The Shadowy Horses

by Susanna Kearsley

  I couldn’t see much, thanks to Adrian, but as one boat after another came into the harbor and the process was repeated all along the quayside, I was able to appreciate the mechanics in greater detail—the speed and rhythm with which the men on the boats slid and sorted and hooked the fish boxes onto the dangling chains, the smooth rattle and pull of the chains sliding over wet concrete, and the final thump and shuffle of the blue and white boxes as they landed on the forklifts.

  In all it took David and his cousin less than ten minutes to unload the day’s catch. Stacked high, the forklift rattled off again, toward the market, and I heard the spray of a hosepipe below us as the fisherman still on the boat began to clean the empty deck.

  The gulls whirled thick as thieves above our heads, crying incessantly, their bright eyes hard and predatory.

  “Damn and blast!” said Adrian suddenly, letting go of me to clap a hand round the back of his neck. It came away smeared with white. “Bloody birds!”

  David’s cousin turned round, grinning. “Got ye, did they? Aye, well, ye can gie yer hand a dicht wi’ that,” he said, passing over a dampish rag from his pocket. Adrian obediently wiped both his hand and the back of his neck, wrinkling his nose at the fishy smell of the cloth.

  “It’s a fish auction you’re going to,” David told him, laughing at Adrian’s expression. “No one will care if you smell like a codling.”

  Behind me, someone called out David’s name and all of us looked round to see a woman standing in the open doorway of the Ship Hotel’s public bar. It was the barmaid who had served us earlier, a young woman, looking worried. “Telephone,” she told him, raising her voice above the rattle and hum of chains and machinery.

  My own first pessimistic thought was that it must be someone ringing from the hospital, and from David’s face I knew he was thinking the same thing.

  His laughter had died, and the blue eyes, meeting mine, were soberly apprehensive. “Look,” he said, rubbing his hands clean on his jeans, “it’s nearly four o’clock. Why don’t the two of you go ahead? I’ll meet you down there, at the market.”

  He was gone before I could reply, and Adrian nudged me from behind.

  “You heard the man,” he told me. “Nearly four o’clock.”

  David’s cousin Danny had also vanished, and short of standing alone like a fool on the quayside I had little option but to follow Adrian back down the harbor road.

  The fish market fairly bustled now with activity. Young men in wellies and stained sweaters jostled past in purposeful confusion while the truck drivers hovered close with keen expectant eyes, watching the red-faced auctioneer while he rummaged through the stacks of fish boxes, the bright orange flash of his rubber gloves poking and prodding with knowledgeable speed. A younger man hung at his shoulder, awaiting instructions. “The lemon sole, first,” the auctioneer decided, then jerked his head up as the Auld Kirk’s bell pealed out four times. “Right, lads, let’s go!” he ordered. “Four o’clock!”

  The buyers funneled through into the metal-walled enclosed part of the market. It put me in mind of a giant garage, with one long open side facing out on the harbor. The auction was all very interesting, I thought, once one got used to the smell, and if I hadn’t been so worried about David and his damned phone call I would probably have enjoyed myself. As it was, I stood like a stick to one side of the crowd, frowning faintly as I tried to concentrate on what was being said and done. Even Adrian, not known for his powers of observation, eventually noticed I wasn’t really there.

  His glance was rather hopeful. “Look, if you’re bored with this, we needn’t hang about. I really could do with a pint…”

  “I’m not bored.”

  “Well, that makes one of us.”

  “Besides,” I said, “we promised to wait for David.”

  “Oh, right.” He said the words quite lightly, thrusting his hands in his pockets and squaring his shoulders as he always did when he was about to pick an argument. “It wouldn’t do to disappoint old David, would it?”

  Imploring the ceiling to give me strength, I held my tongue and began to count backwards from one hundred. Silence in the face of nonsense, that’s what my father always said. Sound advice, really, except it didn’t often work with Adrian. My silence only gave him more space to sound off.

