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  For a moment Linc thought Rockley wasn't going to answer him; he was gazing at the open doorway of the tackroom, seemingly absorbed in thought.

  'Until I have the complete picture, I can't see which pieces don't fit,' he said after a moment. 'It's important to ask. One should never assume. It would seem to be a bit of a security risk, having the stables so far from the house.'

  'Yes – well, the gate would normally be bolted at this time of night but David and Rebecca were out this evening so I knew I'd be able to get in.'

  'Are there no stables at Farthingscourt?'

  'If you know my father as well as you seem to think, you'll know why I don't keep my horse there,' Linc said.

  'Hmm. So the older girl . . . Ruth, isn't it? . . . she was unaware that her sister had come down here?'

  'Yes, until I called her on my mobile. She said she was in the studio. Pottery,' he added, seeing the question forming on Rockley's lips. 'She's got a workshop next to the house.'

  'I'll have to have a word with her later. I must ask you not to touch anything here until forensics have had a chance to go over it. The CSI team are on their way now.'

  'Okay. Well, if you've done with me for now, I'll just go up to the house and see if Ruth's okay. She's had a nasty shock.' He began to move away, then paused. 'By the way, that's my car over there, if you need to inspect the damage.'

  Rockley nodded. 'We'll do that. And tell Miss Hathaway I'll be along to see her in due course.'

  Linc trudged up the slight incline of the Vicarage drive reflecting on the fragile balance of life. By the light of the lantern halfway to the house, his watch read ten to midnight. Less than an hour ago his most immediate concerns were a petty disagreement he'd had with a colleague, and what bit he should use on Noddy in the dressage the next day. Now a young girl was on her way to hospital, possibly gravely injured, and he had neither bridle nor saddle left to worry about. It kicked things sharply into perspective.

  Ruth opened the back door to his knock and invited him into the kitchen, the hub of Vicarage life. The family's two springer spaniels, Dorcas and Sukey, looked up from their beds in the corner and sleepily wagged their tails, comfortably unaware of the night's events.

  'I'm just making coffee, would you like some?' Ruth looked pale and worn out.

  'That'd be great. Er, the Inspector said to tell you he'll want a word later,' Linc warned her, sitting down at the table.

  'Me? What about? I didn't see anything.'

  'So he can get the complete picture.'

  'Come again?' Ruth spooned coffee, frowning.

  'He's very thorough. He'll probably want to know your life history,' Linc told her wearily. 'I suppose he's just doing his job.'

  'He'll probably think it's my fault for not keeping a better eye on Abby,' she said, passing him a mug. 'I don't know how you can drink that without sugar, it makes me shudder.'

  'Ruth, she's fifteen. You can't control her every move.'

  'But it wouldn't have happened if Mum and Dad had been here. I was in the studio all evening. I didn't have a clue where she was.'

  'You might as well say it's my fault for being late,' Linc pointed out. 'As far as I can see, the only person to blame is whoever did this to her.'

  'I still can't believe it's happened,' Ruth said, shaking her head. 'I just can't take it in. Why? Why us?'

  The hall door opened a few inches and a rather plain face with a mop of short brown curls peered round it.

  Hannah, at thirteen, was the youngest of the three Hathaway sisters still living at home, and as the only one of them not interested in horses, was the one Linc knew the least. Toby, the baby of the tribe, was presumably still sound asleep. The eldest sister, Josie, whom he'd never met, was a model and worked away from home for the most part.

  'Is Abby going to be all right?' Hannah padded in on bare feet, a grey fleece dressing gown wrapped loosely over striped pyjamas. Lace and frills she regarded with tomboyish scorn.

  'I expect so,' Ruth said, almost visibly pulling herself together. 'We'll know more in the morning. The kettle's just boiled, d'you want a drink? She heard me phoning Dad about Abby,' she added to Linc.

  'I told Abby not to go down there. She'd been watching the yard for ages, waiting for you to come,' Hannah told Linc, sliding into a seat opposite him.

  'But you can't see the yard from here,' Ruth protested.

  'You can from Mummy's room, if you stand on the windowsill. You can just see the light come on.'

  'And she was standing there all that time? Why on earth didn't you tell me?' Ruth handed her sister a mug of hot chocolate with the spoon still in.

  'None of my business if she wants to make a fool of herself,' Hannah observed with a touch of smugness. 'Besides, she'd kill me if I ratted on her.'

  That was the crux of the matter, Linc thought, sipping his coffee. Caught somewhere between a child and a woman, Abby's erupting hormones had not improved an already volatile temper and Hannah, with her sometimes debatable tact, came in for more than her fair share of her sister's flare-ups.

  A tentative knock sounded at the back door and the dogs, apparently sensing a stranger, sat up and growled.

