Deadfall (4 page)

Notwithstanding this, the chapel services were well supported by members of the Farthingscourt staff, among them Viscount Tremayne's secretary and PA, Mary Poe, who was at present on holiday.

Mary was probably, Linc thought, both the most valued
and
undervalued worker on the estate. She had taken up her position at around the same time as Marianne had come to Farthingscourt as a young bride, and, although she was a few years younger than the Viscountess, they had soon become great friends.

After Marianne's death, Mary was the one who had stepped in to look after Linc and his younger brother Crispin, while their father shut himself away with his grief. Without her, the family would quite possibly have fallen apart.

Aside from the loss of his mother, Linc's childhood had been a fairly happy one, but looking back, he recognised that running through it there had always been a thread of conflict between his inherited passion for horses and his desire to live up to his father's expectations.

It wasn't something that had left him emotionally scarred for life. After all, a sizeable portion of his teenage years had been spent away at school, and there it had been fairly easy to arrange to ride in his spare time. But his relationship with his father had never been all that Linc would have wished.

It had not been solely in an attempt to please
him
that Linc had studied business management, marketing and commerce at university. He had known from an early age that Farthingscourt would one day be his and had always embraced the prospect with enthusiasm. He loved the house and land, and wanted to be involved in the running of them, so it seemed as though fate was taking a hand when the estate manager gave in his notice a month before Linc was due to graduate. As soon as he'd
completed his course he hurried home to plead his case.

Lord Tremayne ignored his pleas and gave the job to an outsider.

Twenty-two years old, his newly gained qualifications spurned, as he saw it, Linc packed his bags and left.

He walked out with no clear idea of where he was going or what he was going to do. He wasn't ready to acknowledge the truth of his father's argument that he lacked the necessary practical experience for the top job; all he wanted was to put some distance between them and find a way of showing that he could get on, with or without his father's help. In defiant mood, his first spell of employment was in a top eventing yard where he quickly rose to the status of stable manager. The job gave him a chance to further his competition experience and it was during his second year there that he bought Noddy, the first horse he had ever owned.

Linc was almost completely happy working with the eventers.

Almost, but not quite. Farthingscourt was inextricably a part of his life and, no matter where he found himself, the urge to return was always tugging at his subconscious. However strong the pull, though, he was not about to go back, cap in hand; the Tremayne pride wouldn't allow that. He was prepared to admit that his father had been right, but not until he'd made up the deficit. With that in mind, Linc reluctantly left the stables and trawled a succession of large country estates for work.

He finally found a position as an assistant estate
manager and settled down to learn everything he possibly could about the job. Over the next four and a half years he returned home infrequently, saying little of what he'd been doing, and it wasn't until his younger brother Crispin wrote to tell him of the impending retirement of the Farthingscourt estate manager that he handed in his notice and returned to Dorset with Noddy still in tow.

The fatted calf could rest easy.

If Sylvester Tremayne was overjoyed to see his son and heir return, he hid it well. It took weeks of stubborn persistence by Linc to bring his father to the point of offering him a trial period as estate manager. Mary, desperate to see them settle their differences, added her subtle persuasion to the cause, and Linc even produced references for his father's perusal, with an ironic deference which almost provoked a total falling-out.

So far, even the Viscount could find no fault with his work, though he fought every suggestion for change that his son made. One notable exception to this was Linc's plan to restore Farthingscourt Mill to working order. It was his aim to utilise the old building for its original purpose, that of milling grain from the estate's organic farms, and then to sell the resulting flour under their own label.

He'd expected to have to fight for his idea but surprisingly his father had been quite prepared to listen; in fact, he'd yielded so swiftly that Linc suspected he was being given rope with which to hang himself. If he hadn't been completely confident in his research this prospect might have unnerved him but he'd been working on the idea for some time and was convinced of its viability. A
grant had been secured and work was already under way.

