by Rhys Bowen
He turned me to face him. “Sometimes you worry too much,” he said. “Leave this to the police and enjoy your Christmas. We’re here, we’re together and we’re having a great time. Think of it—you could, at this moment, be sitting down to Christmas dinner with your sister-in-law.”
I laughed. “Where they will be sharing one chicken between them and huddling together to keep warm. It’s poor Binky I feel sorry for, surrounded by Fig’s family.”
Darcy took my hand. It felt wonderful to walk through snowy meadows, feeling the warmth from his hand sending tingles all the way up my arm.
* * *
WE ARRIVED BACK to find that tea had been laid out in the drawing room, and that it included the most magnificent Christmas cake. The icing had been made to look like a snow scene and decorated with little ceramic figures of tobogganing children, ladies with fur muffs, skaters, snowmen. Not surprisingly, nobody felt much like eating, but we all attempted a slice of cake. The Misses Ffrench-Finch asked if they could take their slices of cake home with them as they couldn’t eat another mouthful. A generous portion was wrapped for them, and one for Miss Prendergast, and the three ladies took their leave.
Miss Prendergast was overcome with emotion. “You are too kind, Lady Hawse-Gorzley, too generous. Such a good person. I don’t deserve . . .” She paused, putting her hand over her heart. “When you have no family, nobody else in the world, it means so much to be part of a celebration like this.”
“Then let’s hope there are many, many more,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley said, thumping the hand that was extended to her. We duly waved as the old ladies were helped into their car and went home.
Then Lady Hawse-Gorzley produced the indoor fireworks and we passed a jolly hour around the fireplace watching pieces of paper turn into writhing snakes or glowing different colors and finally all holding sparklers. When the last firework was lit, the vicar suggested that we play charades until supper. The dressing-up box was carried down into the study across the hall from the drawing room and we were divided into teams. I found myself on Monty’s team with Badger, Mrs. Upthorpe, Captain Sechrest, and Cherie Wexler. Monty had to explain to Cherie that we select a word and act out the syllables. If the audience can’t guess the word through the syllables, we act out the whole thing.
We rummaged through the props until Badger found an old cow horn. “We could do ‘cornucopia,’” he said. “First syllable is ‘corn.’ Second is ‘you’ and third is ‘cope.’ And then for the whole we’ll produce fruit from the horn and keep eating it.”
This was agreed upon. I was designated to be an old lady in a gray wig, hobbling around, then taking off my shoe and rubbing my toes. They dressed me up in a hideous tippet, wig and hat. Out I went, walking as if my feet hurt me, then taking off my shoe and massaging my toes with an expression of relief.
“Feet . . . foot . . . hurt . . . sore!” came the calls from the audience.
Monty came out to do the next syllable. He simply pointed dramatically at a member of the audience. He chose Mr. Barclay, who turned bright red. I experienced a fleeting feeling of agitation—that something had happened that I should have noticed but didn’t. I tried to analyze. Something to do with corns? With Mr. Barclay? Definitely something I had just seen. . . .
It was no use. We proceeded to the last syllable. Mrs. Upthorpe was the harried mother, wearing an apron, while the other members of the team were her awful children—Captain Sechrest dressed in a school cap and tie, Badger in a smock with a frill around his neck and a giant dummy and Cherie with a big bow in her hair. They came out on their knees, howling and tugging at their mother’s skirts while she pretended to cook, lay a table and generally act as if she was harassed. This scene got a good laugh, but nobody guessed it. So we had to bring out our horn and take imaginary fruit from it. Then, of course, it was guessed right away.
The next team went out to dress up and I sat there, mulling over the idea that I had just missed something important, something that might shed some light on the strange events in Tiddleton-under-Lovey. Then Lady Hawse-Gorzley’s team came out. Their word was “dandelion,” which of course we got very quickly—the moment Colonel Rathbone crawled around roaring and trying to eat Bunty, in fact.
We played the game several times more before we went through to supper. This was a spread of cold food, so that the servants could have their own Christmas party. I still didn’t feel like eating much, but the array of cold beef, cold ham, veal and ham pie, Cornish pasties and assorted pickles was very tempting. It was washed down with more wine or local cider, and finished with liquors, chocolates, nuts and dates.
