Dead Man Riding

by Gillian Linscott

  The Old Man seemed to relax a little. ‘Understandable, my boy. We’ll feed and water them and get them bedded down for the night, then Robin’ll get out the wagonette in the morning and take them back to the station.’

  ‘Yes, I think that’s best.’

  ‘But you’ll stay, my boy?’ It was almost a plea.

  Alan only hesitated for a moment. ‘Yes. Yes, I will.’

  Kit said, ‘In that case I’ll stay too.’

  ‘Please yourselves. All of you are welcome to stay or go as you like. Anyway, you’ll eat now. We eat late these evenings, because of keeping watch.’

  He got up suddenly, dislodging the dogs’ heads from his knees, went to the outside door and yelled into the darkness, ‘Robin.’

  Imogen, looking shaken, mouthed, ‘Who’s Robin?’

  Alan shook his head. Soon afterwards there was a stamping of boots in the lobby and one of the best-looking men I’d seen in a long time came into the room. He was probably in his mid-twenties, quite tall with dark curly hair and eyes that looked black in the lamplight. He wore moleskin trousers, a coarse white shirt open at the neck, a red neck-cloth with white spots and an old black waistcoat. He’d walked into the room as confidently as a horse into its meadow but when he saw us all sitting there he looked on the point of bolting. The Old Man took him by the arm.

  ‘Alan, Robin. Robin, this is my great nephew and these are his friends.’

  That seemed to be all the introduction anybody was going to get because the Old Man then walked across the room, drew back a curtain that had been hiding a flight of stairs and yelled up, ‘Dulcie, suppertime.’ There was the sound of feet hitting bare boards overhead. He dropped the curtain back and explained, ‘Dulcie’s been catching up on her sleep.’ Then he went to pick up his shotgun, stopped, shook his head, unhitched a heavy driving whip from the back of the door instead and went out.

  * * *

  If any of us had made a sudden move or said anything I think Robin would have run out after him. He stood with his weight forward on his feet ready for a quick move, like an animal that had strolled accidentally into a circle of predators. I couldn’t blame him. Although the kitchen was a big room the seven of us filled it and we were oddities there. The men had got to their feet out of politeness on being introduced, but with the four of them standing together and him on his own it must have looked more like a threat. We all stood there frozen until the silence was broken by the pad of feet downstairs and a rattle of rings as the stair curtain was drawn back.

  ‘Well I’m gloppened. What o’clock is it? Why didnae somebody wake me?’

  The men spun round and four jaws dropped in unison. If Robin looked like an animal among predators, this woman – Dulcie presumably – was as thoroughly at home and self-possessed as a lioness lolling on a tree branch. She wore a lilac-coloured velour wrap patterned with bunches of purple grapes, with a shawl collar that fell open to show a pink chemise pushed out by a swell of uncorseted bosom like a wave just before it breaks. Her hair was chestnut brown with a few strands of grey in it and reached down to her waist. She’d made a token move towards controlling it by taking the two front hanks and knotting the ends loosely at the back of her head. Her face was too plump and round for beauty but when she smiled – and she was smiling at all of us – she looked so pleased with herself and everything else that it was like being given a present. She was quite a lot older than we were, but her little white teeth and plump brown feet seemed almost childlike.

  ‘I’m Dulcie,’ she told us, ‘Dulcie Berryman.’

  The voice was pure Cumberland, with the ‘I’ coming out as ‘Ahm’. The accent had an extra warmth and laziness about it in her case, as if it came from the depths of a goosefeather bed. We introduced ourselves in a confused way that couldn’t have left her with much impression of who was who but it didn’t seem to bother her. She picked Alan out.

  ‘Your uncle will be reet glad you’re here. You’ve seen him?’

  Alan managed to stammer out the understatement that yes, he’d seen him. Dulcie’s appearance seemed to have shaken him at least as much as being shot at. I was struck by her self-possession, as if she came down every evening to find her kitchen full of strangers. She might have felt gloppened – whatever that might be – but she’d recovered quickly. She made no comment on the double shotgun blast not far from the house that must surely have woken her, or the fact that one of her unexpected guests had an arm bandaged with her pudding cloths and the room reeked of carbolic. An unworthy thought came to me. The floors upstairs must be bare boards because I’d heard her feet on them, so sound would travel. She must have been aware that there were a lot of people downstairs, probably even heard what was being said. She’d have known too that at least some of the company was male so could have dressed more formally if she’d chosen. I’d been dragooned into enough amateur theatricals in my time to recognise somebody making an entrance when I saw it.

