Addie was useless, not even crying out. Evidently, she still could be surprised by evil.
And surprised further still. Mr. Hunter brushed himself off and was saddling up Timothy Hay.
“You ride?”
“My father was in the Military Mounted Police. What do you think? Go to the house and call Cirencester. And say nothing to anyone inside.” He tightened the girth. “Do you have any idea where she’d go?”
“Not really.” She pulled a handkerchief down out of her sleeve and tried to clean off the detective’s face.
“I’ll do that.” He snatched the linen out of her fingers and pressed it to his temple.
“I know she rides in the local hunt. It goes over Fernald land. To the west. She might go that way—we did Saturday when we all rode out together. You can gallop for miles.” Addie paused. “Won’t she—won’t she come back?”
“Who knows what that woman will do? I’m not going to wait around to welcome her home.”
Addie took Mr. Hunter’s hands in hers and looked up into his startled brown eyes. “Whatever you do, don’t sneeze. Timothy Hay—that’s his name—doesn’t like it.” She ran off before he could question her, heart thudding. Entering the house through an open Dutch door, she found herself in an unfamiliar hallway.
There was a telephone upstairs in a bedroom wing, where Rupert eavesdropped on Lucas’s call to his solicitor. She’d have more privacy there, with less to explain to Trim. Praying she wouldn’t encounter anyone, she climbed the first set of stairs she came to and miraculously came across a phone sitting on a cherrywood credenza. A handy chair was nearby, and Addie sank into it to catch her breath.
It took the Cirencester desk sergeant much too long to unscramble her message, and she had to repeat herself four times before he took her seriously. He promised to send people as soon as he could and advised Addie to let the police do their work this time.
Addie had no intention of interfering; she wanted to get out of the hellhole Fernald Hall had become as quickly as possible. But she worried about Mr. Hunter. Silly, she was sure—he knew what he was about. Like Evelyn, he had not needed a groom to help him with anything. Timothy Hay seemed cooperative, too, sensing Mr. Hunter’s heretofore unknown skill.
She left the house the same way she entered and dashed off to the Rolls. Starting it up, she sped down the pine-shaded avenue. Addie had watched the local hunt from various vantage points since she was a little girl growing up at Broughton Park and knew the turnout where she’d have the best view of the countryside. Most of her old neighbors regularly came out to see the spectacle of dozens of horses flying through the fields, to hear the horns and bays of the dogs, but she wouldn’t have to jostle amongst them today.
Addie never much liked the idea of the fox being torn to shreds. In fact, it horrified her, and she had many an argument with her father about it. He once told her if she was a boy, she’d understand, which had cut her to her core. Cruel was cruel, and it shouldn’t matter if you were male or female. She got nowhere with him, and now she never would. His death still hurt, even if he was stubborn and set in his ways.
And it was true, she acknowledged, that she owned a beautiful silver fox jacket, and several stoles. Other animal pelt coats besides. She was being inconsistent. But at least she didn’t have to witness the death of the terrified, helpless creatures when she shopped at Bradleys in Chepstow Place. They were the biggest fur specialists in Europe—even members of the Royal Family patronized the store.
This was the sort of philosophical conundrum she might discuss with Mr. Hunter.
If she ever spoke to him again.
On this hunt, there were no dogs, just a determined detective. She hoped the beautiful Irish horse would behave, and not balk at hedges or stumble into a badger’s sett.
Addie turned down a narrow bumpy road which crested ahead. Pulling off to the side, she got out of the car and shielded her face from the sun. Some of the patchwork squares below showed signs of cultivation, but there was a broad green swath closer, perfect for riders. The local master of the hunt who had replaced her father made sure the track was adequately groomed and mowed. She’d been out this way herself last weekend before she was thrown from the damned horse.
A modest stone farmhouse with several buildings hugged the sandy lane running along the greensward, and Addie spotted a woman hanging laundry in the side yard. A man was pushing a plough behind a huge piebald horse in the distance. She wished she had binoculars but squinting through her spectacles would have to do.
Clouds’ shadows scudded across the landscape in the breeze. It was a perfectly bucolic June day, belying the darkness she’d just witnessed.