At last, full of food and Christmas cheer, we all went to bed. Even the Wexlers could find nothing to complain about and Junior declared it “a real swell Christmas.” I was inclined to agree with him. It had been a marvelous Christmas Day and if only a man had not driven his van off the road to his death, it would all have been perfect.
Chapter 23
BOXING DAY AT GORZLEY HALL
DECEMBER 26
Off to the hunt. Looking forward to a good ride. I hope I get a decent horse.
I was awakened to cold gray light by Queenie with a tray of tea.
“Morning, miss. They told me to get you up early because you’ve got to go on one of them fox hunts,” she said. “Rather you than me, sitting on a horse in this weather.” She put down the tray. “What was you thinking of wearing?”
“I have only brought one set of jodhpurs with me, Queenie, so I don’t think there is much choice. My warmest jumper to go with them, and Bunty is lending me a hunting jacket.”
I looked out the window to see the orchard vanishing into mist and Lovey Tor not even visible. At least it wouldn’t have frozen overnight if the mist had come in. I dressed and went down to find coffee, tea, pasties, sausage rolls and mince pies laid out on the sideboard for the early risers. One by one the other hunters came in and helped themselves to something to eat and drink. From outside the window came the clatter of hooves, a sound that always sends a shiver of excitement through me. I have always adored hunting, even though I do feel sorry for the fox. I suspect that hunting must be in my blood—and the fox is usually smart enough to get away.
Bunty came in, with a black velvet jacket in her hands. “I’ve an extra black crash cap too if you want to match,” she said. “I hope you’ll be all right. Freddie’s horses are both a little crazy, you know. He was often seen flying through the village because one of them had bolted with him.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said. “That sounds most encouraging.”
“He was never a particularly good rider,” Bunty said. “I expect you’ll be fine. You should go out and get first dibs on the one you like.”
“Is one less skittish than the other?”
“No idea,” she said. “I’ve never ridden them.”
Thus encouraged, I went out to see a groom holding two leading reins, on the ends of which were a tall bony gray and a chestnut that was stamping and snorting like a warhorse, its breath hanging in the cold air like a dragon’s fire. I noted the double bridle and the size of that tossing head and decided on the gray.
“Her be Snowflake, miss,” the groom said as he attempted to give me a leg up into the saddle. “Her got a right mean streak and a will of her own, if you don’t mind my saying so. She can be a right cow at times. Always tries to give me a nip when I’m brushing her. I told the master he should get rid of her, but for some reason he were fond of her.” He shook his head. “Never did have good judgment, poor bloke.”
After a lot of dancing around on Snowflake’s part I finally managed to get into the saddle and Snowflake spent the next five minutes trying to buck me off. I noticed Badger watching, his eyes wide with terror.
“I think I might bow out,” he said to Monty.
“Rubbish, old bean. We’ve got a mount that’s docile as a kitten for you. Bunty and I learned to ride on old Star. He’s a bit of a plodder but sure and safe. You’ll be just fine.”
They went around to the stables and soon a procession came out. Lady Hawse-Gorzley led the way on a magnificent bay hunter, then Monty and Bunty. Behind them rode the colonel on a large, almost black hunter I presumed must be Sultan, and then Badger on a round animal not much bigger than a pony. Darcy came out and gave me a look as he swung himself effortlessly into the saddle of the warhorse. It snorted and pawed a couple of times but it was quite clear that it recognized Darcy as the master. He tried to ride over to join me but Snowflake backed away.
“Them two don’t like each other much,” the groom called. “Leastways, she don’t like no other horses at all. Like I said, a right cow.”
“I’d come and say good morning, but I think I’d better not,” Darcy called as Snowflake skittered again. “Will you be all right?”
“As long as no horses come near me and nothing else spooks her, I suppose so,” I called back, trying to sound more breezy than I felt.
