Just an hour before Craigie lifted the telephone to call him, Jim Burke had climbed from his Talbot outside a small, delightful Elizabethan cottage in Surrey, and walked smilingly towards the gate.
When he was smiling, Burke looked handsome. When he wasn’t, his face held a wooden expression that made many think him dull and detracted from his rather good features. He was a big man, six-feet-two and broad-shouldered to match, and he walked with the easy stride of a man in the pink of condition.
Standing twenty yards from the cottage, he looked up at the latticed windows. They were wide open, but the flowered curtains were drawn, by which Burke judged the inmates were still in bed. He glanced at his watch: seven-thirty. With a grin, he stooped down and collected a handful of small pebbles.
He tossed the first stone up to the window, and it tinkled against the glass. Nothing else happened. Untroubled, Burke waited a minute, enjoying the lovely autumn morning.
The early mist had almost gone, leaving only a faint haze in the hollow beyond the cottage. A yellow sun was sending its warm rays across the grass of the lawn, waking the flowers from their night’s sleep. A bed of Californian poppies beneath the front room window was the first to open wide and welcome its warmth, but the marigolds were awake, soon, in all their golden glory. In the single ash standing sentinel on the dew-bathed lawn, a blackbird perked its head on one side as if examining the intruder; the sun very bright on its yellow beak.
In the distant woods autumn was beginning to paint the leaves in a thousand tints. The mist was thicker there; a deep, bluish haze. Somewhere in the hills, a village nestled: the white stone of its church tower shone in the sun.
Burke turned away from contemplation, and tossed another pebble up. It tinkled, but still nothing happened. He tried a third, without results.
“All right, young lady,” he murmured. Moving a foot to the right, he took more careful aim and tossed a pebble into the room. He heard it hit the floor, and bounce.
There was a response, this time. He heard a vague rustling, followed by a slight thud and a muttered ‘damn’.
Smiling, he waited. The curtains were pulled aside at last. A dark, prettily disordered head appeared, and a pair of sleepy blue eyes in a face Burke thought perfect blinked down at him.
“I hope I didn’t disturb you,” he laughed.
“Jim! You idiot!” The girl’s sleepiness vanished and she laughed back. “You unholy brute! Barging down here and—”
“Shhh!” Burke teased. “Language like that on a morning fit for the gods. And am I hungry!”
“There’s a café along the road,” said Patricia Carris, sweetly. Then laughed again. “Oh, don’t worry—I’ll be down in a second.”
“Not soon enough,” said Burke.
“It’ll have to be,” Patricia withdrew her head, then popped it out again. “Jim—there’s nothing the matter?”
There was anxiety in her voice. She had seen Burke go, many times: she was always afraid, when he left her, that he would never come back. But the warmth of his voice reassured her.
“No, nothing—yet. Hurry, darling.”
Moments later, the door of the cottage opened and Patricia stood on the threshold. She was wrapped in a dressing-gown of softly-glowing silk and her feet were thrust into ridiculously pretty mules.
“Come in, idiot,” she invited. “You know the kitchen—you can start getting breakfast.”
“Anything to oblige,” said Burke. “Where’s Martha?”
“Still asleep,” said Patricia, pointedly, and Burke grinned. “What made you come?”
“You,” he told her simply, and meant it. “I thought you’d like a canter. I’m free, this morning.”
“Divine,” said Patricia. “Just give me ten minutes. And you’d better boil eggs—they’ll be safer than bacon!”
As she ran up the oak stairs and disappeared from view, he strolled into the kitchen and set some eggs to boil. Then as he began to cut bread and butter, his thoughts turned to Patricia.
How long ago was it, since he had first met her? Six—nearly seven months? It must be—yet he seemed to have known her all his life. He frowned suddenly, remembering the affair that his meeting with her had started* God, but it was good to see her like this—cheerful, smiling, without those haunting shadows in her eyes.
Had he been wise to let her come here, by herself—or with Martha Dale, which was very nearly the same? He told himself he had. He had wanted to marry her after the affair had been cleared up and the danger averted. But if he had asked her she might have said ‘yes’, mistaking, in her generosity gratitude for love. Burke hadn’t chanced it.
