Red Anger (21 page)

After half an hour of this Alwyn came running and dripping up the hill. John quickly cut off his beard and shaved him. Eudora went to work on him as she had on me, producing an enamelled,
frightening, old harridan under the veil who would have been sure of at least a Highly Commended because the judges would not dare give her less.

Meanwhile I told him the events of the night—or those which concerned him. To my astonishment he was utterly loyal to the CIA and not in the least indignant.

‘You none of you understand them, not even you, Eudora,’ he said. ‘If it pleases them to treat this ancient land as a banana republic, who cares? We have only to be polite.
They can’t do any harm. They started off by investigating our labour troubles and arriving at the most fascinating fiction. Then they began getting in the hair of MI5, for they don’t
trust our security or anyone else’s. I’ve no doubt that, as you told Willie, we just laughed off the question of Petrescu and said he wasn’t a Romanian at all. But they wanted to
know for sure and they kept on after him. And if you think Russian submarines and Russian trawlers are a joke, you have another think coming. That’s where the real battle of the Cold War is
today, and Mornix and I were in the front line.’

‘And it was the CIA who framed you, not the KGB,’ Eudora said.

‘Nonsense! It’s inconceivable. I know they forced the investigation on our people, but from their point of view they were justified. I knew Rachel. I introduced her to her Minister.
And they were right—she was a Russian agent. I couldn’t tell them what we were up to in the Mornix case. The feeding to a spy of false and correct information was a little too subtle
for them. Of course I was suspect to them, and of course Willie is! Now, can you keep Rachel quiet for a day or two?’

‘I shall keep her very quiet, Alwyn.’

‘And where will our clothes be? Where will John collect the horses?’

‘A horse box will meet you on the lane below Berrystone Rock. Not mine. Police might have the number. Forrest’s box.’

‘I can’t let him take that risk for me.’

‘He is taking no risk, Alwyn. I have lent two horses to Persian friends of mine. He has kindly agreed to drive them to the Show. If the police ever get on to him, how should he have known
who they really were? He will have your clothes and will put you out wherever you like. Then he will drive straight back with the horses and tell me where you are and how I can reach
you.’

Eudora and Tessa kissed us and dropped our veils—bridal veils in a way for we were setting off into an unforeseeable future. Sometimes on tracks, mostly on by-roads we rode to the north,
passed by a few cars and fascinated holidaymakers but without a sight of police as far as the village of Frogmore at the head of its creek which we could not avoid. There we walked our horses
slowly, I trying to sit like a statue as ordered. A police car parked in a side street paid no attention to us beyond curiosity. According to Alwyn, it was probably posted in Frogmore to stop him
breaking out to the south-west in case he was still somewhere near Molesworthy.

But there was an incident which bothered me more than this first evidence of road controls. In Frogmore, playing happily around the garden of a pub, were two children who looked vaguely
familiar. At a table with beer in front of him was their father. He was three-quarters turned away from me, but that was enough, given the children. He was the pleasant fellow from the Russian
Naval Attaché’s office whom I had met in the zoo. It was a safe guess that Rachel had reported her meeting with Tessa in Frogmore and that he knew how to read a map imaginatively.
Alwyn was not surprised at his presence in the district. Though the movements of Iron Curtain diplomats were limited, they could hardly be refused permission for an innocent family holiday. He did
not think that the fantastic uniform worn by class-ridden, imperialist horsewomen was likely to interest him.

About sunset we were circling Berrystone Rock but came on no horse box. Eventually we dismounted—I with skirt hung up on the pommels to reveal hairy, male legs above the boots—and
settled down to wait and wait. Our situation was very tricky. If we were seen it was going to be hard to explain why a county dowager and niece—experience had shown that Eudora’s
Persians were an unnecessary complica­tion—all togged up for a horse show, should have got them­selves benighted on the way, tethered their horses and taken to cover instead of
walking to some well-travelled road and yowling for help in whatever disaster had struck them. Eudora or her quick-thinking guardian angel had gambled that there would be no interested observers
after sunset; but to set off in the morning, crumpled, bristles showing through worn make-up, horses looking as if they too had never been put to bed, was asking for trouble.

