The doctor had promised to send a covered cart up from town to collect the police and the Old Man’s body but it was early evening by the time it came lumbering down the lane. We directed it through the arch into the stable yard and stood in a line watching as the two policemen took out a stretcher from the back and carried the Old Man’s body from his tack room, still wrapped in the horse blanket. Robin was crying quite openly. With the suspicions about him and Dulcie in my mind I watched to see if she made any move to comfort him, but she was staring down at the flagstones, thinking her own thoughts. As the cart creaked away across the yard and through the arch I was surprised to find tears in my eyes. I wished I’d talked to the Old Man more when I had the chance – found out about seventy years or so of a life that sounded as if it had been bravely, if not wisely, lived. I knew that in spite of the differences in our views I’d already learned something from him and might have learned more, given time. There was silence after the noise of the wheels died away, then people started talking apologetically at first, then with more confidence, about the commonplace things of life going on. The parlour had to be reorganised and we’d all eat together in the kitchen, pooling our rations. I knew it was right and necessary but couldn’t face it yet. Besides, there was something that had been worrying me since Midge talked about the bump on his head.
* * *
I walked out of the yard and down the lane to the mares’ field on my own. My towel was still there on the gate, dried by a day in the heat. There was no mist by the river now, just long tree shadows from the sun slipping down in the west and a smell of hot earth and drying grass. It was the trees that interested me, willows and alders mostly. The willows were either leaning out over the water or pollarded with whippy little stems growing from upright trunks. The alders threw their branches out over the river with only scrubby twigs inland. Even if you’d ridden a horse at a canter straight along the bank, there were no overhanging branches to give you anything worse than a scratch. Next door though was another matter.
I walked on downriver to the gate that led to Mawbray’s land and looked over it, confirming what I remembered from our ride. A wooded spur came down to the river on the opposite bank, mixed wood with some big oak trees. The wood extended a little way on this side of the river, again with oak trees. We’d had to duck under the boughs as we rode past. I remembered bits of oak leaf in my mare’s mane. The question was whether any of the overhanging branches was thick enough to give a man a bad blow on the head. I stood at the gate a long time, trying to make out the shapes of them through the leaves then pushed it open and walked through. Trespassing now, with no excuse. I looked up into the wood on the far bank, half expecting to see the tall man glaring down at me again, but there was nothing. The oak branches on my side of the river were low growing and quite thick enough to do serious damage. The blow had been on the back of the head. If he’d simply galloped into a bough, it would have been at the front. The most likely explanation was that the horse had been rearing up on its hind legs at the time. There were hoof-prints in bare patches of earth under the trees, but a whole pack of us had ridden that way and back in the last few days. There was no way of telling in dry weather if one set were more recent. Then it struck me that a horse rearing would have to take all its weight on its back legs. If I could find a place where there was a low branch and a pair of unusually deep hoof impressions underneath I’d be making progress.
The work absorbed me more than anything I’d done for a long time, so much that I almost forgot why I was doing it and the grief and confusion up at the house. It was a relief, after all the philosophical theorising, to have a practical puzzle that might even have an answer. Either something had happened or it hadn’t. If it had happened, then happenings leave evidence. They wouldn’t be happenings otherwise. And if there’s evidence, it’s simply a question of finding it or not finding it. Thinking that out as I looked at dusty hoofprints under those trees was the second thing that summer that had an influence on my life, far more than Plato or ancient Greek (which, by the by, I still haven’t learned). The light was just right for the work, horizontal with the sun low, throwing every little detail in high relief. Twice I found pairs of prints deeply incised that might have been a horse rearing, but they were nowhere near the likely tree branches. One big branch at about the right height had a scuff mark on the earth under it that might possibly have been made if a horse had stood up on its hind legs then slipped, but it was near the gate with a lot of other tramplings round it, so inconclusive. Still, I liked that one best and went back to it, kneeling on the ground with my eyes only a few inches away from it. Suppose a horse, scared already, reared with a man tied to his back. Why at this place in particular, near the gate? If the gate had been closed, shutting off the horse from his home then somebody had opened it, the horse might have reared up the way they do sometimes before galloping off. I looked towards the gate, imagining a man there, opening it and might have screamed except shock punched all the air out of my lungs. There was a man there. From where I was crouching under the trees, looking up at him against the light, he was no more than a silhouette but he was watching me and I had the feeling that he had been watching for some time. I scrambled to my feet, catching my boot in my skirt hem and ripping it again, wondering which way to run. Then he spoke.