“Off we go, then,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley called and we set off down the drive and through the village, our hoofbeats echoing dramatically through the misty stillness. Nothing else stirred as we passed the green. The villagers were enjoying sleeping late for once. The road took us over the hill and through deserted moorland until we heard the baying of hounds and the clatter of harnesses ahead of us and came to a lonely pub where the hunt was assembling, a splendid-looking mass of red and black coats and well-groomed horses. There were already a good number of riders and spectators assembled and the publican was going among them passing out stirrup cups of hot grog. My cheeks and fingers were already stinging with cold and I needed no second urging to drink one myself.
“Ah, Lady H-G, you’ve brought your guests, I see.” A dapper little man with a Ronald Coleman mustache rode up to us. He was mounted on a good-looking gray and both rider and horse were immaculate.
“Good of you to let them join us, Master,” she said.
“Well, let’s hope they all know how to ride, what? And the rules of the hunt. I’m a stickler for rules, as you should know.”
“I do, Master. Believe me, I do,” she said and turned back to the rest of us. “This is our master of hounds, Major Wesley-Parker. Major, this is Colonel Rathbone. Do you military men know each other, by any chance?”
“Can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure,” the major said, extending a hand to the colonel. “Which regiment, sir?”
“Bengal Lancers. Finest fighting force in India,” the colonel said.
“Bengal Lancers, what? Then you must know old Jumbo!”
“Jumbo?”
Everybody knows old Jumbo.” He paused. “Jumbo Bretherton, the brigadier.”
“Oh, Brigadier Bretherton,” the colonel said. “I never knew him as Jumbo.”
“Didn’t you? Thought everybody called him Jumbo.”
“Not his junior officers,” the colonel said.
I had been riding at the back of the group, since Snowflake reputedly loathed other horses, and I had had a chance to observe the others. I watched the colonel now. Shouldn’t someone with the Bengal Lancers have a better seat? I wondered. Wouldn’t half his days be spent in the saddle? And why didn’t he know the nickname of his brigadier? And why did nobody know him if he’d previously had a house in the area? Something I had heard came back to me—that one of the escaped convicts had had a music hall act in which he had played, among other things, an elderly colonel. Could he possibly be hiding out under our noses playing the part of the colonel again? In which case, who was the woman with him, posing as his wife, since we’d been told the convict’s wife had committed suicide when he was sent to prison? At least it would be worth mentioning my suspicions to Inspector Newcombe. Then I had to turn my attention to the matters at hand as another horse approached Snowflake and she danced away, eyes rolling. Final stragglers arrived, including Johnnie Protheroe on a fine-looking hunter and the Sechrests, also well turned out and riding with flair.
“Here we are, Master, all present and correct,” Johnnie said, touching his crop to his cap.
“No high jinks this time, young Protheroe,” the master said.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Master.” Johnnie grinned as he swung his horse into the group. The horn was sounded. The last stirrup cups were drained. The hounds, who had been sniffing around, tails wagging, suddenly were all business, moving off excitedly.
“Off we go, then,” the master shouted, turning back to us. “And remember, it’s dashed misty out there. I don’t want anyone winding up in a bog. And if we go anywhere near Lovey Tor, stay well to the right of Barston Mere. Nasty bog on the far side. Got it? Jolly good.”
We set off on a broad track across fields. Sheep scattered at the sight of us. Through a copse, and then suddenly the hounds picked up the scent. Their excited baying echoed through the mist. Off they went in full cry and we followed at a lively canter. Snowflake lived up to her reputation, trying to veer off to one side when any horse came near her, and it was all I could do to keep up with the other horses. We came to a low stone wall and she cleared it in a giant bound. As we dipped into a valley we were swallowed up into thicker mist. Snowflake veered off to the left as another horse came up on one side of us. It was the master on his gray—the whiteness of the horse making him almost invisible in the mist. I fought to hold her head and let him go ahead. I could hear the hounds what sounded like far ahead now, off to my left. I urged the horse into a gallop up a steep slope, with dead bracken and rocks around us. Suddenly a row of grotesque black shapes rose out of the mist, looking like giants with arms outstretched to grab us. Snowflake reacted by skidding to a halt and then rearing up. It was all I could do to keep my seat and it took me a while to calm her. And to calm myself too, as my heart was thudding until I realized that I was looking at a row of stunted Scotch pine trees, bent because of the wind, and behind them mist curling up from what looked like black water.