  ‘You’ll be clemmed with hunger, poor things. Get the dishes, Robin lad.’

  At least with her there to protect him Robin didn’t look as if he intended to bolt after all. He walked round the men, keeping as much space between himself and them as the furniture allowed, opened the sideboard cupboard and took out a stack of plates.

  ‘Kneyves and fawks, somebody. Left-hand drawer.’ She’d picked up the Old Man’s habit of casual command. Midge and I started getting up but Nathan was there first. Cutlery rattled down on the table, chairs were dragged from all corners of the room while Dulcie knelt at an oven beside the fire. A blast of heat came out and the smell of rabbit stew got stronger, fighting the carbolic. Without being told, Robin took a half-gallon brown jug out to the lobby and when he brought it back a strong whiff of ale added to the atmosphere. No nonsense this time about tea for ladies. We all got ale in a variety of containers from pint mugs to green-stemmed glasses meant for hock. I’m pretty sure it was the first time Midge and Imogen had tasted ale and I could see Imogen wincing as she sipped. She still looked shaken, which was hardly surprising.

  Kit ate neatly with a fork, one-handed, but didn’t say much. Nathan did most of the talking, mainly for Dulcie’s benefit, making a joke of our hike and the arguments over the map, no reference to shotguns. It was clear that he and Dulcie had taken to each other. Between them they managed to make an indoor picnic of what might have been an embarrassing occasion. There were only two rabbits in the black stewpot and that meant everybody got just a few inches of shoulder or saddle or a little pale leg, plus a spoonful of gravy and a floury potato with some of the eyes and black bits left in. But there was plenty of flat oat bread, or clapbread as Dulcie called it when urging us to take another piece, and endless quantities of ale. Robin went out several times to refill the jug, walking in wide circles round us. He still seemed to be trying to decide if we were a threat and if so what sort. When Dulcie had whittled most of the meat off her little share of rabbit she picked up the bone and gnawed the rest with her pretty little teeth. Nathan laughed and gnawed too and soon our plates were all strewn with a litter of delicate bones sucked as clean as driftwood. All except Imogen’s. She’d hardly touched her meal. Midge looked at the empty stewpot.

  ‘Oh no, we’ve eaten all of it. What about the Old Man?’ Then clapped her hand over her mouth from embarrassment at calling him that.

  Dulcie didn’t seem to mind. ‘The maister says guests come first, like when he was in the desert with the Arabs.’ Then, a little sadly, ‘Besides, he eats nobbut a bite or two these days.’

  It was enough to break the temporary spell of the meal. The uncurtained windows were dark now and I suppose all of us thought of the Old Man patrolling outside, alone and unfed.

  Alan asked Dulcie, ‘Were you here on the night it happened?’ His tone was uncertain because he obviously had no more idea than the rest of us who Dulcie Berryman was – housekeeper, landlady or perhaps some unusual species of nurse.

  ‘What night was that?’

  ‘When he … W
hen the barn got burned and so on.’

  Dulcie stood up and started stacking plates, not ignoring him but not especially attentive either. ‘Yes, Ah was here.’

  ‘Did you see what happened?’

  ‘He told me to stay inside. Anyway, it was dark when they came.’

  She held out her hand for my plate. As I handed it over I looked into her eyes. Brown didn’t begin to describe the colour of them properly, more a very dark amber with the light shining through it. They gave nothing away, even at Alan’s next words.

  ‘My uncle thinks he killed somebody.’

  She added my plate to the pile, reached for Imogen’s. ‘He has some reet queer notions sometimes.’

  She had the plates in the crook of her left arm. With her free hand she picked up the piece of rabbit leg Imogen had left, stripped the meat off the bone with her teeth and carried the plates over to a stone sink in the far corner, still munching.

  ‘You mean, you don’t think he did?’