‘Have you found anything, Miss Bray?’
Meredith’s voice, not mocking, just interested. My heart started up again, thumping with relief and a little embarrassment.
‘I’m not sure. Come and see what you think.’
Amazingly, my voice sounded almost normal. He came through the gate and stood a little way from me, sensibly so as not to scuff the marks. I told him what I was looking at and why so he came forward and crouched down. The light wasn’t quite as good as it had been a few minutes before so my scuff mark didn’t seem so convincing.
‘The earth’s almost polished from the pressure,’ I said. ‘There was a lot of weight on it for a while.’
He looked down at it for a long time, then up at the branch.
‘You know the doctor found a bump on the back of his head?’ I said.
‘Yes. He thought the horse might have rolled on him.’
‘I can understand that would break ribs, but would it cause a bump on the back of the head?’
‘The ground’s hard,’ he said.
‘Oak branches are even harder.’
But the picture was too vivid in my mind as I said it and my rooting in the dust seemed suddenly disrespectful, in bad taste. Perhaps Meredith sensed that because he opened the gate for me to go back into the mares’ field as if this were no more than an evening stroll.
‘We were worried because you were missing supper, so I said I’d come and find you.’
‘How did you know where to look?’
‘I didn’t. I’ve been wandering all over the place.’ We were back on our own side of the gate, walking along the river bank. ‘I brought you some ham,’ he said, ‘in case you were hungry.’
The warm feeling that came over me was quite ridiculous, given the banality of the thing. I laughed, a release of tension probably, but it felt like a little gust of happiness. Here was a man I admired and wanted very much to think well of me doing something as simply kind as a friend or brother. I hoped the laugh hadn’t hurt his feelings and perhaps it had because he added, ‘I put mustard on it, but perhaps you don’t like mustard,’ in an almost humble voice. I assured him that I loved mustard and I was very hungry. To my surprise I suddenly was. He produced a greasy brown paper bag from his pocket and handed it to me.
‘Rather crushed, I’m afraid. Do you want to sit down?’
We sat on the bank beside an alder with a clump of yellow irises at our feet and gnats whining up and down. The ham was sandwiched between two bits of bread, no way of eating it elegantly, and yet somehow I didn’t feel self-conscious. He let me finish it before trying to talk, just sitting beside me and staring at the stream.
‘
So you were looking for hoofprints on the other side of the gate. Did you think the horse might have jumped it?’
‘I’m sure not. It’s a terrible take-off and Arabs aren’t great jumpers. Anyway, there were other gates that had to be opened.’
‘Yes?’
‘Robin says the horse was in the top paddock as usual the night before. Somebody would have had to bring him down to this field, open and close the gate. The Old Man couldn’t have done that himself if his hands were tied.’
‘So you’re saying somebody must have helped him?’
‘I don’t think help’s what I mean.’
I wiped my buttery fingers on the grass. He had a way of looking at people that said ‘Go on.’ I’d noticed it in our discussions. It was one of his skills to make you bring the half-formed theories out of your mind and give words to them.
‘We’ve all been assuming that the Old Man killed himself, probably with somebody’s help.’
‘Yes.’
‘But there’s an alternative, isn’t there? You reminded me yourself that Mazeppa didn’t want to kill himself. He was tied on the horse against his will.’
