Cut Throat (18 page)

‘Bloody stupid, I'd say!' Bill said without bothering to finish his mouthful first. ‘Why on earth did you have to say all that? If you want to put people's backs up, you're going the right way about it.'

‘I didn't say it,' Ross protested. ‘At least, not the way he's reported it. But, like I said, I didn't know who he was. I've never seen the guy before. I can't just ignore him, could I?'

Bill grunted, non-committally.

‘I think it's very unfair,' Maggie remarked, placing a well-filled plate in front of Ross. ‘He can't persecute Ross just because Stephen wasn't up to the job.'

Bill snorted. ‘He can and he will.'

‘Well, I think it's very unfair,' she repeated, as if that redressed the balance.

Leo sauntered in, yawning. He often didn't rise until mid-morning on his day off, usually going out after breakfast and not reappearing before midnight. He immediately spotted the paper and read it with ill-concealed relish.

‘You won't be too popular if you say things like that,' he observed gleefully.

Ross ignored him and with a chuckle Leo tucked into his breakfast.

‘Roger West rang earlier,' Bill announced. ‘He'd got the results of Sailor's gut sample. It
was
that hemlock plant that poisoned him. And apparently the blood he took from Clown's stable was ox blood. I suppose it came from an abattoir.'

Ross frowned. ‘Why would anyone want to do that? That's what gets me. And what excuse would you give for wanting a bucket of ox blood or whatever?'

‘And do you take your own bucket?' Leo put in, earning withering looks from the others.

As they were finishing their meal, a vehicle decelerated into the yard with a wrenching of gears and rolled to a stop outside the tackroom.

‘It's that Annie woman,' Maggie remarked in a disapproving voice from the window. ‘What does she want?'

‘Come to check on Butterworth, I expect,' Ross said. ‘I'll go.'

Annie Hayward it was. Attired in jeans held up by braces, and a khaki tee-shirt, her two beribboned plaits were topped off by a flat cap.

‘Hi, Ross!' she boomed. ‘How you doing?'

‘Oh, I'm okay. How 'bout you?'

‘You're a damn poor liar. Harry Douglas has it in for you, your leg's giving you trouble and you're not sleeping well.'

He grinned. ‘What are you? Telepathic?'

‘I read papers and I use my eyes. You look bloody awful.'

‘Well, thanks for that,' he said with quiet irony. ‘You ought to get a job with the terminally ill. You'd go down a storm.'

Annie chuckled and together they began to walk across the school towards the field gate. Butterworth and his young companions materialised at Ross' piercing whistle, jostling and bickering for pole position at the gate.

‘He's looking a lot happier. Have you worked him at all?' Annie asked.

‘You said not to.'

‘Yes, I know I did. But you'd be surprised how many people think they know better. Once the horse is sound they ignore everything I've told them.'

Ross caught the big chestnut, rubbing his velvety muzzle with a forefinger. ‘No point calling the doctor if you don't take his advice,' he remarked.

Annie squinted at him against the morning sun.

‘It's do as I say, not do as I do with you then, is it?'

‘Meaning?'

‘Your leg.'

‘Ah, but the doctor didn't actually say I couldn't ride,' Ross pointed out.

‘Did you actually
ask
him?' she countered acutely.

Ross laughed. ‘My point exactly.'

Annie shook her head, acknowledging defeat. She felt along Butterworth's spine, pressing hard. The horse didn't flinch.

‘You'll do,' she said, slapping the chestnut rump. ‘Give him another couple of weeks just to be on the safe side, then ease him back into work. No jumping yet, though. Now, what about you?'

‘What
about
me?' Ross was caught off balance by her abrupt change of direction.

Annie waited, saying nothing, her eyes on his face. Ross met her gaze for a fleeting moment then shifted his to focus on some far-distant point.

‘Looks like it's going to be another hot day,' he remarked conversationally.

Annie sighed. ‘All right, all right. I can take a hint. But do me a favour, Ross. Don't let them get to you.'

‘I don't intend to.'

‘Good. Now, if we can get this fellow right, there'll be no stopping you.'

