Like all ‘High Holy Days’, the Closing Hunt of the Hill County Hounds was always well attended. Although the Farleys were by no means late for the Meet, dozens of horse trailers were already lined up in triple rows along the Fitzpatrick’s fence line. As trailers full of riders turned into the gated entrance, the occupants were greeted by Warren and Shelley who offered cups of port or brandy.
“Make mine a double,” said Annabelle to Warren with a sheepish grin.
“Annabelle, you better stay on top of your horse today,” he answered back, but still honored her request for an extra libation.
Annabelle quickly downed the contents of her glass and handed it back to Shelley who was collecting empties.
“I feel better already,” she said, only half in jest, and Nick pulled the trailer into the pasture to find a suitable place to unload the horses.
As Annabelle put finishing touches on Samson’s tack and gave her boots a final polish, she looked around for Charles whom she assumed would be accompanied by Richter Davenport. Soon she spied Charles’ trailer several rows down on the left. His new groom was working to ready two horses that were tied to the trailer, but there was no sign of either of the young Masters. Annabelle was peering so intently down the row that she nearly jumped out of her skin when Charles hailed her from the opposite direction.
“Sorry, Annabelle!” he said, laughing at her obvious surprise. “I didn’t mean to scare you. You’re nervous as the old coyote himself, this morning.”
Annabelle smiled, remembering the night he had caught her at Edmund’s house looking for clues.
“You remember Richter, of course,” Charles gesturing toward the visiting Master who was standing a little behind him.
“Of course,” said Annabelle, turning to smile at Richter. In spite of her suspicions, Annabelle forced herself to look him full in the face. He merely touched his hunt cap coldly at her in response, clearly not interested in making small-talk, even with a Master’s wife.
“We need to talk to Nick about today’s plans. Is he around?” asked Charles.
“He should be in the dressing room on the other side of the trailer,” answered Annabelle, still looking at Richter Davenport despite his cool reception.
As the two young men made their way to look for her husband, Annabelle stopped smiling. “I’ll find a way to talk to you today whether you like it or not,” she thought grimly to herself.
The Meet was scheduled to start promptly at 9:00 although, as usual, a few latecomers had to be accommodated. The Masters welcomed everyone and hoped for a good day’s sport, and just before the Huntsman turned to trot away with the pack, Warren asked for a moment of silence.
“Let’s pause a moment to remember our late Master, Edmund Evans,” he said, removing his hunt cap and holding it against his heart. “This is Hill County’s first Closing Hunt without him in over thirty years,” he said quietly. “May his spirit be with us today!”
“Amen!” said the other Masters. Everyone lowered their eyes for a few moments except Annabelle who looked up without raising her head in a covert-attempt to gauge the reaction of the Master of the Waterford Hounds. As usual, his face was an inscrutable mask as he replaced his hunt cap and prepared to ride off at Charles’ side.
Annabelle took her place just behind Warren at the head of the Second Flight. She toyed with the idea of moving up to First. She looked at Samson’s ears that were pricked forward, interested but not worried, and felt he seemed capable of doing whatever she asked. But, since Davenport would be riding somewhere with Charles and possibly not with the First Flight anyway, it seemed pointless to change. She was slightly disappointed in herself for this was her last chance of the season. But, as she had told herself before, this was hardly her last season to hunt and she would feel it when the time came to take that first coop.
Warren led them at a brisk, comfortable trot through the woods and Annabelle looked around her at the budding trees. The Tennessee hills were donning their spring wardrobe even as the hunt chased the last of winter down the curving, rocky path. Annabelle could hear the soft voices of her fellow hunters behind her, chatting and laughing irreverently as they would never have done when the weather was cool and a hard run was anticipated around every corner. Then the hounds struck for a brief time and all talking ceased as the surprised hunters settled in for a gallop, but very soon the hounds were quiet again, having lost the scent after a few moments in the rapidly warming air.
