Cut Throat Page 2

  ‘I found him about forty minutes ago,’ Sarah told him, her voice shaking. ‘He was much worse then – thrashing about and scraping at the ground with his feet. I rang you straight away, but they said you were already out.’

  ‘Yeah, another emergency. A difficult foaling. I came as quickly as I could.’

  ‘What d’you think’s wrong with him?’

  ‘Can’t say for sure,’ Roger said, shining a pocket torch into the horse’s accessible eye and then moving to listen to his heart and lungs through a stethoscope. The horse moved feebly, giving a long-drawn-out, breathy groan, and he patted it, soothingly. ‘His pupils are dilated and his pulse is rapid and very weak.’

  ‘There’s shit all over the place,’ Leo commented. ‘I nearly slipped up in it.’

  ‘It could be colic,’ Roger went on, moving his stethoscope to listen to Sailor’s gut. ‘But I think there’s something else. I’m worried about the salivation. It’s not usual.’

  ‘Poisoning?’ Ross suggested.

  The vet looked up, noting his presence with a momentary frown. ‘It’s a possibility,’ he admitted. ‘All I can do at the moment is try and make him more comfortable.’ He straightened up and headed for the Range Rover. ‘I’m afraid, whatever it is, we’re probably going to lose him.’

  In the light from the vehicle, Sailor shuddered and kicked all four legs as a spasm took him. Beside Ross, Sarah made a small despairing sound, and without thinking, he put a hand out to squeeze her arm comfortingly.

  ‘Diazepam,’ Roger said, coming back, syringe in hand. ‘An anti-convulsant. It’ll help relax his muscles.’

  The horse groaned and kicked again as he knelt to inject it.

  ‘Poor old fella,’ he said softly.

  Less than twenty seconds later, Sailor heaved a huge, rattling sigh and relaxed.

  ‘Ah,’ the vet said regretfully, patting the still neck. ‘That’s not the drug. I’m sorry, I’m afraid he’s gone. Is he one of the Colonel’s?’

  ‘No. Mr Richmond’s,’ Sarah told him, staring wide-eyed at the corpse, and Ross recalled from Lindsay’s briefing that Franklin Richmond was a wealthy businessman and one of two owners besides John Preston himself who kept horses in training at the Oakley Manor yard.

  ‘Oh, Christ! It would be, wouldn’t it?’ Roger said heavily.

  Sarah stifled a sob. ‘I can’t believe it! He was so full of life this morning. We had the digger down here, clearing the ditches, and the youngsters were all racing round together. How could it have happened?’

  ‘This field’s quite marshy, isn’t it?’ the vet commented thoughtfully, packing his stethoscope away.

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Are there any other horses still in here?’ he asked, ignoring the question.

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘Right. Well, I think we should get them back to the yard where we can keep an eye on them. Just as a precaution. Come on, I’ll give you a hand.’

  Even though they were wearing headcollars, the operation to catch the remaining four two-year-olds and persuade them to pass the body of their erstwhile companion took nearly a quarter of an hour. Halfway back to the yard the vet received another call-out on his mobile phone, handed his charge to Leo, and departed to patch up a pony that had got hung up in a barbed-wire fence.

  The remaining group were met in the yard by a wiry, taciturn little man who introduced himself to Ross as Bill Scott, stable manager, and suggested that the youngsters be put in the schooling area for the night. It seemed that Roger had given him the bad news on his way through the yard, and had promised to return first thing in the morning.

  ‘Give them plenty of hay, Sarah,’ Scott instructed as she led the way to a gate in the corner of the yard.

  Ross let his two-year-old loose in the school along with the others, and turned back to the yard where Scott stood waiting.

  ‘So, you’re Ross Wakelin. You’re late,’ he observed.

  ‘I phoned from the airport,’ Ross said, surprised. ‘The flight was delayed.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ Scott’s tone implied that this was no excuse. ‘Well, I’ve got work to do so I’ll show you your room. The Colonel said to tell you he’d see you in the morning.’

  Ross wasn’t sorry. He had slept very little at the airport the previous night, and at that moment desired nothing more than a bite to eat and a bed to black out in. He certainly felt in no fit state to confront his future boss.

