Cut Throat

by Lyndon Stacey

  Roland shrugged. ‘Oh, just that Leo was at the show yesterday.’

  Ross stared. ‘But, that’s imposs—’ Too late, he realised he was treading on dangerous ground.

  ‘Impossible?’ Roland hoisted a lazy eyebrow. ‘Why should you say that, I wonder? Nevertheless, he was there.’

  ‘How do you know? I didn’t see you there.’

  ‘Oh, but I was,’ Roland replied smoothly.

  ‘You kept yourself to yourself, then,’ Ross observed.

  ‘I went to see Danielle. No reason I should tell you,’ he pointed out.

  ‘So, where did you see Leo?’

  ‘Um . . . in the beer tent as I recall. Don’t remember him having a balloon, though.’

  Ross’ eyes narrowed.

  Roland wore his habitually bland expression, as if they were just exchanging platitudes. What he was implying, however, put an entirely new complexion on the previous day’s events.

  It hadn’t occurred to Ross that the bursting balloon had been anything other than an unfortunate accident. Though why it hadn’t in hindsight he had no idea. After all, he had had enough experience lately of malice aforethought to make even the rosiest of spectacles mist up a little. Enough to make him suspicious of anything, one would have thought.

  So much for Leo being out of the country. The fact that he had gone to such elaborate lengths to make them think so, made it obvious that he knew he was being watched. What wasn’t clear was for how long he had known.

  How many times in the past had he pulled the wool over their eyes?

  Professional McKinnon’s men might be, but they’d been operating in the belief that Leo could not possibly know he was being staked out. They were too practised, according to McKinnon, to have given the game away themselves. Therefore someone must have tipped Leo off.

  But who? Who could have known? Who would have cared? And where was Leo now?

  Ross all but groaned aloud. Fit and healthy, he’d win no prizes for detection. In his present state . . .

  ‘A penny for ’em,’ Roland remarked lightly, getting up to replace his empty glass on the drinks tray. ‘Well, it’s been nice talking to you, old boy, but I must be going. A date with the delicious Danielle. Glad to see you on your feet again. Tell my revered papa not to wait up.’

  In the event, father and son met in the doorway. Roland bowed ironically. ‘I bid you farewell,’ he said grandly. ‘You may now bemoan my lamentable lack of character to your heart’s content.’

  The Colonel grunted. ‘We’ve got far more interesting things to discuss,’ he said dampeningly.

  ‘Oh, unkind, unkind!’

  When he had gone, the Colonel topped up Ross’ glass and his own, collapsed into his chair and proceeded to do just what Roland had suggested.

  ‘Where did I go wrong?’ he asked with a sigh. ‘He used to be such a nice boy. So . . . well, so normal!’

  ‘Was that him?’ Ross indicated a framed photograph which stood on a nearby trophy case. It showed two teenage boys holding aloft a large trophy between them.

  ‘The one on the right.’ The Colonel nodded. ‘The other boy is Darcy Richmond.’

  ‘Is it?’ Ross looked more closely. ‘I didn’t realise they were friends.’

  ‘They weren’t, really. They went to the same school. The cup was for rowing or some such thing.’

  ‘That would have been after Darcy’s father was killed, I presume?’

  ‘Yes, a couple of years. Though he wasn’t exactly killed, you know. He committed suicide.’ The Colonel shook his head sadly. ‘A bad business. Took an overdose and drowned himself in his bath.’

  ‘Thorough,’ Ross commented. And somewhat different from the story Darcy had told, he thought.

  The Colonel grunted. ‘It was about the only thing he did do properly. He just couldn’t see that Franklin had got where he was by plain hard work. Always trying to take short cuts, Elliot Richmond was. It’s hard to believe two brothers could be so different.’

  ‘But Darcy fell on his feet.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Although Franklin had always paid for his schooling and suchlike, anyway. He hadn’t a child of his own at that time and was a very good uncle to the boy. God knows what would have become of Darcy if he hadn’t been. He bailed his brother out a time or two as well, until it became obvious that Elliot was never going to learn to be responsible. Then he stopped and concentrated on the boy.’

  ‘And Darcy’s mother?’

