“We’ll just see when we wake up. That’s what’s great about having our own pack of hounds. We go when we please.”
He neglected to say that his was an outlaw pack, since he refused to have truck with the MFHA, the Master of Foxhounds Association of America. This meant that no recognized hunt could draft him a hound, and no members of a recognized hunt could hunt with him without getting suspended from their own hunt. At this juncture, that helped him. No one would see what a dreadful mess he made of it. Although once his pack ran right through the Jefferson pack, and he’d likely never live it down.
“Heard they had a good one today.”
“Who told you that?” A flicker of irritation crept into his voice, a rather nice baritone.
“Sam. Gray called him about one thing or another.”
“Oh.” He paused and looked over at his wife, now standing at the window, the sky darkening. “Bizarre about Lady Godiva.”
“Still don’t know a thing.”
“Even though she sets my teeth on edge, if anyone can handle that situation, it would be Sister.”
“Actually, honey, you could have handled it. I thought you and Sister got on quite well. She valued your every word when you sat on the board. She told everyone you brought a rigorous approach to projects, and your financial acuity was amazing.”
“Well….” His voice trailed off. “You know the legend of Lady Godiva.”
“It’s true. It’s not a legend. I looked it up.”
He smiled sheepishly. “I did too.”
“Funny, isn’t it, how the past keeps grabbing us around the ankles?”
“The past is prologue.” He was a keen student of history. “She was a Saxon lady married to Leofric, earl of Mercia. He taxed his people mercilessly and she pleaded for them for years. One day I guess he got tired of the nagging. He told her he’d lift the taxes if she’d ride through Coventry naked. That was about 1040, give or take a year. Anyway, she did it and he kept his word.”
“He must have loved her.”
“Perhaps. He certainly loved his reputation. How would it appear if he broke a vow after her sacrifice?”
“And that’s where we get Peeping Tom.” She laughed.
“Not much wick in his candle, stupid oaf.”
The townspeople, knowing full well how great an act this was for such a grand lady, withdrew, shutting all their windows. Tom, a tailor, drilled a hole in his shutter so he could see the beautiful woman, her body shielded only by her long hair. Some folks said back then he was struck blind. Others said that one of the two soldiers walking with the lady to guard her thrust his sword in the hole when he saw the white of Tom’s eye. However it happened, the name Peeping Tom has stuck in the English language to this day.
Godiva had a good heart, for she convinced her husband, a rich and powerful man, to found a monastery at Stow, Lincolnshire. In 1043 Leofric built and endowed a Benedictine monastery at Coventry, thanks to her urging. She became a benefactress of monasteries at Leominster, Chester, Wenlock, Worcester, and Evesham. Surely she possessed energy as well as beauty.
“Her brother, Thorold of Bucknall, was sheriff of Lincolnshire.” Crawford stood up, stretching. “Seems the family were all doers, for lack of a better word.” He walked up to her, standing next to her at the window. “When you hear of something like that murder at Horse Country, you can’t help running scenarios through your mind.”
“Such as?”
“Was this a sex killing?”
“Wouldn’t we know by now? I mean, that would show up during the autopsy. The papers said nothing about it.”
“You’re right.” He inhaled deeply. “Unless the police are withholding information. Sometimes they’ll hold something back to provoke the killer.” He paused. “I wonder if this has something to do with taxation?”
“Or some unjust practice. But Crawford, why make a beautiful innocent pay for it?”
“Maybe she wasn’t innocent.”
CHAPTER 5
The old apple orchard rested a quarter of a mile from the kennels located on Sister Jane’s Roughneck Farm. Many hunt clubs purchase land for a clubhouse and kennels, but in the early sixties Sister and her husband, Ray, joint masters of the Jefferson Hunt, thought to save money by refurbishing the old kennels first built in 1887 that were standing on the land.
