BLINDFOLD

by Lyndon Stacey

  Gideon had seen little of Giles since leaving university some ten years before, until a chance meeting at Salisbury- races six months ago had thrown them together again. Gideon had been there discussing a possible future portrait commission with an owner, and on hearing that he was temporarily between lodgings, Giles had offered him the Gatehouse for as long as he needed.

  Now, as Gideon stepped off the bike and propped it on its stand, a young woman came out of one of the old, ivy-clad stables, leading a horse. Pippa Barrington-Carr, younger sister of Giles, was tall, well-built, and possessed a pair of fine hazel eyes and a short mop of unruly curls that had originally been light brown but which changed hue with startling frequency as the whim took her. Today they were auburn.

  `Hi, Pips.'

  `Hi, yourself,' she responded, squinting against the winter sunlight as she crossed the yard towards him. `I hope I didn't get you out of bed this morning.'

  `No,' Gideon disclaimed airily. Then more truthfully, `Well, yes, actually. But I didn't get in it until past four this morning, so I think I'm excused.'

  `Why, for heavensakes?' Pippa exclaimed. `What happened?' `Tell you over lunch. Is that the mare you wanted me to try?' `Yes.' Pippa stood her up for Gideon to look at. `She'd just suit you, wouldn't you, Cassie?'

  `She's not a Cassie!' Gideon protested, regarding the mare's ample proportions. `Cassie's a slim young thing with flowing hair. She's built like a Russian female shot-putter. More of an Olga than a Cassie!'

  `Oh, don't listen to him,' Pippa told the horse. `He's just a male chauvinist pig. Big can be beautiful too.'

  `Oh, I agree. Some of those shot-putters are real stunners.' Pippa tossed her curls. `It's too late now, the damage is done. Come on, Cassie, let's find you some grass.' She led the mare out ' through the arch, saying over her shoulder that she would only be a minute.

  With an infinitely practical mind, a good head for business and a degree in catering, Pippa could easily have been a high flyer in the world of society parties and wedding receptions but chose instead to follow her heart, buying, training and selling potential three-day-eventers for a living.

  Gideon sat back against the Norton to await her return, looking up at the golden stone walls and mullioned windows of the house. The sun glinted on the tiny diamonds of the leaded lights, and way up on the roof two fantail doves were basking in its rays. The Priory wore time like an old coat; creased and a little shabby, but _ with an air of comfort and serenity. Gideon loved it.

  In a very short time Pippa was back, walking with an energetic mannish stride, the lead rope swinging from one strong brown hand. As always she reminded Gideon sharply of her brother. Three years separated them but they could easily have been twins.

  Right, let's go get some lunch,' she said, draping the rope over the nearest open half-door and turning back to Gideon.

  `My God! What have you done to your face?'

  `I walked into a door,' he said with partial truth.

  Pippa wasn't amused. `Don't be silly. Was this something to do with last night?'

  `Let's go in,' he suggested. `I'll tell you both together.'

  `But it doesn't make sense!' Giles protested for the fourth or fifth time. They had eaten lunch and were sitting round the scrubbed oak table in the Priory's huge kitchen, drinking coffee. `Why would anybody steal a stallion in the middle of the night and use it to cover just one mare? It's such a risk. I mean, stallion fees aren't that huge, are they?'

  Pippa shook her head. `Not unless you're talking about a Derby winner or something. But thoroughbreds have to be registered. What's the point of breeding a potential top-class racehorse if you can't race it?'

  `They stole Shergar.'

  `That was political,' Pippa pointed out. `I don't think they ever intended to use him.'

  ,I suppose they couldn't forge its papers?' Giles suggested, a frown on his good-natured face.

  Pippa shook her head emphatically.

  `Not a chance. Thoroughbred breeding is a multi-millionpound business. The official studbook is kept at Weatherbys and they monitor everything. Foals are blood-tested to prove paternity. A stallion can't even break wind without them knowing about it. It's a watertight system. It has to be.'

  Gideon nodded. `She's right. But I'm like you, I can't think what on earth they were up to. I mean, they went to a hell of a lot of trouble, didn't they?'

