Cut Throat

by Lyndon Stacey

  Ross could see it all slipping away from him. His career, the respect of his new-found friends and this wonderful chance of a lifetime he’d been given.

  He was at a loss. Even if he mentioned Leo he had no proof, and his silence over the previous attacks would be seen as highly suspicious. Without the background information, which he had promised not to divulge, his story would test the gullibility of the average six-year-old, and the Colonel was neither six nor gullible.

  ‘I spent the day hating you for the sake of my dear, sweet wife and daughter,’ Colonel Preston said then, lifting his head to regard Ross with an intensity that was deeply unsettling. ‘I couldn’t understand how you could have done anything so stupid. You’ve always seemed so straight, so strong. But then I thought that perhaps all those people were right. Perhaps you were losing your nerve and drinking to keep going. The sporting pages are full of your unlucky past; hinting at irregularities, at an unreliable reputation. I’ve never known so much attention focussed on an unknown before. I began to think that perhaps they were right after all and I’d been wrong . . .’

  Ross was silent. Sick at heart and unable to defend himself, he could only await his sentence. The mantelpiece clock continued to count out the seconds towards the inevitable. He wondered miserably what his father would say.

  ‘Franklin rang this morning,’ the Colonel went on after a while. ‘He asked if you were all right. Said you were supposed to meet him last night but you didn’t show up. He hadn’t heard about – this, and flatly refused to believe it when I told him.

  ‘Then this evening Robbie Fergusson rang. He’s threatening to take Bishop away again.’ The Colonel’s voice was flat and unemotional. He picked up the bottle once more and began to regard it closely.

  ‘Somebody had phoned him with the news. He said he’d always known you were a windy bastard and now you’d gone too far. I argued with him,’ he said, sounding surprised at himself. ‘I tried to change his mind. I said he’d never find a better rider. I said he’d regret his decision and told him I was sure there would be some explanation. He wouldn’t listen but I found I was halfway to convincing myself.’

  Ross’ heart began to beat in slow, painfully heavy thumps.

  The Colonel looked up, directly into his eyes. ‘Now I don’t know what to do,’ he said. ‘I feel that to keep you on would be to betray the memory of my family, and yet somehow . . .’

  Ross returned the Colonel’s gaze with an effort, uncomfortably aware of the unprepossessing spectacle he must present. He still hadn’t shaved, unable to trust the steadiness of his hand with a blade and too ashamed to ask for the loan of Bill’s electric shaver. Although he’d combed his hair, the image in the mirror had resembled a person in the latter stages of galloping consumption.

  ‘Why, Ross?’ the Colonel beseeched suddenly. ‘Tell me why. Give me a reason. Damn it, I liked you! I didn’t want to believe you’d do it. At first I couldn’t, and that’s the only reason I’m speaking to you now. Was it the pressure? You seemed to be handling it so well . . . Why did you do it?’

  ‘I didn’t do it,’ the American said, stung into self-defence by the disillusionment in the older man’s face and aware, as he spoke the words, that it was probably the one thing he could say that wouldn’t help him at all. Why try to deny the obvious?

  He tried again.

  ‘I was set up. Framed. It wasn’t my doing.’

  ‘Who then? Who did it?’

  ‘I don’t know. They wore balaclavas . . .’ He tailed off, knowing it sounded ridiculous.

  The Colonel had looked away and was shaking his head slowly.

  ‘I trusted you,’ he said sadly. ‘This whole business has turned sour on me. I haven’t the heart for it any more. I think you’d better go now.’

  Waved away, Ross left the Colonel sitting in his chair looking at a photograph of his dead wife. He limped wearily out and when Masters closed the front door disapprovingly behind him, sat down heavily on the step, his aching head in his hands.

  The Colonel’s quiet disillusionment had been far worse than the anger he had steeled himself to meet. Fergusson’s ultimatum was just another beesting in a swarm. What would it signify if the yard broke up anyway?

  He groaned and thought fleetingly of the bottle on the Colonel’s desk. Hair of the dog. It hadn’t seemed a good idea to ask if he could take it with him, all things considered.

