49

We were a glamorous little party who met outside the stable-yard.

Nel looked the same as me except she was holding her bowler between her knees as she attempted to tie up her hair. Evidently she hadn’t benefited from Betty’s attentions, and once again I wondered why I’d been singled out for special treatment. Even in that slightly awkward position, though, Nel still looked gorgeous. But it was Shafeen who won the Who Wore it Best? prize. As a man (of course) he had the scarlet – sorry, pink – coat, and he looked amazing in it. And there was some other strange transformation. He looked born to wear it. He looked lofty, a little bit scary and super-handsome. I felt almost shy of him, but there was no time to be the simpering secondary female character. We had to crack on and collect our horses.

Passing under the stable arch I was jolted by the sight of the dog roses, shrivelled by winter, their blooms deflated and faded, like the one at my bedside in Cumberland Place. The stable-yard was as busy as the rest of the house. It was positively swarming with grooms, most of whom I’d never seen before, sporting smart tweed jackets and flat caps instead of their usual Barbours. We were standing, wondering what to do with ourselves, when someone blonde cannoned into me and hugged me hard, holding me back from the others. For a split second I thought it was Henry.

‘You came!’ It was Cass. Of course she suited the hell out of the hunting gear, and typically she’d chosen to flout convention by wearing, not the ladies’ black, but the gentlemen’s hunting pink. She absolutely rocked it.

I hugged her back as the others walked ahead. ‘Yes, your uncle invited us. He is very hospitable.’

‘He always is,’ she said grimly, and I remembered then that she knew what Henry had been through in that box room with Reynard, because her cousin had told her.

‘Good Christmas?’ I asked.

‘The best!’ Cass’s eyes were shining, her skin flushed – she’d never looked prettier, or rather, more handsome. She clutched my arm. ‘I saw him, Greer. On my birthday. And again on Christmas Day yesterday. It was the best present ever.’

She nodded to Nel and Shafeen, who had gone ahead to pet the horses. ‘Don’t tell them. They wouldn’t understand. They don’t love him as we do.’

As we do. The present tense. Cass saying that made it all real.

‘Does Louis know?’

‘Not yet. Henry wasn’t at the party, or Christmas lunch. He just came to me in my room at night.’ I wondered then if Henry was the only secret Cass had ever kept from Louis. ‘I thought he was a ghost at first – but he wasn’t, he wasn’t.’

I knew the feeling.

‘I think Louis’ll find out tonight,’ Cass went on, ‘at the Hunt Ball. I think everybody will. There’s going to be an announcement.’

Jesus. This was just what I’d feared (or hoped?), that there was going to be some sort of Peter’s Friends revelation, probably at the stroke of midnight or something significant. But I couldn’t think about that now. There was more pressing business. ‘Where’s Ty? Is she OK?’

Cass looked faintly surprised. ‘Ty? Why wouldn’t she be?’

That was a relief. ‘Where is she?’

She actually looked around. ‘She’s here somewhere. They’ve been inseparable, her and Louis.’ I wondered where that left Cass, but she didn’t seem to care. It was as if Louis didn’t matter now she had Henry back.

The others, realising that I wasn’t with them, had turned back and came over to greet Cass, and she hugged them enthusiastically, shooting me a conspiratorial wink over Nel’s shoulder. She was happier than I’d ever seen her. You know when people say someone is glowing? She looked like that – lit up like a light bulb. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s get you mounted. Can’t keep the fox waiting.’

She strode up to the grooms, tapping her thigh with the riding crop she held, as if impatient for the day’s sport. ‘Fowler,’ she called, and the head groom came running over. He was a friendly-looking fellow with that weather-beaten, apple-cheeked country look that comes from being outside a lot. He was a distinct improvement on the fiendish Perfect, whom we hadn’t yet seen.

‘Ah yes,’ said Fowler, consulting a crumpled list from his pocket. ‘Her ladyship has already sent word. Took you all out riding in London, didn’t she?’

We nodded mutely.

‘She said Charlie and Snap for these two more experienced riders –’ he indicated Shafeen and Nel – ‘and Sweetbriar for this young lady.’ He waved the list at me.

