Dead Man Riding (7 page)

‘Let me do that, sir.'

‘Not yet, my boy. Your turn will come.'

He carried the lamp over to a hook near the sink, to give Dulcie more light. It swung gently, sending our shadows dancing over the walls, more lively than we felt. We were all of us dropping from tiredness and perhaps the effect of the ale.

‘Now, where shall we put you all? There's a parlour next door. You can bed down there once we've found you some cushions and blankets.'

Midge glanced at me. At least she seemed to be finding it funny. Neither of us dared look at Imogen.

Alan said, ‘What about the ladies, sir?'

‘The womenfolk can have Dulcie's bed. That alright, Dulcie?'

She nodded without turning round from the washing-up. We started protesting that we couldn't possibly.

‘Nothing wrong with Dulcie's bed. Best one in the house by a long way. Plenty of room for three.'

‘But we can't—'

‘Dulcie will show you upstairs when she's finished. Now if the rest of you come through here we'll get you bedded down.'

Nathan, Kit and Meredith followed him obediently. Meredith had been almost as silent during the meal as Robin and I supposed he must be wishing himself back in his comfortable set of college rooms, smothering or not. Alan stayed behind and dropped down on one knee beside Imogen who was still sitting at the table, head resting on her hand, looking weary and confused beyond thinking.

‘Imogen, I'm so dreadfully sorry about this. We'll get you back safely tomorrow.'

She didn't move or make any reply. He got to his feet, looking wretched. ‘Look after her, Nell.' Then he followed the others. From next door we heard sounds of furniture being moved around and Nathan's laugh. Midge and I started sorting out the contents of the packs, putting the men's things and our things in separate heaps. By the time we'd done that Dulcie had finished the washing-up.

‘If you want to go somewhere before you go upstairs it's across the yard next to the cart shed.'

We wanted to go somewhere. Outside the night was full of stars, with no sound but the brook flowing and a horse whickering not far away. We found the black shed by its smell and waited for each other outside. As we walked back across the yard, Midge took hold of Imogen's hand and squeezed it.

‘Don't worry, things won't look so bad in the morning.' No answer from Imogen. She was moving like a woman in a trance. Dulcie was waiting for us in the kitchen holding a candle in an enamel holder.

‘Mind the third stair. It's loose.'

If she was annoyed about giving up her bed to us she didn't show it. She pulled back the curtain and we scooped up armfuls of nightdresses and shawls and followed.

*   *   *

It was one of the biggest beds I'd ever seen, an enormous four-poster with all the hangings gone except for a tattered pelmet of faded velvet around the top. The bottom of it was filled by an enormous feather mattress that looked as thick and white as an Alpine snowfall in the candlelight, with a ruckle of sheets and blankets pulled back and a bolster wide enough for four or five heads to lie side by side. The room was large but the bed took up half of it. The rest of the furniture was as oddly assorted as down in the kitchen – a sagging chintz armchair, a big china jug and washbasin on a marble-topped stand, a huge wardrobe with an oval mirror in the door, cracked from top to bottom. It all had the feel of a house rented ready furnished by people in a hurry and I remembered what Nathan had said about the Centaur travelling light and always moving on.

‘Has ta got all ta need then?'

I said yes thank you and Dulcie went padding back downstairs, still barefoot. Midge threw herself backwards on to the feather mattress and almost disappeared into it.

‘Wheee. It's like clouds.'

Imogen sat down on the edge of the armchair. ‘I've never shared a bed with anybody before.'

‘Never?' Then I remembered that she was an only child.

‘When I was a child, I suppose, with cousins at Christmas time, but not grown-up.'

‘Well, I don't suppose Nell and I have got fleas or any awful diseases. Do you snore, Nell?'

‘Not as far as I know.'

I sat on the side of the bed, trying not to tip backwards, and unlaced my boots. My stockings were sticking to my feet from heat and the walking. ‘Is there any water in that bowl?'

Midge hauled herself off the bed and took the candle over to see. ‘Yes, but it looks as if Dulcie has been washing in it. There's some fresh in the jug though.' She opened the window and threw the dirty water out, then giggled. ‘I hope Alan's uncle wasn't underneath. I don't want him chasing me across country with a shotgun.'