The Second Flight made their way out of the woods and down onto one of the few paved roads in the Hill County territory. Although pavement was by no means the preferred footing for fox hunting—the Hunt threw up its collective hands every time another road was ‘ruined’ by the County Commission—Annabelle liked to hear the sound of trotting hooves as they clattered down the blacktop.
Her earlier nervousness now past, she listened to this peculiar music and forgot everything else momentarily. She was just thinking how she would miss this particular sound over the summer when she noticed the Hill County Sheriff’s car moving slowly down the road ahead of the hunt. She could see Sheriff Noah’s broad form inside and her previous excitement returned in an instant. The Sheriff braked the car as soon as he saw riders in his rearview mirror. Annabelle waved a brief acknowledgement to Warren who made no attempt to hide his surprise when she trotted past him to the Sheriff’s car. She jumped to the ground and leaned into the open window, holding Samson’s reins in one hand.
“Hello, Mrs. Farley!” said Sheriff Noah, heartily. “I’m sure glad we found you guys! Didn’t you tell me that fellow Richter Davenport is out here today?”
Annabelle could hardly believe her ears. “Yes, Sheriff, he’s riding up ahead with one of the other Masters.”
“Well, we need to take him in for questioning. You were right about Tiller. As soon as we mentioned Davenport he knew we had him. Squealed like a stuck pig—and guess who he claims put him up to it? Davenport!”
CHAPTER XXIV
FIRST FLIGHT
Annabelle felt her heart constrict with a strange dread now that her hypothesis seemed proven correct, at last. She tried to hold Samson close to Sheriff Noah’s police car, her labored breathing causing him to pull away slightly as he sensed some fear in his rider.
“Mrs. Farley, if Davenport is here today, I’d like to take him in for questioning.”
Annabelle snapped out of her reverie and urged Samson back to the car window. “He’s here, Sheriff, probably with the First Flight.”
Sheriff Noah made no reply for a moment. He had no idea what she meant by First Flight, but he did know what he needed from Mrs. Farley right now. “Could you point him out to me? The man doesn’t seem to like to be photographed.” “And I would never recognize anybody in this fox hunting ‘get up’, anyway, the Sheriff thought to himself.
Annabelle turned and cantered back to Warren, who was still holding the Second Flight group on the paved road.
“Warren, where is First Flight right now?” asked Annabelle, breathlessly, as she pulled Samson to a halt beside him.
“They’re not far ahead of us on the road, right in front of the cross-roads by the Masterson farm. Billy is drawing that good covert to the left. Why? What on earth is going on, Annabelle?”
Annabelle saw her friend’s worried expression and smiled what she hoped was a reassuring one. “I’m just helping the police with something minor. I’ll be right back,” she said over her shoulder as she cantered back to Sheriff Noah.
“What?” called Warren after her, his usual quiet and dignified manner for once deserting him.
Annabelle didn’t answer. She cantered as fast as she dared on the paved roadway—something she had rarely done with Samson because of the danger to both horse and rider presented by the hard, slick surface. Samson’s initial surprise at his rider’s change in attitude had by now turned to excitement. He stopped reluctantly this time, dancing a little beside the open window of the police car.
“If he’s stil
l with Charles Collins, then they’re somewhere close to First Flight up ahead.”
“I need you to point him out to me, Mrs. Farley,” said the Sheriff.
“I can lead you to there, Sheriff, but I’m not sure he’ll be with them.” There was no way Annabelle would volunteer to try to track down riders like Collins and Davenport.
“Just do what you can. I’d like to interview this guy before he finds out we’ve got Tiller. With his money, he could go practically anywhere in the world in a matter of just a few hours.”
They agreed that Annabelle would trot casually up to First Flight as if she were simply joining them at a ‘check’, then try to approach Davenport and ride beside him long enough for Sheriff Noah to pick him out of the crowd. Noah would give Annabelle a few minutes, and then he’d pull in behind the riders as if he were conducting his normal patrol of the area and needed the hunters to move over to let his vehicle pass.