  She didn’t turn. We never knew whether she’d have answered or not because there were footsteps outside then the door opened and the Old Man came in.

  ‘Robin, would you go and have a look at Sheba? She’s not settling.’

  Robin got up and went out without a glance at any of us. He didn’t say a word. In fact he hadn’t said a word throughout the meal. The Old Man hooked his whip on the back of the door and grinned at us.

  ‘You’ve eaten well?’ Then, after our ragged chorus of thank yous, ‘Dulcie makes the best rabbit stew in the county, don’t you Dulcie?’ She was clattering things over at the sink. He reached up and unhooked one of the lamps from the beam, standing on tiptoe to do it. Alan was on his feet, towering over his uncle but almost conciliatory now it was clear that Kit wasn’t seriously hurt.

  ‘Let me do that, sir.’

  ‘Not yet, my boy. Your turn will come.’

  He carried the lamp over to a hook near the sink, to give Dulcie more light. It swung gently, sending our shadows dancing over the walls, more lively than we felt. We were all of us dropping from tiredness and perhaps the effect of the ale.

  ‘Now, where shall we put you all? There’s a parlour next door. You can bed down there once we’ve found you some cushions and blankets.’

  Midge glanced at me. At least she seemed to be finding it funny. Neither of us dared look at Imogen.

  Alan said, ‘What about the ladies, sir?’

  ‘The womenfolk can have Dulcie’s bed. That alright, Dulcie?’

  She nodded without turning round from the washing-up. We started protesting that we couldn’t possibly.

  ‘Nothing wrong with Dulcie’s bed. Best one in the house by a long way. Plenty of room for three.’

  ‘But we can’t—’

  ‘Dulcie will show you upstairs when she’s finished. Now if the rest of you come through here we’ll get you bedded down.’

  Nathan, Kit and Meredith followed him obediently. Meredith had been almost as silent during the meal as Robin and I supposed he must be wishing himself back in his comfortable set of college rooms, smothering or not. Alan stayed behind and dropped down on one knee beside Imogen who was still sitting at the table, head resting on her hand, looking weary and confused beyond thinking.

  ‘Imogen, I’m so dreadfully sorry about this. We’ll get you back safely tomorrow.’

  She didn’t move or make any reply. He got to his feet, looking wretched. ‘Look after her, Nell.’ Then he followed the others. From next door we heard sounds of furniture being moved around and Nathan’s laugh. Midge and I started sorting out the contents of the packs, putting the men’s things and our things in separate heaps. By the time we’d done that Dulcie had finished the washing-up.

  ‘If you want to go somewhere before you go upstairs it’s across the yard next to the cart shed.’

  We wanted to go somewhere. Outside the night was full of stars, with no sound but the brook flowing and a horse whickering not far away. We found the black shed by its smell and waited for each other outside. As we walked back across the yard, Midge took hold of Imogen’s hand and squeezed it.

  ‘Don’t worry, things won’t look so bad in the morning.’ No answer from Imogen. She was moving like a woman in a trance. Dulcie was waiting for us in the kitchen holding a candle in an enamel holder.

  ‘Mind the third stair. It’s loose.’

  If she was annoyed about giving up her bed to us she didn’t show it. She pulled back the curtain and we scooped up armfuls of nightdresses and shawls and followed.

  * * *

  It was one of the biggest beds I’d ever seen, an enormous four-poster with all the hangings gone except for a tattered pelmet of faded velvet around the top. The bottom of it was filled by an enormous feather mattress that looked as thick and white as an Alpine snowfall in the candlelight, with a ruckle of sheets and blankets pulled back and a bolster wide enough for four or five heads to lie side by side. The room was large but the bed took up half of it. The rest of the furniture was as oddly assorted as down in the kitchen – a sagging chintz armchair, a big china jug and washbasin on a marble-topped stand, a huge wardrobe with an oval mirror in the door, cracked from top to bottom. It all had the feel of a house rented ready furnished by people in a hurry and I remembered what Nathan had said about the Centaur travelling light and always moving on.

  ‘Has ta got all ta need then?’

  I said yes thank you and Dulcie went padding back downstairs, still barefoot. Midge threw herself backwards on to the feather mattress and almost disappeared into it.