‘Are you saying that’s what happened?’
‘When I saw him and Sid, they were coming from the direction of Major Mawbray’s land. Major Mawbray’s a cavalry officer. He thinks the Old Man killed his son. Even before that the two of them had quarrelled.’
‘That’s just a series of separate facts. It’s not a hypothesis.’
‘All right, if you want a hypothesis, here it is. Major Mawbray watched us when we were riding through his field on Wednesday. That’s not just part of the hypothesis. I saw him and he looked furious. The next bit is hypothesis. That was the last straw, so while we’re away at the coast he’s thinking of a way to punish the Old Man. Everybody round here will know how much Sid means to him, so, on the first night we’re back he waits until the Old Man’s somewhere else on his rounds, goes up into the top paddock and takes the horse.’
‘Wouldn’t that be difficult. He’s quite a spirited animal.’
‘Yes, but biddable and used to human beings. And remember Major Mawbray was a cavalry officer.’
‘Very well, we have Major Mawbray creeping on to his neighbour’s property and stealing Sid. What next?’
‘He wouldn’t think of it as stealing. He probably didn’t intend to keep the horse, but the Old Man would have gone to the top paddock as soon as it got light and found Sid gone. He’d have been furious and guessed immediately who’d taken him. So naturally he’d go looking for Major Mawbray.’
‘Who manages single-handed to overpower him and tie him on Sid’s back?’
‘It might not have been quite as cold-blooded as that. Suppose there was a fight and he managed somehow to knock the Old Man unconscious? It might have seemed a good idea to humiliate him by sending him back that way – only it went too far.’
‘That still leaves us with a middle-aged man…’
‘In poor health too, I admit that.’
‘… knocking out an old man and tying him on a restless horse single-handed.’
‘Does it have to be single-handed? What if he’s got a strong young son hidden away somewhere?’
He sighed, ‘So we’re back with Mawbray’s son again?’
‘Yes, we are. I’ve thought all along he might still be alive. I’m almost sure of it now.’
‘Because your hypothesis demands him. You’re getting dangerously close to a circular argument.’
But the way he said it didn’t sound sharp or hostile. I sensed that he was taking my theory at least half seriously. We sat in silence for a while. It was getting dark. He said he supposed we should be getting back, but made no move.
‘Miss Bray…’
‘Nell.’
‘Nell, I know it’s no use my telling you not to get involved. You are involved and that’s all there is to it. But I’m sorry. Sorry for all of you.’
‘It’s worse for Alan. And for Imogen.’
He sighed and I thought I probably shouldn’t have mentioned her. I couldn’t help feeling a bit annoyed and this time I was the one who said we should be getting back. He stood up and held out a hand to help me. I ignored it, scrambled up in a hurry to make the point that I didn’t need help, caught my boot in the torn hem of my dress and nearly pitched headfirst into the river. He grabbed my flailing hand just in time.
‘Naturally if you prefer to drown, I’ll respect your wishes and let go.’
He was laughing and far from being annoyed I found myself laughing too. ‘I can swim, you know. I can swim quite well.’
‘I’m sure you can.’
I hadn’t pulled my hand away from him and he seemed in no hurry to let it go. I could make a lot of excuses for what happened next: that it had been a long day and we were all under strain, that grief and shock do odd things to people, that I was a little jealous of Imogen, that he made the first move. They’d all of them be true except the last one. I made the first move. I stepped towards him up the bank and kissed him, full on the mouth. When his face came back into focus, it looked surprised but I thought not unpleasantly so and I must have been right, because then he kissed me. After that he said ‘Well.’ I said nothing, wondering what had come over me and whether I’d behaved like a free and honest woman or a silly fool and if my kiss had tasted of mustard and if it mattered. We walked up to the field gate and along the track to the house, saying nothing and with a little space between us that somehow seemed to be humming like bees in the sun.