The financial effort of JHC focused entirely on hunting, so land for a clubhouse was never purchased, although the club did own show grounds on land donated by the Bancrofts. Since other organizations would rent the attractive venue, it provided about seven thousand a year in income, a help to be sure. Occasionally, not having a clubhouse proved a burden, since any indoor activity needed a host willing to allow throngs, sometimes in muddy boots, to tramp through their house. Sister vowed to herself that the day would come when she would find or build a clubhouse. She began to hope this would happen before her century if God would grant her one hundred years.
In spring, when the gnarled apple trees blossomed, the fragrance wafted through the kennels and through Sister’s wonderful unpretentious house, centuries old and centuries loved. A clubhouse in the apple orchard would raise spirits, but somehow it seemed the wrong location for Sister’s secret dream.
This evening, the twilight shrouded in low clouds cast a gloom over the orchard. Georgia, a young gray fox, nearly black, lived there in a tidy den. The setting pleased her. Water was close by, thanks to the kennels and barns, if she wished to walk in that direction. If she headed east, a tiny stream crisscrossed the end of the orchard, as well as the farm road that divided the pastures on the eastern side. Broad Creek, a swift-running rock-strewn stream, lovely to behold in any season though occasionally difficult to cross, was on the far side of those pastures running into the Bancroft place, After All Farm.
Sleet rattled against the tree bark. Georgia, cozy in her den, some corncobs and treasures with her, lifted her head sharply as her mother, Inky, a jet-black fox, entered.
“Going to be a night of it.” Inky sat down on the sweet-smelling hay that Georgia changed often, being so close to the barn.
Inky’s den, farther down the farm road in a pasture north of the apple orchard, was in an old ruin under a powerful walnut tree. Fox families often stay close to one another, and Inky and Georgia were no exception. Many times a young female won’t breed in her first season but will help her parents. The boys usually move farther away from the home den, but foxes have a family feeling, one that most humans never seem to notice. Sister and Shaker were exceptions.
“I came in early.”
Inky pushed an orange golf ball toward her daughter. “You’re going to get as bad as Target.” She named a red fox who collected things, the shinier the better.
“Uncle Yancy is worse.” Georgia smiled, naming an old fox whose mate, Aunt Netty, nagged at him constantly. Uncle Yancy, fed up, would move out. She’d find him and move in, to the amusement of the others. He’d left Pattypan Forge on After All Farm just a few weeks ago to return to his old den half a mile west of Georgia’s den in the apple orchard. Aunt Netty declared she loved Pattypan Forge, built in 1792, so roomy now that she’d cleaned out Yancy’s mess. How long would that last before she bedeviled him again?
“Far as I know among our neighbors, only Charlene bred. It’s going to be a bad spring and summer. Funny, how the humans can’t tell. They keep on breeding regardless.”
“You know, Georgia, I often wonder if they used to know things as we know them and somehow, way back when they started living in cities, they began to lose the ability. Now it’s gone. I mean, they can hardly tell what the weather will be from one day to the next. On their own, I mean. It’s sad and dangerous.”
“Why is it dangerous?” Georgia asked.
“An animal that violates or forgets its own nature eventually dies, I think. Trouble is, they’ll take a lot of us down with them. Well, I won’t be solving that giant problem anytime soon.” Inky batted the orange golf ball back to Georgia. “At least Sis
ter Jane is more like us. More animal.”
“I like her scent. Piney.”
“Oh, that’s her perfume,” Inky smiled. “She’s never smelled any other way, whereas you’ll notice the other humans change perfumes and colognes. I mean, we still know who they are, but they must like changing odors kind of like changing clothes. It’s peculiar.” She paused. “Bitsy bred.”
“No!” Georgia’s whiskers drooped.
“Maybe Golly will kill some little owlets.” Inky named Sister’s grand calico cat, brimming with overweening pride.
“Bitsy will peck her eyes out.”
“Well, we can hope.” Inky laughed.
“Mom, more screech owls? It would be one thing if Athena bred.” The great horned owl, the Queen of the Night, was a creature to be feared and obeyed. “Her voice is beautiful, but Bitsy?” Georgia grimaced.
“Maybe we can steal some earplugs out of the barn.” Inky laughed. “Or maybe we can leave a note for Sister to buy some. Ha. Wouldn’t that be the day, when a fox writes a note!”
