The Riverdale Pony Stories Box Set (Books 1-6)

by Amanda Wills

Poppy laughed at Scarlett as they rode along one of the old railway tracks high on the moor later that afternoon. Clouds scudded across the periwinkle-blue sky and a bitter wind numbed their fingers and feet.

  ‘Your face is a picture,’ she said.

  Scarlett had looked more and more astonished as Poppy had related the events of the previous evening.

  ‘So, what will you tell the police?’ she asked finally.

  ‘Dad phoned them this morning to say Chester had come home. They’re closing the crime report. We’ve got Chester back. George Blackstone’s got his money. Everyone’s happy.’

  ‘Including poor Jenny.’

  ‘Especially poor Jenny,’ said Poppy with feeling. ‘She’s such a sweet donkey. You didn’t see how rough Blackstone was with her at the church. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her. She and Chester are like an old married couple already. Charlie’s hoping for the patter of tiny donkey hooves.’

  ‘But Chester’s a gelding,’ giggled Scarlett.

  ‘And Charlie’s eight. You can give him a talk on the birds and the bees if you like, but I’d rather not, thanks all the same. Come on, let’s have a canter,’ Poppy said. She felt carefree, as though an exam she’d been dreading for months had suddenly been cancelled. Chester was home, they’d saved Jenny from Blackstone’s evil clutches and, now the sedative had worn off, Cloud was back to his normal, bouncy self.

  She gathered her reins and the Connemara danced on the spot. Red crabbed sideways up the track. The two ponies were like coiled springs, waiting to be released.

  Poppy laughed and gave Cloud his head. ‘Race you to the tor,’ she cried. Cloud sprang into a canter, Red matching him stride for stride. Soon both girls were crouched low over their ponies’ necks as they galloped towards the rocky outcrop.

  When the smooth grassy ride became peppered with scattered rocks they slowed to a walk and let their reins slip through their fingers so the ponies could stretch their necks. Poppy wiggled her toes.

  ‘I can’t feel my feet. Let’s walk the last bit,’ she said, jumping off Cloud. Scarlett followed suit, yelping as her frozen feet hit the ground. As they sidestepped granite boulders and dodged peaty puddles Poppy had never felt happier. They settled on a wide, basin-like rock at the top of the tor and let the ponies nibble at the wiry grass while they gazed across the moor.

  ‘This is the life,’ sighed Poppy contentedly. ‘No school for almost a fortnight, Christmas in a few days’ time. Chester back home. Perfect.’

  ‘Isn’t it just,’ Scarlett agreed. ‘Bet Princess Georgia never has this much fun on her posh showjumper.’

  It was as if Scarlett had flipped a switch. At the mention of Georgia’s name an anxious knot formed in Poppy’s stomach. She had managed to push the kidnapping deep into her subconscious when Chester had gone missing. But it had popped up again, like an irksome jack-in-a-box.

  She chewed a nail. The urge to tell Scarlett was overwhelming. She knew she could trust her best friend. And wasn’t it true that a problem shared was a problem halved?

  ‘Talking about Georgia, d’you think she’s still sore that she wasn’t picked for the showjumping team?’ said Scarlett.

  ‘I don’t suppose it’s the main thing on her mind right now.’

  Scarlett looked puzzled. ‘Why?’

  Poppy clambered to her feet. ‘Come on, let’s go home. My backside’s gone completely numb. I’ll tell you why on the way.’

  Once again Scarlett’s face was a picture of disbelief as Poppy recounted her trip to Claydon Manor.

  ‘Surely if her parents just hand over the two million quid they’ll get her back?’ she said.

  But Poppy had thought long and hard about this. ‘I don’t think they can afford to, Scar. Think about it. Georgia had to sell most of her jumping ponies a while back, didn’t she? Don’t you remember Sam telling us that they’d spent their way through their lottery win and that’s why they opened the livery yard? They had to start making the place pay. The house was absolutely freezing when I was there. And everything looked shabby. Not shabby chic, just shabby. They may live in that enormous house, but I think they’re what you call property rich and cash poor.’

  Scarlett raised her eyebrows. ‘Are you saying the Cannings are skint? Crikey.’

  ‘Try not to sound too pleased,’ Poppy said reprovingly.

  ‘Sorry.’ Scarlett looked shamefaced. ‘But there’s nothing we can do, is there?’

