The fleeing Master had not stayed on the paved road for more than a few seconds and had turned back into the safety of the woods. He glanced back at Annabelle only once, as if surprised she had managed to follow, though still unconcerned, much like an experienced coyote judging the relative danger of a particular pack of hounds.
He led Annabelle over coop after coop and, despite losing her stirrups over one more difficult, she continued to pursue him closely. With survival now her chief goal she had little time to think of the consequences of actually catching Davenport. They were galloping along the edge of a steep ravine, Samson scrambling to stay on his feet as they slid over rock after rock. Annabelle saw he was having much more difficulty than he’d had at the beginning of their chase, and realized to her dismay that he was starting to tire.
She was proud of him. Nothing in their experience together had remotely prepared him for such a run, yet he had handled the stress like an old pro. But, now he was winded. His sides and chest were covered with lather, and the reins were soggy from the perspiration of both horse and rider.
Then, it seemed to Annabelle that Davenport, too, was slowing. The distance between them diminished until she was only a few horse lengths behind him. He whirled to face her, holding his dancing, straining thoroughbred on a tight rein. “All right, you stupid bitch, here I am. What do you want from me?”
Annabelle’s initial shock at being confronted by her prey quickly gave way to the anger she had felt at the beginning of the chase. “You killed Edmund Evans!” she practically spat the words at Davenport.
“So what if I did!” said Davenport, now moving his horse forward toward Annabelle. “You’re a fool to interfere in my business!”
In a flash, Davenport pulled alongside Samson and struck him violently across the flanks with his hunting crop. Samson darted forward and sideways, his back feet scrambling for purchase on the edge of the ravine. For a few seconds it felt as if he would surely slip backwards down the precipice, but he used his massive shoulders and neck to pull himself back onto the path. Annabelle shifted her weight forward in the saddle to help him regain his balance, and took off at a gallop away from Davenport.
She didn’t get far. Davenport had a faster mount, was much the superior rider, and was buoyed by the confidence of a killer who had killed before. He easily caught up with Samson and began to shove his horse into Samson’s shoulder, forcing him to the left and off the edge of the path. Samson tried to lunge forward, away from the other horse, but when he did, his left front hoof slipped across a rock in the path and he went down on his nose. Annabelle fell forward onto his neck which pulled him further off balance, and as he attempted to right himself, she felt the reins jerked out of her hands.
She forced herself to look at Davenport’s face one last time. It was all there—annoyance, cruelty, hatred, even pride in what he was about to accomplish. Now holding her horse’s reins, he pushed Samson backward toward the edge of the path, only a few feet to the edge of the ravine. Samson, tired as he was, leaned his giant body away from it, but Davenport raised his hands so that the horse’s head was pushed up in the air, using the weight of his head and shoulders against him. Samson’s back feet dug into the edge of the precipice.
Later, Annabelle would try many times to relate what happened in those next few moments and always said the hardest thing to describe was the uncanny stillness that seemed to descend on the forest. Seconds before, the striking of the horses’ hooves and the grunts of their struggles had mixed with other woodland noises, filling the air with sounds. But, suddenly, the forest had become quiet as a grave.
Annabelle saw the blood leave Davenport’s face as he dropped Samson’s reins. She still had one hand clutching a handful of mane as she struggled to regain control of her horse. Only when she had the reins securely back in her own hands did she look up to see what had startled Davenport.
On the path, not ten feet away, stood Edmund Evans in his scarlet attire, solid and real as ever he was in life. Davenport made a strangled sound and yanked his horse brutally backward away from the apparition.
Edmund approached him purposefully with one hand raised in a gesture that could be either a threat or blessing, his face a study in grim determination.
Annabelle watched transfixed as Edmund pressed the frightened horse and rider closer and closer to the precipice. Davenport’s face was frozen in a grimace of terror, his arrogance for once deserting him. Edmund lifted his hand toward the horse’s bridle, and when he did, the frightened thoroughbred reared on its hind legs and pawed at him with its front feet, rolling his eyes like a mad thing. The horse’s hooves passed right through Edmund’s body. As solid as he appeared, here was proof of his existence only as a spirit.
Finding his pawing to no avail the horse reared again and, to Annabelle’s astonishment, threw Davenport off of his back and sent him tumbling toward the rocky chasm.
Annabelle sat limply on her tired horse. Edmund stepped back from the edge and gave Annabelle a wide, triumphant smile. Then, he slowly disappeared.
CHAPTER XXVI
MASTERS BALL
By the time Nick and Charles located Annabelle, curiosity had mastered fear and fatigue. She had dismounted and crept carefully to the edge of the ravine. Holding Samson’s reins, she peered over the side of the bluff to discover the fate of Richter Davenport. She could see a limp form wearing a scarlet coat about halfway down the steep descent, his fall appearing to have been broken by one of the huge hardwood trees growing on the slope. Opinions would differ as to whether the tree’s intervention was a good or a bad thing for Davenport. Although it very probably saved his life by keeping him safe from the rocks below, the blow to his head apparently affected his brain in a permanent fashion. Forever afterward he would claim he had been forced off of the cliff by Edmund Evans who, as everyone knew, had been dead for three months.