  `They certainly did,' Giles agreed, glancing at Gideon's bruised countenance. `They must have heard how much you charge!' `Very funny.' Gideon pushed back his chair and stretched his long legs out, feeling drowsy. The old black range was pumping out heat and, well fed, his lack of sleep was catching up with him.

  Black-beamed, with warm ochre walls and an assortment of rugs on the uneven flagstones, the old kitchen was one of the cosiest places he knew. Herbs hung in fragrant bunches from the ceiling, and onions on the back of the door. Opposite the table, three ancient armchairs and a large dog bed completed the furnishings.

  `How did they get in, do you know?' Giles' voice brought Gideon back from the brink of nodding off.

  `No. No sign of damage. I don't know if you can pick those old locks. Or perhaps they got through the studio window; that catch is very loose. Whatever, I shouldn't think it was the first time they'd done it. The tall one in particular was very slick.'

  `So where did they let you go, in the end?'

  `Down that track to the gravel pits,' Gideon told him. `Sans boots.'

  `Oh, for heavensakes!' Pippa said. `What did the police say?' She scanned his face. `You didn't call them, did you?'

  "Well, no,' Gideon admitted, sheepishly. `To tell the truth, I didn't even think of it last night. All I wanted was my bed.' `Don't blame you,' Giles said.

  `And this morning it all seemed - well - rather daft. I mean, I'm still here, aren't I? More or less in one piece. What are the police going to do about it?'

  `I still think you should report it,' Pippa said. `It's assault, after all.'

  `Maybe I will.' He decided against telling them that he had been warned in no uncertain manner to forget the whole affair.

  A door opened to admit a dumpy, bustling person with short grey hair and glasses. Formerly Giles' and Pippa's nanny, now their capable housekeeper, Mrs Morecambe was a treasure, and if her rosy cheeks owed more to the occasional drop of spirits than simple blooming health, it was never spoken of.

  She came now from the laundry room, which had originally been the scullery, with her sleeves rolled up and an apron over her navy blue tunic dress, and immediately busied herself collecting empty plates and mugs and offering more coffee, which was declined.

  She gathered the last of the crockery and turned towards the sink, saying as she did so that one of the terriers had brought a rat into the boot room and if anybody thought she was going to remove it they had better think again.

  Giles' brace of terriers, Yip and Yap, were the bane of the household. If they weren't under somebody's feet it was invariably because they were up to no good elsewhere, and they seemed to delight in baiting Mrs Morecambe.

  Pippa, whose own black Labrador, Fanny, was presently laid up with two-week-old pups, was strongly of the opinion that Yip and Yap should have been taken firmly in hand long ago. She regularly applied to Gideon, asking - tongue in cheek - if he couldn't have ,a word' with them. However, Giles regarded their antics rather in the manner of an indulgent uncle, saying that they were terriers; one didn't train terriers.

  In due course, the three of them wandered out to the stableyard evicting both terriers and rat, en route, and Giles soon returned to the subject of Gideon's abduction.

  `Pippa's right, you know. You really ought to go to the police. I mean they could have killed you. The horse could have killed you, for that matter!'

  `I don't think they even considered that,' Gideon said. `They seemed to think that all they had to do was get me there and the horse was as good as caught. I mean, I wasn't even told it was a stallion to start with. It was as though they did
n't think it was important.'

  'Gideon Blake, witchdoctor and animal tamer extraordinaire!' Pippa teased him. `Your reputation precedes you.'

  `I wonder if anyone's reported a stallion missing,' Gideon said, ignoring her. `Perhaps I will contact the police, after all.'

  `But surely the stallion could have come from anywhere? It may not have been local.'

  Gideon shook his head. `If it was stolen - and that's the only reason I can think of for all the deadly secrecy and the strong-arm tactics - then they wouldn't want it on their hands for very long, especially a half-wild creature like that one. No, they were in pretty much of a hurry. Why else would they take the risk of abducting me? I mean, given time the stallion would have calmed down of its own accord and they could've caught it with a bucketful of food.'