  Scott led the way across the yard to a door set between two stables. Automatic security floodlights came on at their approach and horses peered out at them, wisps of hay trailing from their muzzles.

  ‘This used to be a coachhouse. The Colonel had it converted,’ Scott told him, opening the door to reveal a flight of wooden steps leading steeply upwards. ‘Now it’s two bedsits. Your room is on the left; the other belongs to Leo. Bathroom’s straight ahead. You’ll eat with me and the missus in the cottage. Dinner’s normally at seven-thirty but she’ll have saved you something, so come over when you’re ready.’

  Without further ado he turned and ambled away with that rolling, slightly bow-legged gait peculiar to seasoned horsemen. Ross wondered with momentary amusement if he would end up walking like that, given time.

  He found his room to be quaint and surprisingly comfortable. Long and low, it had cream-painted walls and masses of dark beams. The floor was of uneven boards liberally scattered with bright rugs, and against one wall sagged a huge sofa that had seen better days but was preserving its dignity under a striped horse blanket. A wood-effect electric fire promised warmth if needed, and entertainment came in the shape of three rather discoloured Stubbs prints and a portable TV. Seated smugly on top of this was a polished mahogany Buddha, a souvenir of some far-off land, and on top of the fire an ancient Bakelite-cased clock ticked loudly. At the far end of the room, underneath the sharply sloping ceiling and partly obscured by a half-drawn partitioning curtain, was the bed.

  Ross’ last meal was a distant memory, so pushing the recent tragedy determinedly to the back of his mind, he dumped his bags, combed his hair and went in search of Bill Scott’s ‘missus’ and something to eat.

  The door of the Scotts’ cottage stood open, spilling a column of light into the yard. Ross found himself in a large room that obviously served as kitchen, dining room and lounge, and bore signs of once having been three smaller rooms. Directly in front of him was a scrubbed pine table round which you could comfortably have accommodated a baseball team, and beyond it, sprawled in an armchair and watching a game show on the television, was Bill Scott. He didn’t look up as his wife bustled forward to greet Ross, and beyond telling him to come in and shut the door behind him took little notice of the American. Ross wondered what he could have done to antagonise the older man; after all, they had barely exchanged a dozen words.

  ‘I’ll do it, Ross. You sit down,’ Mrs Scott said, pulling a chair out for him. ‘Your dinner’s just on ready.’

  A pie with melt-in-the-mouth pastry and boiled potatoes appeared before him almost before he had settled into his chair, followed shortly by a large wedge of something she called Dundee cake and a mug of steaming coffee. Whatever else might befall him in his new job, Ross reflected, he wouldn’t starve.

  It seemed Bill hadn’t eaten either. He came to sit at the table but his attention was clearly still on the television quiz and it was left to his wife to initiate conversation, which she did with a shocked reference to the fate of poor Sailor.

  ‘Poison!’ she said, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Whatever next? Poor Mr Richmond is so unlucky.’

  ‘In what way?’ Ross asked.

  ‘Oh, don’t let’s go raking all that up,’ Bill said wearily. ‘What we’ve got to do now is make sure the others are all right.’

  His wife ignored him.

  ‘His best horse was killed in a knife attack last year,’ she told Ross. ‘It was horrible. We had the police here and reporters hanging around for days. Poor Sarah was that upset, she ha
d to go on tranquillisers.’ Her eyes shone, recalling the drama of it all.

  ‘Oh yeah. I remember now,’ Ross said. ‘Lindsay told me about it when it happened. Didn’t he win the Hickstead Derby?’

  ‘Yes, and it’s history now, so just let it be,’ Bill cut in.

  Ross would have liked to know more but felt that provoking an argument would probably not be the best way to begin his association with the Scotts.

  In the mellow light inside the cottage, the couple appeared to be in their mid-forties: he tanned, with receding salt-and-pepper hair and a deeply lined face; she a comfortably rounded, attractive brunette.

  ‘Have you been to England before, Ross?’ she asked, as the meal wound to a close.

  ‘Once when I was a kid,’ he said. ‘My father brought me with him on a business trip and we saw the Christmas show at Olympia. It was pure magic. I think that’s when I decided I wanted to be a rider.’

  ‘It’s a lovely show,’ she agreed, getting to her feet. ‘More pie? Or cake?’

