Cut Throat (12 page)

Ross didn't trust himself to answer. He knew he should climb back on the chestnut mare straightaway. It was the first thing he had been taught by his uncle, all those years ago. It was the first thing anyone was taught. Normally, it was the obvious, if sometimes painful, thing to do. Just now, though, Ross didn't care if he never rode the mare again.

But Leo was watching.

Ross put the broken ends of the rein together over Ginger's neck and raised his foot to the stirrup. The hand that reached for the back of the saddle was not as steady as he would have liked, but Leo was too far away to see. He swung aboard once more.

Ginger didn't move a muscle.

Ross knew, as he went through the motions of a schooling session, that he hadn't only remounted to prove his nerve to the watching groom or to show the mare that she couldn't get away with such behaviour. He had done it to satisfy himself; and it bothered him that he should have needed to.

Ross did the rounds with Bill that night, as usual. Topping up water buckets and haynets, straightening rugs where worn, and tidying beds. He always enjoyed this part of the routine, setting everything right for the night and leaving the horses munching contentedly or dozing, sleepy-eyed, on their feet.

The night was warm and humid. Grasshoppers chirped in the long grass behind the stables, and bats swooped and dived overhead. The last animal seen to, Ross said goodnight to Bill and stiffly climbed the stairs to his room. His troublesome knee had borne the brunt of his fall from Ginger and was protesting.

Leo's room was quiet. He was still out, and would be until the pubs closed, Ross guessed. The dog padded to its customary corner and collapsed with a gusty sigh as Ross made coffee and switched on the TV. Two depressing current affairs programmes; a soap opera; a comedy show with canned laughter; and a Japanese film with subtitles. He switched it off and listened to Woody moving about down below.

Almost inevitably his thoughts turned to Lindsay and how great she had looked that morning, and he wondered again what the absent James was like. In his mind he pictured him as plump and serious, bespectacled and suited, but deep down he knew that, parental pressure or not, Lindsay would not settle for a wimp.

His knee was determinedly aching now and he got up to find some paracetamol, knowing that it wouldn't be the whole answer but hoping it might help.

Bloody Ginger! If it weren't for Bishop, he would tell Fergusson just what he could do with his horse.

His brief meeting with the man had certainly not endeared him to Ross. It seemed that Fergusson regarded his horses in the same light as the chess pieces he had made his name with: as non-sentient beings to be manipulated at will. Any failings they might show he automatically attributed to their rider. Ross was thankful that tournaments and masterclasses kept Robbie Fergusson away from Oakley Manor for much of the time.

Just before midnight, he heard Leo come in, making no attempt to disguise his noisy progress. Half an hour later Ross was still awake, tossing and turning in the too-warm darkness, naggingly aware of his throbbing leg.

At some point he must have slept, for the dreams came again; the familiar nightmare of the screaming crowd, the struggling horse and the suffocating weight on his chest. With a gasp he awoke, sitting bolt upright.

The night was quiet. No breath of wind disturbed the curtains at the open window. Across the room the dog was padding around restlessly. Ross wondered if he had disturbed it.

He sat up, eyes heavy with tiredness but reluctant to sleep again lest the nightmare return. Despite the warmth of the night he found he was shivering and his thoughts turned involuntarily to an unopened bottle of Scotch that nestled amongst his winter sweaters in his suitcase under the bed. He had used whisky in the past to dull the pain in his leg and help him sleep, but not for months now.

The very fact that he hadn't unpacked his winter clothes, Ross knew, was a measure of his insecurity. He had felt in a way that it would be inviting fate to slap him down. Now, just as he had begun to feel that things were going right at last, Ginger had reawakened the old self-doubt.

Whisky.

Temptation.

So easy to give in.

Ross gave himself a thorough mental shaking. He swung out of bed, reached for his jeans and pulled them on. If he couldn't sleep he would go for a walk.

The dog seemed pleased to be out, running round him in tight circles, wagging its tail. The moon was about three-quarters full and gave just enough light through the high cloud for the American to see when he left the lamplit yard and moved out into the home field.