Apart from these delusions, Davenport was amazingly unhurt, suffering only a broken arm despite having taken a fall that could certainly have killed him. In fact, he regained consciousness as he was being loaded onto the stretcher by the emergency medical crew. A Med-Flight helicopter had been dispatched as soon as Charles called 911 on his cell phone, and Davenport had begun mumbling about Edmund Evans to anyone who would listen—the doctors, Charles, even Annabelle who promptly refused medical attention if it involved being transported in the same helicopter with “that murderer”.
It would take several weeks for Sheriff Noah to discover all of the connections between the two murders and he lost no time in communicating the sordid story to Annabelle. When he found out Davenport’s motive, his belief that fox hunters were crazy was thoroughly reinforced. But Annabelle, understanding fox hunting as she did, was not particularly surprised.
Andrew Tiller had been more than willing to ‘rat out’ his old boss in return for a reduced punishment for his part in the murder of Felicia Blackwell. According to Tiller, Davenport and the Waterford Hounds had fallen victim to a fox hunter’s greatest enemy—the land developer. Their hunt country had been slowly eroded by housing subdivisions. Davenport’s arrogant attitude had done little to endear him or his hounds to the local landowners, and some had sold their property just to thwart him.
Edmund Evans’ charm had made the Hill County territory safe from encroaching development, and their 40,000 acres of game-filled hills were too much of a temptation for Davenport. He installed Tiller to work for Edmund with the mission to find out about Hill County’s arrangements with its landowners, willing to purchase the territory if necessary. However, Tiller’s observations confirmed that as long as Edmund was alive, no landowner in the Hill County hunt country would dream of selling to an outside Master.
So, Davenport booked a room at the Pierre Hotel on the night of the Masters Ball knowing Edmund would be in attendance. He hadn’t dressed for the Ball, himself, and no one had noticed an ordinary looking tourist among the peacocks in scarlet. He waited until Edmund was alone and gave him a powerful shove down
the famous staircase.
With Edmund and his influence out of the way, Davenport had then set about attempting to purchase Hill County territory from the largest landowner in the area— Felicia Blackwell. It took only a vague illusion to realize she wasn’t about to sell, so he dropped the subject before anyone could become suspicious. He then took the next logical step of contacting her nephew and heir who was far more receptive to Davenport’s offer. In fact, he agreed to sell all 10,000 acres to him as soon as he inherited. Davenport then used Tiller’s proximity to Felicia to shorten the old lady’s life.
In return for this information, the prosecution agreed not to seek the death penalty in Tiller’s case. His lawyers considered this a victory under the circumstances, and he pled guilty to one count of murder and received a sentence of life in prison.
As for Davenport, he was indicted on a long list of charges, that included first degree murder, conspiracy to commit murder, and solicitation of murder. However, his continued insistence that he had been attacked by Edmund Evans, and his unshakable belief that Evans would again “try to come back for him” at some point, made an insanity plea a natural choice for his defense attorney. He was committed permanently to a state institution for the criminally insane, a fate of which he had no argument as long as his caretakers promised to protect him from Edmund Evans.
As for Annabelle Farley and the Hill County Hounds, both continued their pursuit of coyotes, uninterrupted. Charles Collins approached Felicia’s nephew about purchasing the land that was now his in Hill County, and within a month following Davenport’s arrest he was not only the youngest Master of Hill County Hounds, but also its largest landholder. He further distinguished himself by placing the entire parcel in an irrevocable trust so that it would never be developed, ensuring enjoyment by fox hunters for generations to come.
Annabelle was never able to explain her involvement in the whole matter to anyone’s satisfaction, so she uncharacteristically avoided the limelight when she could have legitimately claimed the status of ‘heroine’, at last. Despite her successful cross-country pursuit of Davenport, she continued to ride with the Second Flight the following season, confident she could jump as high and gallop as fast as anyone in the hunt field, but trusted Warren Fitzpatrick’s hunting expertise to put her consistently in the best spot to view a coyote.
When Edmund Evans’ ghostly form did not appear again, Annabelle assumed his mission to find his killer had been accomplished and he had gone on to hunt with Ronnie Wallace, the Duke of Beaufort, and other great departed fox hunters. In fact, when the date of the Masters’ Ball rolled around again, Annabelle had almost convinced herself Edmund had never appeared at all.
This year, New York City was not as cold as it had been the night of Annabelle’s first Masters Ball and the ladies almost agreed to walk the short distance from the Plaza to the Pierre Hotel alongside their husbands. They had only traveled a few feet down the sidewalk of 59th Street when Annabelle spotted the now-famous rickshaw and stopped to flag down the driver.