About midnight we at last saw the lights of a car on the farm track which circled our miniature peak. It could be the police or it could be rescue, so we heaved those abominable skirts over our
heads and very cautiously approached. The occupants of the car were standing in the beam of dipped headlights in order to be recognised. They were John Penpole and Forrest.

Unsure of what story the innkeeper had been told, Alwyn confined his remarks to the least possible greeting, his falsetto sounding very like a bad-tempered old lady with bronchitis. Forrest was
too much of a John Bull for that nonsense. He said straight out:

‘Mr. Alwyn, I only want your word that you are innocent.’

‘My word of honour, old friend.’

‘Then cheerful does it!’

He asked nothing about me. At first he thought I was really a woman and, I suspect, scented romance.

He explained that with the best will in the world he dared not pick us up with his horse box. A police check was known to be on the two main roads between Totnes and Dartmoor which he would have
to follow before crossing. He reckoned that the police would be satisfied after glancing into the cab and the back and seeing two ladies and two horses, but they might make a note of the number of
the box. He was sure to be observed leaving Molesworthy and returning, and he could think of no story which would not lead to further investiga­tion of Eudora and himself.

Car lights were switched off, horses unsaddled, fed and watered. We then held a council of war. The pair had decided for us, quite rightly, that while our disguise might pass just to reach
Berrystone Rock we would never get away with it on a long day’s journey. Food for the horses or alternatively asking someone’s permission to put them out to grass was going to be
impossible. Our only hope was to continue as a couple of hearty fellows on a riding tour, for which they had brought the necessary change of clothing. If some time, when the heat was off, we were
to telephone Forrest he would find a plausible excuse for driving his horse box out of Moles­worthy empty and returning with it empty—having discreetly unloaded the horses at the far end
of the bracken path.

There seemed nothing else for it. I suggested, however, that I alone should continue as a woman until we were past all likely road controls. I had three good reasons for this. First: that when
the third pommel was between my legs I felt as secure as a baby in a basket; second: that at a distance, my superb outfit would add an unquestionable note of social distinction and we could pass as
Lady Enid Paddington-Penzance followed by her respectful groom. And the third reason was that if we were stopped Alwyn could gallop like a highwayman for any safety he could find while Lady Enid
was being shamefully disrobed by the police.

They doubtfully approved this plan. John, foreseeing unexpected movement with the instinct of an experienced huntsman, had brought out powder and powder puff belong­ing to Amy—I never
dreamed that she used any—and a short, toy moustache, rather wider than Hitler’s, which was merely comic at close quarters but possibly effective if we did not pass police too near. At
any rate it was the only disguise Alwyn would have besides his glasses and his greying hair.

‘But what’ll ye do with the extra saddle?’ John asked.

It would be essential when I returned to manhood, but we certainly could not carry it.

‘You’ll have to drop it on us, John, and take the side saddle back,’ Alwyn said. ‘We daren’t telephone you or Mrs. Hilliard, so we must fix a rendezvous.
Let’s say in the valley of the Otter. Day after tomorrow in the afternoon. We ought to be able to make it by then if we get there at all.’

They drove off and we dozed a little till dawn. When and how to start off was the next problem. We must not pass any police so early that they would be suspicious nor leave Berry-stone Rock so
late that we risked being caught out by the farmer on whose land we were. There was no cover to hide us, so we simply had to mount and stand still or walk in circles ready to move off as soon as
anyone was in sight. When we saw some early riser gaping at us from a distance, we took refuge in woodland outside Harberton. At eight we set out.

We had to cross two main roads, which might have been easy enough if we did not also have to cross the main railway line to Cornwall which ran between them and parallel. This limited possible
routes to three. One of them led us too close to Totnes; another involved too long a ride down the Plymouth road; the third and nearest had the advantage of taking us straight into fairly wild
country, but if there were police at the bridge over the line we should have to pass them close to.