The tranquillity of the night restored some sense of perspective and after ten minutes or so he headed back towards his room in a much better frame of mind than when he had left it.

Then the dog growled.

Ross put a hand on its head to quieten it and stopped, eyes searching the shadows. Just as he was about to move on, convinced that the dog had heard a cat or a fox, he saw a pool of light moving along the ground behind the horsebox. His heart thumping heavily, he moved forward quietly on the concrete apron in front of the stables. This part of the yard was in deep shadow, the lamplight obscured by the bulk of the lorry.

The torchlight flashed higher once or twice, as if searching at the stable doors for a particular head, then disappeared. It occurred to Ross that the prowler might be making for the covered corridor where the other horses were housed.

They found the horse lying in the straw with its throat cut. It was horrific
. McKinnon's words echoed like a warning in Ross' mind, and throwing caution to the winds he sprinted down the concrete apron and round the back of the horsebox. The dog shot past him and into the darkness of the doorway before he could stop it. Ross cursed and made to follow. Then a flicker of movement at the edge of his field of vision halted him in his tracks. The prowler was still outside. He shrank into the shadows and watched.

Somewhere at the other end of the yard he could hear the dog barking, but the sound gradually receded. He had obviously come out of the other doorway at the far end of the corridor and was now running aimlessly round the home field. Stupid bloody mutt! Ross thought. No help at all.

After a minute or two had passed, Ross, scarcely daring to breathe, heard a whisper of movement and a shadow detached itself from the cover of the building, just a few feet away from where he stood.

He stepped out after it.

‘Stop right there!' he said sharply. The words sounded unnaturally loud after the strained silence and the question
Or else?
seemed to hang in the air between them.

To Ross' surprise, the shadowy figure obeyed. The prowler was of similar height and build to Ross himself and as such presumably male, but as he turned, his face was in darkness. He raised his hands shoulder high in apparent surrender.

What light there was shone into Ross' face and he paused, one arm uplifted to shield his eyes, trying to see, unsure of himself. Prowlers were supposed to run, not give themselves up to obviously unarmed challengers. Surely it wasn't anyone he knew?

‘Who are you?' he demanded, wishing there were a shovel or pitchfork within reach. He was very aware of the night wind blowing through his open shirtfront. It made him feel uncomfortably vulnerable.

What if the prowler had a hidden knife?

The trespasser waited calmly; a silent, black silhouette with hands empty and still.

His very immobility unnerved Ross. He took a step closer and to one side, moving his head to try and see the man's features.

Suddenly the intruder moved. Before Ross could react, his wrist was grasped, a hand hooked under his armpit bearing him back and down, and the man stepped past and threw him neatly across his hip.

Helpless, Ross had no sensation of falling but found himself sprawling on the gravel, gasping for air like a landed fish. He rolled instinctively to protect himself from further attack but it seemed the intruder was no longer interested in him for he sprinted away and as Ross regained his feet he could hear footsteps receding on the gravel of the drive.

Ross reached for the stable wall and leant against it, deeply winded, as the dog belatedly returned and swept past him growling, apparently on the trail of the intruder at last. Seconds later Ross heard the snarl of a powerful engine coming to life and the squeal of a car's tyres as it pulled away. He leaned back against the brickwork, waiting for his breathing to become less painful, and after a moment a cold wet nose pushed itself into his hand.

‘Stupid mutt,' Ross chided the dog, ruffling its coat affectionately. ‘Where were you when I needed you?'

He pushed away from the wall and made his way round the stables. Everything seemed in order. All doors were locked that should be. Most of the horses were wide awake, alerted by the commotion, though some were already settling down again and blinked sleepily at him as he turned on their light. None lay with their throat slit, as he'd at first feared. He patted the necks of those that approached him and spoke to them quietly, then turned off the lights.

For perhaps half an hour he waited quietly in the shadows with a pitchfork to hand, then calling softly to the dog, he made his way back to his room. He was not surprised that Leo hadn't woken after an evening at the local, though he had half-expected Bill to appear.