When the horses were led out of the stables by the undergrooms, their hooves clopping on the cobbles, I was relieved to see that although Shafeen’s and Nel’s horses seemed stupidly large and apt to dance about, mine was a smaller placid grey who regarded me with a kind eye. I patted her neck gingerly. ‘Be nice to me, please, Sweetbriar.’

‘Bless you, miss,’ said Fowler. ‘She’s such a good mare, that one, you could let off a gun in her ear and she still wouldn’t shift.’

Now that was good to hear.

‘And she’ll follow the Master because of Harkaway.’

‘What’s Harkaway?’

‘The Master’s horse. They’re stablemates, and the best of friends.’

It was a bit weird to me that horses had BFFs like humans. But I wasn’t going to question it. As Fowler helped me into the saddle and I gathered the reins, I saw Cass expertly vault onto her own grey. Someone handed her a black bowler and she put it on. ‘That’s everyone now, Fowler,’ she called down to the groom. And then, to us, ‘Follow me, chaps, I’ll take you round.’

As we moved off, Cass called over her shoulder, ‘Has someone explained hunting to you?’

‘Sort of,’ I replied, remembering Rollo’s diatribe at dinner.

‘It’s pretty straightforward. The riders follow the hounds once they’ve picked up the scent. The hunting horn tells you when to ride. You mustn’t crowd another rider or get in his “line” and the cardinal rule is that you must never, ever get ahead of the MFH – the Master of Foxhounds.’

‘Ooooh.’ I clicked. ‘So when Fowler said the Master, he meant the Master of Foxhounds, not the Master as in the earl.’

‘He meant both in this case,’ said Cass. ‘Dear Uncle Rollo is the Master of Foxhounds. Who else?’

She had a point.

That tiny ride with just me, Shafeen, Nel and Cass was the nicest part of the day. I look back on it now, that moment when all of us could have time-slipped back hundreds of years, riding sedately to the front of this amazing country house, as the highlight – before things all got very, very dark.

Because as soon as we rode around the corner to the splendid frontage of the house, I rode straight into my dream.

The Longcross hunt gathered in front of the great house, with the ladies in black and the gentlemen in hunting pink. As a servant came up to us in full white-tie and passed us each a little cup on a silver tray, I realised with a chill that every detail was just as I’d foretold. That last night in Room K9 in my dream in the hospital, I’d seen exactly this. I was watching myself, as if I were in a film. There I was, on my elegant grey horse, holding the reins in one gloved hand and a little silver cup in the other. Just as in my dream we were all chatting and smiling and there was this air of anticipation. The horses were shifting their hooves, the riders turning their heads with impatience. There were tons of white-and-tan hounds milling around in a rippling fluid wave, sniffing and yapping and weaving in between the horses’ legs. We were all waiting for something.

‘I still can’t see Ty,’ I said fretfully as Cass rode off to find her brother.

‘Don’t worry too much,’ Nel said. ‘Remember, she’s been investigating this for years. She’s probably way ahead of us. We’re coming in and doing the classic White Saviour thing and she’s probably got this whole thing figured out by now.’

‘I hope so,’ I said uneasily. ‘But certain things we figured out, in London. Why they wanted to steal her shoe, to imprint her scent. And the game book.’

‘Actually, what we should be worrying about,’ said Nel, ‘is whether the earl or countess picked up the game book from Cornellisen’s and that hipster guy mentioned that we’d already been in. Then they’ll know we are onto them.’

We couldn’t get into this shattering statement right then, because Louis rode over, looking genuinely pleased to see us. He certainly looked very lordly, even in that company, immaculately turned out in his hunting gear. As it was impossible to hug him we all shook hands, and even that was a feat since I was still holding my little silver cup. Fortunately, it had a handle, like a teacup, but I still spilled a bit while trying to hold it and the reins at the same time.

We exchanged the usual small talk about Christmas, then I was straight in there.

‘Where’s Ty?’ I asked.

He looked around, just as his twin had. ‘Isn’t she here? She’s around somewhere. She came down with me. Don’t worry, we can’t exactly start without her.’ Although this was a slightly ominous statement, for the moment I was steeped with relief. I just wanted to see her with my own eyes. ‘There are some other familiar faces though,’ Louis went on, waving his cup towards the grounds.