  Ross declined, sitting back in his chair and looking about him. The cottage was attractive in a homey sort of way, furnished and upholstered with quality but not extravagance. Assorted mementoes of foreign holidays sat incongruously amongst more traditional English pieces, reminding Ross of the Buddha in his own room.

  He would have liked to have questioned Bill Scott about the horses and the other staff, but as soon as the meal was over, the stable manager retired to his armchair once more and appeared to have his attention firmly fixed on the flickering screen before him. Ross thought that perhaps he didn’t like to bring his work home, as it were.

  ‘Do the others eat here?’ he finally asked Mrs Scott, obediently lifting his elbows as she wiped the table before bearing his plate away to the washing-up bowl.

  ‘During the day,’ she replied. ‘Then young Sarah usually goes home for her dinner and Leo goes out, as often as not. They stayed on this evening, of course, because Bill was out. Are you sure you’ve eaten enough?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, ma’am. That was lovely.’

  Mrs Scott laughed out loud. ‘The only person we call ma’am in this country is the Queen,’ she told him. ‘You call me Maggie, like everyone else does.’

  Ross smiled and nodded, liking her a lot more than he did her husband.

  Soon, pleading exhaustion, he excused himself and made for his bed.

  2

  Apart from Leo banging the bathroom door when he came in at some ungodly hour, nothing disturbed Ross’ sleep that night. He rose early from habit and spent ten minutes going through the exercises his physiotherapist had set him, adding one or two of his own for good measure.

  On a table opposite the foot of his bed he had found a kettle, two mugs, and jars containing instant coffee, tea and dried milk. He filled the kettle from the tap in the bathroom and made himself coffee, drinking it black while standing at the window overlooking the yard.

  From this vantage point the set-up looked neat and well-ordered. The buildings surrounding the yard were of red brick, and appeared old but immaculately maintained. All the paintwork gleamed and no stray buckets or abandoned tools were to be seen. It seemed that the Colonel liked his yard run with military precision.

  In the centre of the open space a huge stone trough held water that reflected the sky. To his left as he looked from his window was a row of loose-boxes that opened directly on to the yard; opposite was a long wall with windows and two archways which he guessed led into a corridor with more stables. To his right were a barn, the driveway to the main house and, out of sight, the Scotts’ cottage and the gravel drive leading to the road. In the far right-hand corner of the yard, between a large foaling box and the barn, the grassy track they had followed the night before led to a five-bar gate and a field bounded by woodland. From a second window at the other end of his room he had a view of the large sand arena where they had put the two-year-olds, and a steeply rising field that obscured the road beyond. Thankfully, the youngsters all looked fit and well.

  It was a far cry from the vast dusty expanses and barn stabling that Ross was used to in America, but it was a glorious morning and a second chance beckoned. Whistling softly, he began to dress.

  He heard Leo come out of his room, go downstairs and out into the yard, and then caught sight of him crossing to the stables on the other side.

  When Ross made his appearance in the yard shortly afterwards, feeding had been completed and mucking out was well under way. Bill, Leo and Sarah, bustling about with wheelbarrows, mucksacks and buckets of water, greeted him with two ‘good mornings’ and a ‘hi’.

  Unsure what was immediately expected of him and anxious not to get in the way, Ross drifted into the tackroom. There, amongst the smell of leather, soap and metal polish, he immediately felt at home. Neat rows of gleaming saddles and bridles hung above wooden blanket chests, each bearing a different name: King, Simone, Clown, Cragside . . . He paused. Cragside was a big strong horse judging by the severity of his bridle. Fly, Butterworth, Bishop . . . Ross inspected each set of tack carefully, learning something about each horse from the tools of his trade. All the leather was supple and clean, the bits and stirrups shone. He was impressed.

  ‘Time for breakfast.’ Bill Scott spoke from the doorway. ‘The Colonel wants to see you ride after you’ve eaten.’

  As they crossed the yard towards the cottage, Scott gave Ross a sidelong glance.

  ‘You’re lame,’ he remarked, his tone faintly accusing.

  ‘A little,’ Ross agreed. ‘It doesn’t affect my riding.’

  Considering that after his accident he had been told he would be lucky if he ever walked without a stick again, he had always felt it would be churlish to resent the slight limp he’d been left with.