As Annabelle trotted away from the Sheriff and the security of Warren and Second Flight, she found herself wishing for Edmund’s counsel and encouragement. As many times as she had envisioned the day when she would finally ride Samson in First Flight, she had never dreamed of a circumstance like this. In recent months, her plans had always included having Edmund nearby. She had only a moment to wonder, yet again, about his disappearance before she saw those bringing up the rear in First Flight just ahead of her with the rest of the group out of sight around the curve of the road.
“Hey, it’s Annabelle!” said one of the hunters before being ‘shushed’ by a more prudent comrade. Fox Hunters are expected to wait quietly while the hounds search a covert for game so as not to distract them from their work.
“Hey, girl, you joining us?” asked the same friendly hunter, this time in a lower tone.
“I thought I might,” said Annabelle, trying to seem as matter-of-fact as she could manage. “By the way, have you seen Charles and Richter Davenport lately?”
The rider, who was removing his flask from its leather holder in order to show Annabelle a bit of First Flight hospitality, answered immediately, “Oh, yes. Charles has been leading the Flight and Davenport has ‘stayed in his pocket’ the whole time. They’re right up there around the corner,” he gestured. “Liquid courage?” he offered with a smile.
If you only knew, thought Annabelle, taking the flask and drinking a quick, but serious, swallow. “Thanks,” she said, wiping her mouth with her glove. “I’ve got to get a message to someone,” she added as she began to weave her way to the front. She was immensely relieved that Davenport was not off beyond her reach.
Annabelle tried to make her approach quietly, but her many friends had to greet her and whisper their congratulations and approval of her decision in joining them. About half of them passed their flasks into her hand, and both good manners and good acting dictated her acceptance of each one. Nothing would arouse suspicion quite like Annabelle refusing a drink. It took far longer than she had expected for her to reach the front of the group, but when she finally did she saw Davenport sitting on his horse next to Charles, a little away from the rest as he usually seemed to prefer.
Her rather dramatic progress to the head of the line had not failed to arouse the attention of the leaders and both men turned to look at Annabelle as she walked Samson toward them—Charles with a welcoming smile and Davenport with boredom and annoyance.
Charles rode forward a few steps to meet her. “Well, Annabelle! I’m so glad you’ve come up to join us at last. Samson will do fine. You just stay right behind Richter and me. We’ll help her, won’t we, Rich?” He turned to grin at Davenport. “You know, Annabelle’s really a good rider, but I was beginning to think she’d never ride up here with me. Now, today, she finally decides…”
There was some movement in the rear of the group. As Charles was speaking the sound of a car engine could be heard on the road. “ ‘Ware car,” said Charles to his Flight as the Sheriff’s car came slowly into view.
Annabelle’s eyes went immediately to Davenport. He had flinched ever-so-slightly when he saw the police car come around the bend, but, otherwise, his inscrutable face betrayed no emotion until he caught Annabelle’s eye and saw that she was watching him. Although she tried to look away, the intensity of his gaze held her spellbound. As many times as they had met, Annabelle had never felt Davenport’s attention focused in her direction until now. The look in his eyes was one of such utter hatred and cruelty that instinctively she began to back Samson away. In the next instant, Davenport turned his thoroughbred and, giving it a firm slap on the rump, disappeared off of the road and into the woods.
CHAPTER XXV
THE HUNTER BECOMES THE PREY
It was a long moment before someone reacted. To the surprise of both the fox hunters and Sheriff Noah, that
‘someone’ was Annabelle Farley. Giving a kick to Samson like he’d never felt before, she turned the big horse on a dime and galloped into the woods after Richter Davenport.
The hateful, warning look Davenport had given her pierced Annabelle’s heart and had proven to her, more eloquently than clues or evidence ever could, that this was the man who had taken the life of her dear friend. She knew in that split-second when he dashed into the covert that she would never forgive herself if she sat prudently on her horse, ruled by fear and self-interest, and let Edmund’s killer get away.