  'It's all right, girls.' Ruth went to answer it and reappeared with Rockley close behind.

  'Coffee, Inspector?' she asked over her shoulder.

  'Thank you. White, two sugars.' Rockley's keen grey eyes scanned the room and he nodded at Linc before turning his attention to Hannah. 'And who's this young lady?'

  'My sister Hannah. She was with Abby this evening before . . .' 'Only until half-past ten. Then I went to bed,' Hannah put in. 'There's no school tomorrow, so I'm allowed.'

  'So you can't tell me what time she actually went down to the yard?' Rockley said, settling himself at the table. The dogs sniffed him suspiciously, accepted his friendly advances, then went back to their beds and curled up, sighing deeply.

  'I heard her go downstairs just before eleven,' Hannah said, thinking hard. 'I thought perhaps Mum and Dad had come home.'

  'Are you sure that was the time?'

  'Yes, because the grandfather clock in the hall had just struck and it's five minutes fast,' she said with characteristic accuracy.

  'And did she say she was going to go down to the stables?'

  'Yes. She wanted to see Linc. She thinks she's in love with him,' Hannah told the inspector, in a voice loaded with scorn.

  'And you don't think she is?' he queried, taking the mug that Ruth held out.

  ''Course not! It's only a crush. Mum says she's just at that age.'

  Rockley's lips twitched but Ruth wasn't amused.

  'Ooh, you little horror! You've been listening at doors,' she exclaimed. 'Mum was talking to me when she said that.'

  'I was behind the curtain, reading,' Hannah countered. 'It's not my fault!'

  'Well, thank you, young lady. You've been very helpful,' the inspector said. 'But I'd like a little word with your sister now, if I may.'

  'It's time you got back to bed anyway,' Ruth told her.

  As the door closed behind Hannah, Rockley sighed. 'Nice kid. What is she – twelve? Thirteen?'

  'Thirteen,' Ruth confirmed. 'Going on thirty. She's a monster at times!'

  'No, she's a nice, ordinary kid. It makes a refreshing change after some of the kids I come across in my line of work. You should be thankful, believe me.' Rockley shook his head, and then switched abruptly back to the business at hand, looking thoughtfully from Linc to Ruth. 'I hear you're a potter, Miss Hathaway. I'd be interested to see your studio.'

  'Now?' She was surprised. 'Okay. It's through here.'

  The two went out, Rockley asking questions in his deceptively soft voice and Ruth answering without hesitation.

  Left alone in the kitchen, Linc sipped his coffee. He had to admire the policeman's skill in getting the girls to relax and open up. He'd probably learned as much about the family in those few minutes as Linc himself had in the five months he'd known them. And now, unless he was very m
uch mistaken, Rockley was trying to learn a little more about Linc Tremayne.

  The night ticked slowly on, rhythmically counted by the old grandfather clock in the hall. Ruth came back after ten minutes or so, carrying two empty mugs and saying that the inspector had gone back down to the yard.

  'He was nice, wasn't he?' she said. 'Not like a policeman at all. I couldn't tell him much but it was odd, he seemed more interested in you than anything.'

  Linc hid a smile.

  'He wanted to know what your relationship with Abby was. I said you didn't have one. Honestly, does the man know nothing about teenagers?'

  On the huge Welsh dresser the telephone trilled and Ruth went to answer it, picking up the receiver with a hand that shook visibly.

  'Mum! How is she?'

  Linc could just hear Rebecca's voice on the other end but could make out no words. He watched Ruth's face, trying to read her expression; dreading seeing the shock of bad news.

  'When will they know?' she asked, and the indistinct tones answered.

  'Yes . . . Yes, I'm okay. Linc's still here . . . Yes, I will . . . 'Bye, Mum.' She replaced the handset and turned back to the table.

  'How is she?' Linc asked, softly.

  'Still unconscious but stable, apparently. Whatever that means,' Ruth replied, her voice trembling on the brink of tears.

  'I should think it means she's out of immediate danger.'

  'I hope so.' She sniffed, fumbling in her pocket for a handkerchief. 'They're going to do more tests in the morning. Mum says try not to worry. Yeah, right . . .'

  They made more drinks, after which Ruth was nodding over the kitchen table in spite of the double dose of caffeine, and Linc suggested she go to bed.

  'I'll be here if Rockley wants anything,' he said. 'You ought to get some sleep or you'll be a zombie tomorrow.'

  'But what about you? What'll you do about riding at Andover tomorrow?'

  Linc shrugged. 'Not much I can do with no tack.'

  'But weren't you supposed to be riding Nina Barclay's horse as well?'

