The sun was warm on my face as, with a click of my tongue, the ponies set off at a leisurely trot, scuffing across the top of the compressed powder and dodging the treacherous pockets of shade with their concealed slicks of ice. We were following the blurred tracks laid down by fox and manhunt; I was riding one and leading two, which was quite restrained by the standards of the hunt’s grooms in the area – they were often seen leading three or sometimes even four fresh hunters out on a hack – and after squeezing through the tall metal gates of the Park, I threw caution to the wind and risked a canter amongst the towering drifts along the wide inviting verge. The ponies were good little creatures and cantered steadily alongside without a murmur before we slowed to a walk and set about slithering down the hill.
The valley was steep here and even this new March sun could not hope to travel high enough in the sky to bring much warmth to this shady little corner. The previous day’s rainwater had formed sinuous rivulets through the softening crust before freezing in the heavy night air and we had to pick our way gingerly down to the old stone bridge at the bottom and on through the last gate and out into open fields.
The large house that belonged to the park stood high upon the hilltop and although it was strategically concealed by young trees and the contours of the valley slopes, I still felt the glare of its silent windows. It was an attractive building, very much in the Cotswold style, and it nestled on the crown of the high ridge so that the rear wing gazed out above me over rolling farmland. On the far side, where it faced south to catch the sun, the great gabled windows of an impressive frontage watched over idyllic gardens, bursting in summer with lavender and impressive topiary, before leading the eye down into fresh young plantations and the still waters of the great lake beyond. Now, though, we left the house and its tall gables behind and followed the increasingly slippery track round to the rather smaller farmhouse while my eyes scanned the route ahead. I was looking for any sign of Matthew’s two men but I didn’t need to search particularly closely – they were clearly still there; their car was nestling in the remains of the drift that had enclosed it outside the tall double doors of the larger stone barn.
The farmyard was just a small collection of buildings, simple and workmanlike, while the pretty little house itself was huddled down in the lowest part of the valley just out of reach of the stream which in warmer weather ran busily at its feet. There were two barns; one a large stone building which bore the name Warren Barn in faded whitewash, and the other a low tumbledown structure which looked like one more bad storm might be enough to crush it entirely; and as I approached, I wondered how it was that Jamie Donald had managed to end up in such a place. As far as I knew, he had never been a farmer; but as I drew closer, I answered my own question.
Clearly visible behind the car and the open barn doors lay woodworking benches and tools which swiftly reminded me of the Inspector’s description of joiner. The rough unfinished skeletons of gates and doors lurked in the shadowy interior, and Jamie had, I realised, been employed by the Estate to make the endless repairs that were essential for keeping the livestock in, or keeping unwanted visitors out.
Watching the car cautiously as the track brought me nearer, I saw two men climb out and I could see another down at the house. They planted themselves in my path with unwarranted authority and, naturally on edge, I halted, keeping a wary eye on them both. There was little doubt that these brutes were the Irishmen from Matthew’s story.
One had a face which was curiously slack and devoid of expression, and he looked as though he depended very heavily on his companion for instruction. There was no mistaking his animal strength however, and I did not doubt that he was the sort to react swiftly and brutally to anything he did not understand.
The other must have been Matthew’s gunman; he had great hulking shoulders and walked with the heavy stride of solid muscle, and he had thin lips which he now licked speculatively:
“What do you want? This isn’t a public road.”
“Afternoon, I haven't met you before, have I? I’m just riding through,” I explained politely, catching a movement behind them as the man from the house began hurrying over.
“Well, this here is private property so I suggest you simply turn about and take your pretty little self back the way you came.” His voice was hard and dry, the words more a blur that had lost a few crucial vowels and consonants, and I brightened inwardly, knowing that I had at least solved the mystery of their origins.
“I just need to get through that gate and then I’ll be out of your way.” I gestured to the small gate below the house which led back into the woods and gave what I hoped was a very sweet smile. “I’ve not got far to go then you see. Sir William—”
“What you need to do, lass, is turn about.”
“Oh, come off it,” I said with the beginnings of impatience. A leer had spread across the other’s slack mouth and gathering myself together, I gave a click of my tongue and urged the pony forwards.
As quick as lightning a hand flashed out and caught at my pony’s reins. I gasped and swore uselessly at the silent brute, suddenly realising my folly as he held my pony fast.
“Let go of my horse!” I squeaked, not even pretending to be brave any more. No amount of tugging on the reins would release them.
Casting an approving glance at his fellow, the talkative one stepped in and thrust his broad face up to mine. “I’ve asked you nicely to turn about and now I’m telling you, this is private property and you’re trespassing. Unless, of course, you’d like to stay and keep us company?” Then he reached up and touched my hair.
I knew it was a ploy. I knew it was just a joke at my expense playing on the stereotype of countless gothic dramas but all the same I could not help batting away his hand in disgust. He gave a laugh.
Then a voice I recognised spoke with forced authority from somewhere close behind;
“What is going on? Let that woman go! Miss Phillips?”
Relief flooded in and with it came anger and the abrupt return of my pony’s reins. I straightened up to my full height and looking straight over the nearer man’s head, fixed the estate manager with my most disapproving stare. “Mr Hicks, these men were attacking me. Kindly inform them of who I am.”
There was an unpleasant pause. But then, with a scowl at me, the nearer one turned away to launch into a furious but muted argument with Hicks, which involved much gesturing and shaking of heads. The silent man continued to stare at me with a disconcerting kind of blankness, almost as if his mind were just resting there for want of anything better. Ignoring him, I strained my ears to listen but I could catch nothing beyond the occasional oath from the brute and a spluttering protest from Hicks. Eventually, however, the manager seemed to gain his point and, hastily flapping his hands to silence the last protest from the other, he finally approached me with a cringingly deferential air.
“Miss Phillips, let me apologise. These men are just trying to protect a crime scene; you’ll have heard about that sad business? But of course you may take your usual ride through the park. Sir William would be most upset to hear about this.”
“Yes, he would, wouldn’t he,” I said acidly, thankful that my voice held no trace of a tremor. I turned my gaze to the two thugs, “What are your names?”
They exchanged glances beneath lowered brows. Finally, the man who’d argued with Hicks spoke sullenly, “What do you want them for?”
“Miss Phillips,” Hicks interjected hastily, “I’m sure we can resolve this matter ourselves. They meant no harm and, as you know, Sir William is not in the best of health …”
“Your names,” I snapped. “I have never in my life been spoken to as you just have and I may wish to take this matter further. Your names, or do I have to tell Sir William that his estate manager was condoning a friend being attacked by his staff?”
I glared down at them as they fidgeted sulkily. They looked to Hicks but he held up his hands helplessly. He looked scared and I wondered who was actually in charge here.
“Davey Turford.” There was an unexpected mumble from the less alert one and, judging by the expression on his fellow’s face, this had the misfortune of being the truth.
I turned to the other. “And you?”
It looked for a moment that he might refuse but then, with a brief show of teeth that passed for a smile and was all the more sinister for it, he growled, “Simon.”
“E’s my brother,” offered Davey, again surprising us all. Simon Turford shot him a loaded glance and he shut his mouth quickly.
“Right then, Davey and Simon Turford.” I settled back in the saddle with the applied authority of a school ma’am, “Do you apologise or do I need to make a formal complaint?”
I wondered if I had gone too far when I saw their mouths tighten. But then at long last their thin lips formed something which may have passed for an apology and I was able to nod and gather up the reins. “I will let this matter drop this once, but if either of you so much as think of bothering me next time …” I let the threat hang.
Then I turned to the beleaguered manager. “Mr Hicks, would you be a dear and open the gate?”