  ‘I rode over to Witch Cottage, to see if she was there.’

  Scarlett was aghast. ‘And what would you have done if she was? These are not the type of people to mess with, Poppy.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Poppy sighed. ‘I just can’t help thinking that I’ve missed something. Something important.’

  ‘Let the police deal with it,’ her best friend said firmly. ‘If they can’t find Georgia no-one will.’

  They rode home past the Blackstone farm. Poppy hadn’t wanted to – she would be happy never to clap eyes on the place again – but it was the most direct route back and the sun was beginning to sink below the horizon. It would be dark in half an hour.

  ‘New people must have moved in,’ said Scarlett, as they trotted past the two farm cottages. A beaten-up red pick-up truck was parked on the muddy track behind Flint Cottage.

  ‘It probably belongs to the builders. Tory said George Blackstone’s doing up both cottages to sell,’ said Poppy absentmindedly.

  Scarlett pulled a face. ‘To more out-of-towners, I expect.’

  ‘Like us, you mean?’ joked Poppy. It wasn’t so long ago that the McKeevers had made the move from London to Devon in search of a quieter life.

  Scarlett grinned. ‘I forgot you used to be a city girl. It feels like you’ve lived here forever.’

  Poppy pretended to look affronted. ‘In a good way, I hope?’

  ‘Of course, you twit.’

  Poppy smiled to herself. To be described as a local was a compliment indeed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Poppy was in her bedroom wrapping presents the following morning when Caroline poked her head around the door. Poppy was surprised to see her normally calm stepmum looking harassed.

  ‘What’s up?’ she said through a mouthful of sticky tape.

  ‘The vicar’s just called. She’s holding a dress rehearsal for the Nativity and wants Chester there.’

  ‘That’s alright, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s this afternoon! We were supposed to be going to the supermarket. I haven’t got any food in for Christmas yet!’

  The thought of spending over an hour in a crowded supermarket a couple of days before Christmas did not sound much fun.

  ‘That’s OK. I’ll walk Charlie and Chester down to the church. I’ll see if Scarlett wants to come, too. It’ll be fun,’ said Poppy.

  ‘But that’s not all,’ said Caroline. ‘She’s suddenly announced that she wants Charlie to dress as a shepherd. There’s no way he’s going to agree to that, you know what he’s like. And, anyway, how on earth am I supposed to find a costume in the next two hours?’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ said Poppy firmly.

  She found Charlie in the lounge, watching television.

  ‘It’s a supermoon tonight,’ he told her. ‘Biggest one for nearly seventy years. It’s going to be amazing.’

  ‘No time for supermoons now,’ she said, depositing the armful of items she had spent the last half an hour collecting on the sofa.

  ‘What’s all that?’ he said suspiciously.

  ‘Your costume.’

  ‘I’m not wearing a tea towel on my head. I’ll look like an idiot.’

  ‘But you used to love dressing up,’ said Poppy.

  ‘That was when I was seven,’ scoffed Charlie. ‘I’m eight now. And eight-year-old boys do not like dressing up.’

  ‘But shepherds are cool. At least you don’t have to be Angel Gabriel and wear a white sheet and tinsel.’

  ‘And a brown pillowcase is any better?’ Charlie cross
ed his arms and gave her a mutinous look. Poppy realised that going to the supermarket with Caroline might have been the easier option.

  ‘I spent ages hunting through the airing cupboard looking for that,’ she said, holding the offending pillowcase against her. ‘I turned it into a tunic for you!’

  ‘That is not a tunic. It’s a pillowcase with holes cut out for my head and arms,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I thought you could wear it over your brown trousers and that khaki long-sleeved top Caroline got for you the other day. I’ve found some rope to tie around your waist and head. And I’ve made you a crook, look.’

  Poppy was quite pleased with the hook she’d fashioned out of cardboard, painted brown and fixed to the end of an old curtain pole. But Charlie gave her a withering look and turned back to the television.

  ‘I suppose I’d better wear it, then,’ she said, pulling the pillowcase over her head and poking her arms through the holes. She tied the longer length of rope around her waist and smoothed the cotton underneath. ‘Now for the headdress.’ She tied the tea towel around her forehead with the rest of the rope and picked up the crook. ‘There. Pretty authentic shepherd, huh?’