  `You said the boss chap kept saying they'd been there too long, as well,' Giles pointed out. `So you can bet they didn't own the place. It must've been an empty barn or something. Maybe up for sale.'

  Pippa shivered. `If that horse had attacked you, I bet they'd just have left you there. You might not've been found for weeks.'

  `Thanks for that,' Gideon retorted. He'd skipped some of the details concerning the capture of the horse, for his own comfort, but it would be a long time before the deep bruising in his shoulder would let him forget.

  ' `Well, I just think you should tell the police and let them deal with it. It's their job, after all.'

  `I wonder why they wouldn't let you take the blindfold off after you got there,' Giles pondered. `I mean, it's not likely you'd recognise the inside of a barn, is it?'

  They had reached the yard and were sitting variously on the stone mounting block and the hitching rail, enjoying the last of the sun.

  `Maybe they thought he'd recognise one of the people. Or the horse,' Pippa suggested, drawn into the mystery again despite herself.

  Gideon shook his head. `I'm pretty sure I didn't know the horse,' he stated. `I don't think it's one I've worked with.' Pippa squinted at him against the sunlight. `How can you be sure with a blindfold on?'

  `I don't know,' Gideon said. `I can't explain it. It's just a feeling.'

  `The people, then.'

  Gideon shrugged. `Who knows? I've certainly never met Curly

  and his pal before.' He paused reflectively. `I wouldn't mind meeting them again though, in the right circumstances.'

  `If you go looking, give me a call,' Giles said, a martial light in his eye.

  Pippa groaned, rolling her eyes heavenwards. `Oh, God, give me strength! This isn't a game, you know. These people are criminals. Leave it to the police.'

  `Okay, Pips,' Gideon said fondly, sliding off the hitching rail. `Well, I'd better be on my way if I'm going to tell my sad tale to Her Majesty's Finest.'

  `And get that cut stitched,' Pippa advised as they walked towards his motorbike. `Have you had an anti-tet?'

  `Yes, Mother,' Gideon said gravely. `And I've washed behind my ears, too.'

  `Well, you men, you need looking after! You're like overgrown school kids.'

  `Ouch, she's got a sharp tongue, that one! You want to get her married off before she turns into a harridan or else you'll be stuck with her,' he warned Giles.

  The gathering broke up in a welter of insults and Gideon was still chuckling as he rode home.

  The following day, with no urgent business to pursue, no appointments, and no particular desire to paint for painting's sake, Gideon found himself on the Norton, bound approximately north and west.

  It wasn't really a conscious decision. He'd felt like taking the bike out, having a vague notion that he might buy some replacement boots, and somewhere along the line the idea of discovering the whereabouts of the infamous barn had suggested itself.

  Recalling the direction and the first few turnings the van had taken, he knew roughly which way to start out, and an estimate of speed and the duration of the journey combined to give him an idea of the probable radius. It was worth a try, he thought.

  When he'd called the local police in Blandford the previous evening, they had asked Gideon to go in to the station to give a statement and reluctantly he'd obliged.

  Once there, it had been several minutes before he could convince the duty officer that his complaint had nothing to do with a brawl between two motorcycle gangs which had apparently shattered the peace in Blandford the night before. He supposed it was understandable, especially with his battered face, but no less annoying for all that. So many people took one look at his longish blond hair, jeans and motorbike gear, and labelled him Trouble. He'd even been refused service in pubs before now. He knew he'd cause less consternation if he had his hair cut but something inside him rebelled at the idea of giving in to the pressure of unfair pigeonholing.

  The officers to whom he had eventually related his experiences were polite but a little sceptical, and Gideon was left with the feeling that they suspected him of knowing more than he was saying.

  He wished he did.

  His grievance duly recorded, he was told that somebody would be out to inspect the scene of the kidnap within the next day or two, depending on when they could be spared. There was apparently a shortage of manpower due to policing a band of protesters at a bypass construction site.

  He had called in at the local surgery to have the cut over his eye seen to and ridden home wondering if anything would actually be done about his report or whether he would be filed away in some dark corner and forgotten about.

