her past experiences with the
legendary old fox hunter. She, Nick, and others from Hill County had been in Georgia hunting with Sam’s Fairfield Hounds. Sam’s pack was well known for its incredible speed and tenacity in pursuit of coyotes, and on this particular day they had “struck”, or found, a coyote early in the afternoon, running it for over an hour.
The terrain at Fairfield was much flatter than Hill County’s territory, so open that a horse could run at top speed for long distances without having to negotiate a single hill. Needless to say, both riders and horses had to be extremely fit to endure such a grueling workout. Nick’s tireless thoroughbred, King, was a winning ex-steeplechaser that, in horsemen’s terms, ‘had no bottom’. If any run had ever tired him out completely, no one knew it but the horse itself. Annabelle’s horse, Samson, on the other hand, though much younger than King, was half draft horse and half thoroughbred—a perfect combination for the steep, trappy country of Hill County, but a little heavy for Fairfield’s flatlands. After an hour at a full gallop, he visibly began to tire.
Many riders had already pulled out and were enjoying a cold libation back at the horse trailers. Proud old Sam Harbison was, of course, among the few still in the game, leading the group on a big thoroughbred that ran as though a demon was on its tail. Actually, old Harbison being on its back produced much the same effect.
There had not been a moment to safely sip from her flask, but Annabelle was parched and ready to stop as the hounds ran on. She considered telling Nick she’d had more than enough when a rider less horse came galloping past them with loose reins, empty stirrups flapping. She looked back and saw a crumpled pile of scarlet lying facedown in the plowed field. She and Nick automatically pulled up their horses and yelled, “Rider down!” as is customary when someone experiences an involuntary dismount. To their surprise, instead of stopping or even slowing his horse, Sam Harbison merely stood in the stirrups, turned his head and shouted, “Is it the landowner?”
Nick and Annabelle looked down at their fallen fellow hunter, trying unsuccessfully to determine if he was lying on a patch of his own real estate, when someone in the group answered, “No, it isn’t!” Sam, still standing in the stirrups yelled, “Then ride on! The hounds are running!”, and disappeared after the pack.
Annabelle shook her head at the memory. “Sometimes fox hunting people simply go too far, like Edmund”, thought Annabelle, looking between her fingers to see the apparition in scarlet still there and still casting irritated looks in Harbison’s direction. In the pause between old Harbison’s recollections and John Swartzkof’s arrival at the lectern as chief eulogist, she unthinkingly raised her hand to try to get the ghost’s attention. She felt her face flush crimson as Nick grabbed her arm and regarded her with shock and embarrassment. She quickly snatched her hand away and pretended to adjust her hat as though that had been her intention all along.
Rather than mention himself, John began his talk recalling tales from Edmund’s colorful history, and that appeared to be more to the liking of the dear-departed. As the ghost of Edmund smiled broadly and fingered his white bowtie, John recalled his most recent hunt with Hill County as Edmund’s guest. It had been a cold Saturday morning in early December soon after the first frost had killed all of the green plants, leaving the floor of the forest stark and gray. Scenting conditions improve greatly once that change occurs because, until then, the scent of the chlorophyll in green plants interferes with the hounds’ ability to pick up the scent of a fox or coyote. Hunting is best on damp, chilly days when the atmosphere is heavy and holds scent close to the ground.
John recalled he had ridden at Edmund’s side that day. Annabelle, who was now watching Edmund’s ghost for his reaction, saw him smile and nod as if he, too, had fond recollections of their last hunt together.
Initially, the two men had stayed with the main group of riders called the Field. Edmund was very tall and rode a 17-hand mare named Party Girl. As John said the horse’s name the ghost looked at Annabelle and grinned broadly. Few of their friends knew the horse was her namesake.
John described how they’d trotted along, chatting with the females and passing the flask with the fellows, until they suddenly heard the sharp, high note of a hound that had found a coyote. In seconds, according to John, the rest of the pack responded by adding their voices to that of the lead, or strike, hound, harking to his find. As the Field sat deeper in their saddles and tightened their grips on the reins in preparation for a good gallop, Edmund turned to him and said, “Let’s go this way. I have an idea.”
While the rest of the crowd smiled, Annabelle rolled her eyes at Edmund’s ghost and muttered, “I’ve heard that one myself”, provoking another quizzical look from Nick and neighbors on the pew.