  “Of course,” he went on, “disappointing me is quite another matter, isn’t it? No one seems to care a damn what I think.”

  Stoically, I kept on counting: Eighty-five… eighty-four… eighty-three…

  “At least with Fabia, one can understand the appeal. McMorran is a charming devil, and she’s little more than a child. But you, my dear,” said Adrian, in a patronizing tone, “you do surprise me. After all your high-minded lectures on professional behavior, to find you all but bonking our Mr. Fortune on the middle pier…”

  That hit the mark. I lost my count. “Hyperbole.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means a gross exaggeration. You’re a master,” I informed him, “of hyperbole. And bonking in broad daylight on the middle pier, or any pier, is really not my style.”

  “Well, you were definitely lusting. Don’t bother to deny it.”

  “And if I was?”

  He looked wounded. “Well, you might have considered my feelings. We do have a history, you and I.”

  “We were only together three months.”

  “Three wonderful months.”

  My sidelong glance was skeptical. “Yes, well, I’m sure they were wonderful for you, considering you were also seeing Sally Jackson at the time.”

  He closed his mouth.

  “And anyway,” I continued, “that was years ago, Adrian. How many women have you had since then? Thirty? Fifty? Refresh my memory.”

  “I’m only saying…”

  “You’re only being a covetous prat,” I told him, bluntly. “And a flaming hypocrite. Now, back off.”

  “Hey,” he coaxed me, in his best persuasive voice, but even as he raised his arm I turned and froze him where he stood.

  “And if you put that arm around me one more time,” I told him, calmly, “I will not be held responsible.”

  “OK, OK.” He pulled back, lifting both hands in a self-defensive gesture. “Christ, I only meant…”

  The auctioneer’s voice cut him off, and looking round, I noticed that all eyes had turned in our direction. Adrian paused, lowering his own hands with dawning comprehension. “Dammit, I think I just bought something.”

  “Come on, laddie,” the auctioneer called out, “don’t be playing yourself all day, we’ve a muckle fish to get through yet.”

  Delighted, I watched Adrian shuffle forward to collect his unexpected purchase.

  Close by my ear, a deep voice said: “He’ll not do that again.”

  Twisting my head round, I looked up in some surprise at David’s face. “I wouldn’t count on it. He doesn’t always learn from his mistakes.” I studied David’s expression. “Was it the hospital that rang you?”

  “Aye. My mother’s being difficult,” he reported, looking pleased. Someone bumped him from the side and he shifted to stand directly behind me, his chin clearing the top of my head by a few inches. His breath stirred my hair while he watched Adrian poking reluctantly through a fish box packed with ice. “Gave him a ticking off, did you?”

  I followed his gaze, a little embarrassed. “Sort of.”

  “Well, I reckon he deserved it,” David said, approvingly. “Bonking on the bloody pier, indeed!”

  I tipped my head back sharply and my face flamed. “You heard!”

  “Only a few words, like,” he promised me. “I didn’t hear the part about the lusting.”

  Growing several shades redder, I hastily lowered my chin again and found myself face to face with Adrian, who’d r
eturned with two great ugly flatfish. He had, if nothing else, recovered his sense of humor. Shifting his burden, he solemnly passed me the keys to the Jaguar.

  “And what are these for?”

  “I seem to be having a run of bad luck,” he replied. “You’ll have to do the driving, I’m afraid. No point in tempting fate.”

  “But you’re not superstitious,” I reminded him.

  “Better safe than sorry. In the past hour I’ve been shat on by a seagull and done this.” He held the two fish up, to prove his point. “And bad luck, as you’ve always been so fond of telling me, does tend to come in threes.”

  Chapter 23

  Jeannie must have heard the car come up the drive. She met us in the hallway and placed a warning finger across her lips, jerking her head dramatically toward the closed door of Peter’s sitting room. “It’s genius at work in there,” she told us, low, “and we’re not to interrupt him. Pain of death, he said. Come on into the kitchen.”