  ‘Wheee. It’s like clouds.’

  Imogen sat down on the edge of the armchair. ‘I’ve never shared a bed with anybody before.’

  ‘Never?’ Then I remembered that she was an only child.

  ‘When I was a child, I suppose, with cousins at Christmas time, but not grown-up.’

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose Nell and I have got fleas or any awful diseases. Do you snore, Nell?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  I sat on the side of the bed, trying not to tip backwards, and unlaced my boots. My stockings were sticking to my feet from heat and the walking. ‘Is there any water in that bowl?’

  Midge hauled herself off the bed and took the candle over to see. ‘Yes, but it looks as if Dulcie has been washing in it. There’s some fresh in the jug though.’ She opened the window and threw the dirty water out, then giggled. ‘I hope Alan’s uncle wasn’t underneath. I don’t want him chasing me across country with a shotgun.’

  Imogen said, ‘Don’t,’ and shuddered. At least she was talking to us. I guessed the next thing she’d say was what Meredith had congratulated us earlier on not saying – ‘I wish I hadn’t come’. If anybody was accepting bets on who’d be going back to the station in the wagonette in the morning, Imogen would be first favourite and Meredith second. As for me, I’d already made my decision but there was no point in talking about it and starting an argument. Midge and I worked out that there was enough water for us to have about half a pint each to wash in. None of us fancied going back down to the kitchen to get more. Midge went first, stripping to bodice and petticoat and rooting out a sponge and towel from our baggage. Imogen slowly unlaced her boots, walked over to the window in stockinged feet and looked out for a while then came to sit on the side of the bed.

  ‘These must be the sheets she slept in. She didn’t have time to change them.’

  ‘I’m tired enough to sleep in anybody’s sheets, aren’t you?’

  ‘It smells of her.’

  It was true the bed did smell, although not unpleasantly. There was the faint candlewax smell of dried sweat, of new hay and something less easily definable, rather salt and sealike. When I put my hand on the mattress I felt her warmth still hoarded in the feathers.

  Imogen said, ‘How old do you think she is?’

  ‘Thirties? Forty even.’

  ‘Quite old. Who is she?’

  ‘Cook-housekeeper, I suppose.’

  ‘
Do cook-housekeepers usually walk around like that?’

  Midge said, tactless but muffled as she was putting on her nightdress, ‘Do people usually open fire on their guests? Anyway, she seems to think he was imagining killing anybody.’

  Imogen said, ‘Were those boys back in town imagining it too? You heard what they were shouting.’

  Midge didn’t answer. Under her nightdress she was unbuttoning her bodice and petticoat. It was odd how bashful we were about getting undressed in front of each other.

  Imogen insisted, ‘You heard them, didn’t you Nell?’

  ‘Yes. Why don’t you get washed and get into bed? You’re too tired to think about anything. Tomorrow you’ll be on your way to your aunt’s and…’

  ‘I’m not going. I’m staying here. I don’t care what you two are doing, but I’m staying.’

  Midge and I stared at each other. A few days ago she’d been fussing about chaperones, now this. Imogen was sitting bolt upright on the edge of the bed, hands clenched together and pressed against her thighs. She’d started shivering though it wasn’t a cold night. Delayed shock.

  I said, ‘Just get into bed and get warm for goodness’ sake. We’ll discuss it in the morning.’

  ‘There’s nothing to discuss. I’m not going and leaving him here – after what’s happened.’

  ‘Him being Kit?’

  I thought, ‘oh dear, wounded warrior’. The sight of Kit, brave and suffering, must have tipped the balance towards him after all. If so, what had been a bad day for Alan had just become a lot worse.

  ‘No. Of course I’m sorry for poor Kit, but I mean Alan. I thought he was dead. I heard that mad old man firing his gun and saw Alan go down and I thought he was dead.’

  She’d started crying, tears running down her cheeks and glinting in the candlelight. Midge kicked away the underwear from round her feet, sat beside Imogen and put an arm round her.

  ‘He’s all right, you saw that. It didn’t touch him.’

  ‘It isn’t that. When I thought he was dead I … you can’t imagine. It was like someone reaching inside my chest and putting a hand round my heart and crushing it.’