  'Oh, hell! Yeah, I'd forgotten about that. Look, I don't s'pose they'll be much longer down there. When they go, I'll doss down on the sofa, if that's all right?'

  The Vicarage kitchen was home not only to the usual range of cupboards and appliances, but also, in addition to the table and chairs, one of the biggest settees Linc had ever seen. He heartily approved of it as an item of kitchen furniture.

  'Of course. I'll get you a blanket. But are you sure? Haven't you got to get home?'

  'Not much point now. I won't be missed. Besides, I'm not sure the Morgan's fit for the road.'

  'I'm sorry. Oh, God, what a mess!'

  'Bed!' Linc said firmly.

  Rockley knocked quietly on the back door just after one o'clock to say that he was just leaving but forensics would be an hour or so longer. He gave Linc a card with his number on, saying he'd probably need to speak to him again and telling him not to hesitate if he thought of anything further.

  Linc had fallen asleep over a crossword puzzle by the time another officer came up to the house at something past two, with the information that the CSI unit had now finished and were heading off, if he wanted to bolt the gates.

  Linc followed him down and locked up, then returned wearily to the kitchen and crashed out on his makeshift bed.

  He tossed and turned for all of fifteen seconds.

  TWO

  HALF-PAST EIGHT THAT morning found Linc turning the Morgan between wrought-iron gates into the long gravel drive of Farthingscourt. He passed the pretty South Lodge where Geoff Sykes, the deputy estate manager, lived, and drove through a band of ancient beech woodland before coming out into the rolling parkland that surrounded the house.

  In spite of the horror of the previous night's events, the first sight of Farthingscourt on the far side of the valley gave him the buzz it always did. The drive curved to the right and ran down an avenue of stately copper beeches to the stone bridge spanning the river, and then climbed steadily all the way up to the house's impressive raised portico.

  Built of Bath stone in the Palladian style, it was not so large as some stately homes and perhaps a little austere, but with the April morning sunlight glinting on the dozens of rectangular panes of glass in the huge sash windows, and bathing the masonry in a warm golden glow, Linc thought it beautiful.

  He drove along past the front of the house and round into the courtyard at the rear, trying not to cast his usual, wistful glance at the empty stables as he let himself in at the side door to the old kitchens. Although the Vicarage at Farthing St Anne was no more than fifteen minutes' drive from Farthingscourt, to an outsider it would probably seem absurd that someone with a stableyard and several hundred acres of park and farmland on his doorstep should keep his horse somewhere else, but Linc had to respect his father's wishes. When Sylvester, Eighth Viscount Tremayne, had lost his wife in a three-day-eventing accident seventeen years before, he had had all her horses destroyed and made it clear that no other horse would be tolerated on the Farthingscourt Estate from that point forward.

  As he ran up the narrow back stairs to his apartment on the top floor, Linc remembered his father's words when, just five months ago, he had come back to live at the family home and announced that he now owned a horse.

  'Well, I can't stop you keeping the bloody animal, I suppose, but you'll not keep it here as long as I'm alive!'

  The declaration was made with a quiet vehemence that brooked no argument and Linc knew better than to offer any. His riding had been a bone of contention between his father and himself ever since he'd been caught secretly riding a friend's pony, just ten months after his mother's death. He had never ridden just for the sake of rebellion, though he suspected his father thought he did. Even as a twelve year old, Linc could not fail to be acutely aware of the depth of the Viscount's grief and would not willingly have added to it, but he was his mother's son where horses were concerned and, unlike his father, he didn't blame them for the tragedy. In a way, riding had been his way of dealing with the loss of his mother. He'd felt closer to her when on the back of a horse, and was sure she would have been pleased and proud that he was following in her footsteps.

  The rooms Linc now occupied, right up in the attics of the building, had recently been converted from the long-empty servants' dormitories and comprised a sitting room, galley kitchen, bedroom and bathroom. He had furnished and decorated them himself and was very content in his self-contained isolation, far from the sumptuous grandeur of the public areas of the house.

  Three low sash windows offered panoramic views over Dorset's Cranborne Chase, in which the Farthingscourt Estate sat, but Linc hadn't time on this occasion to stop and enjoy them. Nina Barclay, a friend of the Hathaways', had recently broken her wrist and was desperate for someone to keep her promising novice going for her until she was able to ride again. Her groom was keeping the horse fit but didn't have the confidence to compete on him, so as Noddy was entered in many of the same events, Linc had happily stepped into the breech. Today was to be his first outing with Hobo's Dream and though fate had decreed that Noddy should miss the competition, he didn't want to disappoint Nina if he could help it.

  He'd eaten a hurried breakfast at the Vicarage after helping Ruth with the horses, and all he had to do now was change into his riding clothes, touch base with his father and head for Hampshire.