  Charlie looked at her out of the corner of his eye and shrugged.

  ‘It’s a shame,’ she continued.

  ‘What’s a shame?’ he asked grumpily.

  ‘That you won’t be leading Chester in the Nativity. I thought you were looking forward to it.’

  ‘Of course I’ll be leading him! A pair of net curtains chose us.’

  ‘The Reverend Kirton chose Chester, not you. And if you had read the small print in the contract you’d have seen that the chosen donkey’s helper must wear a shepherd’s costume.’

  ‘What contract?’ cried Charlie, the supermoon forgotten.

  Poppy crossed her fingers. ‘The one she gave to Caroline on the way out. You were talking to Sam at the time.’

  ‘But that’s not –’

  ‘Fair?’ said Poppy. ‘Of course it’s fair. But it’s your decision. It’s fine. I’m more than happy to do it instead. I think my costume is cool.’ She pulled off the tea towel and pillowcase and folded them neatly on the floor beside Charlie. ‘I’ll go and get Chester ready and we’ll leave in fifteen minutes, OK?’

  Charlie muttered something under his breath.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,’ said Poppy.

  ‘I said, alright, I’ll wear your stupid shepherd’s costume.’

  ‘Ah, but will you wear it with good grace?’ said Poppy, aware she was pushing her luck.

  Charlie’s expression was doubtful. ‘Why, does it say that in the contract, too?’

  ‘No, of course it doesn’t. But if you march up the aisle with a face like thunder it’s not exactly going to make the congregation feel Christmassy, is it?’

  Charlie rolled his eyes. ‘I promise to wear your stupid – sorry, splendid – shepherd’s costume with good grace,’ he intoned.

  ‘Glad that’s finally settled,’ said Poppy. ‘Be ready in fifteen minutes.’

  Once she was safely in the hallway she fist-pumped the air. It wasn’t often that she got the better of her eight-year-old brother. When she did, victory was sweet.

  The Reverend Kirton was in the church porch, welcoming the stars of the Nativity, both human and animal, as they arrived.

  ‘Lovely! You made it!’ she exclaimed as Poppy, Scarlett, Charlie and Chester made their way into the nave. ‘And what a wonderful costume, Charlie!’

  Relieved to see that he wasn’t the only one dressed in tea towels and bed linen, Charlie gave her a gracious smile. ‘Thanks. It’s just something I threw together at the last minute,’ he said, neatly sidestepping an elbow in the ribs from his sister.

  They joined the rest of the cast at the back of the church. As well as Chester, there were a couple of goats, a sheep and an alpaca called Nelly.

  ‘I don’t remember alpacas being in the Nativity,’ giggled Scarlett, as Nelly yawned, showing two rows of yellowing teeth.

  ‘I don’t think Baby Jesus wore dungarees either,’ observed Poppy. The vicar had clearly been unable to find a baby for this year’s performance.

  ‘Do we have a volunteer to lead Daisy the sheep?’ asked Reverend Kirton. ‘I’m told she’s very friendly.’

  ‘Oo, yes, I’ll do it,’ said Scarlett. ‘I’m good with sheep. On account of us having a sheep farm,’ she added.

  ‘Marvellous!’ cried the vicar, clapping her hands in delight.

  Poppy settled in a pew at the back of the church and watched the proceedings with amusement. The animals conducted themselves impeccably. It was the children who ignored Reverend Kirton’s entreaties to behave.

  ‘No Matthew, pulling hair is not nice,’ she told the smallest of the Three Kings, who had just given Mary’s ponytail a violent tug. ‘And Jasper, please be quiet when the innkeeper is saying his line. It is a rather important one, after all.’

  A dark-haired woman slipped into the pew beside Poppy. ‘How’s it going?’ she whispered.

  Poppy did a double take. It was PC Bodiam, wearing a grey duffle coat over her police uniform.

  ‘Has something happened?’ said Poppy, aghast.

  ‘No. I’m here as a mum, not a police officer. My daughter Meg is one of the angels. I’m working on Christmas Eve and won’t get a chance to see the actual Nativity. I promised her I’d come to the rehearsal. Luckily I’m not on duty until three. What about you?’

  ‘I brought Chester and Charlie.’

