Cut Throat (42 page)

‘Hail the all-conquering hero, bloody but unbowed!' he declared.

Ross glanced disdainfully at him, which bothered him not at all, and moved to one of the empty chairs, trying to minimise his limp as much as possible. The Colonel handed him a glass of sherry. Ross took it, wondering what effect it would have when mixed with the various painkillers he had taken during the day.

‘How do you feel, really?' his employer asked, regarding him keenly as he sat down. ‘You had us worried last night, you know.'

‘Yes, so I hear. Sorry about that. I guess I was pretty tired, but I'm fine now.'

The Colonel raised an eyebrow.

‘Well, a bit rough, maybe,' Ross admitted. ‘But it'll wear off.'

‘You look exhausted,' the Colonel stated bluntly. ‘I was working it out: you must have ridden thirty-five or forty rounds over the past three days. And that was a nasty fall. If I'd known how badly bruised you were, I'd never have let you ride Woodsmoke.'

Ross made a dismissive movement with his hands, wishing the Colonel would leave the subject alone.

‘All's well that ends well,' Roland remarked, from the depths of his armchair.

Colonel Preston regarded his son with open contempt. ‘Haven't you anything better to do?' he asked sharply.

Roland considered this. ‘No. Don't think so.'

Ross didn't know whether it was a result of yesterday's kick to the head, but he was beginning to join Lindsay in finding Roland amusing.

‘Damned shame about that mare,' the Colonel said, ignoring his disappointing offspring. ‘You were right about her all along. I couldn't blame you for saying “I told you so”.'

Ross felt no inclination to do so. ‘I would rather have been wrong.'

‘I must say, I've never seen anything like it, and I've had horses all my life. She appeared to go completely berserk.'

‘I have,' Ross said grimly.

‘Of course. I was forgetting. You must feel the fates are against you. I mean, the chances of its happening twice to the same person must be millions to one.'

‘That would depend,' Roland mused.

‘On
what
precisely?' The Colonel showed a marked lack of patience.

‘On what triggered it.'

‘And what the devil do you mean by that?' his father demanded.

‘Keep your hair on, Father dear,' Roland advised, in his infuriatingly calm way. ‘I was just thinking aloud.'

‘Well, I appreciate you have to practise but try to do it quietly and in your own time.'

Gotcha, Ross thought delightedly. You could see who Roland took after.

A respectful tap on the door put an end to the sparring. Masters took half a step inside at the Colonel's invitation, keeping his eyes lowered so as not to intrude.

‘Phone call, sir. Lady Cresswell.'

‘Thank you. I'll take it in the hall,' Colonel Preston said, rising from his chair.

As the door closed behind him, Ross leaned forward, ignoring a twinge from a protesting rib. ‘What
did
you mean by it?' he asked Roland softly.

Roland shrugged. ‘Oh, just that Leo was at the show yesterday.'

Ross stared. ‘But, that's imposs—' Too late, he realised he was treading on dangerous ground.

‘Impossible?' Roland hoisted a lazy eyebrow. ‘Why should you say that, I wonder? Nevertheless, he
was
there.'

‘How do you know? I didn't see you there.'

‘Oh, but I was,' Roland replied smoothly.

‘You kept yourself to yourself, then,' Ross observed.

‘I went to see Danielle. No reason I should tell you,' he pointed out.

‘So, where did you see Leo?'

‘Um . . . in the beer tent as I recall. Don't remember him having a balloon, though.'

Ross' eyes narrowed.

Roland wore his habitually bland expression, as if they were just exchanging platitudes. What he was implying, however, put an entirely new complexion on the previous day's events.

It hadn't occurred to Ross that the bursting balloon had been anything other than an unfortunate accident. Though
why
it hadn't in hindsight he had no idea. After all, he had had enough experience lately of malice aforethought to make even the rosiest of spectacles mist up a little. Enough to make him suspicious of anything, one would have thought.

So much for Leo being out of the country. The fact that he had gone to such elaborate lengths to make them think so, made it obvious that he knew he was being watched. What
wasn't
clear was for how long he had known.