I followed the gesture with my eyes, looking, despite myself, for Henry. Of course, everyone looked pretty similar, either in black or red like the dark chess pieces, but as I looked under the riding caps I did indeed recognise some faces. Some from the STAGS Club, some from the House of Lords, some, even, from the telly. We were really playing in the big league now. At that moment I really thought it would be all right. It was inconceivable that they would all – these fancy Establishment types – be complicit in a death hunt. They had too much to lose. I was sure, now, that whatever had happened at the Red Mass, this particular day was all about foxhunting. All about the de Warlencourts. Maybe, maybe, some of them were involved in the darker stuff, but not on this scale, not today. And there, at the centre of this, the smartest crowd in England, I saw who Louis must’ve been talking about. Rollo and Caro, their horses standing placidly side by side, were talking to a small knot of people who were also on horseback.

I turned back. ‘Oh yes, your aunt and uncle. We’ve just been staying with them in Cumberland Place.’

‘I know,’ he said enigmatically, ‘but not them. Look further.’

Then I looked at the faces of the people they were talking to.

And I nearly fell off my horse.

Piers Holland.

Henry Cookson.

Charlotte Lachlan-Young.

Esme Dawson.

Lara Petrova.

All the Medievals. All the entitled, elite little group of prefects who had plagued our lives at STAGS, then threatened our lives at Longcross.

They all looked exactly the same as ever. Piers was tossing back the stirrup cups, one after another, so rapidly that the servant by his saddle didn’t even bother to move away but just stayed there with his silver tray. Esme was tucking her golden hair under her hat. Cookson was looking around as if wishing this were all his, while Lara was looking bored. And Charlotte was chatting away and gesturing with her free hand. As if bidden by my stare, Charlotte looked over and started waving like a windmill. ‘Greer!’ she called in her piercing upper-class voice. ‘How delightful to see you!’

Then, as one, they all turned and looked at me. And that’s when I knew.

That all we’d feared was about to come true.

That Ty was in mortal danger – she was the prey, and we had to find her, now.

I turned to Louis and grabbed his scarlet sleeve.

‘Seriously. Where. Is. Ty?’

‘Keep your voice down,’ he hissed.

‘I won’t.’ I was talking loudly now and didn’t care who heard. ‘I swear to God, Louis, you show me Ty right now or I’ll make such a scene …’

Shafeen and Nel brought their horses to flank me. They’d seen the Medievals too. ‘Better tell her, old boy,’ said Shafeen with a threat in his voice. People were starting to look, and Louis actually dropped his reins to hold out his hands to placate us, blue eyes wide. ‘You’ll see her in a minute. I promise.’

We all looked at each other. He seemed genuine.

‘You have my word as a gentleman.’

This, we knew, was Louis’s equivalent of swearing on his own life. But before we could reply, Rollo tapped two of the silver cups together to gather everyone’s attention. He cleared his throat and it sounded like the bark of a dog. ‘Before the fun starts, I’m obliged to remind you of the Hunting Act of 2004, part one, section one: A person commits an offence if he hunts a wild mammal with a dog.’ He smiled a wolfish smile. ‘And for those of you who are a little hard of hearing, I repeat: it is absolutely forbidden to hunt a wild mammal.’ He gave the word special emphasis and winked and there was laughter. I got it; we all did. We weren’t allowed to hunt a wild mammal. But that was OK, because we wouldn’t be hunting a wild mammal. We’d be hunting a girl instead.

Hearing them all chortling about a potential murder did it for me. I’d had enough of this bullshit. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ I murmured to Nel and Shafeen. ‘Nel’s phone’s in her room – let’s call the police.’ They barely had time to nod when, as promised, we saw Ty.

By the time I realised it was her she was already well away, running across the grounds and into the open fields. She wasn’t dressed like us but in a scarlet onesie, as red as the fox of my dream. I realised with a jolt that she was dressed in exactly the same way as the red figure in Westminster Abbey who had led me to Ben Jonson’s grave, and in exactly the same way as the crowd of Fawkeses at Speaker’s Corner.