“But we do.” Georgia was confused.
“No, I mean write like them—you know, scribble on paper. They can’t read our messages. Even Sister misses the subtle ones. She gets the scat, the urine markings, and even the little caches, but she misses other things. If I rub against a tree with smooth bark, she won’t smell it. If it’s rough bark, maybe she’ll see some fur, but they can’t read us like we can read them. Actually, they can’t read one another too well, either. I mean, without writing.”
“Must be truly awful to live with such poor senses, apart from their eyes, which are only good in daytime. I mean, really good.”
“Ignorance is bliss, dear. They don’t know what they don’t have.” Inky circled, then lay down gracefully. “Sister’s upset.”
“That outlaw pack again?” Georgia knew about the Dumfriesshire hounds.
“That’s not going to go away. He won’t hunt our territory, but since he can’t control the pack that doesn’t mean they won’t run our way sometimes, and we don’t know them. We’ll have to be very alert.” She flicked her tail, no white tip on the end like a red fox. “No, she and a friend found a murdered woman Saturday night—well, I guess it was Sunday morning by then.”
“How do you know?”
“She brought some turkey over to my den and sat outside. She gets a little chatty sometimes if she smells me in there.”
“Turkey? You got turkey?” Georgia, like all Jefferson foxes, had recourse to a five-gallon bucket filled about once every three weeks with kibble drizzled with corn oil.
Sometimes the kibble had Ivermectin in it to clean out the parasite loads, except when vixens were bred. No more Ivermectin until August then, because it’s too dangerous for fox cubs to ingest. It took two days to feed at all the fixtures. People, even foxhunters, rarely know what it takes to manage wildlife properly: the territory, the kennels, the horses, and, of course, the vital landowners, without whose support there would be no foxhunting. One had to manage hunt staff too, if you were a master. Fortunately, Sister had an easy time there.
“You didn’t get turkey?”
“Got my kibble with cheese. But I would have liked turkey.”
“She probably ran out. She’s good about passing around the treats.” Inky loved Sister; it was mutual.
“Well, what about the murder?” Georgia’s curiosity was pricked.
Inky told her all she knew. Sister’s account had been graphic. The two foxes curled up in silence for a while after the story.
Finally Georgia said, “Pretty stupid to kill a beautiful female at the height of her breeding powers.”
“Could have bred to the wrong person. Humans are funny about that.” Inky thought out loud. “Or refused to breed.”
“Did Sister have any ideas?” Georgia found most human behavior extraordinary, and being young she had much to learn.
“No. That’s what worries her—well, that and the shock of seeing a naked body on horseback right in front of her friend’s store.”
“But you said a silver punch bowl had been stolen, big enough for us and a litter of cubs. So maybe the woman got in the way or maybe she was part of it and then got in the way.”
“Could be, although wouldn’t it be easier just to kill a person and leave her? That horse stuff was elaborate.”
“I’m sorry Sister’s upset. I think it’s crazy, but it really has nothing to do with us.”
As Inky and Georgia caught up on events, Sister and Gray, in bed under the covers, watched a basketball game. Sister kept nodding off even though she liked college basketball.
Gray, his arm around her, smiled.
Golly, flopped on Sister’s legs, purred slightly as she slept. Raleigh, the Doberman, and Rooster, the harrier, snored on the rug alongside. Each had a thick fake fleece dog bed but they liked being right by Sister.
Sister was awakened by the beep of her cell phone on the nightstand. She reached for the phone, looked at the caller ID, and punched the button.
“Betty.”
“Hey, girl. Did I wake you up? It’s nine. You must be worn out.”
“Well, I dozed off watching Kentucky.”
“Bobby’s watching that too.” Betty liked football much better than basketball. “Forgot to tell you that X”—she used the nickname for Henry Xavier, forty-six, a club member and another of Sister’s son’s childhood friends—“will bring the liquor to Mill Ruins on Saturday.”
“If we can hunt. This sleet could mess up everything if we get a deep freeze with it.”