How many times in the past had he pulled the wool over their eyes?

Professional McKinnon's men might be, but they'd been operating in the belief that Leo could not possibly know he was being staked out. They were too practised, according to McKinnon, to have given the game away themselves. Therefore someone must have tipped Leo off.

But who? Who could have known? Who would have cared? And where was Leo now?

Ross all but groaned aloud. Fit and healthy, he'd win no prizes for detection. In his present state . . .

‘A penny for 'em,' Roland remarked lightly, getting up to replace his empty glass on the drinks tray. ‘Well, it's been nice talking to you, old boy, but I must be going. A date with the delicious Danielle. Glad to see you on your feet again. Tell my revered papa not to wait up.'

In the event, father and son met in the doorway. Roland bowed ironically. ‘I bid you farewell,' he said grandly. ‘You may now bemoan my lamentable lack of character to your heart's content.'

The Colonel grunted. ‘We've got far more interesting things to discuss,' he said dampeningly.

‘Oh, unkind, unkind!'

When he had gone, the Colonel topped up Ross' glass and his own, collapsed into his chair and proceeded to do just what Roland had suggested.

‘Where did I go wrong?' he asked with a sigh. ‘He used to be such a nice boy. So . . . well, so normal!'

‘Was that him?' Ross indicated a framed photograph which stood on a nearby trophy case. It showed two teenage boys holding aloft a large trophy between them.

‘The one on the right.' The Colonel nodded. ‘The other boy is Darcy Richmond.'

‘Is it?' Ross looked more closely. ‘I didn't realise they were friends.'

‘They weren't, really. They went to the same school. The cup was for rowing or some such thing.'

‘That would have been after Darcy's father was killed, I presume?'

‘Yes, a couple of years. Though he wasn't exactly killed, you know. He committed suicide.' The Colonel shook his head sadly. ‘A bad business. Took an overdose and drowned himself in his bath.'

‘Thorough,' Ross commented. And somewhat different from the story Darcy had told, he thought.

The Colonel grunted. ‘It was about the only thing he
did
do properly. He just couldn't see that Franklin had got where he was by plain hard work. Always trying to take short cuts, Elliot Richmond was. It's hard to believe two brothers could be so different.'

‘But Darcy fell on his feet.'

‘Oh, yes. Although Franklin had always paid for his schooling and suchlike, anyway. He hadn't a child of his own at that time and was a very good uncle to the boy. God knows what would have become of Darcy if he hadn't been. He bailed his brother out a time or two as well, until it became obvious that Elliot was never going to learn to be responsible. Then he stopped and concentrated on the boy.'

‘And Darcy's mother?'

‘Long gone,' the Colonel said. ‘An empty-headed bimbo who ran out when the money did. It seems the two brothers were alike in their choice of women, if nothing else. Marsha was just the same. More classy perhaps but essentially the same. Franklin freely admits the only good thing to come out of the marriage was Peter.'

‘Darcy told me his father was killed in a car accident,' Ross said, gently probing.

Colonel Preston nodded. ‘It was extremely hard for him to come to terms with at his age. First his mother running out on him – as he saw it – then his father killing himself. I imagine he suffered from feelings of guilt, like many children in divorce proceedings. You know, thinking that it's somehow their fault. Franklin managed to keep the whole affair very quiet but I think the lad invented the accident story to comfort himself. I didn't realise he was still using it.'

He sipped his sherry thoughtfully.

‘He's a nice enough boy really, though I think perhaps Frank indulged him a little too much. And there were times when he showed tolerance when quite frankly a sound hiding would have answered better. The business with . . . er . . . women,' he said, apparently changing his mind mid-sentence. ‘Still, it's always easy to criticise and he's turned out well enough. Darcy's been good to young Peter in his turn, you know. No true brother could have treated him better, and the kid worships him.'

‘I've seen that,' Ross agreed. ‘He seems to have a way with the boy. Doesn't share Peter's passion for horses, though.'

