Second Night (7 page)

Jasper pulled a face. ‘But can you manage without me for that long?’

Alan smiled. ‘I’ll be all right. You’ll be back out timber-hauling by the end of the month.’

‘Well, it’s going to cost him. Specialist indoor rates have got to be worth at least double the usual pay cheque, and I’m going to need all new stuff, especially if he wants it done quick. I’m not dabbing away with hundred-year-old twigs for paintbrushes, just so he can say he’s saved himself a couple of quid.’

‘You only have to tell old Dark-eyes what you want,’ said John. ‘She’ll get you sorted.’

Alan lifted the doors off the tall cupboard beside the window in the corner of the room. ‘Give us a hand with this, Jas.’

They dragged the heavy piece of furniture into the middle of the floor. The green paint on the exposed wall was several shades brighter than the rest of the room. The black paint still shone on the door that the cupboard had effectively hidden for more than half a century.

‘What’s in there?’ asked Jasper immediately.

‘That was where the butler kept the special wines, if I remember right,’ said John.

Jasper’s eyes brightened. He tried the door. It was locked. ‘Special wines, eh? Have you got the key?’

‘I expect it’s somewhere about. I’ll have a look for it later. Don’t kid yourself, boy, any special wines would have been long cleared out before this door was closed up.’

Jasper wagged a finger under John’s nose. ‘You never know what’s been hidden away in this old place, John. You’ve said so yourself, plenty of times.’

‘You’ll find nothing in there but dust. The last butler was Daisy’s old dad and he was no more inclined to waste anything than she is, particularly special wine.’

‘Time’s getting on,’ Alan reminded them. ‘I’m not finished up the woods yet and we’ve still got to get this old stuff cleared away.’ He opened the window and looked out. The flower border at this dark corner of the north-facing wall of the house was narrow and the path beside it had been gravelled. ‘We ought to be able to get most of it out through here if we break it up a bit first.’

‘And then I can get started bright and early tomorrow morning,’ said Jasper. ‘The sooner the cash is out of the boss’s cold old pocket and hot in mine, the better it will be for both of us.’

While the bonfire blazed merrily in the garden and John was satisfied that Jasper would be occupied outside with an axe for at least another hour, he went back to the kitchen.

‘Where did your old dad keep his special keys?’ he asked his wife. ‘I thought I’d have a go at getting that old door open while it’s quiet-like.’

‘Try the housekeeper’s ring,’ said Daisy. ‘My good mother was never one to hang on to anything that didn’t have its proper use. I’ll keep young Jasper occupied down here with the biscuit tin if he decides he’s done enough outside before time. Nothing was hidden for nothing in this house, John Flint, not if my parents had anything to do with it.’

The key fitted. The door grated open on dry hinges to what looked like a big, walk-in cupboard. The empty shelves and wine racks were covered in a thick layer of fine, grey powder. John put down the candle, muttering to himself, ‘Well, I was right about the dust and no mistake.’

He tapped around the walls with a hammer. They seemed solid. He tried tapping a straight line across the floor. It sounded hollow in the middle.

‘That’s more like it!’ he whispered excitedly. ‘That’s no stone under there, or my name’s not Flint.’

He noticed several nail heads had been driven into the linoleum in an apparently random pattern that corresponded with the hollow sounding area. Kneeling down, he scored the fragile flooring with his pocketknife. The pieces crumbled as he pulled them up. ‘Hello, hello, what have we got here then?’

He peeled away the rest of the old floor covering and sat back on his haunches, smiling and nodding to himself. Unless he was entirely out of his reckoning, he had no doubt that a very important piece of an old puzzle might soon be slotted into place.

‘I reckon this is a job for young Al,’ he said contentedly, and unhooked the key from the ring.

CHAPTER 9

The recent rain had flooded the ditches on either side of the service track. The mares splashed through the muddy water, following Kyri over the old stone bridge and up the hill to the bridle path that branched off just before the fir plantation, winding north of Thunderslea towards the azalea wood.

Jemima was riding Rúna. She kept a light hold on the reins and sat deep in the saddle, increasingly confident with every stride that she could manage the mare on this first excursion outside the security of the schooling arena. It was Caz who had proposed she take Rúna for the regular weekend hack out.