Management experience wasn't all Linc had brought back with him to Farthingscourt. On one of his fleeting trips home he had also brought his girlfriend of the time, Nikki, and when he finally succeeded in detaching himself from her overeager clutches two or three months later, she had returned of her own accord, unbeknownst to him, and struck up a relationship with Crispin. A year before Linc came back for good, he was best man at his little brother's wedding. To his relief, and in spite of his private misgivings, the union seemed to have been an unmitigated success.

Traffic around Salisbury brought him back abruptly to the present and he looked at his watch. Forty minutes to go. With a wary eye open for lurking traffic police, he made a reassuring call to Nina Barclay on his mobile and, twenty minutes later, arrived at the venue in person.

One-day events differ from their three-day cousins in more ways than the obvious; one of the main ones being that the cross-country phase often comes last, after the showjumping, instead of halfway through the competition, and another being that the horses are not asked to complete a steeplechase course or miles of roads and tracks before tackling the jumps across country. The aim of both competitions is to find the horse and rider combination which is truly versatile. A bit like a human decathlon event, contestants are tested on their suppleness, speed and endurance, obedience and accuracy. What is also tested, in consequence, is their temperament. A
faint heart or lack of mental stamina will be laid bare as surely as any deficiency in the physical department.

Hobo's Dream at home had not inspired Linc with any great excitement but he was clearly a horse who came alive on the big day. At eight years old he was just beginning his third year in horse trials and was on the brink of grading up to intermediate. When Nina Barclay's groom led the brown gelding across to meet him, Linc could see that he was fit and raring to go.

‘He's warmed up nicely. You just need to hop up and get the feel of him before we head for the arena.' Nina was walking beside Linc, dark-haired and fortyish with a lean angular figure that would probably stay the same into her seventies and beyond.

‘Yes, I'm sorry I'm so late. You must be cursing me!'

Nina shook her head. ‘Not at all, it's not your fault. I'm just glad you could still ride him. How is poor Abby?'

Ruth had promised to update him as and when there was any news, so he had to assume she was still unconscious. He explained to Nina as he mounted Hobo and let the stirrups down to a comfortable length.

‘I can hardly believe it! Attacked in her own yard. You're not safe anywhere these days, it seems, and they've lost all their tack, too.'

‘Yeah. I said I'd look up Sandy Wilkes and see if he'll bring some out to tide us over. Is he here today?'

‘Third stall up, second row. Right next to the
Land-Rover stand,' Nina confirmed. ‘I've been over there already for a new saddlecloth, mine was somewhat less than white.'

Hobo sidled impatiently as Nina's groom tightened his girth and then Linc was riding away at a swinging walk to put him through his paces. All around them competitors and their helpers were hurrying about their business; horses of all shapes and sizes were being warmed up, walked round or were waiting their turn to compete. Few independent spectators were in attendance, most being the friends, family and grooms of the competitors, and these were catered for by the provision of straw bales to sit on and numerous vans selling anything from jacket potatoes and hot dogs to crêpes Suzette and frozen yoghurt. The showjumping ring was bounded by metal posts and nylon tape, and the air resounded with commentary, via the PA system, which was repeated in a series of overlapping echoes across the acres of the cross-country course, in a way that was somehow peculiar to such events.

In spite of the last-minute nature of things, or maybe because of it, the dressage test went surprisingly well. It was the phase of the competition which Linc was least confident about and this usually set off a vicious circle of nerves and tension which in turn disturbed the horse's own composure. On this occasion he'd hardly had time for nerves to take a hold, and what Hobo's performance may have lacked in accuracy, it more than made up for in flair and impulsion.

‘Well done!' Nina exclaimed as he rode out of the arena and dismounted. ‘That's as good a test as he's ever done.'

‘Thanks. It's all down to him, though. I can never get Noddy to take that much interest. He usually slops round looking half-asleep and swishing his tail every time I ask him to do anything. My score sheet always reads “Lack of impulsion. Tail swishing” all the way down.'