‘No. He had every opportunity but never took to it. A lot of boys don't, I find. They prefer toys with push-button controls. Darcy took up sailing, something his father was fond of, too. He's quite good, I believe.' The Colonel turned his attention back to Ross. ‘But what about you? When do you think you'll be back in the saddle again?'

‘Tomorrow.' He didn't hesitate. ‘We've got the Frinkley Show on Sunday and the stallion will need to be exercised.'

The Colonel reached for the decanter and raised his eyebrows at Ross, who shook his head. His boss poured himself a drink with great deliberation.

‘Frinkley is out,' he said finally, in a voice that brooked no argument. ‘And the stallion can be lunged or turned out for a day or two.'

He held up his hand to silence Ross' protest. ‘The doctor was quite concerned, you know. Said you should go in for X-rays. There was a lot of bruising and he couldn't tell exactly what damage might have been done. Your knee, for example, and a bloody great hoofprint in the middle of your back.'

‘Steeplechase jockeys get them every other week,' Ross protested. ‘Ask Bill. And my knee is an old story. It's getting better all the time.' And my nose is getting longer, he thought wryly.

The Colonel didn't look convinced. ‘All right, but you take at least two clear days off or I'll march you off to the hospital myself!'

Ross rose early the next morning after an uncomfortable night and spent some time nursing a cup of coffee and going over his conversations with the Prestons, Senior and Junior, in his mind.

At half-past seven the yard began to come to life as usual. Horses whinnied, doors banged, and water rushed as buckets were filled at the taps.

Ross managed to shower and dress in a marginally quicker time than he had the day before but his agility wasn't going to win him any medals for a day or two to come. The bruises were developing colourfully and the swelling beginning to subside. He told himself determinedly that he was on the mend.

In the yard and ready to work, he was greeted with firmly shaken heads. Bill and Danny told him to go to the cottage or back to bed, and Lindsay, whom he met coming out of Flo's box with a mucksack, exclaimed, ‘Oh, no, you don't! Uncle John's orders. You're not to lift a finger for at least two days. Go and sit down, we've got it all under control.'

Ross was astounded. ‘He called you?'

‘No,' she said. ‘I just came.'

‘I thought you'd come back to England to be sophisticated and get horses out of your system.'

‘That was Mother's idea, not mine. Anyway, it'll only be for a day or two. Now do as you're told and go and put your feet up or something.'

He pottered aimlessly about the tackroom for three-quarters of an hour while the mucking out was taken care of, remembering his very first morning at Oakley Manor when he had done just the same. So much had happened since then, it was hard to believe it could be only eight weeks or so ago.

As the Colonel had pointed out, life had not exactly been dull since his arrival. What Ross didn't know was how much of his troubles could be ascribed to Franklin's extortionist, and how much to Leo.

It was quite possible that if he was as clued-up as he seemed to be, the extortionist could be using Leo's activities as a smokescreen. There was no way of knowing.

Ross felt like a blind man in a cactus forest: whichever way he turned he seemed to be stung, but he couldn't see who was doing the stinging.

It had occurred to him that morning that Roland's tip about Leo's supposed presence at the show on Thursday might have been no more than a smokescreen to hide his own involvement.

But where was the motive? Surely
he
was not the blackmailer, the infamous Mr X? Ross could not imagine Roland had ever lacked for money. Besides, he had a good job. A senior position in a London company, trading in antiques.

Or did he?
He was very vague about it and certainly didn't spend much time there.

Ross made a mental note to ask McKinnon if Roland's finances had been scrutinised. He sighed, catching his breath sharply as his ribs complained. The more he tried to reason it out, the more confused he became.

After breakfast, a roster was drawn up to allow all the horses exercise of some sort, and finding the prospect of a completely inactive day a drag, Ross decided to give Danny a jumping lesson in the school on Flo.

He waved aside Lindsay and Maggie's protests that this didn't come under the heading of rest, but as a concession accepted the offer of a shooting stick and was privately very glad of it by the time the session was over.