What if Evelyn didn’t come this way? Then Inspector Hunter would be on a wild goose chase. But surely he could track her in some fashion. Watch for hoofprints and dust clouds. It had been so very dry that she must have left her mark.
Addie leaned up against the Rolls, trying to calm down. Worry about the future never accomplished anything but ruin one’s present. It was all up to the Fellow Upstairs, as Rupert would say.
How did one recover from the ugly truth? Poor John. Would Hugh tell him what his mother and grandmother had done? She hoped not. But how could such secrets be concealed? Addie supposed if anyone could pretend that all was well, it was the inhabitants of Fernald Hall. They had years of experience prevaricating.
How had Pamela been able to withstand the tension and guilt and threats of her mother-in-law? Every day must have been like navigating a minefield.
In comparison, the only thing Addie ever concealed in her life was Rupert in death—and his numerous peccadilloes when he was alive. She chose not to air her dirty laundry then, hiding her broken heart. Well, she was pretty much healed now, and strangely enough, Rupert was responsible for that. He’d been properly contrite over the past ten months, admitting his responsibility, and making every effort to keep her alive.
And, once, out of jail. The thought of the Dowager Marchioness of Broughton bailing her out of the pokey, and holding that over her head, paled against Pamela’s situation, however.
Addie listened, hoping to hear the thunder of hooves in the valley. Contrary to popular opinion, the country was a noisy place, with birds, bugs, and farm machinery making their own music. Maybe it was too much to expect to hear a couple of horses—it wasn’t as if the hunt was about to come roaring by. Her gaze swept back and forth, and she began to think she had sent Mr. Hunter the wrong way.
Then Evelyn emerged from a gap in the copse, bent low over her mount. She was going at a frightful speed, but suddenly reined in the horse. Turning to look behind her, she reached into her velvet hacking jacket, then held her arm out straight. Metal glinted in the sun.
Oh, God. She had a weapon and was going to use it as soon as Mr. Hunter rode out of the trees. Addie screamed, and screamed again, but not nearly loud enough to catch anyone’s attention.
She had to get down the bank as quickly as possible, run Evelyn over if she had to. But before she had the chance to climb back into the car, Mr. Hunter raced into the sunshine.
There was a flash and a popping sound. He fell off the Irish horse almost as though he were a trick rider in a circus, rolling and tumbling in one smooth motion. Evelyn fired again, then kicked Jupiter and they tore off.
Addie swallowed back another scream, her body shaking. She started up the car, backed it into the road, and pointed the bonnet toward the edge of the embankment. Before she released the brake, to her great relief she saw Mr. Hunter stand up. If he was wounded, she saw no sign of it—in fact, he was now loping off after the horse, which had sensibly looked for safety in the stand of trees.
Odd, Timothy Hay could withstand gunshots, but not sneezes.
Mr. Hunter couldn’t mean to continue to ride after Evelyn. She tried to kill him! Who went riding with a pistol in one’s jacket unless one intended someone harm? This wasn’t the Wild West of Beckett’s cowboy cinema stars. Gloucestershire was the consummate country idyll.
But perhaps…perhaps Evelyn meant to harm herself. Everything she did for Hugh was about to blow up in her face.
She was still in view, at one with the black horse. Addie would go after her if she didn’t wreck the car first. She hoped her reflexes were as good as the detective’s, for likely Evelyn would shoot at her too.
Addie was determining the most direct route through the stones and scrub when Evelyn reined Jupiter in again. She looked behind her. Mr. Hunter was still coaxing the horse out of the trees, too far away to shoot, thank God.
But then, she reached into her jacket again.
Not a gun this time. Evelyn held something to her lips, tipped her head back and drank, then tumbled off the horse to the ground.
Addie barreled down the hill in a storm of dirt and flying rocks, sliding as the gears locked when she tried to shift. What she needed was one of those new tanks they used in the war, but speed was not a factor now.
Below, Jupiter was rearing and whinnying in fear. Rupert stood over his mistress, then looked straight in Addie’s direction and shrugged. She could not see his features, but she knew.
Evelyn Fernald was dead.