  Scott grunted. ‘I hope not.’

  Breakfast would have been a solemn affair without Maggie’s chatter. Bill Scott was clearly not disposed to talk and Leo Jackson proved to be reserved to the point of surliness. Ross wasn’t sure whether it was the result of a heavy night, but when formally introduced, he acknowledged the newcomer’s presence with only a brief nod and then returned his attention to his eggs and bacon. Wearing black jeans and a khaki tee-shirt, he looked in the daylight to be something over thirty, with dark hair and eyes, and a faintly olive complexion.

  Sarah Owen appeared to be little more than a teenager and was painfully shy. She turned pink whenever Ross spoke to her and never once met his gaze during the entire meal. He sighed to himself. His workmates promised to be a laugh a minute.

  Breakfast was barely over when Roger arrived, collected Bill and drove on down to the scene of the previous night’s tragedy. They had been gone some twenty minutes when a white Mercedes pulled into the yard, and Sarah, who had at Ross’ request been putting names to the horses’ faces, paused and said unhappily, ‘That’s Mr Richmond.’

  Going across to meet the expensively dressed, middle-aged man who was climbing out of the car, Ross found him to be slightly overweight but good-looking, with dark hair going grey at the temples and brown eyes that clearly reflected his sadness at his horse’s death.

  Ross was mildly surprised by this. Youngstock turned out in a field to mature generally represented promise rather than an emotional bond.

  ‘Mr Richmond? I’m Ross Wakelin. Bill’s with the vet. I shouldn’t think they’d be much longer,’ he said as they shook hands.

  ‘Have they said how it happened? What did Roger say?’ Richmond was plainly agitated.

  ‘From what he said last night, I gather some kind of poison is a possibility,’ Ross told him.

  ‘Bastards!’ Richmond said bitterly. ‘Why now?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Ross replied, bewildered.

  ‘Oh, no, I’m sorry.’ Richmond almost visibly pulled himself together. ‘What a way to welcome you!’ He turned as they heard the Range Rover returning. ‘Ah, here’s Roger.’

  The vehicle drew up beside them and the vet erupted from it in what Ross was coming
to recognise as his typically energetic way. ‘Franklin, what a bloody shame. It would have to be one of yours!’

  ‘Was it poison?’ Richmond demanded.

  ‘It was,’ Roger confirmed, his good-natured face registering regret. ‘Hemlock. Hemlock Water Dropwort, to be precise.’

  ‘But . . .’ Richmond appeared to be struggling to process the information. ‘When I got the message last night, I thought . . . Are you saying that this was something he found in the field?’

  The vet nodded. ‘In a manner of speaking. I had my suspicions when Sarah told me there’d been a digger in, clearing the ditches. You see, the whole plant is poisonous but the root is by far the worst part and it’s the only bit that’s really palatable. It’s supposed to be sweetish but I wouldn’t recommend trying it. You’d probably be dead within minutes.’

  ‘You’re saying that the digger exposed some of the roots and Sailor helped himself?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ Roger held up a polythene bag that contained several creamy-white, elongated roots, three to four inches long, and a small quantity of muddy water. ‘Oenanthe Crocata. Otherwise known as “dead men’s fingers”. You can see why. Easy to overlook when it’s growing – it looks a bit like cow parsley.’ He stepped back towards the Range Rover. ‘Look, I must go. I’ll do a gut sample when the hunt stables collect him and let you know for sure. But it all fits. Bloody shame!’

  ‘Surely they won’t feed a poisoned horse to the hounds?’ Ross was surprised.

  ‘They don’t feed much horsemeat to the hounds at all,’ Bill Scott told him dourly. ‘Apparently it’s too rich. Most of it’s incinerated these days.’

  Colonel Preston arrived in the yard five minutes later at nine o’clock prompt, and was standing talking to Franklin Richmond when Ross came down from his room having swiftly exchanged jeans for grey cord breeches and leather boots.

  The epitome of the retired Army officer, from the tips of his carefully tended moustache to the toes of his gleaming brown shoes, the Colonel had greying hair under a flat cap and blue-grey eyes that missed nothing. He greeted his new employee politely with a handshake and a brief smile, subjecting him to a long searching look that Ross felt laid bare all his doubts and insecurities.