  ‘I heard Chester came back. He must have found a way out of his field after all. It did seem a bit far-fetched that he’d been stolen,’ said PC Bodiam.

  Poppy coloured. Fortunately the police officer was too busy watching her daughter to notice. Keen to change the subject, she said, ‘Any news on you-know-what?’

  PC Bodiam glanced over her shoulder to check no-one was in earshot. ‘She’s still missing, if that’s what you mean. You haven’t told your parents, have you?’

  ‘No,’ said Poppy truthfully. ‘Did her mum and dad not pay the ransom?’

  ‘Ah, well there’s a problem there. They’ve got a bit of a cash flow problem.’

  So, she had been right. The Cannings were clean broke. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘We are following a number of lines of enquiry.’ PC Bodiam smiled wryly. ‘Sorry, that sounds a bit official, doesn’t it? We’ve had some intel that looks like it might have legs.’

  ‘Intel?’

  ‘Sorry, more police speak. Intelligence. It means information. According to one of our sources, two women at Eastwood Park were overheard talking about a wealthy family who lived near Tavistock. They described the family as an ‘easy target’.’ PC Bodiam drew inverted commas in the air.

  She fell silent as the angels shuffled to their feet and began singing While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks. Or, as Charlie preferred to call it, While Shepherds Washed Their Socks. A girl aged about six with a band of silver tinsel tied around her poker-straight blonde hair waved furtively in their direction. PC Bodiam waved back. ‘That’s Meg,’ she said with barely-disguised pride.

  The Three Kings walked solemnly up the aisle and deposited their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh unceremoniously at the toddler Jesus’s trainer-clad feet.

  An image of Georgia, locked in a dark room all on her own while the rest of the world opened presents and stuffed themselves with turkey and mince pies, crept into Poppy’s head. She shivered.

  ‘It’s not going to be much of a Christmas for Georgia, is it?’

  The police officer shook her head. ‘But you mustn’t worry. We’re doing everything we can to find her.’

  ‘D’you think she’ll be alright?’

  PC Bodiam smiled sadly. ‘I hope so, Poppy, I really do.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Poppy sat, cross-legged, on the end of her bed. Scarlett lay on the floor, teasing Magpie with a ball of screwed up wrapping paper. Every now and then the cat raised his paw and s
watted the ball lazily.

  ‘Tell me what she said again?’

  Poppy tried to remember PC Bodiam’s exact words. ‘Two women in some park or other were talking about a family with loads of money who lived near Tavistock.’

  ‘There are probably lots of families with loads of money who live near Tavistock.’

  ‘I know. But it’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Scarlett. ‘Which park was it?’

  ‘I’d have thought that’s neither here nor there,’ said Poppy, parroting one of Tory’s favourite expressions.

  ‘You never know.’ Scarlett tickled Magpie’s enormous stomach and sat up. ‘Try and remember, just in case.’

  ‘Um.’ Poppy shut her eyes. ‘East something. Eastwell! I think that was it.’

  ‘Google it,’ ordered Scarlett, joining Poppy on her bed. Poppy reached for her phone and tapped in Eastwell Park. According to Wikipedia it was a country estate near a place called Ashford in Kent.

  ‘But that’s the other side of the country,’ said Scarlett. ‘Why would two women in a country park in Kent be talking about a rich family in Devon?’

  ‘I have absolutely no idea.’

  ‘Are you sure it was Eastwell?’

  Poppy tapped her lips with her index finger. ‘It could have been Eastwood. I’ll try that.’

  They watched the screen as the search engine listed dozens of hits.

  ‘OMG,’ said Scarlett.

  The two girls looked at each other in disbelief. Eastwood Park was a women’s prison in Gloucestershire.

  Poppy clutched Scarlett’s arm. ‘That’s the prison Shelley Taylor was sent to!’

  ‘You don’t think –’

  ‘She pretended her own daughter had cancer so she could con people out of hundreds of pounds. I wouldn’t put anything past her, would you?’

  ‘Are you sure that’s where she went?’

  ‘One hundred per cent. It was a women’s prison in Gloucestershire. I remember thinking it was the same county as the Badminton Horse Trials.’

  The two girls were silent. And then Poppy gasped. ‘Do you know what I also remember? You know that day we took Hope to the show at Redhall? D’you remember how Shelley was quizzing you about the Cannings when we dropped Hope off?’