Hobo sidled impatiently as Nina's groom tightened his girth and then Linc was riding away at a swinging walk to put him through his paces. All around them competitors and their helpers were hurrying about their business; horses of all shapes and sizes were being warmed up, walked round or were waiting their turn to compete. Few independent spectators were in attendance, most being the friends, family and grooms of the competitors, and these were catered for by the provision of straw bales to sit on and numerous vans selling anything from jacket potatoes and hot dogs to crêpes Suzette and frozen yoghurt. The showjumping ring was bounded by metal posts and nylon tape, and the air resounded with commentary, via the PA system, which was repeated in a series of overlapping echoes across the acres of the cross-country course, in a way that was somehow peculiar to such events.
In spite of the last-minute nature of things, or maybe because of it, the dressage test went surprisingly well. It was the phase of the competition which Linc was least confident about and this usually set off a vicious circle of nerves and tension which in turn disturbed the horse's own composure. On this occasion he'd hardly had time for nerves to take a hold, and what Hobo's performance may have lacked in accuracy, it more than made up for in flair and impulsion.
'Well done!' Nina exclaimed as he rode out of the arena and dismounted. 'That's as good a test as he's ever done.'
'Thanks. It's all down to him, though. I can never get Noddy to take that much interest. He usually slops round looking half-asleep and swishing his tail every time I ask him to do anything. My score sheet always reads "Lack of impulsion. Tail swishing" all the way down.'
Things were apparently running late in the showjumping ring and with time on his hands Linc went in search of Sandy Wilkes, the saddler.
Sandy's lorry was parked, as Nina had said, next to the Land- Rover stand. It was a horsebox which had been fitted out with racks, shelves and drawers to hold saddles, bridles and every kind of equine accessory that one could imagine, and then some. It was his proud boast that he had the largest collection of bits of anyone in England. Snaffles, pelhams, bridoons and kimblewicks; in fact anything that had ever been devised to go in a horse's mouth, he had in stock. He had a workshop and extra storage in a business unit near his home in Shaftesbury but most of his business was conducted out of the back of the lorry, in which he could visit his customers on their own premises.
Linc hadn't seen much of Sandy over the last few years but had known him quite well way back, when as a teenager he'd spent happy hours in other people's stableyards. Seven or eight years older than Linc, Sandy had just been starting out in business at that time and had made frequent calls to all the horsy premises that he could find, in order to drum up business. These days the riding fraternity called him and he was a popular figure at shows and events, a fact borne out by the numbers crowding under the awning at the side of his lorry.
As Linc progressed through the queue of prospective customers waiting for a word with the saddler, he was impressed anew by Sandy's unrivalled service and generosity. One harassed competitor, obviously finding himself short of the necessary, was told to drop a cheque in the post, and to another he said, 'Well, look. You take the vulcanite pelham and try it for a week or two, then if he isn't happy, bring it back and we'll try something else. We'll worry about the money later when we've got you settled. How about that?'
His pretty, female customer apparently thought it very acceptable, including a kiss in her expressions of gratitude. At five foot nine Sandy was a couple of inches shorter than Linc but thick, wavy fair hair and boyish smile ensured he was never short of female company.
'You're a pushover, you are!' Linc declared as he reached the front of the queue.
'Linc! Nice to see you, mate!' Sandy's attractive, lightly freckled face lit up as he punched Linc lightly on the arm. 'Where've you been hiding yourself lately?'
'Oh, I've been working away. But seriously, how many times do people take up your kind offers and disappear without trace?'
Sandy lowered his voice. 'Very rarely, actually. You see, I know where most of them live and I know who their friends are. A word dropped here and there can be very damaging to someone's credit rating. Yeah, sure, I've lost the odd snaffle or stirrup leather but my open-handed reputation is my biggest draw.'
Linc laughed. 'You're a fraud! I should have known it. Underneath that warm, friendly public face you're just a cold, calculating businessman.'
'Shhh, think of my sales!' Sandy warned in mock alarm. 'Well, what can I do for you anyway?'
Soberly, Linc told him what had happened to Abby. 'So they're left with no tack at all until the insurance comes through, and of course, whatever else happens, the horses still have to be exercised,' he finished.
'So they'd like me to pop over and drop off a couple of saddles and bridles in the meantime?'
'That'd be brilliant, if you could.'
'Sure. It won't be till Monday, though. I'll still be here tomorrow, it's the Open Intermediate.'
'Monday's fine,' Linc assured him.
'That's rough about Abby. Poor kid. Will she be okay?'
Linc pursed his lips. 'Too soon to say.'
'And do they have any idea who did it? The police, I mean.'