Roland strolled into the tackroom while Ross was up to his elbows in warm water and saddle soap. The dog looked up from its blanket in the corner and thumped its tail on the stone floor a time or two, which was unusual for him.

‘All alone?' Roland asked somewhat unnecessarily.

Ross gestured round the otherwise empty room.

‘I thought it was your day off, old boy.'

‘It is.' Ross wondered if the Colonel's son had come hoping to find the place deserted.

Roland cleared a space by the old stone sink and rested his immaculate beige corduroys against it.

‘You had a successful show, I hear.'

‘Not bad.'

‘So, things are looking rosy on the showjumping front?'

‘Could be worse,' Ross said, wishing he could see behind the mask he felt sure Roland wore. ‘How are things in antiques?'

‘Oh, fine, fine,' Roland said, with the air of one delighted to be asked. ‘I didn't realise you were interested.'

‘I'm not,' he replied sweetly. ‘I'm just making conversation.'

Roland grinned. To Ross' mind, the first truly spontaneous action he had seen from him.

‘What's the dog's name?' he asked with the abrupt change of subject Ross was beginning to recognise as characteristic.

‘He doesn't have one.' Ross abandoned sponge and soap and began to reassemble the bridle he had been cleaning.

‘I'm surprised he didn't bark at me last night.'

Ah, now we come to the real reason for your visit, Ross thought.

‘You obviously didn't make any noise,' he said.

‘My army training, I expect. Actually, I came to survey Father's security arrangements.'

‘You live here,' Ross observed. ‘You don't have to account for your actions to me.'

Roland picked a dripping stirrup iron out of the sink and dried it absent-mindedly on a cloth. ‘That's true,' he agreed. ‘As a matter of fact, I was surprised to see you awake.'

‘I was hot. Got up to open the window,' Ross lied unashamedly.

‘It is hot, isn't it? Fancy a beer?'

Ross did and fetched two from the stable office. They drank companionably enough, exchanging platitudes. At times Ross felt as though he were being gently and subtly milked for views and opinions. He answered vaguely, and often with a question, amused to notice that Roland, for all his upper-class-idiot act, gave little or nothing away in return.

‘Lindsay isn't here today?' Roland asked presently.

‘No.'

‘I thought she was a frequent visitor, these days. Can't seem to stay away.'

‘She comes to ride Gypsy.'

‘James seems a nice fellow. Jolly good sort.'

‘Mmm.'

‘Rich as Croesus, of course.' Roland studied Ross under lazily drooping eyelids.

‘Bully for him,' Ross murmured, aware that for some reason Roland was probing for a reaction. ‘I must get some more dog food,' he said thoughtfully, with a switch of topic worthy of his companion.

Roland smiled faintly, crushing his beer can in one lean, brown hand. ‘Big appetites, dogs,' he observed, sauntering out of the door.

Ross watched him leave with narrowed eyes and a slight shake of the head. He had never before met anybody so completely inscrutable.

Ross and Bill were just finishing evening stables when a silver Nissan sports car swept into the yard and Darcy Richmond eased himself smoothly out. Looking round, he caught sight of Ross by the tackroom door. ‘Sarah still here?' he asked.

‘It's her day off.' He was surprised that Darcy hadn't known that. After all, they had presumably been out together the previous evening. ‘I think she's gone to London with her parents for the day. She said something about it to Maggie.'

Darcy looked briefly put out and then apparently remembered that she had mentioned the trip. He brightened. ‘I was going to suggest going for a drink. I suppose you wouldn't like to come?'

Ross' lips curved ironically. ‘I'd make a poor substitute.'

Darcy laughed. ‘Still, how about it? Just beer and a game of pool or something.'

‘Sure, why not?' The Colonel had called at lunchtime to postpone the usual Monday evening ‘debriefing' and Ross felt that anything would make a change from the endless procession of soap operas and quiz shows on the television. He arranged to meet Darcy at the end of the drive, around eight.