‘Jem'll be okay,' he had told Maddie. ‘The old man'll be with us. He's not up to much more than a canter these days. We'll keep it low key.'

Jemima was more than okay – she was utterly ecstatic. The mare's elegant, free striding action and seemingly boundless energy, so typical of Bryn's bloodline, were a completely different experience in the forest. She was making happy little grunting and whickering noises, attentive to the bit and stepping forward with her ears pricked, alert to every sound, every breath and every movement in the deep woodlands around them.

The early frosts had done their work with dismal thoroughness in the forest, systematically scorching great swathes through the undergrowth that had been unnaturally lush after the wet summer. The trees were weighed down with poorly formed fruit – green acorns, pallid hazelnuts and withered elderberries. Ash keys hung limp, black and dripping against a sombre sky. Blackberries were shrivelled on straggling vines.

Where the tired, green-brown tree canopy opened, the bracken was already broken down in the little clearings. Mushrooms, sprouted early and spoiled, were scattered among the leaves along the length of the muddy path. Only the occasional red-ripe rowan tree burst defiantly into the cheerless monotony of unseasonable decay until they reached the azalea wood where the path widened between the flaming red and bronze foliage.

Kyri shortened her stride to let Rúna come up alongside her. Caz smiled. ‘Okay?'

Jemima's eyes were shining. ‘I'm totally fine!'

Kyri must be a princess,
she thought admiringly.
Freyja and Rúna are modern horses with short, neat manes and trimmed tails, but Kyri's mane is long and rippling and always gleaming white. Somehow she manages to hold her tail so that it never gets dirty, even out here in all this mud and mess. The others are splashed up to their chests and Kyri's only got a few marks around her fetlocks. It's amazing.

Sir Jonas unbuckled the irritating chinstrap on the new skullcap Daisy had insisted he wore since the headaches had begun, which the manor pharmacopoeia of traditional remedies seemed powerless to relieve. The dreams were the worst… dreadful, unfathomable dreams that always seemed to follow an afternoon on the gallops with Caz and Kyri. He urged Freyja forward. The horses walked out smartly, three abreast along the path.

The old man cleared his throat. ‘I believe the representative from the agency appeared quite impressed with the colt. Didn't you think so, Caspar?'

Jemima gave Caz no time to comment. ‘That woman is a complete idiot!' she said heatedly. ‘She thinks Andy should be an eventer! What kind of an idea is that?'

Sir Jonas looked puzzled. ‘I'm so sorry, who is Andy?'

‘The colt, of course.'

‘Indeed!' The old man smiled. ‘I must confess I had no idea he had been named.'

‘Well, he had to learn to answer to something! It wasn't his fault he was born a boy.'

Sir Jonas meekly ignored the blatant implication of cold-blooded neglect on his part. ‘I believe the same agent placed our last colt quite well, my dear Lady Sibylla.'

‘But Andy's a hunter! Anyone who knows anything about horses can see that! It's our duty to make sure he goes somewhere where he'll be happy. After all, we're not selling him just for the money, are we?'

Sir Jonas coughed deeply. ‘Not at all,' he replied gallantly, thinking of what Charles would have to say regarding the sometimes touchy subject of stable yard expenditure at this particular point in the conversation.

‘I'm going to pray to one of the old gods in the forest to make sure that he goes to a hunting yard,' continued Jemima determinedly. ‘Which is the best god, sir?'

‘A petition to the Goddess would be more appropriate,' replied Sir Jonas, smiling. ‘In this instance, the deity for whom Freyja here was named will probably be of the most service to you.'

Jemima nodded. ‘Yes, it's probably best to tackle a female one to begin with. The woman-to-woman thing has got a much better chance of working out in cases like this.'

Caz and Sir Jonas exchanged looks. Caz was grinning. Sir Jonas coughed again, afraid he might laugh outright and utterly outrage the Lady Sibylla, who was clearly deeply offended on Andy's behalf.

‘My grandmother Christina always professed a great affinity with the goddess Freyja,' he observed carefully. ‘She was also extremely fond of cats, particularly white ones.'