  Now though, with Giles' suggestion in mind, he decided to begin his search by checking estate agents' offices in the towns which fell close to the radial line he had drawn on his map of Wessex. The three most likely seemed to be Shaftesbury, Sherborne and Chilminster, and for no particular reason other than that he liked Chilminster, he headed there first.

  The town was host to a veritable rash of estate agents, each of which seemed to have several dysfunctional farms on its books, due partly, he was told, to the collapse of the market for British beef. One or two of these were duplicated and not all were completely untenanted. Gideon narrowed his search down to five, and just three he considered remote enough to be possible candidates.

  In the last estate agent's it occurred to him to ask whether they'd had any other people asking for the same specifications that he had. He was told politely that there was a good deal of interest in all of their agricultural properties - which Gideon doubted, given the reason for their sale in the first place - but that naturally they could not divulge any details about prospective clients.

  `Naturally,' he agreed, and departed the office with a handful of paperwork on the three short-listed farms. He had gone less than twenty paces when he heard the tap-tapping of rapidly approaching stilettos and a breathless voice just behind him said `Hey, Mister!'

  He turned. A small, titian-haired female stood beside him, the top of her carefully tousled head barely reaching his shoulder. He vaguely recalled seeing her at a comer desk in the estate agent's he had just left.

  `I heard you asking about the farms and if anyone else wanted to know about them,' she announced, looking up at him with more than a hint of flirtatious admiration in her eyes. `There was a man, last week. Mr Wilkins was with him for ages. He said he had ready money and was in a hurry to buy. Mr Wilkins was all over him like a rash! You could see the pound signs in his eyes, the silly bugger! That bloke wasn't any more interested in buying than you are. Any idiot could see that!'

  `How could you tell, Miss ... er ... ?' 'Debbie.'

  `Debbie. What made you think that?'

  `Women's intuition,' she said archly, then as Gideon showed his scepticism, `Nah, just kiddin' you. I was brought up on a farm - you wouldn't think it, would you?'

  Gideon shook his head obligingly, showing the requisite surprise.

  `Well, I was, and this bloke asked all the wrong questions. I mean, he didn't ask anything about acreage, milk quotas or crop yields to start with. All he really wanted to know was how close the nearest houses were
and whether it had a barn and outbuildings. I ask you, it was obvious what he wanted it for, wasn't it?'

  `Was it?' Genuine surprise this time.

  `Yeah. Where've you been hiding? He wanted to put on a rave, didn't he?' Debbie nodded knowingly. `You know: music, drink, drugs, the works. I told the boss that's what he was up to and he just told me to mind my own business. Treats me like shit, he does!'

  Gideon made a sympathetic face. `Can you remember what this man looked like, Debbie? It'd be a great help.'

  She put her head on one side. `Are you a cop?' she asked curiously.

  `Not exactly.'

  `A private investigator!' she said eagerly.

  Gideon began to see that a white lie or two might be in his best interests.

  `Sort of. But I'd rather you didn't tell anyone . . .'

  An emphatic shake of the head. `On my honour,' she promised. Gideon was uncharitably glad he didn't have to rely on that. `What happened to your face? Did someone beat you up to warn you off?' Debbie asked, her eyes shining with bloodthirsty relish.

  `No. I walked into a door,' he said dampeningly. `Now, what can you tell me?'

  Debbie thought it would be a good idea if they went somewhere quiet to talk, in the best detective tradition, and Gideon found himself buying her lunch in one of the town's smarter pubs. She made the most of the opportunity, displaying a hearty appetite and expensive tastes.

  Afterwards, having failed to entrap him into taking her out that night, Debbie returned to the tyrannical Mr Wilkins, leaving Gideon to a bitter-shandy and his thoughts.

  Debbie's memory of the other interested party had in the event been rather vague, and much of that recalled only under fairly extensive prompting from Gideon. The result was a description that could really have been applied to any number of people at present in the pub.

  The man had apparently been of medium height and fairly stocky build. She had said at first that he was quite old, but when pressed said maybe about forty, which in view of his own age, Gideon found rather sobering. He had had dark, greying hair, no particular accent that she could remember, and had been wearing jeans, a waxed jacket and a flat cap. Standard country issue.