“Come on, girls!” she said with a grin. “It’s tradition!” With much protest, Marguerite and Shelley followed their friend into the weird little conveyance, and to the amusement of their husbands, were whisked away to the Pierre by the struggling driver.
The Pierre had lost none of its glamour during the previous year. In fact, its penthouse apartment had recently sold for over $70 million. As Annabelle looked about the fabulous lobby she wished for a moment that she could live there herself, but quickly dismissed the idea when she realized that Samson and the terriers would have no place to run.
As the three couples crossed in front of the fateful staircase, Annabelle tightly squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. She was determined to shed no tears that night. She had done all she could for Edmund and, wherever he was, he knew he had never had a truer friend on either side of the firmament.
“Would you look at that?” said Shelley, interrupting Annabelle’s noble thoughts. “I’m proud for Edmund! Don’t you know he would love being immortalized at the Pierre!
The little group stopped at the bottom of the staircase. The powers-that-be at the hotel had installed a discreet brass plaque on the banister at the foot of the stairs where Edmund had died. It was tastefully engraved with the words, “In memory of Edmund Jay Evans, 1936–2003”.
“That’s lovely,” said Marguerite, her head bowed respectfully as she read the engraving. Then she looked up and grinned mischievously. “Who knew he was that old?” she asked. And the group moved off into the dining area, discussing their old friend’s amazing ability to hide his age all those years.
The Hill County group located their assigned seating, and then paired off to the dance floor. Annabelle looked up at the chairs where officials of the MFHA were seated, along with their spouses. If Nick Farley continued to distinguish himself as he had done in recent months, there would no doubt come the day when Annabelle would find herself among that elite company. She should have been pleased by the idea, and she was, but she couldn’t deny that something was missing.
She danced with one of her favorite partners, Charles Collins, who spun and twirled her across the floor in such a professional manner that other couples stopped dancing and stepped aside to watch them. After he dipped her almost to the floor in a finale, the crowd clapped and the band announced their first break. Charles and Annabelle stood together for a moment, catching their breath.
“Thanks for the dance, Annabelle,” said Charles, patting her shoulder.
“Thank you—you know I love dancing.”
“Yes, I do know,” said Charles, “but you don’t seem your usual cheerful-self tonight.”
Annabelle looked down, embarrassed that her attempt at gaiety had been such an obvious failure. “It’s just that none of this seems quite right without Edmund.”
Charles shook his head sympathetically and tucked Annabelle’s arm beneath his own, preparing to escort her from the dance floor. “I know he meant a great deal to you, Annabelle. We all miss him, but life goes on. Think of all you have to look forward to this spring. The racing season is almost here—in fact, it’s time we began planning the Iroquois.”
“The Iroquois? Edmund was a big part that race for so many years! Planning it without him will just make me miss him more.”
“Oh, Annabelle, you’ve got to snap out of this! Edmund lived a full life and now he’s gone on to another. It’s not right for you to keep feeling this way.”
Annabelle listened half-heartedly, knowing he was only trying to help her. He couldn’t possibly understand that while everyone else had had a year to get used to life without Edmund Evans, she’d had only had a few months! She was about to thank him again for the dance and make her way back to the table when she glimpsed a familiar sight out of the corner of her eye. She stood frozen for a moment, causing Charles to pull away from her as he continued to walk.
“Annabelle?” his voice full of concern when he realized she had stopped. “Are you all right?”
Annabelle was staring at one of the mirrored columns that lined the dance floor of the Pierre. Casually leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest was the tall, elegant figure of Edmund Evans dressed in white tie and scarlet tailcoat. He gave Annabelle a broad grin and a long, slow wink.
“Yes, Charles,” said Annabelle, recovering her composure and looking up at him with her happiest smile, “I think everything is just fine.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
There are several people without whom the writing and publishing of this book would never have been a reality. The first who comes to mind is my friend and former paralegal, Lisa Bullock, who painstakingly typed the original document from longhand and even claimed to enjoy it. The second is my riding instructor, Ken Keister, who introduced me to fox hunting and then taught me how to stay alive while enjoying my new sport.
Another is Andrea Garrett, my first fox hunting buddy and fellow literary enthusiast, whose encouragement and friendship
has helped me in so many areas of my life, of which writing is only one.
I also owe a debt of gratitude to Henry Hooker, MFH, who introduced me to fox hunting in the hills of Tennessee and was the first reader of the completed manuscript of The Masters Ball. If he hadn’t given my scribbles a good review, you wouldn’t be reading this now.
Many thanks to Larry and Jerry Pefferly for believing in me and pushing me to get this project completed and for Jerry’s invaluable help in editing the final product, and to the great Poppy Hall for her priceless artwork.
And finally, much love and thanks to Albert Menefee III and his beautiful wife, my dear friend Theresa, for the best fox hunting “home” a hunter could wish for – The Cedar Knob Hounds!
The Masters Ball Page 17