Deadfall (5 page)

‘Excuse me . . .'

He turned to see a middle-aged strawberry blonde in jodhpurs and a Puffa jacket.

‘Yes?'

‘I'm sorry. I don't know whether you're interested but the thing is, I couldn't help overhearing about your tack being stolen, and the same thing happened to us just a week ago. My name's Tricia Johnston, by the way.'

‘Linc Tremayne.'

‘Yes, I know. I saw you at Radstock. Abby was grooming for you, wasn't she? Poor girl, I hope she'll be all right.'

‘Me too. Er, look, I'm due to ride in a minute . . .' He'd told Nina he'd be back in twenty minutes and he was cutting it fine.

‘Sorry. Actually, there's not much more to tell because no one saw anything. They just forced the padlock on the tackroom door and cleared us out. All the new stuff anyway. We reckon it was between half-ten when my daughter gives the horses their last lot of hay and half-twelve when my husband and I got back from a party.'

‘You were out then?' Linc asked with interest.

‘Yes, a fund-raising do for the local hunt. It was a dreary affair as well. I wish we'd never gone.'

‘Do you think you'd have noticed if you had been at home? Can you see the stables from the house?'

Tricia shook her head. ‘No, not easily. But you always wonder, don't you?'

Linc nodded. ‘Still, if it was the same person or
people, perhaps it was a good thing nobody did see. Look what happened to Abby.'

Tricia was much struck by this but had no more information to offer so Linc excused himself to go in search of Nina and Hobo and, twenty minutes later, after warming up once more, jumped a competent round to add just four more penalty points to his dressage score.

In due course, having replaced his black jacket with a body protector and a sky-blue polo-necked jumper provided by Nina, Linc was waiting at the start of the cross-country section. Sky-blue was the colour she usually rode in and although event riders don't have registered colours such as jockeys wear, many make a point of always wearing the same colour or combination of colours on all their horses.

Hobo had undergone a transformation too. Gone were the neat plaits of the dressage arena; his mane now hung free in a wavy black mass on his neck. A jumping saddle was fitted, and rubber grip reins, and his hard, black legs were protected by bandages, overreach boots and quantities of thick white grease to help him slide over any rails he might hit. He was ready to go.

Linc rode into the roped-off starting box, leather-gloved hands surreptitiously sliding up the reins one at a time in preparation for the horse's leap forward. As the official began the countdown Linc started the stopwatch on his right wrist.

‘Three . . . two . . . one . . . good luck!' the steward called, and in a flash was left behind and forgotten as Hobo forged out of the box and into a gallop in three powerful strides.

Linc eased into a balanced position, weight out of
the saddle and off the horse's back, hands amongst the flying mane, moving in time with the nodding head, maintaining a steady contact. As always, the nervous tension of waiting was blown away in the wind and he gave himself up to the thrill and enjoyment of five or six minutes of galloping and jumping.

Due to his late arrival that morning, he hadn't had time to walk the course before the competition started, doing it after his showjumping round instead. This meant that the first riders were already out on the course and he had to choose his moments to pace out the combination fences. On the other hand, he did have a chance to see how well the course was riding and it had seemed as though bold, forward-going animals were finding little problem with it.

So it proved.

Nina had warned him that Hobo could sometimes balk at drop fences; those where the ground was substantially lower on the landing side than the take off. Sometimes, as was the case on this occasion with fence twelve, these had no upright obstacle, merely a platform faced with railway sleepers followed by a drop of several feet on to a downward slope. For a horse, with its limited forward vision, this manoeuvre requires a good deal of faith in its rider. The ideal situation is to slow up sufficiently for the horse to lower its head and land reasonably close to the sleeper wall, but not to slow up so much as to allow it time for second thoughts.

The worst scenario is for the horse to approach too boldly or even fighting for its head, and to launch itself out into space without a thought for the
landing. This had only once happened to Linc, with the almost inevitable result. Both he and his equine partner, another borrowed ride, had collapsed in a heap on landing and rolled a good few yards further down the hill. He'd walked away that time with nothing worse than a sprained wrist and some bruising, but it could easily have been a broken neck, and he'd learned caution.