  He thought of the Colonel as he’d left him, his dreams sliding away from him, of Franklin’s worry and Peter’s pain, of Clown’s bloodstained terror, the dog’s agony and the loss of Bellboy and Ginger.

  He thought of his own persecution and somewhere, deep down, a slow-burning anger was kindled.

  What right had any man, or men, to ruin so many lives and cause so much distress?

  Anger got him up on his feet and all the way back to his room. There he made strong black coffee, in defiance of Roland’s advice, and fell asleep, fully clothed, before he could drink it.

  20

  Ross awoke feeling stiff from his night on the sofa and the ongoing effect of his bruises, but otherwise a lot better. He still hadn’t reached the full fried breakfast stage but felt he might be able to face coffee and toast. Although the heavy, throbbing pain had largely retreated, his head felt tender, as though it was bruised inside.

  Much as he dreaded having to face the Scotts, he knew the moment had to come, so he showered and dressed and made his way over to the cottage. Maggie was alone in the kitchen and responded to his tentative greeting with tight-lipped civility.

  The atmosphere in the yard was, if anything, worse. Sarah and Danny looked at him with awkward embarrassment, as though unsure of how to approach him, whereas Bill could barely bring himself to look at him at all. Hardly a word was spoken. Ross himself tried to behave as though nothing was amiss, although it wasn’t easy. The horses, at least, treated him the same as always.

  After breakfast, eaten in strained silence, the roster for the day had to be set. Ross asserted that he was fit and ready for business as usual, whereupon Bill favoured him with a doubtful look, heavy with scorn, and said he supposed they would have to take his word for that. Ross was heartily glad when he was back outside with the horses.

  Mid-afternoon, Roland appeared in the yard and, after kicking his heels aimlessly for a while, followed Ross into the tackroom.

  ‘So how’s the fallen hero?’ he enquired, resting his spotless cream corduroys against the sink unit.

  Ross was almost pleased to see him.

  ‘Beneath contempt,’ he said, ruefully. ‘But otherwise much better, thanks. How’s the Colonel?’

  Roland waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, he’ll get over it. Franklin rang again this morning and pleaded your case. Seems he said you were stone cold sober at half-past six and he couldn’t see why you would drink yourself silly when you’d just made arrangements to meet him. He suggested that perhaps somebody else might have had a hand in it, so to speak. I believe he mentioned Leo . . .’ He paused, watching Ross beneath his lashes. ‘Well, anyway, gave Father something to chew on.’

  Ross was mildly surprised. ‘The Colonel told you all that?’

  ‘Well, no. Not exactly,’ Roland said apologetically. ‘I sort of happened to overhear it. You know how it is.’

  Ross knew precisely how it was. He shook his head in wonderment. With his talent for eavesdropping, Roland was wasted on the antiques trade; MI5 would welcome him with open arms.

  ‘Have you seen the papers?’ Roland said, following Ross into the stable office and back out again. ‘They’ve had a field day. Terrific pictures.’

  ‘It’s an ill wind . . .’ Ross observed dryly.

  He wasn’t sure if Roland was trying to provoke him or just chattering in his usual, careless way. Quite frankly, he didn’t much care. The news that Franklin was pleading his case with the Colonel had cheered him considerably.

  Remembering Roland’s very real distress over the accident in the village, though, Ross wondered
at his easy attitude now. Presumably he also believed Ross to be innocent. Ross couldn’t be sure whether that was because Roland trusted his word or because he knew it to be true. One thing was for sure: no one would know better than he just how damning such a conviction would be in the Colonel’s eyes. Could he have been involved?

  Ross looked at the bland, pleasant face with its sweep of immaculately styled, sandy hair, and had absolutely no idea.

  The two of them were just emerging into the sunlight when Lindsay’s red MG turned into the yard. She sprang out, dressed for riding, and came over immediately to where they stood.

  Ignoring Roland, she took in Ross’ decidedly below-par appearance at a glance and gave him the benefit of a blazing stare.

  ‘So it’s true,’ she observed flatly. ‘I was in London yesterday and when I got back the whole village was buzzing with it. They say you were drunk and crashed the jeep. I didn’t believe it at first. I couldn’t believe you’d be so stupid! Then I saw the papers and they were full of it. Photographs, the lot.’