‘Where have you been Nell?’ Midge said, back in the lamplit kitchen. ‘We were worried.’
Imogen just looked at me then at Meredith. Odd how some people guess.
Chapter Thirteen
THE NEXT DAY WAS A SATURDAY. The rest of the world left us alone over the weekend. In the normal course of country life I suppose there’d have been neighbours visiting, cards and letters commiserating, but the Old Man’s death was as unconventional as his life. We all went about our tasks in a stunned way, not talking much about what had happened. It felt as if we were in a mountain village with a great rock slide poised above our heads that a loud noise or sudden movement might bring crashing down on us. So we kept quiet and moved carefully so as not to provoke it.
Luckily there were plenty of practical things to do. The Old Man’s death had left a gap in the affairs of the household, especially the stables, that it took all of us to fill. Over the two days we managed to share out tasks. Alan and I, under Robin’s instructions, helped with the horses. It seems odd to say instructions when he hardly said a word from morning till night but as long as we were around the fields or the stable yard he had a way of communicating what needed to be done that didn’t need words. We filled mangers and water buckets for the mares that were kept in the stables, checked three times a day on the ones running free in the field and treated insect bites with some herbal concoction brewed by the Old Man and kept in a big green bottle. Sid was Robin’s responsibility. Early in the morning and just before it got dark in the evening he’d go up to the top of the stallion’s field just as the Old Man had done, sometimes with the Afghans running races round him, and stand with the horse under the trees. I imagined him crooning his soft Irish words to Sid but that was their time, his and the horse’s, and none of us tried to intrude on it. Nathan and Meredith took over most of the odd jobs around the house, carrying in coal for the kitchen fire that had to be kept going for the oven even though the day temperature was now up in the eighties, bringing in buckets of water from the yard pump because the small pump over the kitchen sink was unreliable. Nathan tried to repair it, stripping it down and putting it together again, but it needed a new part that would have to be got from town. He was gloomy about that, his normal high spirits quite cast down.
As for Meredith, he and I sat at meals with the rest round the kitchen table or met on our errands about the house and yards and treated each other as if the evening by the river had never happened. That suit
ed me. I didn’t regret the kiss, not even slightly, but didn’t want him to think I expected anything to follow from it. A kiss wasn’t a brand of ownership.
The fact that we were all eating our meals together must have added a lot to Dulcie’s work but she gave no sign of it and stayed in sole charge of the kitchen, though Midge and Imogen took over the hens and helped with the vegetables. They’d sit out in the yard, scrubbing carrots and peeling potatoes with straw hats keeping the sun off their faces. The heat inside the kitchen was the sensible reason for working in the yard but I knew there was another one – it meant Imogen didn’t have to spend a lot of time in Dulcie’s company. Midge and I didn’t know why she wanted to avoid Dulcie as much as possible but we didn’t want to add to the strain on Imogen by discussing it. And there was no doubt that the strain was affecting her worse than anybody else, even Alan. When their work allowed, the two of them would walk together slowly up and down the farm tracks and she’d come back more subdued than ever. Up in our loft at night she hardly seemed to sleep at all and there were deep violet shadows round her eyes. Kit seemed the least changed of us, but then he’d been downcast anyway. He did his best to help with the work and didn’t complain about the pain from his arm, but it was clear that it was still giving him trouble. He spent a lot of time reading in the shade or walking on his own, carefully avoiding routes where he might come across Alan and Imogen.
* * *
On the Saturday afternoon the heat was bludgeoning. I’d offered to go and check the mares but had left my straw hat somewhere and needed it for shade. I went up to the loft in case I’d left it there and found Imogen sitting on her straw pallet, looking so dejected that I sat down and put my arms round her. She slumped against me and let her head fall on my shoulder. ‘Oh Nell. Why did it all go wrong so quickly?’
‘It hasn’t gone wrong. You still love Alan, don’t you, and he loves you?’
Dead Man Riding Page 16