Hobo was bold but sensible, an event rider's dream. As they landed neatly on the slope and galloped on, Linc wondered fleetingly if it was Nina who didn't like drop fences rather than the horse, then pushed the thought away and concentrated on the challenges ahead.

The course was biggish but fair. Cross-country and horse trials fences are nowhere near as high as those facing a showjumping rider of a similar standard; the difference being that cross-country obstacles are not built to be knocked down by careless hooves. Stone walls, tree trunks and wired-on rails of easily twelve inches in diameter have to be jumped uphill, downhill and into water. Hedges, banks, chicken coops and picnic tables, singly or in combination, have to be negotiated in the open or amongst trees. The variation is immense, limited only by the imagination of each course designer. The only constant is the inescapable fact that mistakes are potentially dangerous. It is not a sport for the faint-hearted.

Linc had a super round. Hobo lacked experience but made up for it with a willingness to be guided, and although he took a strong hold, Linc was able to steady him at the appropriate moments and they crossed the finishing line with a clear round inside
the time. At the end of the day it was good enough for second place. Nina was euphoric.

‘Second? You're kidding!'

Ruth turned from making coffee in the Vicarage kitchen. Linc had called in on his way home for news and to see if he could help with the horses.

He shook his head.

‘No one was more surprised than me, I can tell you!' he said. ‘And Nina was so excited I thought she'd never stop hugging me.'

‘It's brilliant! What was your dressage score?'

‘Forty-two,' he announced with a certain amount of pride.

‘Well, good old Hobo!' she exclaimed.

‘Thanks!' he said dryly, and they both laughed.

The door swung open and a young woman stepped inside.

Tall and slender with long dark brown hair and an unseasonable golden tan, Linc recognised Ruth's older sister Josie from family photographs and a couple of professional portfolio shots her mother had proudly showed him. He'd privately thought then, as he did now, that Ruth, with her sunny smile, was the prettier sister.

‘Well, I'm glad someone's had an enjoyable day,' Josie remarked, her displeasure aimed squarely at Linc. ‘If that's your Land-Rover outside, you're going to have to move it. You're blocking me in.'

‘Sure. Sorry.' He stood up and made for the door straight away. He had noticed the sleek, white E-type on his way in and Ruth had told him it belonged to her sister. She had apparently driven back from London that afternoon to see Abby, in
whom there had been no change. Both their parents were still at the hospital, and although Ruth would never have admitted it, Linc could see that she was immensely relieved to have some of the responsibility for home and siblings lifted off her shoulders. He guessed that just the presence of someone older was a comfort to her.

‘I'm not sure what time I'll be back, Roo,' Josie said as Linc passed. ‘I'll see how Mum's holding up, but I don't suppose I'll be long. Okay?'

Outside, Linc gave the car a second appreciative glance as he strolled towards the Farthingscourt vehicle. Josie was evidently doing well for herself in the modelling world. He slid behind the wheel of the Land-Rover, started it and backed out of the yard into the drive.

As he walked back, Josie emerged from the house and got into her car without a word to him. Wearing very little make-up and a long leather coat over jeans and a jumper, she didn't look much like a model. He shrugged off her rudeness and headed for the back door.

The Jaguar wouldn't start.

Linc paused in the doorway listening to Josie's efforts for a moment or two, then retraced his steps.

‘You'll flood it,' he warned her, putting a hand on the hardtop and leaning down to look inside.

‘I know that, dammit!' she said through gritted teeth. ‘I haven't got the choke out.'

‘D'you want me to have a look?' he offered.

‘No, it's always a bugger when it's hot. I'll have to let it cool down. Mind out!' She thrust the door open briskly and Linc had to skip back smartly to preserve his kneecaps.

Following her into the house, he caught Ruth's reply to her query.

‘I'm sorry Josie, you can't. It's loaded up with my gear for the exhibition tomorrow. I daren't let you take it to the hospital. I've packed it up as best I can but I'm going to have to drive at about ten miles an hour. I'm really sorry.'

‘Damn! I'll have to call a taxi.'

In the doorway, Linc cleared his throat.