  The four of us moved across the front hall like a band of burglars, wary of every squeaking floorboard, and it wasn’t until we were safely ensconced in the warm narrow kitchen that anyone dared to breathe.

  David let his breath out in a long sigh that became a yawn as he dropped into a chair at the kitchen table. Bracing his feet on the floor, he tilted the chair back to rest his head against the wall while he watched Jeannie filling the kettle.

  “The genius,” he said, stiffening his jaw against another yawn, “is probably asleep.”

  “He’s more awake than you,” Jeannie defended our absent employer. “Up to his neck in papers he was, when I took his tea in, and he didn’t show signs of stopping. He’s wanting to get that report of his finished, afore Dr. Connelly comes…” Her voice stopped as she lost her train of thought, sniffing the air experimentally. “What is that smell?”

  Adrian, in the act of hitching a chair forward, glanced up smoothly. “That would be me,” he informed her. Tossing his newspaper-wrapped parcel onto the table, he sent her a generous smile. “Don’t say I never bring you anything.”

  Curious, she unfolded the paper and stared at the fish. “Lemon sole!” she exclaimed. “Well, aren’t you wonderful? I can do them for lunch, tomorrow—they’ll be nicer than chops, for our company.” She glanced round at the three of us. “Been to the fish auction, have you?”

  “Aye.” David rubbed a hand across his eyes and nodded. A third yawn gripped him, but he tried to get the words out anyway. “Verity hadn’t… ever… seen…”

  “God, Davy,” Jeannie cut him off, shaking her head, “you’ve not stopped ganting since you came in. You’ll be making me tired, if you don’t stop.”

  “Sorry.” He closed his mouth and eyed her mildly. “Can’t help it.”

  “He hasn’t slept,” I explained.

  “Has he not?” Jeannie’s bright head whipped round and David cringed, his bloodshot eyes seeking mine a shade reproachfully.

  “Aye, well,” he said cautiously, “I think I’ll just go up to the Principia, and do a bit of playing with my own notes. There are one or two things on the computer that Peter will be wanting…”

  “Don’t be so bloody stupid.” Jeannie, hands on hips, surveyed him with a stern eye. “You’re as bad as your mother, you are. You keep pushing yourself till you fall on your face, and what use would you be then to Peter?”

  “I’m really not…”

  “Away upstairs,” she instructed him firmly, “and have an hour’s sleep afore supper. You can use the spare bed in Verity’s room, she’ll not mind—will you, Verity?”

  Enjoying the sight of the big Scotsman being firmly ordered about, I solemnly assured Jeannie that I wouldn’t mind in the least.

  David’s dark head rolled against the wall in a negative motion. “I’ve not got time, lass. My notes…”

  “Adrian can take care of all that.” Jeannie waved the excuse aside. “If you’re just wanting to print them off the computer…”

  “Ah.” Adrian, settled in comfort against the wall, interrupted archly. “Well, you see, I wouldn’t know exactly what files to print, would I? There’s the problem.”

  “So print them all,” Jeannie advised him, with unarguable logic. “Peter will ken what he wants when he sees it.” She turned to David. “There’s nothing secret in these notes of yours, is there? Nothing Peter couldn’t read?”

  “No, but…”

  “Well, then.” Satisfied, she looked from one to the other of them, expectantly. The clock on the wall ticked loudly while she waited.

  With a sigh of resignation David let his chair drop forward and stood rather creakily. Even Adrian, who didn’t ordinarily submit to being bossed about, rose to his feet without rebuttal, and headed for the hall in David’s wake. They looked so exactly like two small boys being sent to their rooms as punishment, that I couldn’t keep from smiling, just a little. I tried to hide the smile but David caught me anyway, and his eyes, as he looked back from the doorway, promised retribution.

  “Now,” said Jeannie, when the two of them had left us and we’d heard the sullen thud of David’s footsteps fading up the stairs, “let me just move these fish out of the way, and I’ll make the tea.”

  Taking a seat in Adrian’s still-warm chair, I watched her with open admiration. “I am impressed. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Adrian go quite that willingly without being bribed.”