My first thought was vast relief that she was alive and well, in one piece. But how long would that last if she was, as it seemed, the fox? I made an instinctive movement forward, but this time Louis yanked my sleeve. ‘No. It’s not what you think. Did no one explain to you about trail hunts?’

I stopped.

‘It’s still just legal to hunt with hounds in this country – thanks to my uncle – but you mustn’t hunt a fox. So we use a trail. Someone goes ahead and through the woods to lay a track of scent.’

I tried to pull my sleeve away, but he held on, and his hard blue eyes stared at me imploringly. ‘Greer. Ty asked to do it. I said we couldn’t start without her, and it was true. She’s the most important person here. She wanted to be part of the hunt, but as you’d imagine, she doesn’t ride.’

As you’d imagine. That short sentence contained within it centuries of unquestioning privilege. As you’d imagine. Of course, in Louis’s mind, Ty Morgan from a council estate on the Isle of Dogs would neither have had the means nor the opportunity to learn to ride. He let go of my sleeve and I looked at the others, who’d been listening, uncertain. The story could just about be true. But Ty didn’t seem to be carrying or dragging anything. My understanding of trail hunting was that the hunt servants laid a trail of fox urine or dragged an aniseed bag through the undergrowth. Then I twigged. Ty wasn’t carrying any scent because she was the scent. Henry Baskerville’s missing shoe, Ty’s missing trainer. All they’d needed was to show that to the hounds. I turned to Shafeen but suddenly Rollo was beside him, having moved to the front of the pack, golden horn at the ready.

He put a friendly hand on Shafeen’s shoulder. ‘The game’s afoot, old chap. Hope you enjoy it.’ The hand slapped the shoulder in approval. ‘Ah – look at you! You’re the image of your father! You feel the hunt in your blood, just like Hardy did.’

It was true that Shafeen’s dark eyes were fixed on that figure running across the fields. But Rollo had misread his expression. It wasn’t the hungry look of a predator. I knew Shafeen well enough to read what he was thinking. Whether or not Ty was a willing participant, the optics were really bad. One black girl on foot, running away from a lot of white folks on horseback. That intense look in his eyes was disgust. Shafeen shrugged the hand away and spoke right into Rollo’s face. ‘I will never, ever be a part of this.’

Rollo recoiled as if he had been hit. He dropped the hand, making no answer, and as he spurred his horse to move to the front of the pack I won’t swear there weren’t tears in his eyes. But I had no time to cry for Rollo. The three of us hung back and steered our horses into a little huddle.

‘Now what do we do?’ asked Nel.

‘We go and get her,’ said Shafeen shortly. ‘They can find someone else to be their prey.’

I looked at the determined figure running easily towards the horizon. I know it sounds weird, but Ty didn’t look scared. She wasn’t glancing back fearfully over her shoulder, only forward. She looked as if she had a purpose. I had a sudden misgiving. I remembered what she had said. I’m coming for them, Greer. I’m gonna let slip the dogs of war. ‘What if this is part of a plan, and we ride in and ruin it? Isn’t this that White Saviour thing we talked about?’

‘I’m not white,’ said Shafeen. And he dug his heels into his horse’s belly and shot away over the fields.

A second later, playing catch-up, the horn sounded, sweet in the blood. The silent hounds started up a frantic baying and streaked after Ty and Shafeen. I felt a thrill of terror as the placid Sweetbriar carried me along with the rest.

We were off.

It was one of the most exciting and terrifying moments of my life. Even though I technically knew how to ride, there was nothing I could have done to stop Sweetbriar at that moment. I was right in the middle of this Charge of the Light Brigade and there was a cacophony of sound – the winter wind rushing past my ears, the jingle of the bits, the thunder of the hooves and the music of the horn shivering my ribs. Above it all, though, I could still hear the members of the hunt braying at each other, their faces puce with shock at what Shafeen had done.

‘Dashed bad form, getting ahead of the Master like that!’

‘Ought to be horsewhipped, arrogant young puppy.’

‘Coloured feller – what d’ye expect?’

I spurred Sweetbriar on, hoping to leave the hate behind.