‘I could give you a lift, if you like?' He didn't know why he'd said it. He certainly didn't relish the idea of driving twenty miles or so back the way he'd just come with an antagonistic female in the passenger seat. On top of which, Farthingscourt was entertaining the sponsors of his watermill project that evening and he was a fair way to being late already.

Josie looked at him in surprise. ‘Why? Are you going that way?'

‘I can do, if it'd be any help. I
was
going to give Ruth a hand with the horses but I expect she'll forgive me . . .'

Ruth nodded vigorously.

‘If you're sure . . .' Josie wavered, looking all of a sudden very tired.

‘'Course. No problem at all.'

After a mile or so, Linc could see that it was going to be up to him to break the silence.

‘You've been working in London, then?'

‘I got back half an hour or so ago,' Josie confirmed. ‘Mum phoned me from the hospital this morning.'

Her tone signalled no significant unbending and
Linc wondered what he'd done to upset her. It surely couldn't all be down to his blocking her in. The silence stretched on again, fairly buzzing with unspoken thoughts.

‘Ruth says Abby went down to the stables to meet you,' Josie said at last, voice unmistakably accusing.

‘Ah,' Linc said, realisation dawning.

‘What d'you mean,
ah
?'

He ignored the question. ‘Yes, she did. She was going to help me plait.'

‘But you were late.'

‘Unfortunately, yes.'

A pause, then, ‘If you'd been there on time, none of this would have happened.'

‘Probably not,' he agreed. ‘I guess it's all my fault.'

Another pause.

‘Haven't you got stables at Farthingscourt?'

‘Yes, but there aren't any teenage girls there to fetch and carry for me.'

Linc felt rather than saw the contemptuous look directed at him but it seemed Josie had exhausted her bitterness for the moment and the remainder of the journey passed in hostile silence. He dropped her off at Odstock Hospital, where she thanked him with icy politeness, and turned wearily for home. The spark of neighbourly kindness that had prompted his offer had been effectively extinguished.

SUNDAY AT FARTHINGSCOURT
was always a busy day and Linc spent most of it doing the rounds with Geoff Sykes, his second in command, whom he valued both as a colleague and a friend.

Stocky and bespectacled, with a weathered face and not much gingerish hair under a flat cap, Geoff was a born under-manager, confident enough to make decisions when the need arose but unwilling to take on the ultimate buck-stops-here responsibility of the top job. His father had been the gamekeeper until he retired to live in one of the estate cottages and Geoff had lived and worked on the estate all his forty-eight years. His experience was worth a mint to the Tremayne family, and his unambitious dedication made him the best deputy Linc could have hoped for.

‘How'd the dinner go last night?' Geoff asked.

They were on their way to the mill in the Land-Rover to cast an eye over the progress made by the contractors.

‘Very well,' Linc replied. ‘The guys from Water
Heritage seemed very pleased with the work so far and they've agreed to extend the loan to cover the new budget.'

The meal had indeed gone well. Since coming to Farthingscourt, Crispin's wife Nikki had taken on the role of hostess there. It was one that she relished and, it had to be said, carried out with flair. Blonde and pretty, she dressed elegantly and used just the right degree of flirtatious charm to ensure that her male guests enjoyed their evening, without upsetting any wives who might be present.

Linc took his hat off to her. The daughter of a wealthy London night-club owner, he had met her at a party and introduced her to his family after only half a dozen dates almost as an act of rebellion, knowing she wasn't the type of girl his father had in mind as the future Lady Tremayne. However, she had neatly turned the tables on him, enslaving both Sylvester and Linc's brother Crispin with her big blue eyes and pretty ways, and never once giving a hint of the hard edge Linc knew her to have.

Now, nearly eighteen months after her marriage, he was prepared to admit he might have been mistaken in her. Their own brief relationship had been a stormy affair, initiated in an unguarded moment and governed by Nikki's clingy possessiveness. Unsurprisingly, she hadn't taken the break-up well. He supposed he couldn't altogether blame her, for although he'd never led her to believe he was in any way serious, taking her to visit Farthingscourt had perhaps raised her hopes unfairly high and it wasn't something he was proud of. In the end, through her marriage to Crispin, she had made Farthingscourt her home anyway, albeit
in one of the cottages on the estate, rather than the main house.