Now, as the branches tore at her Melton jacket and scratched her velvet cap, Annabelle sat her hips down in the saddle and leaned her head and shoulders along Samson’s neck. She had glimpsed the back of Davenport’s scarlet coat for a mere second, so leapt into the woods after giving Samson another firm kick that sent him hard after the other horse. Never was Annabelle more grateful for his willingness to obey her without argument.
Despite Davenport’s big head start, Samson’s huge strides put them in sight of the thoroughbred in just a few seconds. When Annabelle saw the scarlet coat within some one hundred yards, she gave him an encouraging cluck and growled to him, “Come on, boy!” The horse responded by giving her a burst of speed, understanding now that he was chasing the horse in front of him. Not imagining himself pursued, Davenport had pulled out of the thick covert and onto one of the rocky trails used by the Hill County Hounds. Samson’s huge hooves slipped on the limestone imbedded in the path and he sat back on his haunches to balance himself down a shallow incline.
Unfortunately, Annabelle’s cry of encouragement had alerted Davenport to her presence. He glanced quickly over his shoulder—not too quickly for Annabelle to note the look of surprise followed by a disdainful sneer as he recognized his pursuer. He didn’t bother to increase his already considerable pace, but headed for the end of the woodland path and out into an open field.
Annabelle knew the Guilford country and realized that Davenport was heading for a stretch of open pasture where his thoroughbred could quickly outdistance a heavier horse. She rose slightly in the stirrups to take as much of her weight off of Samson’s back as possible, and struck him firmly behind her leg with the end of the hunt crop she still clutched in her hand. The startled Samson shot forward out of the woods and into the pasture, almost unseating Annabelle who scrambled to regain her balance. She could still see Davenport ahead, halfway across the big field. Suddenly, he turned sharply to the left and it was as if he disappeared into the very earth.
Samson was now following Davenport without need of much guidance from Annabelle, and he immediately began cutting to the left to shorten the distance between himself and the other horse. As he did, Annabelle remembered where they were and realized what had caused Davenport to vanish from view. They were almost to a steep drop-off that even the boldest riders avoided.
She felt herself instantly cold and sweating in her Melton, her hands slick with perspiration beneath her thin, white gloves. She wanted desperately to pull Samson back from the crest, but was equally afraid of interfering with his balance. She sat back in the saddle, putting her feet far forward and lengthening her reins, trying t
o stay out of her horse’s mouth and help steady him as much as she could. Samson didn’t hesitate, and engaged his huge haunches to propel them quickly down the slope. His naturally careful nature was vying with his instinct to run and catch up with the horse ahead of him. As a compromise, he slowed down only slightly as they followed Davenport.
Annabelle fought the urge to close her eyes and then wished she hadn’t. Davenport had flown fearlessly down at a full gallop and she immediately saw what looked like a gigantic coop at the foot of the hill. Davenport never slowed his mount, but flew effortlessly over and out of sight.
When Davenport disappeared yet again, Samson increased his pace in an attempt to keep the other horse in view. Annabelle was terrified. In the few seconds it took for Samson to collect and approach the jump, a hundred thoughts passed through her mind, none of them happy. “Should I try to pull him up, or would that do more harm than good at this point? What if he stopped at the bottom of the coop?” Given the speed at which they were approaching it, there was no way she would be able to maintain her seat. She imagined herself thrown head-first over the coop onto the pavement. “Pavement?” To her horror, she saw that the jump’s landing was almost directly onto a roadway.
In reality, Annabelle grabbed a handful of Samson’s generous mane and held on for dear life with both legs. As for Samson, he didn’t even consider stopping at the coop. He merely patted the ground lightly on takeoff and used his big hindquarters to power them smoothly over to the other side. He landed squarely on the pavement, skidding only slightly for a moment before lunging forward into a gallop after Richter Davenport. Annabelle’s heart felt as if it would burst from relief, pride, and renewed determination. She sat deep in the saddle and urged Samson on, not caring now if Davenport or anyone else heard her voice.
The Masters Ball Page 16