'If they do, they're not telling. I was first on the scene and I didn't see anything. But maybe forensics will turn something up.'
'Let's hope so.'
Several other customers were hovering hopefully and Sandy made an apologetic face at Linc. 'Look, I'll have to get on, sorry. I'll ring about Monday.'
'Thanks. Oh, and Noddy goes in a five-and-a-half-inch, half-cheeked snaffle, if you've got one.'
'Right you are. See you later, then.' With a smile, Sandy turned to his next customer.
It was with a degree of relief that Linc made it out into the fresh air again. He was heading for Nina Barclay's horsebox when a voice spoke hesitantly behind him.
'Excuse me . . .'
He turned to see a middle-aged strawberry blonde in jodhpurs and a Puffa jacket.
'Yes?'
'I'm sorry. I don't know whether you're interested but the thing is, I couldn't help overhearing about your tack being stolen, and the same thing happened to us just a week ago. My name's Tricia Johnston, by the way.'
'Linc Tremayne.'
'Yes, I know. I saw you at Radstock. Abby was grooming for you, wasn't she? Poor girl, I hope she'll be all right.'
'Me too. Er, look, I'm due to ride in a minute . . .' He'd told Nina he'd be back in twenty minutes and he was cutting it fine.
'Sorry. Actually, there's not much more to tell because no one saw anything. They just forced the padlock on the tackroom door and cleared us out. All the new stuff anyway. We reckon it was between half-ten when my daughter gives the horses their last lot of hay and half-twelve when my husband and I got back from a party.'
'You were out then?' Linc asked with interest.
'Yes, a fund-raising do for the local hunt. It was a dreary affair as well. I wish we'd never gone.'
'Do you think you'd have noticed if you had been at home? Can you see the stables from the house?'
Tricia shook her head. 'No, not easily. But you always wonder, don't you?'
Linc nodded. 'Still, if it was the same person or people, perhaps it was a good thing nobody did see. Look what happened to Abby.'
Tricia was much struck by this but had no more information to offer so Linc excused himself to go in search of Nina and Hobo and, twenty minutes later, after warming up once more, jumped a competent round to add just four more penalty points to his dressage score.
In due course, having replaced his black jacket with a body protector and a sky-blue polo-necked jumper provided by Nina, Linc was waiting at the start of the cross-country section. Sky-blue was the colour she usually rode in and although event riders don't have registered colours such as jockeys wear, many make a point of always wearing the same colour or combination of colours on all their horses.
Hobo had unde
rgone a transformation too. Gone were the neat plaits of the dressage arena; his mane now hung free in a wavy black mass on his neck. A jumping saddle was fitted, and rubber grip reins, and his hard, black legs were protected by bandages, overreach boots and quantities of thick white grease to help him slide over any rails he might hit. He was ready to go.
Linc rode into the roped-off starting box, leather-gloved hands surreptitiously sliding up the reins one at a time in preparation for the horse's leap forward. As the official began the countdown Linc started the stopwatch on his right wrist.
'Three . . . two . . . one . . . good luck!' the steward called, and in a flash was left behind and forgotten as Hobo forged out of the box and into a gallop in three powerful strides.
Linc eased into a balanced position, weight out of the saddle and off the horse's back, hands amongst the flying mane, moving in time with the nodding head, maintaining a steady contact. As always, the nervous tension of waiting was blown away in the wind and he gave himself up to the thrill and enjoyment of five or six minutes of galloping and jumping.
Due to his late arrival that morning, he hadn't had time to walk the course before the competition started, doing it after his showjumping round instead. This meant that the first riders were already out on the course and he had to choose his moments to pace out the combination fences. On the other hand, he did have a chance to see how well the course was riding and it had seemed as though bold, forward-going animals were finding little problem with it.
So it proved.
Nina had warned him that Hobo could sometimes balk at drop fences; those where the ground was substantially lower on the landing side than the take off. Sometimes, as was the case on this occasion with fence twelve, these had no upright obstacle, merely a platform faced with railway sleepers followed by a drop of several feet on to a downward slope. For a horse, with its limited forward vision, this manoeuvre requires a good deal of faith in its rider. The ideal situation is to slow up sufficiently for the horse to lower its head and land reasonably close to the sleeper wall, but not to slow up so much as to allow it time for second thoughts.
The worst scenario is for the horse to approach too boldly or even fighting for its head, and to launch itself out into space without a thought for the landing. This had only once happened to Linc, with the almost inevitable result. Both he and his equine partner, another borrowed ride, had collapsed in a heap on landing and rolled a good few yards further down the hill. He'd walked away that time with nothing worse than a sprained wrist and some bruising, but it could easily have been a broken neck, and he'd learned caution.