Imogen said, ‘Don't,' and shuddered. At least she was talking to us. I guessed the next thing she'd say was what Meredith had congratulated us earlier on not saying – ‘I wish I hadn't come'. If anybody was accepting bets on who'd be going back to the station in the wagonette in the morning, Imogen would be first favourite and Meredith second. As for me, I'd already made my decision but there was no point in talking about it and starting an argument. Midge and I worked out that there was enough water for us to have about half a pint each to wash in. None of us fancied going back down to the kitchen to get more. Midge went first, stripping to bodice and petticoat and rooting out a sponge and towel from our baggage. Imogen slowly unlaced her boots, walked over to the window in stockinged feet and looked out for a while then came to sit on the side of the bed.

‘These must be the sheets she slept in. She didn't have time to change them.'

‘I'm tired enough to sleep in anybody's sheets, aren't you?'

‘It smells of her.'

It was true the bed did smell, although not unpleasantly. There was the faint candlewax smell of dried sweat, of new hay and something less easily definable, rather salt and sealike. When I put my hand on the mattress I felt her warmth still hoarded in the feathers.

Imogen said, ‘How old do you think she is?'

‘Thirties? Forty even.'

‘Quite old. Who is she?'

‘Cook-housekeeper, I suppose.'

‘Do cook-housekeepers usually walk around like that?'

Midge said, tactless but muffled as she was putting on her nightdress, ‘Do people usually open fire on their guests? Anyway, she seems to think he was imagining killing anybody.'

Imogen said, ‘Were those boys back in town imagining it too? You heard what they were shouting.'

Midge didn't answer. Under her nightdress she was unbuttoning her bodice and petticoat. It was odd how bashful we were about getting undressed in front of each other.

Imogen insisted, ‘You heard them, didn't you Nell?'

‘Yes. Why don't you get washed and get into bed? You're too tired to think about anything. Tomorrow you'll be on your way to your aunt's and…'

‘I'm not going. I'm staying here. I don't care what you two are doing, but I'm staying.'

Midge and I stared at each other. A few days ago she'd been fussing about chaperones, now this. Imogen was sitting bolt upright on the edge of the bed, hands clenched together and pressed against her thighs. She'd started shivering though it wasn't a cold night. Delayed shock.

I said, ‘Just get into bed and get warm for goodness' sake. We'll discuss it in the morning.'

‘There's nothing to discuss. I'm not going and leaving him here – after what's happened.'

‘Him being Kit?'

I thought, ‘oh dear, wounded warrior'. The sight of Kit, brave and suffering, must have tipped the balance towards him after all. If so, what had been a bad day for Alan had just become a lot worse.

‘No. Of course I'm sorry for poor Kit, but I mean Alan. I thought he was dead. I heard that mad old man firing his gun and saw Alan go down and I thought he was dead.'

She'd started crying, tears running down her cheeks and glinting in the candlelight. Midge kicked away the underwear from round her feet, sat beside Imogen and put an arm round her.

‘He's all right, you saw that. It didn't touch him.'

‘It isn't that. When I thought he was dead I … you can't imagine. It was like someone reaching inside my chest and putting a hand round my heart and crushing it.'

Midge went on making comforting noises. ‘Yes, but it's all right now. It was a terrible shock but it's all right…'

Imogen pulled away from her. ‘No, it's not all right. When I thought Alan was dead I realised I love him. I really love him.'

Then she leaned against Midge and sobbed as if she'd been overtaken by some great catastrophe, which she probably had. Ironic, I thought, that Kit was the one who'd had the unlucky day and Alan, if he only knew it, would be thanking his trigger-happy uncle. We got Imogen to lie down at last in the warm dip in the middle of the mattress with Midge and I on either side, both trying not to slide down on top of her. It was a long time before we got to sleep and by then we'd acknowledged that we'd all be staying. Imogen for the reason stated, Midge because she wouldn't desert Imogen and I – well, they didn't need to know my reasons. I was just staying, that's all.