There were other reasons, of course.
The ‘game’ was in his blood. He had been working for Craigie for less than a year, it was true. But he had played a lone hand many times before, and his was a roamer’s nature; or so he had believed, six months before.
He had spent most of the intervening time in working for Craigie; and he had travelled most of Europe to do it. Each time he had returned safely Patricia’s relief had shown a little more clearly in her eyes.
“I’ll see this year out,” he murmured to himself, now, “and then we’ll settle down.”
“Must you see the year out?” asked Patricia, very softly.
Burke turned. He did not jump, for he had schooled himself never to show surprise. There was a little smile on his lips, and a larger one in his eyes as he surveyed her.
She stood in the doorway; dressed, now, for riding.
“I think so,” he said. “I’ll tell Craigie, soon, though, that I’m leaving.” He smiled, gently. “A January wedding. Will that suit you, Pat?”
She nodded.
“And we’ll start here?” she asked.
“Nowhere else,” said Jim. “I—damn!”
He was just in time to rescue the egg-pan, which had almost fallen off the stove. The moment was gone; and they did not try to retrieve it.
At half-past eight they were walking across the fields towards Dick’s stables. The proprietor of the riding-school there had another name on his letter-heading, but it had never been seen anywhere else by Burke or Patricia. He was a grizzled old man, with a perpetual grouch against the ‘gawks’ who thought they could ride, and sincere admiration for anyone who really could.
The couple reached the yard, to find Meg—Patricia’s mare—and Bruno, the great chestnut hunter Burke always rode when he came to Surrey, saddled and ready.
Dick came out of the stables as Burke called his name.
“Morning, both of ye,” he greeted. “I see ye comin’ down the hill. Thought ye’d like the usual.”
“Good man.” Burke grinned. “I suppose you still won’t sell Bruno?”
“Mister Burke,” said Dick, scowling, “I’ve told ye a thousand times that Bruno’s being saved for a friend o‘ mine. Promised, he is, or ye could have him wi‘ pleasure.” He dismissed the subject with a cheerful: “Nice mornin‘, Miss Pat! Can I give ye a hand?”
“I’m up,” said Pat, and suiting the action to the word, swung herself into the saddle and sat laughing down at them. Beside her, Burke mounted Bruno easily, and they moved off together.
They walked for a few minutes, and trotted for a few more, then opened out. As the air whistled past them, Patricia’s hair streamed behind her and the thunder of the hooves echoed across the hillside.
Burke pulled up at last.
“Mustn’t overdo it,” he said.
“Pooh! You’re getting fat. Come on—”
“Fat, am I?” grinned Burke. “I’ll give you half-way to the woods, and still beat you. Come on!”
Her voice floated back as Meg raced over the smooth turf. “You’re licked already—you couldn’t give me ten yards!”
Burke kept the restless Bruno still as she galloped on. The woods were a good half-mile distant and as she reached the half-way stage, he started after her. Bruno entered into the fun of the chase.
“Up,” Burke urged him. “Up, old boy.” For a big man, he sat his horse well, and Bruno was built to carry his weight. The distance between the two horses lessened. Burke was leaning well forward, smiling, confident, happy....
Bruno stumbled.
Burke felt the horse shiver beneath him, and knew a fraction of a second before the spill that it was coming. He loosened his hold on the reins and let himself go. Head-first, he went over the horse’s head, somersaulted, and landed on his feet—then went sprawling. The fall winded him and he lay there for a moment before he could screw his head back towards Bruno.
The horse was struggling to get up. Burke forgot his own bruises as he hurried to him and helped him up, looking as he did so for the rabbit hole that had caused the trip.
He didn’t see one, but he saw the cut across Bruno’s leg.
“Hurt, old boy?” he murmured, stroking his nose. “Keep still—I’ll put it right.”
Bruno stood quivering as he held the right foreleg and examined the cut. Then concern for the horse disappeared from his expression. His eyes narrowed and he whistled, very softly.
He heard the pounding of Meg’s hooves getting nearer.