John told how they could hear the whole pack in full cry with the Huntsman blowing “Gone Away” on his horn in praise and encouragement. John’s voice increased in volume as he related following Edmund through frosty trails and down slick slopes. Both knew when “Gone Away” sounded the hounds were running at full speed and not just slipping slowly along after the quarry.
The two fox huntfox hunters did their best to keep pace with the hounds whose music could be heard off to their right, so loud at times that it drowned out the sound of their horses’ galloping hooves. They charged over one coop, then another, Edmund’s big mare taking the three-foot jumps as if they were just cantering strides. The volume and emotion in John’s voice sounded like a southern preacher as he described the sight of “…thirty hounds boiling out of the woods on our right, so close together Edmund could have covered them all with his scarlet coat!”
Then, he dramatically lowered his voice as if in awe of his own story. “Look there!” Edmund had said, pointing to the left with his hunt whip. John had turned his head just in time to see a bushy black tail disappear into the end of a hollow log, not fifty feet ahead of the hounds. “How on earth did you know we should be at this particular spot?” John remembered asking in amazement, for he had rarely witnessed a sight as thrilling as when the coyote had dashed into the safety of the log without a second to spare.
Annabelle watched, spellbound, as Edmund’s ghost began to finish the story before John had a chance.
“It was Black Bart!” Edmund said loudly, with a note of triumph in his voice. “We’ve run that old coyote more times that I can remember! He always runs the same way, across the stream and down by the old grist mill…”
Annabelle looked around at the other mourners, including Edmund’s son and two daughters. Could it be that no one could hear Edmund, but her? No one else so much as glanced away from John as he wrapped up his speech with a sentimental remark addressed to the wily old coyote.
“Black Bart,” he said. “If he could, I know Edmund would thank you for giving him so much great sport over the years. When your time comes, I know you two will hunt again on the other side. But in this world, your old friend has had his last run.”
Annabelle felt fresh tears destroying her makeup. She hardly dared to look at the pulpit, but when she did she saw Edmund was still there, actually applauding his friend’s story. He gave Annabelle a parting wink and then slowly disappeared.
CHAPTER IV
RETURN OF A SCOUNDREL
After the service, Annabelle, Nick, and other Hill County fox hunters gathered at the home of Marguerite and Harold Robertson. Marguerite was a fabulous hostess, and the Robertson’s restored 1920s home was the perfect setting to showcase her considerable abilities. Annabelle felt confused and drained, and for once didn’t notice Marguerite’s latest interior decorations.
As she stood with her hunting friends exchanging condolences in remembering their fallen Master, Annabelle began to feel that Edmund’s ghostly appearance at his own memorial service was a product of her overly stimulated imagination. Even though their relationship had never been more than a flirtatious friendship, she had dearly loved the man and now missed him in equal measure, so perhaps it was not so strange that she should pretend he was still present in Guilford. A
fter all, she had always been creative, hadn’t she? She sipped a second glass of red wine and tried to relax.
Meanwhile, Edmund Evans stories were being told everywhere. She overheard Charles Collins, the youngest Joint Master, telling someone about his older brother’s reaction when he had joined the Hill County Hounds in the late 1980s. “That sounds fine, Charles,” his brother had said, “but isn’t Edmund Evans a bit of a scoundrel?” Annabelle laughed with the others and tried not to think about her recent vision. The group was already eyeing her in a concerned manner that implied they had noticed her unusual behavior during the memorial service. She determined not to mention her Edmund-sighting to anyone.
Despite the easy chatter, an underlying concern shared by many in the Hunt was the uncertain future of their fox hunting territory. The continued use of much of the famous 40,000 acres Edmund had assembled was by no means guaranteed now that he was no longer with them. Most of the landowners who were not hunters themselves had given the use of the land to him personally, rather than to the Hunt as a whole. Although the other Masters seemed to find discussing Edmund’s business matters in very poor taste as he was so recently deceased, the Hunt’s territory was an issue so vital to its survival that the rules of polite society gave way to serious talk.
With the recent addition of Nick Farley, the remaining Joint Masters were all extremely personable and friendly. But it had been Edmund Evans who had successfully wooed even the most reluctant landowners into allowing them to hunt across their properties. This was, in part, because he had been born and reared in the area, defining he was ‘one of them’ where no one ‘from away’ would ever be. It was also because, scoundrel or not, Edmund had possessed a powerful charm which he used with great skill in the Hunt’s behalf.
The rumor that Edmund had been working on the creation of a perpetual land trust so that the territory in Guilford would always be available to the Hill County Hounds was now, with his unexpected passing, just that—a rumor and nothing more.
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