Chapter Five

T
HE WINDOW CURTAINS WERE AS THIN AS TISSUE PAPER
so I woke up early, at about four o'clock, just as the light was coming in. The other two were probably awake as well but they said nothing as I got up and fumbled about for my clothes. I needed to go to the place across the yard, but since that meant getting dressed I might as well walk round and take a look at the place. After moving as a pack the day before I wanted to be on my own for a while. There was nobody in the kitchen and the fire was out. I went through the porch, unlatched the door and walked round the side of the house to the walled yard. It had gap broad enough for a farm wagon to get through on one side. The facing side consisted mostly of a high open-fronted cart shed with an old haywain and a neat wagonette parked inside. There was nobody visible, human or animal, but a cow was mooing not far away and the soft churring sound that hens make when they're waking up was coming from a chicken shed in the angle between house and wall. Underfoot was mostly hard beaten earth, with shallow craters where the chickens had been scratching, but somebody had dug a vegetable patch along the wall at right angles to the cart shed and planted onions, carrots and a few cabbages. The place didn't look poor exactly, but not very prosperous either. The Old Man and his little household obviously lived a spartan life. When we'd decided to inflict ourselves on them I suppose we'd envisaged more of a country house existence, or at least somewhere surrounded by rosy-cheeked country folk with trugs of fruit and jugs of cream. This was more like a place under siege and the supplies we'd brought with us were only enough for a picnic or two. We'd have to discuss that later, along with a lot of other things, but meanwhile being up so early was like stealing the best part of the day and I intended to enjoy it.

I strolled out of the yard and on to a farm track that ran uphill between hedges smothered in honeysuckle and dog roses, frothed with white cow parsley. The sky was clear blue with a few clouds towards the west, the air cool enough to blow away the itchiness of the long day's journey and restless night. A little way up the track the view opened out and suddenly there were sea and hills, the sapphire glint of the Solway Firth and beyond it on the Scottish side the southern uplands misty and paler blue with the sun not yet on them. I stood leaning on a gateway enjoying them until I realised that something was happening nearer at hand. The gate led into a paddock of fine grass scattered with buttercups and cuckoo-smock, sloping up to the edge of the wood. A horse was cantering towards me, such a horse that might have been made by the old gods to go with the place and the morning. Technically he was a grey, but the effect was shining silver. He wasn't large, probably no more than fifteen hands, but well proportioned and fine boned, with his long mane flying up and his tail streaming out like a pennant. He moved as if the grass had springs under it. A few yards from the gateway he came to a halt, looking at me wary-eyed, blowing gently through wide nostrils. He'd been expecting somebody else. When I reached out he let me stroke his muzzle, but guardedly. I was talking to him, telling him he was beautiful and so on, when I heard footsteps swishing in the grass and looked up to see the Old Man. When I arrived he must have been at the top of the field near the wood or I'd have seen him earlier. He was carrying his carriage horsewhip and I wondered if he might have been there all night, on guard at the high point of his land. The horse turned and went to him, nuzzling against him.

‘A fine horse,' I said.

He smiled, arm over the horse's neck. ‘Seawave Supreme.' Like a herald announcing a title. ‘You like horses?'

‘Yes.' It was practically a guilty secret because most of the people I knew thought that liking horses went with everything we despised, such as country squires and Conservatives. ‘Especially Arab horses.'

Which was true. For me, they'd always had a kind of gallantry about them that made the heart lift just to see them.

‘Want to see the others?'

‘Yes please.'

He vaulted over the gate, head down and heels up, almost as easily as a young man and straightened up beside me, pleased with himself. We fell into step together back down the track. It was my first taste of what was to be one of the oddest things about that summer – the feeling of at least two worlds going on at the same time, side by side. The evening before he'd confessed to murder, I'd spent most of the night lying awake wondering if he'd meant it but there we were, strolling along with the sun coming up as if we had nothing to think about but horses. I suppose I might have started quizzing him about Mawbray's son and all the rest of it – an older version of myself might have done just that – but it would have been an intrusion, brutal bad manners. Besides, it was such a fine morning and I liked him. We walked down past the house then up again along the track we'd been on when he'd shot at us the night before. He pointed with his whip.