We were able to reconnoitre this road from above. Police were checking traffic, but far enough away for Alwyn to use his absurd moustache with safety. The lady and her groom crossed without
incident. Once out of sight I stopped to powder my face and to arrange top hat, veil and skirt. I passed Alwyn’s careful inspection and we rode on towards the railway bridge saying nothing
and very nervous. The bridge was unguarded and we crossed it exchanging a glance of relief. But just ahead, at the junction with the second main road, was a police car very well placed. Any traffic
turning back on sighting it would immediately be suspect.

Our only hope was an isolated church on the right of our route. Just conceivably it could be our destination—lady of the manor dropping in to dust the pews or arrange the flowers or grab
the vicar’s surplice for its monthly wash. There was no easy way for a horse to enter the churchyard, so Alwyn dismounted and told me to hold his gelding while he walked round the church out
of sight of the police. We had no time at all to prepare any plan and I had not the least idea what he meant to do; nor at that moment had he. Meanwhile I sat like a picturesque statue of largish
maidenhood, erect and keeping my hands low as instructed.

He said afterwards that his vague idea was to swipe some­thing from the church—flowers or a choir boy’s collar or whatever presented itself—hand it to me very formally and
ride back. I think his sacrilegious plan might have been too obvious. A much better one was provided by a fast goods train roaring and rumbling under the bridge. His gelding, admirable in traffic
but with no experience of the railway age down in Molesworthy, became alarmed. So did I, for I had no idea how to hold one horse while keeping my seat on another. The police were watching our
sidling and swerving with interest, no doubt in the hope that I would fall off and they could come to the help of beauty in distress, but my groom came dashing out of the churchyard, hissed at me
to let go of the reins and—safely covered by our circlings—made some sort of indecent assault on the gelding with the point of a pocket knife.

It took off towards the main road with him in pursuit. A cop gallantly leapt out of the car to hold up the traffic and Alwyn and horse bolted across the road. Then came a really brilliant touch.
Instead of moving on and leaving me to follow he led the gelding back over the road, tipping his cap to the driver of the car as he passed with the horse’s neck partly obscuring his face. He
mounted and we returned the way he had come. I suppose that when all the flurry was over the police must have wondered what the hell our church business was, but our behaviour, however eccentric,
was in keeping with village life and its inexplicable ways.

There was now nothing for it but to follow the road west­wards sometimes on the verge, sometimes making circuits through the lanes. Road and rail were alongside each other and we had a
chance to inspect the next bridge before com­mitting ourselves. Once across, we took to the hills and wooded valleys on the edge of Dartmoor where no one said more than a polite good-morning to
the veiled lady and her groom, though we must have aroused curiosity among villagers who would know that we had not come from any of the big houses in the district. In the evening we went into
hiding not far short of Crediton, horses dead tired, ourselves hungry and thirsty. Alwyn risked entering a pub in a village through which we had not passed, returning with cider and sandwiches. The
horses had to put up with a stream and woodland grass.

The next day we started at dawn, not caring who saw us out so early for we were now beyond easy explanation. Our bred-in-the-bone country setting was worthless. I couldn’t see my
aristocratic little face in a mirror because we hadn’t got one, but I knew very well that I must look like a dusty circus ringmaster impersonating his only equestrienne who was off sick. I
said so—a weary crack to improve breakfast-less morale—and Alwyn remembered it. As for him, his bristles were coming along fine, and the last thing he resembled was a smart groom in
attendance.

We got away with it partly by using major roads where there were hardly any pedestrians and cars passed us too fast for close inspection. But villages had to be avoided by awkward detours where
we cantered past anyone we met. Once we were stopped by a tweedy, squirish gent bursting with officious curiosity and once by a farmer who wanted a chat. On both occasions Alwyn made use of my
fantasy, saying sharply: ‘Chipperfield’s Circus. On ahead. Trying to catch up,’ touched his cap and cantered on.

We came down into the valley of the Otter soon after midday, crossing the river by a foot-bridge so that we did not have to pass through the village of Upottery. A compact copse a few hundred
yards from road and river provided temporary cover—inadequate but good enough until John Penpole should appear with another saddle and much needed food for men and horses.