Things were apparently running late in the showjumping ring and with time on his hands Linc went in search of Sandy Wilkes, the saddler.

Sandy's lorry was parked, as Nina had said, next to the Land-Rover stand. It was a horsebox which had been fitted out with racks, shelves and drawers to hold saddles, bridles and every kind of equine accessory that one could imagine, and then some. It was his proud boast that he had the largest collection of bits of anyone in England. Snaffles, pelhams, bridoons and kimblewicks; in fact anything that had ever been devised to go in a horse's mouth, he had in stock. He had a workshop and extra storage in a business unit near his home in Shaftesbury but most of his business was conducted out of the back of the lorry, in which he could visit his customers on their own premises.

Linc hadn't seen much of Sandy over the last few years but had known him quite well way back, when as a teenager he'd spent happy hours in other people's stableyards. Seven or eight years older than Linc, Sandy had just been starting out in business at that time and had made frequent calls to all the horsy premises that he could find, in order to drum up business. These days the riding fraternity called
him
and he was a popular figure at shows and events, a fact borne out by the numbers crowding under the awning at the side of his lorry.

As Linc progressed through the queue of prospective customers waiting for a word with the saddler, he was impressed anew by Sandy's unrivalled service and generosity. One harassed competitor, obviously finding himself short of the necessary, was told to drop a cheque in the post, and to another he said, ‘Well, look. You take the vulcanite pelham and try it for a week or two, then if he isn't happy, bring it back and we'll try something else. We'll worry about the money later when we've got you settled. How about that?'

His pretty, female customer apparently thought it very acceptable, including a kiss in her expressions of gratitude. At five foot nine Sandy was a couple of inches shorter than Linc but thick, wavy fair hair and boyish smile ensured he was never short of female company.

‘You're a pushover, you are!' Linc declared as he reached the front of the queue.

‘Linc! Nice to see you, mate!' Sandy's attractive, lightly freckled face lit up as he punched Linc lightly on the arm. ‘Where've you been hiding yourself lately?'

‘Oh, I've been working away. But seriously, how many times do people take up your kind offers and disappear without trace?'

Sandy lowered his voice. ‘Very rarely, actually. You see, I know where most of them live and I know who their friends are. A word dropped here and there can be very damaging to someone's credit rating. Yeah, sure, I've lost the odd snaffle or stirrup leather but my open-handed reputation is my biggest draw.'

Linc laughed. ‘You're a fraud! I should have
known it. Underneath that warm, friendly public face you're just a cold, calculating businessman.'

‘Shhh, think of my sales!' Sandy warned in mock alarm. ‘Well, what can I do for you anyway?'

Soberly, Linc told him what had happened to Abby. ‘So they're left with no tack at all until the insurance comes through, and of course, whatever else happens, the horses still have to be exercised,' he finished.

‘So they'd like me to pop over and drop off a couple of saddles and bridles in the meantime?'

‘That'd be brilliant, if you could.'

‘Sure. It won't be till Monday, though. I'll still be here tomorrow, it's the Open Intermediate.'

‘Monday's fine,' Linc assured him.

‘That's rough about Abby. Poor kid. Will she be okay?'

Linc pursed his lips. ‘Too soon to say.'

‘And do they have any idea who did it? The police, I mean.'

‘If they do, they're not telling. I was first on the scene and
I
didn't see anything. But maybe forensics will turn something up.'

‘Let's hope so.'

Several other customers were hovering hopefully and Sandy made an apologetic face at Linc. ‘Look, I'll have to get on, sorry. I'll ring about Monday.'

‘Thanks. Oh, and Noddy goes in a five-and-a-half-inch, half-cheeked snaffle, if you've got one.'

‘Right you are. See you later, then.' With a smile, Sandy turned to his next customer.

It was with a degree of relief that Linc made it out into the fresh air again. He was heading for Nina
Barclay's horsebox when a voice spoke hesitantly behind him.