Hobo was bold but sensible, an event rider's dream. As they landed neatly on the slope and galloped on, Linc wondered fleetingly if it was Nina who didn't like drop fences rather than the horse, then pushed the thought away and concentrated on the challenges ahead.
The course was biggish but fair. Cross-country and horse trials fences are nowhere near as high as those facing a showjumping rider of a similar standard; the difference being that cross-country obstacles are not built to be knocked down by careless hooves. Stone walls, tree trunks and wired-on rails of easily twelve inches in diameter have to be jumped uphill, downhill and into water. Hedges, banks, chicken coops and picnic tables, singly or in combination, have to be negotiated in the open or amongst trees. The variation is immense, limited only by the imagination of each course designer. The only constant is the inescapable fact that mistakes are potentially dangerous. It is not a sport for the fainthearted.
Linc had a super round. Hobo lacked experience but made up for it with a willingness to be guided, and although he took a strong hold, Linc was able to steady him at the appropriate moments and they crossed the finishing line with a clear round inside the time. At the end of the day it was good enough for second place. Nina was euphoric.
'Second? You're kidding!'
Ruth turned from making coffee in the Vicarage kitchen. Linc had called in on his way home for news and to see if he could help with the horses.
He shook his head.
'No one was more surprised than me, I can tell you!' he said. 'And Nina was so excited I thought she'd never stop hugging me.'
'It's brilliant! What was your dressage score?'
'Forty-two,' he announced with a certain amount of pride.
'Well, good old Hobo!' she exclaimed.
'Thanks!' he said dryly, and they both laughed.
The door swung open and a young woman stepped inside.
Tall and slender with long dark brown hair and an unseasonable golden tan, Linc recognised Ruth's older sister Josie from family photographs and a couple of professional portfolio shots her mother had proudly showed him. He'd privately thought then, as he did now, that Ruth, with her sunny smile, was the prettier sister.
'Well, I'm glad someone's had an enjoyable day,' Josie remarked, her displeasure aimed squarely at Linc. 'If that's your Land-Rover outside, you're going to have to move it. You're blocking me in.'
'Sure. Sorry.' He stood up and made for the door straight away. He had noticed the sleek, white E-type on his way in and Ruth had told him it belonged to her sister. She had apparently driven back from London that afternoon to see Abby, in whom there had been no change. Both their parents were still at the hospital, and although Ruth would never have admitted it, Linc could see that she was immensely relieved to have some of the responsibility for home and siblings lifted off her shoulders. He guessed that just the presence of someone older was a comfort to her.
'I'm not sure what time I'll be back, Roo,' Josie said as Linc passed. 'I'll see how Mum's holding up, but I don't suppose I'll be long. Okay?'
Outside, Linc gave the car a second appreciative glance as he strolled towards the Farthingscourt vehicle. Josie was evidently doing well for herself in the modelling world. He slid behind the wheel of the Land-Rover, started it and backed out of the yard into the drive.
As he walked back, Josie emerged from the house and got into her car without a word to him. Wearing very little make-up and a long leather coat over jeans and a jumper, she didn't look much like a model. He shrugged off her rudeness and headed for the back door.
The Jaguar wouldn't start.
Linc paused in the doorway listening to Josie's efforts for a moment or two, then retraced his steps.
'You'll flood it,' he warned her, putting a hand on the hardtop and leaning down to look inside.
'I know that, dammit!' she said through gritted teeth. 'I haven't got the choke out.'
'D'you want me to have a look?' he offered.
'No, it's always a bugger when it's hot. I'll have to let it cool down. Mind out!' She thrust the door open briskly and Linc had to skip back smartly to preserve his kneecaps.
Following her into the house, he caught Ruth's reply to her query.
'I'm sorry Josie, you can't. It's loaded up with my gear for the exhibition tomorrow. I daren't let you take it to the hospital. I've packed it up as best I can but I'm going to have to drive at about ten miles an hour. I'm really sorry.'
'Damn! I'll have to call a taxi.'
In the doorway, Linc cleared his throat.
'I could give you a lift, if you like?' He didn't know why he'd said it. He certainly didn't relish the idea of driving twenty miles or so back the way he'd just come with an antagonistic female in the passenger seat. On top of which, Farthingscourt was entertaining the sponsors of his watermill project that evening and he was a fair way to being late already.
Josie looked at him in surprise. 'Why? Are you going that way?' 'I can do, if it'd be any help. I was going to give Ruth a hand with the horses but I expect she'll forgive me . . .'
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