He knew he should probably have woken Bill when he first saw the torchlight but at the time preventative action had seemed all-important and now there seemed little point. Bill would probably feel it his duty to inform the police and, quite apart from his reluctance to spend the rest of the night answering questions, Ross wasn't entirely sure whether Franklin Richmond wouldn't rather leave the police out of it, if it had anything to do with Bellboy and the extortionist.

He decided, as he lowered himself thankfully into bed, that his best course of action was to contact Richmond as soon as he could and let him do what he wished about the affair. Then it occurred to him that if the prowler was anything to do with the extortionist and he had, as McKinnon suspected, a contact within the yard, Ross' own silence would seem somewhat suspicious.

His mind thoroughly bogged down with bluff and counter-bluff, he slipped into an uneasy slumber.

When Ross awakened the next morning, the first thing he thought of was the torch. It had been the light of a torch which had alerted him but when the prowler had turned to face him he'd held nothing in his hands. So, he had either put it in a pocket – unlikely, as his silhouette had shown he was wearing nothing bulky – or he had dropped it or put it down somewhere.

Perhaps it was still there.

Only Sarah was in the yard when Ross emerged into the chill of the early morning. He smiled absent-mindedly at her, noting with mild irritation that even that made her redden, and went about his search.

He found nothing.

Later, when the team was settling down to breakfast, he casually mentioned his nocturnal excursion.

‘The dog got me up last night,' he said over toast and marmalade. ‘I took him out and when I came back from the field, I thought I saw someone in the yard, over by the horsebox. The dog barked and ran at him, and he made off.'

This potted version, he had decided, would satisfy the innocent and ungodly alike. Failing to mention his pathetic attempt to restrain the intruder could easily be construed as a matter of bruised pride.

‘Why didn't you wake me?' Bill demanded sharply, and beside him, Sarah stared with wide, frightened eyes.

Ross shrugged. ‘I heard a car start up out in the lane. Figured whoever it was would be long gone.'

‘It'd take an earthquake to wake you anyway, dear,' Maggie said, filling coffee cups. ‘And I sleep with cotton wool in my ears to drown his snoring,' she told Ross, who smothered a smile.

Bill glowered at his wife as she passed his coffee.

‘It was probably one of those hippies,' she went on, ignoring him. ‘Been hanging round the local villages ever since they were turned away from Stonehenge. Looking for somewhere to camp, I suppose. Old Trenchard was saying he's padlocked all his gates. He swears the blighters had a chicken off him the other night, but then, he would.'

‘Well, I don't suppose they'll be back if they've had a taste of the dog,' Bill observed grudgingly. ‘But another time, call me anyway. After what happened last year we can't be too careful.'

Ross silently blessed Maggie for providing an instant and plausible explanation for the prowler. In fact, he reflected, it might well have been the right one, if it hadn't been for the powerful and well-tuned sound of the car's engine. However, he had covertly watched the faces of his companions and if any of them knew anything more about last night's events than he did, they were taking care not to show it.

Lindsay arrived while the exercise rota was being set and the day settled into a familiar routine. Ross rode out with Leo and the two girls; light exercise because the horses were going to an evening show. When they clattered back into the yard an hour or so later, the Colonel was waiting, talking to Bill and another, younger man whom Ross didn't know.

Lindsay clearly did. ‘Roland!' she cried delightedly, slipping off Gypsy and running forward to meet him.

In the long days in hospital, Roland had figured frequently in Lindsay's conversation. He was her cousin, Ross remembered, the Colonel's son, and from the way she had spoken of him, Ross knew she adored him. He jumped off Woody and followed in a more leisurely fashion, taking time to observe the newcomer.

Roland Preston was straight out of a fashion plate, a vision in a pale cream, 1930s-style suit; one of the kind that looked as though it had been made for someone two sizes larger. His sandy hair was short and brushed back from an aristocratic brow. A pair of tinted spectacles hid his eyes and, despite the heat, a silk paisley scarf was knotted loosely about his neck. The whole effect was very P.G. Wodehouse.