  ‘Long gone,’ the Colonel said. ‘An empty-headed bimbo who ran out when the money did. It seems the two brothers were alike in their choice of women, if nothing else. Marsha was just the same. More classy perhaps but essentially the same. Franklin freely admits the only good thing to come out of the marriage was Peter.’

  ‘Darcy told me his father was killed in a car accident,’ Ross said, gently probing.

  Colonel Preston nodded. ‘It was extremely hard for him to come to terms with at his age. First his mother running out on him – as he saw it – then his father killing himself. I imagine he suffered from feelings of guilt, like many children in divorce proceedings. You know, thinking that it’s somehow their fault. Franklin managed to keep the whole affair very quiet but I think the lad invented the accident story to comfort himself. I didn’t realise he was still using it.’

  He sipped his sherry thoughtfully.

  ‘He’s a nice enough boy really, though I think perhaps Frank indulged him a little too much. And there were times when he showed tolerance when quite frankly a sound hiding would have answered better. The business with . . . er . . . women,’ he said, apparently changing his mind mid-sentence. ‘Still, it’s always easy to criticise and he’s turned out well enough. Darcy’s been good to young Peter in his turn, you know. No true brother could have treated him better, and the kid worships him.’

  ‘I’ve seen that,’ Ross agreed. ‘He seems to have a way with the boy. Doesn’t share Peter’s passion for horses, though.’

  ‘No. He had every opportunity but never took to it. A lot of boys don’t, I find. They prefer toys with push-button controls. Darcy took up sailing, something his father was fond of, too. He’s quite good, I believe.’ The Colonel turned his attention back to Ross. ‘But what about you? When do you think you’ll be back in the saddle again?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’ He didn’t hesitate. ‘We’ve got the Frinkley Show on Sunday and the stallion will need to be exercised.’

  The Colonel reached for the decanter and raised his eyebrows at Ross, who shook his head. His boss poured himself a drink with great deliberation.

  ‘Frinkley is out,’ he said finally, in a voice that brooked no argument. ‘And the stallion can be lunged or turned out for a day or two.’

  He held up his hand to silence Ross’ protest. ‘The doctor was quite concerned, you know. Said you should go in for X-rays. There was a lot of bruising and he couldn’t tell exactly what damage might have been done. Your knee, for example, and a bloody great hoofprint in the middle of your back.’

  ‘Steeplechase jockeys get them every other week,’ Ross protested. ‘Ask Bill. And my knee is an old story. It’s getting better all the time.’ And my nose is getting longer, he thought wryly.

  The Colonel didn’t look convinced. ‘All right, but you take at least two clear days off or I’ll march you off to the hospital myself!’

  Ross rose early the next morning after an uncomfortable night and spent some time nursing a cup of coffee and going over his conversations with the Prestons, Senior and Junior, in his mind.

  At half-past seven the yard began to come to life as usual. Horses whinnied, doors banged, and water rushed as buckets were filled at the taps.

  Ross managed to shower and dress in a marginally quicker time than he had the day before but his agility wasn’t going to win him any medals for a day or two to come. The bruises were developing colourfully and the swelling beginning to subside. He told himself determinedly that he was on the mend.

  In the yard and ready t
o work, he was greeted with firmly shaken heads. Bill and Danny told him to go to the cottage or back to bed, and Lindsay, whom he met coming out of Flo’s box with a mucksack, exclaimed, ‘Oh, no, you don’t! Uncle John’s orders. You’re not to lift a finger for at least two days. Go and sit down, we’ve got it all under control.’

  Ross was astounded. ‘He called you?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I just came.’

  ‘I thought you’d come back to England to be sophisticated and get horses out of your system.’

  ‘That was Mother’s idea, not mine. Anyway, it’ll only be for a day or two. Now do as you’re told and go and put your feet up or something.’

  He pottered aimlessly about the tackroom for three-quarters of an hour while the mucking out was taken care of, remembering his very first morning at Oakley Manor when he had done just the same. So much had happened since then, it was hard to believe it could be only eight weeks or so ago.