‘Freyja it is then,' said Jemima. ‘I'll go to Thunderslea and make a special ceremony for her. Andy's going to be sold to a Master of Hounds, you'll see.'

‘I will indeed,' agreed the old man, the blue eye twinkling.

They cantered in single file down the track skirting the chestnut coppices and swung on to the bridle path that would bring them directly to the foot of the gallops. The evenly yellow light filtering through the woodlands threatened more rain – and soon. The afternoon was turning cold. A bitter draught skulked between the trees, catching at the horses' tails and numbing their riders' toes.

Sir Jonas arranged his scarf to cover his ears and thought of the hot cup of tea and the warm slippers that would be waiting for him in the study on his return. Jemima fastened the studs at the collar of her jacket and pulled it up around her neck, thinking for the millionth time that she ought to get a proper riding coat, especially since she had been promoted to hacking out Rúna.
Not a black one like Caz, but maybe purple or bright red with a new silk for my cap to match.

She didn't see the fallen bough from an aging ash tree blocking the path until they were right on top of it. Kyri barely checked her pace, leaping it effortlessly. Rúna bounded after her. Jemima had a passing vision of mummified leaves, like fingers curled and brown in their last agonised moments of life, on the ends of broken twigs and stems as the mare narrowly cleared the huge obstacle below them.

Freyja hung back, sullen and rebellious, dragging her feet and ignoring the old man's efforts to kick her on. He took a firm hold on the reins and drove her at the jump, as he had once sent her – blood-soaked and maddened – at a wall of spears. She spun around snorting, rolling her eyes and clamping her jaws on the bit. The reins jerked through his frail fingers.

Caz flashed a silent command to Rúna. S
tand!

Kyri leapt back over the bough and nudged up against the older mare, whickering softly until she could be persuaded to touch foreheads with her.

‘Come on now, good girl. Come with us now,' Caz whispered gently, appealing to the last tiny chink of light in her mind, where only he could follow Kyri into the howling black anger and fear that drove Freyja to lash out, kicking and biting at a world that had betrayed her. The same dark fury cornered any others who dared to approach her in her stable and boiled, barely contained, as she suffered Caz to groom her and tack her up, and then allow the old man to ride her. She heard his quiet mind-voice soothing her, cajoling her to trust those who had found her and brought her back out of the horror she was not equipped to comprehend.

You don't want to be left behind, do you, good girl? Come along now, come along. Come with us now.

Reluctantly she turned about and followed Kyri towards the jump, clearing it as easily as the filly. Rúna fell in behind them, cantering freely along the path until Jemima saw the gap in the trees and knew they had reached the gallops. She felt Rúna quivering with excitement beneath her. Kyri wheeled sharply to face them.

‘Are you confident, Jem?' asked Caz.

‘Oh yes!'

‘Come on then!'

Kyri lifted her head and called as she sped out onto the smooth grassy track. Rúna and Freyja raced after her, running free over the wet turf, faster than Jemima had ever imagined she would ride in her life. Cold rain came lashing down. She was completely soaked but she didn't care. She thought she might burst with joy.
This is what it's like to fly!

CHAPTER 10

Saturday nights in the village pub were usually busy and Simon the landlord expected all his staff to be prepared to work. Weekends were no excuse to take time off, as far as he was concerned. Maddie Wylde was the only exception to the rule, and even she managed to be there most Saturdays. Simon guessed she was grateful for a break from the manor and her kids. She was the best he had ever employed – good-looking, smart and popular with the locals. He wished he could say the same about Genista Peacock, old Percy Poore’s daughter. But the woman was honest and mostly punctual, and she was careful not to give him any excuse to fire her.

Percy came in a few minutes after eight o’clock. He took off his jacket and hung it up at the end of the row of wet coats beside the pub door.

‘Evening all,’ he said.

John and Alan were sat on their stools at what was generally accepted as the ‘manor end‘ of the bar. Blue was asleep in the inglenook beside the fire. Jack Poole and Pete Newman were playing darts in the corner.

‘Evening Perce,’ answered John. The others nodded.

Percy took his usual place at the opposite end and signalled to his daughter. ‘Hey, girl! Where’s that pint?’

Genista took Percy’s pewter mug down from one of the hooks over the bar and went to the taps. ‘It’s coming.’