We stood still while I tried to get my bearings. I heard a sound that might have been a cry from a bird or the distant baying of a hound. I had no idea which direction the sound was coming from. But what I did begin to feel was a growing sense of danger, of being watched, hunted. I turned the horse around, peering into the mist, but it was so thick that the grass was swallowed up within a few feet of me. Suddenly a white shape rose up to one side of me. There was a loud flapping noise and something like a ghost seemed to come at us. That was enough for Snowflake. She took off again, this time to her right, while I fought to control her. Suddenly another flapping shape stepped out of the mist. The horse shied, skidded to a halt, and nearly threw me.
This shape with its waving arms was now identifiable as Wild Sal. “You don’t want to go that way, miss,” she said. “’Tis dangerous that way. You’d wind up in the bog and that would be the end of you. Go back the way you came and then take the downward track. That’ll set you right.”
“Thank you,” I called, but she had already vanished.
I made my way back, the horse moving cautiously, and I could feel the shudders of apprehension going through her flanks. As we approached the Scotch pines I looked to see what logical explanation I could find for the white flapping shape that had so startled us. I could make out something white moving through the mist. Then I heard a jingling of harness, the soft muted sound of hoofbeats on turf, and heaved a sigh of relief. I wasn’t so far from the others after all. A white horse loomed out of the mist and it took me a minute to notice that it was riderless.
In spite of Snowflake’s protests I managed to get close enough to grab the reins.
“Hello!” I called into the mist. “Anyone out there? Do you need help?”
Silence met me, followed by that strange flapping sound echoing back from an unseen crag. I wasn’t going to wander into trackless moor so I took Sal’s advice and followed the track down the hill, leading the gray. It followed me reluctantly and I thought this might have something to do with my horse’s bad temper until I turned around and noticed it was lame in the left foreleg. I went m
ore slowly. As I came down the hill I met other riders coming toward me.
“Lost the scent at Downey Brook,” one of them called, “and the mist is so dashed thick that we’re packing it in. No sense in risking breaking a leg.” The man came closer, riding a big, solid dark horse. He stopped when he noticed the horse I was leading.
“I say. That’s the master’s horse, isn’t it? Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I found the horse wandering in the mist.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Up there.” I pointed to the track I had just descended.
“But that’s Barston Mere,” he said. “What were you doing up there?”
“I became separated from the rest of the hunt,” I said. “I thought I was following the master. Something spooked my horse and by the time I’d controlled it I hadn’t any idea where I was.”
“It’s not like the master to come off,” the man said. “Damned fine horseman, and his horse can jump anything you put in front of it.”
“The horse seems to have injured its foreleg,” I said. “It’s limping badly.”
“I can see some blood. Maybe cut itself trying to jump a wall,” the man said. “Maybe fell at a jump. The master can be a trifle reckless at times. Still thinks he’s twenty-one.” And he laughed, a dry haw haw sound.
Other riders had now caught up with us.
“The young lady says she found the master’s horse up beside the mere,” he said.
“We’d better go and take a look,” someone else suggested, “but for heaven’s sake stay together. We don’t want to lose anybody in the bog.”
We made our way slowly up the hill, calling as we went. No sound answered us. As we reached the top of the hill, the mist suddenly stirred and parted and I found myself looking at a sheet of black water, upon which a group of swans was swimming peacefully.
A swan, I thought. Maybe that could have been the white flapping thing that came at us. Probably defending its territory. I had known swans to be aggressive before. I wondered if it had similarly attacked the master and caused him to be thrown from his horse. We picked our way around the lake until we came to an area on the far side where the grass was an unusually bright green. Having grown up on the Scottish moors I knew a bog when I saw one and I knew what would happen to anyone foolish enough to venture onto that bright green grass. He would instantly find that his feet were trapped in thick, sucking mud. He would feel himself sinking. The more he struggled, the deeper he would sink. I had known bogs to swallow a horse or a steer in a few minutes.