  ‘It must be true, then,’ he said whimsically. ‘If it’s in the papers.’

  ‘I told you the pictures were good,’ Roland said, pleased.

  Lindsay stopped glaring at Ross to glare at her cousin for a moment.

  ‘Are you denying it?’ she said, then, turning the full wattage of her anger back on to Ross, ‘Looking like that?’

  He was stung by her doubt. ‘What do you want? A full confession?’ he asked. ‘You seem to have made up your mind pretty much on your own!’

  ‘You forget, I’ve seen you hit the bottle before,’ she stated accusingly.

  ‘Once!’ he countered angrily. ‘What do you want? Perfection? You’d better go back to James for that.’

  Lindsay stared at him, clearly hurt.

  ‘Ouch!’ Roland murmured from behind Ross. The American swung round to glower at him and he quickly looked down at his toes.

  ‘You’re right,’ Lindsay said shakily. ‘I always expect too much. It’s just – I thought I knew you. I guess I don’t.’

  ‘I guess not,’ Ross agreed, his anger still running high.

  Lindsay took a step back, running a hand through her thick, blonde fringe. ‘James was right. He said I shouldn’t come. I should have listened.’

  ‘“To honour and obey . . .”’ Ross suggested.

  She blinked at him, eyes bright with unshed tears, and he felt a stab of conscience.

  ‘I don’t know why I’m wasting my time. You obviously don’t give a damn, so why should I? I just feel so sorry for Uncle John! And I wish I’d never told him about you.’ With this parting shot, she turned on her heel and walked back to her car.

  Ross watched her go, his temper gradually ebbing and leaving him feeling tired and depressed.

  Why had he flown at her like that? Was it because she was a soft target? He shook off that unpalatable thought. He’d lost his temper because of all people it hurt most that Lindsay had condemned him out of hand.

  All the same, he wasn’t proud of himself. She hadn’t even stopped to ride Gypsy, which had obviously been her original intention.

  ‘You’ve done it now,’ Roland remarked.

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ Ross said wearily.

  ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman disappointed,’ Roland misquoted, shaking his head knowingly. ‘So, have you remembered anything else about Tuesday night?’

  Fragments of memory were returning but in view of his suspicions he didn’t particularly want to share them with Roland.

  Ross shook his head. ‘Not yet. I guess I must still be traumatised, huh?’

  ‘It’ll pass,’ Roland said easily. ‘Trust Uncle Roly.’

  Just after evening stables Franklin dropped in. He greeted Bill, then waited until the two Scotts and Sarah had left the yard and walked round the horses with Ross.

  ‘I gather from the dirty looks that it’s not the done thing to talk to you?’ Franklin said as the cottage door closed behind Bill and Danny.

  ‘No, I’m not exactly in favour,’ Ross agreed lightly.

  ‘Tried and convicted, eh?’ Franklin stopped and turned to face him. ‘That don’t-give-a-damn front is all very well, Ross, but it won’t do for me. You look awful. How are things, honestly?’

  He looked away. ‘Oh, pretty much like hell,’ he said conversationally. ‘It’s really hit the fan this time. Our Mr X has done himself proud. He certainly knows how and where to hit.’

  ‘So it was a set-up! I knew it had to be,’ Franklin exclaimed triumphantly.

  ‘Sure it was. But it was a damn’ good one,’ Ross said with feeling. ‘The Colonel is gutted – to use one of Danny’s favourite words.’

  ‘He would be,’ Franklin said soberly. ‘John has never really got over the deaths of Caroline and Harriet. I don’t think he ever will. It was a criminal waste of two precious lives, and the imbecile who did it walked free after a couple of years. I don’t think anything could discredit you more in the Colonel’s eyes than to find you guilty of being drunk at the wheel of a car.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Ross said ironically. ‘I feel a whole lot better now.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Franklin was contrite. ‘Have you spoken to John yet?’

  Ross nodded. ‘I hope I never have to live through another twenty minutes like that again,’ he said. ‘But thanks for the back-up. I think it was the only thing between me and the breadline last night.’