  She grinned at me over her shoulder. “Well, I’ve had plenty of practice, living in a house full of men. Not that my dad ever listens. And Brian just does as he pleases.”

  “I saw his boat, this afternoon.”

  “Oh, aye? Did you get him to give you a tour?”

  I shook my head. “Brian wasn’t actually there—it was some older man, with white hair.”

  “Billy.” She nodded, setting the teapot to brew on the counter while she started scrubbing vegetables for our evening meal. “He’s all right, is Billy. It’s that sleekit lad from Liverpool that I can’t bide. Brian thought he’d give the kid a chance, like. Help him straighten out. But some folk,” Jeannie said, with emphasis, “won’t go straight. They’re born fair twisted.”

  Something she’d said struck a chord in my memory. “Jeannie?”

  “Aye?”

  “What does ‘sleekit’ mean?” It was the word, I remembered, that David had used earlier, to describe Adrian. The word he’d advised me to look up in my dictionary.

  “Sleekit?” Jeannie checked, with half-raised eyebrows. “Well, it means… when you call a man sleekit, you’re saying he’s sort of all charm on the outside, like, but inside he’s a sly lying devil.”

  “Like Adrian.”

  Her laugh was a lovely thing. “Aye, he’s a perfect example. My dad still can’t believe you used to go with Adrian. He thinks you’re far too clever.”

  “Yes, well, it’s surprising what a handsome face will blind you to.”

  Peter poked his head in from the hallway. “Do I dare hope that you’re speaking of me?”

  “Well, naturally.” Jeannie’s smile held mischief. “There’s not a man so handsome in the house.”

  “My dear girl,” Peter said, “how very kind. Remind me to give you a rise.”

  “D’ye fancy some tea?”

  He politely declined the offer, and turned instead to me. “I was wondering, Verity, whether you’d seen my red notebook?”

  “Is it not on your desk?”

  “No.” He shook his head, frowning faintly. “No, I’ve looked everywhere that it ought to be, but I’m afraid the blasted thing’s gone missing.”

  “Perhaps someone moved it, and forgot to tell you.” But even as I suggested that, I knew it wasn’t likely. Quinnell’s desk was his domain, and no one in the field crew would be fool enough to touch the red notebook containing his field notes.

/>   “Perhaps.” Peter wasn’t convinced. “Only it’s something of a problem, you see, because without that notebook I can’t finish my report for Connelly.”

  Jeannie brought her knife to rest against the cutting board. “I thought you put everything in the computer, like.”

  “Well, yes, we do.” He rubbed his neck, ruefully. “But I’m afraid I hadn’t quite got round to entering my notes from Friday last, or Saturday.”

  Forgetting about the tea, I stood. “I’ll go and take a look, if you like. A fresh pair of eyes can work wonders.”

  Up at the Principia, having searched through Quinnell’s desk and come up empty-handed, I shunted Adrian aside to check the floor beneath David’s chair. “Are you sure you haven’t seen it?”

  “I’m positive.” Patiently, he moved his feet to let me finish searching underneath the desk. “Shall I strip off, to prove I haven’t got the thing stuffed down my trousers? Would that help?”

  “It might.” I banged my head on the desk, backing out, and straightened, massaging my scalp. “Honestly, Adrian, I can’t think where that bloody notebook’s got to.”

  “Maybe your friend took it.”

  “Sorry?”

  “The Sentinel.” He wasn’t serious. I saw the smirk as he bent to key a command into David’s computer, sending the nearby laser printer into action with a half-protesting whine. “If Peter thinks him capable of crashing our computers, I don’t see why our ghost should balk at stealing Peter’s field notes. Come to think of it,” he said, clapping a hand to his cheek in mock horror, “my coffee cup’s gone missing, too…” And he whistled the theme of The Twilight Zone.

  “Yes, that’s very helpful, thank you,” I dismissed his comments, looking round with hands on hips. “I’m glad you’re taking this so seriously.”