Meg, and an anxious Patricia, came up quickly. The girl dismounted and approached the man, wide-eyed with concern.
“Are you all right, Jim? I saw the tumble.”
“Right as rain.” Burke smiled ruefully. “Bruno came off worse, by a long way. He found a hole, and then cut himself on that stone.”
“It’s not serious?”
Burke patted the horse’s nose.
“No—nothing much. But we’ll walk them back.”
When they reached the stables, they could hear Dick somewhere inside, directing friendly curses at the horse he was grooming.
“I’ll fetch him,” Burke said, and strode off, quickly.
Inside the stable, Dick was sitting on an upturned pail and asking a bay mare whether she thought she was the ruddy Queen of Sheba, or what? He looked up as Burke entered.
“Ever since Mister Bloomin’ Rogers started to ride Bess,” he grumbled, smacking the mare’s haunch resoundingly, “I can’t do a thing with her. The feller can’t ride, an’ he’s spoiled half the blinking horses in the yard. Pah!” Dick spat his disgust, and then grinned. “Ay, but he pays for it, the old money-bags—and he’ll keep on payin‘ more, till he stops coming. That’ll be the way to finish him.”
Burke smiled. The Rogers in question, who lived nearby, was a stout man and reputedly a millionaire. He was apparently determined to achieve a country squire image, and was doggedly set on learning to ride. It was not the first time Burke had heard Dick calling down curses on the man and it would not be last.
“Did I ever tell ye,” he began again, “how that feller—”
“Hold up, Dick,” Burke cut in, quietly. “And get ready for a shock. Bruno—”
Dick jumped from his pail like a rocket.
“You ain’t hurt that horse—!”
“Shhh!” said Burke, “you’ll frighten Bess. He’s had a tumble, but not a bad one. I—”
“Bruno had a fall?” Dick glared his disbelief. “The surest thing on four legs I ever knew! You musta’ been playing him tricks—begging your pardon, but—”
“Dick,” said Burke soberly, “when you come out, you’ll say she caught her foot in a hole, and cut her leg on a stone. Not a word more. Got it?”
The old man stared, then nodded grimly.
“Surely,” he said, and raised his voice: “Let’s have a look at the damage, then. Promised, that horse is....”
“Getting careless, putting his foot in holes,” he was saying a few minutes later. “Meg’s got more sense than that, ain’t she, Miss Pat?”
“There are riders and riders,” said Patricia.
“Haw!” Dick chuckled.
“Got you there, Mr. Burke.”
“How long will he be out of harness?” Burke asked, patting Bruno’s neck.
Dick shrugged.
“Couple o’ days, maybe. Maybe a week. It’s nothin’ serious, thanks to you not riding him back.”
“Good,” said Burke. “Well, Pat—?”
He turned to Patricia, who was looking out of the stables, and smiled as he followed her glance and recognized the primly-dressed woman stumping along the lane: Martha Dale, Patricia’s companion at the cottage.
“I’ll just see what she wants,” Pat said, smiling at Dick as she moved off.
“A good thing” he grunted, “that she’s keeping that creatur’ away—beg your pardon, Mr Burke, but I can’t abide the woman.”
Burke smiled. Between Martha Dale and the riding-school owner there was a dislike too deep for words. Martha had not entered the riding school for years, to Burke’s knowledge.
But Dick quickly grew serious again.
“That was a funny thing, wi‘ Bruno, Mr Burke?”
“How, funny?”
Dick fondled the horse’s muzzle, thoughtfully. His honest old eyes met Burke’s.
“I’m reckonin’ two things,” he said. “One you know as much as I guess, Mr. Burke. Two, I ain’t seen marks like that on a horse’s leg since my war days.” Diffidently, half afraid he’s said too much, he added. “Maybe I’m wrong, sir. Me memory ain’t what it might be. But by the look of it, it were——”
He hesitated.
“What?” asked Burke.
Dick went red, and blurted it out:
“Well, save us—it looks like a bullet score. I don’t mean to cause trouble, Mr. Burke—but facts are facts.”
“And stubborn things,” said Burke, quietly. “You’re right, Dick: it’s a bullet crease. The problem is, how did it get there?”