  ‘I didn’t know what to say, so this morning I told John I wondered whether Leo might have had a hand in it, just to give him something to think about. What did happen?’

  ‘I set out to meet you as planned but they knew I was coming and laid on a little diversion – just for me. As a matter of fact, Leo was there,’ Ross confirmed. ‘And I’m pretty sure our extortionist friend was too, but no,’ he said, seeing hope in Franklin’s eyes, ‘I still don’t know who he is. He wore a balaclava throughout.’

  ‘I wonder how long Leo’s been involved,’ Franklin mused. ‘You’re sure it was our Mr X and not just some thug Leo had found to help him get his own back on you?’

  ‘If it was, he was Irish,’ Ross remarked sceptically.

  ‘Ah, I see what you mean. I wonder how long Leo has been involved, then. Did he seem to know what was going on? Did he say anything significant?’

  Ross thought back, rubbing Telamon’s nose absentmindedly. ‘I remember Irish saying he’d warned me to mind my own business so I’d only got myself to blame, or words to that effect. I don’t think Leo said anything important. He was enjoying himself too much.’

  ‘Do you think Leo knew who the other man was?’

  ‘Must have done. I mean, you don’t go out and commit a crime with a complete stranger, do you? Besides, in that case, how would Irish have approached him in the first place? He can’t wear that balaclava all the time.’

  ‘He could have used the phone,’ Franklin observed.

  Ross looked heavenwards. ‘I didn’t think of that. Brain dead, I guess. But seriously, try this for size. While I’ve been frozen out, so to speak, I’ve been thinking and I thought: what if Leo worked out who Mr X is and some of what he’s up to? After all, he must know who he stole that business card from and wouldn’t have to be Einstein to make the connection with the Clown affair, even if he didn’t go the step further and pick up on Bellboy. What if he faced Mr X with it and wanted to be cut in? We wondered how he managed to afford to stay at the Six Bells for so long, and it was certainly no accident he got thrown out of here when he did. He was actively asking for it.’

  Franklin was looking very interested. ‘You might have something there,’ he said. ‘But do you think it’s Mr X’s style to allow himself to be blackmailed?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Ross admitted. ‘But he might also think that Leo could be a useful tool, for a while at least. I mean, it really fogged things up, didn’t it? Not knowing who was responsible for what.’

  ‘But now we know they’re working together, what’s to stop us, or rathe
r McKinnon, picking Leo up and persuading him to tell all?’

  ‘Nothing. Except I think Mr X will make sure Leo keeps his head down from here on in. He certainly didn’t intend me to know who either of them were, but Leo just couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Our friend could’ve cheerfully slaughtered him.’

  ‘And might still do,’ Franklin observed darkly, ‘with the stakes this high. He could already be charged with attempted murder for running Peter down.’

  ‘Yes, I hadn’t thought of that.’

  They wandered on in silence for a moment, both thinking hard.

  ‘Can you tell me more about Tuesday evening?’ Franklin asked after a moment. ‘I waited for about an hour but when you didn’t show up I called the cottage and Bill said you’d gone out and weren’t back yet. I rang your mobile but it was switched off and I didn’t know what to think, except that your jeep might have broken down. I even drove the route I thought you’d have used but there was no sign of you or the jeep. I didn’t know what to make of it until the next day when I rang John. So tell me, what did happen?’

  Ross frowned. ‘The whisky really messed me up and I still can’t remember everything, just snatches. For instance, I remember I was late because I thought I was being followed and I was trying to lose them.’ He didn’t think he’d mention Roland at this point. ‘There was a Land-Rover, a diversion sign and some traffic cones – I’d guess they were probably just for my benefit – but I can’t remember what happened next. When they forced the whisky down me I think I was in a wood. I remember branches overhead and being tied to a tree. My arms still ache . . .’

  He paused by Clown’s box, turning half away from Franklin. It was intensely painful to remember. So humiliating; so frightening to be that helpless. His mind still flitted around the edges of it.

  ‘I . . . um . . . remember that Leo had a gun,’ he said, and a cold sweat broke out on his body at the memory. ‘And I remember Irish saying I should have minded my own business, but the rest . . .’