The pub that Darcy drove them to, later that evening, was genuinely ‘Olde Worlde', its beams adorned with a bewildering number of horse brasses, corn dollies and long-defunct tools of obscure rural trades. It was dimly lit, slightly smoky, and peopled with a number of local farm workers as well as one or two romantic couples tucked cosily into pew seats in dark corners. It was Englishness at its most attractive; unselfconscious and largely uncontrived. The sort of look striven for by designers but never quite attained. It couldn't be. It was the product of sheer age, evolved over centuries.

The promised pool table was conspicuous by its absence, a fact either that Darcy didn't notice or for which he felt no need to apologise. Ross didn't mind.

Franklin's nephew was a pleasant companion. It was the first time Ross had really had a chance to speak to him. He looked pretty much as Franklin might have done twenty years ago, although Franklin was dark and Darcy fair, like Peter. Light hazel eyes looked out candidly from a face that was just beginning to thicken around the jawline.

Ross learned that Darcy worked in his uncle's company in a position of some responsibility and that Richmond Senior had provided for him ever since his father – Franklin's brother – had died in a car accident when Darcy was eleven.

‘My father wasn't well off when he died,' Darcy explained, carefully wiping the condensation off his beer glass with a forefinger. ‘His business partner absconded with their secretary and the contents of the bank account. My father was altogether too trusting.' Darcy smiled sadly. ‘He was a very unlucky man, one way and another. Uncle Frank's been great, though. He's treated me like a son. The best schools, university, vocational training and a position in his company. My own father couldn't have done more.' Darcy paused, eyes glittering strangely in the half-light as he regarded his glass intently.

‘And you get on well with Peter?' Ross remarked. He judged Darcy to be about his own age or maybe a year or two older, and wondered when Franklin's wife had come upon the scene. Jealousy would have been understandable.

‘Yes.' Darcy smiled warmly. ‘He's a terrific kid. We're very close.' A distracted look came over his face and he glanced at the wall clock behind the bar. ‘He's gone out tonight, I believe. A school friend's birthday party. Local cinema and on to McDonald's or somewhere, you know the sort of thing.'

Ross nodded.

‘Uncle Frank married Marsha when I was fifteen,' Darcy continued, remembering. ‘She was some lady.'

Ross regarded his companion speculatively. ‘But they weren't happy?'

‘Not for long. She was unfaithful, you know. Franklin was mad to think he could pin her down. She was like a butterfly, beautiful but flighty. She could never have settled for long.'

Ross digested this. Franklin hadn't admitted in so many words that his wife had been unfaithful, though Ross had guessed it.

‘I suppose Peter will inherit the company in due course,' he said. ‘It's kind of a strange situation for you, I guess.'

‘It's never seemed strange to me.' Darcy shook his head, looking surprised. ‘Besides, I shan't necessarily work for Richmond Finance for ever. I have it in mind to be independent one day.'

They drank in silence for a moment, then Darcy looked at Ross. ‘So, what's the story of
your
life then?'

‘No story, really.' The American shrugged. ‘Just a crazy ambition and one long battle against the odds.'

‘Uncle Frank says you could have been a lawyer. What changed your mind?'

‘A dislike of being pigeon-holed, perhaps?' Ross suggested. ‘I really don't know. I was probably a bit of a rebel. Everybody expected me to follow my dad into law, and at that age you want to prove you can make your own choices. Horses were there. I loved them and, I guess, I loved the challenge, so I took it.'

‘Well, it seems to have been the right move. I know Uncle Frank thinks you're a hot property.' Darcy smiled, getting to his feet and reaching for Ross' glass. ‘Another drink?'

Ross nodded and thanked him.

‘I don't suppose he'll find another Bellboy in a hurry, more's the pity,' Darcy said, returning a few moments later with the drinks. ‘In fact, he only got
him
after practically pinching him from under old Fergusson's nose. He wasn't best pleased, I can tell you. “I've a mind tae take ye tae court over the matter.”' Darcy did a fair, if exaggerated, imitation of Fergusson's Scottish tones. ‘Uncle Frank had him six years or so before he was killed. That was a crying shame. You've heard about it, of course?'