  As the Colonel had pointed out, life had not exactly been dull since his arrival. What Ross didn’t know was how much of his troubles could be ascribed to Franklin’s extortionist, and how much to Leo.

  It was quite possible that if he was as clued-up as he seemed to be, the extortionist could be using Leo’s activities as a smokescreen. There was no way of knowing.

  Ross felt like a blind man in a cactus forest: whichever way he turned he seemed to be stung, but he couldn’t see who was doing the stinging.

  It had occurred to him that morning that Roland’s tip about Leo’s supposed presence at the show on Thursday might have been no more than a smokescreen to hide his own involvement.

  But where was the motive? Surely he was not the blackmailer, the infamous Mr X? Ross could not imagine Roland had ever lacked for money. Besides, he had a good job. A senior position in a London company, trading in antiques.

  Or did he? He was very vague about it and certainly didn’t spend much time there.

  Ross made a mental note to ask McKinnon if Roland’s finances had been scrutinised. He sighed, catching his breath sharply as his ribs complained. The more he tried to reason it out, the more confused he became.

  After breakfast, a roster was drawn up to allow all the horses exercise of some sort, and finding the prospect of a completely inactive day a drag, Ross decided to give Danny a jumping lesson in the school on Flo.

  He waved aside Lindsay and Maggie’s protests that this didn’t come under the heading of rest, but as a concession accepted the offer of a shooting stick and was privately very glad of it by the time the session was over.

  Danny was delighted with the whole idea and Ross smiled, remembering the boy’s determination to become a steeplechase jockey. At this rate he would be after the job of second rider in the Oakley Manor yard.

  And why not? he thought, watching how easily the fifteen-year-old managed the bouncy, excitable mare. The lad had a way with horses and they responded well to him. All he needed was experience.

  After the session, as Danny was hosing down the mare to cool her, Ross was sitting on the edge of the water trough, daydreaming and feeling a hundred and one, when Franklin’s new Range Rover swept into the yard, bearing not only him but Darcy and Peter as well.

  Ross limped across to meet them and was greeted with warmth and concern by Franklin.

  ‘It’s good to see you up and about, but are you sure you should be walking on that leg? It looks pretty painful.’

  ‘Sure. It’s okay, just a bit stiff,’ he lied.

  ‘I should never have let you ride Woody after that fall,’ Franklin said, shaking his head regretfully. ‘Why on earth didn’t you say something?’

  ‘I honestly didn’t feel that bad,’ Ross assured him, then, feeling that a change of subject was probably called for, ‘Look, Danny and I were just going in for a cup of coffee. Why don’t you join us? Maggie’s been baking.’

  ‘Those are the magic words,’ Franklin said. ‘There is nothing we Richmonds like better than Maggie’s home-made scones and gingerbread. Isn’t that right, Peter?’

  The boy smiled a little wanly from the back seat of the Range Rover where Darcy was preparing to lift him out.

  ‘He’s feeling a bit under the weather. Just been for a physio session,’ Franklin explained.

  ‘Oh, bad luck, kid,’ Ross said with real sympathy. ‘It’s pretty much like hell, isn’t it?’

  Peter nodded. ‘Did you cry?’ he asked. ‘When you had it?’

  ‘Oh, buckets!’ Ross assured him.

  Peter surveyed him doubtfully, then grinned. ‘I bet you didn’t.’

  ‘Well, only when no one was looking.’

  ‘Come on, young ’un,’ Darcy said, scooping Peter up. ‘Let’s go see what Maggie can find for you, shall we?’

  They all made to follow but hearing the clatter of hooves in the lane, Ross and Franklin turned back, and presently Lindsay, Bill and Sarah rode in. With Danny’s help the horses were soon settled and the whole crowd made their way to the cottage for coffee.

  Maggie was in her element with eight people in her kitchen. She produced quantities of fruitcake and scones, and poured coffee in varying colours and degrees of sweetness. Shortly after everybody had found a place to perch, the door opened and Roland looked in.

  ‘Is this a private party or can anyone join in?’ he asked, and without waiting for an answer, came in. Everybody shifted up good-naturedly to make room.

  ‘Don’t squash the invalids!’ Franklin warned. ‘Now tell me, Ross, how is it, really?’