“Well, it looks that way. God, remember five years ago when just about every hunt in Virginia lost the last half of the season because it was one ice storm after another?”
“I’d rather not.”
“This has been a long winter, though; it started early in November. Doubt that spring will arrive on time this year.”
“It’s been a hard winter. We’ve been lucky to get hounds out. The snow’s not bad, but a day like today—well, you know.”
Before Betty could reply the line went dead.
Sister punched the button to redial and got a busy signal. “What’s the point of paying a monthly bill if these phones cut out every time there’s a little bit of weather?”
“I know.” Enthralled by the game, a close one, Gray replied blandly.
The cell rang back and Betty started talking. “Lost you. I’ll make it fast. News bulletin on Channel Twenty-nine. The woman’s been identified.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that first?”
“Because it just came across the bottom of the screen. She’s Aashi Mehra, twenty-two, from Bombay. Wait, now we call it Mumbai.”
“It’s a long way from Mumbai to Warrenton.”
CHAPTER 6
At six in the morning on Wednesday, February 20, Sister stepped outside, having gulped a cup of Colombian coffee liberally laced with half-and-half. Golly, fed first, refused to follow, but Raleigh and Rooster tagged at her heels, their claws clicking on the thin veneer of ice.
The frozen grass, coated with ice, awaited sunrise to glitter. Each time Sister took a careful step, the ice cracked under her work boots. A jet of vapor escaped from her mouth, and steam poured from Raleigh’s and Rooster’s mouths too. The mercury at 22 degrees Fahrenheit might climb, but how much? If it nudged over 32 degrees, the ruts in the old farm road would thaw and driving would test a person’s reflexes.
Gray, asleep upstairs, would awaken at seven. He rose early on hunt mornings but, like most people of a certain age, he was set in his habits. She didn’t mind that by her standards he was a sleep-in. He more than made up for it the rest of the day, for Gray, active in mind and body, liked projects. They were alike that way, yet she had found herself thinking of Big Ray lately. They had kept the same rhythm. Sure, they had had their various discreet affairs, but they were two people deeply in tune. Her lover, Peter Wheeler, older than she by close to seventeen years, while not close in the diurnal sense, had
inflamed her mind like no one else she ever met. Sister had been well served by the men she loved. Wise in the ways of the world, she kept her mouth shut, allowing other people to mouth the hollow pieties that seemed to ward off whatever fears gnawed deep inside. The human animal is not monogamous, although men, at least before DNA testing, desperately tried to imprison a woman’s sexuality to ensure that her offspring were theirs. She knew this subject caused explosions even in simple discussions so she shut up about it, but Jane Arnold had always taken her pleasure where she found it, and she would march under that banner for the remainder of her days.
She loved Gray but hadn’t told him. Why? Words always came back to haunt her. But she knew she loved him, and she felt he loved her. Different from Big Ray or Peter Wheeler, both of them robust, extroverted, physical men, Gray soothed her but kept her alert mentally too. Handsome, descended from Lorillard slaves and therefore taking the Lorillard name, Gray possessed all the brilliance of that line, which ran in both white and black pedigrees. Of course, every true Virginian knew there was no such thing as an all-white or all-black pedigree, but that was another subject best left on the table. People could be wildly irrational about race from all quarters. Race and sex set up more shrieking and flying feathers than a cockfight.
On a cold crackling morning like today, Big Ray would have been walking with her, both of them with arms outstretched for balance, hands touching, trying not to fall on their keisters and laughing; God, how she could laugh with that man! A stream of ideas about hounds, horses, territory, and whippers-in, liberally spiced with both invective and praise, would awaken the birds, who would grumble about it. She would laugh to hear a disgruntled cheep from a hole high inside a tree or the censorious click of a beak from the owl in the barn. Owls make so many different sounds. She’d learned to recognize them; Sister had a rudimentary sense of most animal communication. People often wondered how she knew where the fox was or when a storm was coming. She’d say, “The red-tailed hawk told me” and they’d laugh, never realizing she meant it.
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