  Before he could form a reply, Lindsay broke in. ‘He won’t tell you, Frank. You’re wasting your time. It’s this macho American hang-up he has. He could be at death’s door and all he’d say would be, “Oh, I’m doin’ fine.”’

  She mimicked Ross’ accent perfectly and he joined in the general laughter, glad of the diversion. He wasn’t used to being molly-coddled and had ridden for several weeks in the States with a broken collarbone without anybody even knowing.

  But Franklin wouldn’t have it. ‘No, really, Ross?’

  His mouth twitched. ‘Oh, I’m doin’ fine,’ he drawled and laughter broke out anew.

  Only Darcy seemed unamused. Strangely, he was scowling at Peter, who had cheered up no end and was laughing louder than anyone. After a moment, Darcy seemed to sense Ross’ scrutiny, smiled at him and relaxed.

  The telephone rang and Maggie went to answer it. Lindsay started to make more coffee, and halfway through the making of it, James arrived and was called in. Lindsay kissed him affectionately as she passed by handing round mugs, and Ross felt a prickle of jealousy.

  ‘I didn’t know you were here,’ James said, settling next to her on the arm of her chair. ‘I called at your parents’ house. I thought we were going to Winchester for that exhibition.’

  Lindsay put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, James, I’m sorry! I totally forgot. Forgive me? The thing is, with Ross out of action they need some help here.’

  ‘Yeah, well, you could have let me know.’

  It was the first time Ross had seen James even slightly impatient with her but he couldn’t really blame him. For someone who didn’t ride, Lindsay’s preoccupation with the yard and its business must have been sorely trying at times.

  She looked downcast. ‘How can you ever forgive me?’ she asked him with a lost-puppy look.

  James was human. He relented.

  Moments later, Maggie reappeared. ‘That was Doreen at the pub,’ she announced to the room in general. ‘A terrible thing happened in the village last night. You know little Alice Ripley from the Post Office?’

  Most of them nodded.

  ‘Well, she was stood at the bus stop opposite and some maniac drove straight into her. They say he was doing sixty miles an hour! Poor kid didn’t stand a chance. Sixteen she was. Just had her birthday last week, poor little mite.’

  There were general expressions of shock and sympathy. Franklin glanced uneasily at Peter to see how he was taking the news. He didn’t appear unduly distre
ssed.

  ‘What’s more,’ Maggie went on with a certain morbid relish, ‘they caught the blighter. He’d been drinking. Three times over the limit, he was!’

  There was a sharp crack as Roland slammed his mug down on the wooden table and stood up. As he released it, the mug handle clinked on to the scrubbed pine to lie beside the bowl. He looked down at the broken pottery with slight surprise, as if unaware of having been the cause.

  ‘They don’t make things like they used to, do they?’ he joked, the mask slipping back into place. ‘Sorry, Maggie. Look, I must go. Thanks for the coffee.’

  As the door closed behind him, those remaining exchanged glances.

  Maggie was stricken with remorse.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, love!’ she exclaimed, turning to Lindsay. ‘I didn’t think . . .’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Lindsay reassured her kindly. ‘I know it was eight years ago but Roland still finds it hard to accept what happened to Aunt Caroline and Harriet. They were a really close family and it’s just such a waste when it happens like that.’

  ‘The worst of it is that people don’t ever seem to learn,’ James agreed. ‘You hear about it happening again and again . . .’

  Franklin evidently decided that this conversation was not ideal for his convalescing son and stood up, announcing that he had things to do before lunch. His move signalled the break-up of the gathering.

  Lindsay and James left, presumably to get ready to go to their exhibition, with Lindsay voicing her intention of returning in the morning.

  Franklin departed for the main house and some business with the Colonel, and Peter asked if he could watch the horses being fed. Bill offered to wheel him round the yard, so Darcy fetched his wheelchair from the Range Rover.

  When feeding was complete and Clown plied with extra carrots from his young owner, Peter was wheeled back into the yard, where Darcy was found to be engaged in what appeared to be a very heated discussion with Danny. They broke off immediately they saw the others and Danny marched off towards the cottage, scowling.