Steamer was tacked up ready, wearing protective boots and a breast girth to stop his saddle slipping back.
'Are you still okay to ride?' Dee Ellis asked anxiously. 'After . . . you know . . .?'
'Sure.'
Linc fastened his crash cap and mounted, making the big grey stand while he adjusted the length of his stirrups before riding away to warm up. Steamer felt broad and powerful beneath him.
The clear-round course consisted of twelve colourful show jumps standing at around three feet in height. Riders could attempt the course as many times as they liked, paying a small entry fee each time and collecting a rosette for a faultless round.
Dee paid and Linc rode Steamer in. He was the perfect gentleman, taking a strong but manageable hold and jumping high and wide. Linc was impressed and told Dee he'd be glad to ride him in the main class.
With a few minutes to go, he was riding the grey round near to the start with a couple of other riders who were waiting their turn, when one of them drew alongside.
'That Dotty Dee's grey?' he asked.
'That's right,' Linc said cautiously, and the other rider raised an eyebrow.
'Hmm. Well, good luck, mate.'
There was something odd in his tone but Linc was called to the start line before he could follow it up.
'Ready?' the starter asked. 'Five, four, three, two, one. Good luck!'
As the words left the steward's lips Dee Ellis's 'pussycat' ripped the rubber-coated reins through Linc's fingers and set off as if all hell was after him. Caught napping like a novice, Linc swore, desperately trying to regain his balance and some semblance of control. The first fence was looming, a low, inviting hedge and rail – but even so not designed to be taken at full tilt. All the fences on a cross-country course need to be treated with respect.
By the time Linc had gathered his looping reins, the hedge and rail were upon them and it was far too late to try and steady the grey. Steamer took off a full stride early and landed a similar distance out the other side.
'Steady, you mad bastard!' Linc shouted at him, alternately pulling and releasing as they approached the oil barrels that formed fence two.
Steamer wasn't about to relinquish his advantage without a fight. He skipped over the barrels with scornful ease and thrust his nose earthwards, almost pulling Linc from the saddle. As the reins slipped again, he set off with renewed vigour, and the best that Linc could do was steer him towards the third and pray.
As in Noddy and Hobo's class, the fourth was a combination fence, and as they landed over the third Linc knew he had to get a hold of the grey before they reached it. There was no way any horse could jump three solid fences in quick succession going at that speed.
As a general rule of thumb, to achieve the right trajectory a horse needs to take off the same distance away as the height of the fence. Too close and he risks hitting it with his front legs and tipping over. Too far away and he is liable to catch it with his hind legs. Combination fences compound any error. If the first element is met wrong, the problem tends to be magnified by each successive part. Steamer was showing every likelihood of meeting the first element very wrong indeed.
Clamping his legs as tightly as he could to the horse's sides, Linc sat down hard and physically forced Steamer to change his rhythm, driving him on to his bridle with all the strength he could muster. The grey's gait became ragged for a few strides, then his neck and back rounded and his pace dropped. By the time they reached the first rail he was still going far faster than Linc would have liked but at least he felt they had a chance of clearing it.
Steamer was as clever as a cat. He skimmed through without touching a rail, and in a crazy, irresponsible kind of way, Linc began to enjoy himself. The course flashed by in a blur, speed nearly proving to be their undoing at the watersplash where the dragging effect of the stream unbalanced the grey and caused him to miss the log jump out. He then jumped so fast and wide at the lane crossing that he took both hedges in one leap, landing with his quarters in the second and kicking himself free. Linc did take an extra pull on the approach to Lovers Leap but Steamer had other ideas and he could do little more than console himself with the thought that to have qualified for the bigger class, the grey must surely have safely negotiated obstacles such as these before.
One leap up, a brief touch on the top of the mound and a sky launch over the rail and drop. Linc sat back and Steamer landed running.
Somewhere nearby, a loudspeaker was updating people in other parts of the venue. 'Lincoln Tremayne and Night Train have just landed safely over fence number eighteen, Lovers Leap,' it announced in unemotional tones, 'and are gaining on the pair in front.'
Sure enough, rounding the next bend Linc could see a chestnut rump ahead, and almost immediately the course stewards began to signal to the slower pair to give way to Linc and Steamer. Linc shouted thanks as he swept by and sent the grey on up the last hill. Three more fences were taken without incident and suddenly the whirlwind ride was over.
Once across the finish line Steamer allowed Linc to pull him up with very little fuss and, as he slowed to a trot, Dee flew across the trampled turf, threw her arms round the horse's sweaty neck and hugged him, half-sobbing with joy.
'Bloody hell!' Linc exclaimed as Steamer finally halted, grey flanks heaving. 'Does he always go like that?'
Dee looked up at him, her eyes shining. 'Oh, yes, always.'
'You know, you really should have warned me!' Linc was almost as short of breath as his mount.
'But Nina said you could ride anything,' she replied, surprised.
'Oh, she did, did she?' he said, making a mental note to have a word with Miss Barclay. 'Well, I'm sorry about the run-out at the watersplash. I just couldn't get him to listen.'
'Oh, that's nothing! At least you got round! That's the first time he's finished a course since we've had him! And it just proves that I was right. He is a good horse, it's the riders that weren't up to it!'
Linc could have said a thing or two about that but he kept his tongue between his teeth. He dismounted on to legs that were suspiciously shaky and stretched his aching arms. On the whole, he thought, it was probably a good thing that the Eighth Viscount wasn't in the habit of watching his son and heir compete.
'I've a bone to pick with you, my girl!' Linc announced, as Nina joined him on the way back to his lorry. Dee had disappeared with Steamer in tow, promising Linc many rides in future should he want them, to which he returned a carefully non-committal answer.
'I didn't know he was a maniac!' she protested, laughing.
'And she's not much better. It seems she's known as Dotty Dee. That ought to have told you something.'
'Well, it probably would've, if I'd known,' she countered. 'Anyway, you coped, so what's all the fuss about?'
'Mr Tremayne? Lincoln?'
A new voice hailed him from behind and he turned to see a wiry woman with greying blonde hair hurrying to catch him up. She looked vaguely familiar but he couldn't think why.
'Yes. I'm Linc,' he confirmed.
'Can I have a word?'
'Well, I'm on my way home, but . . .'
Nina touched his arm. 'I'll phone you, Linc,' she said, peeling off in the direction of her own lorry.
'My name is Hilary Lang,' the newcomer said. 'And I've been watching you over the last few weeks. I have to say, I'm impressed.'
Hilary Lang. No wonder he'd felt he should know her. She had been a very successful international three-day event rider at around the time his mother had been riding and was still closely involved with the sport.
'Pleased to meet you,' he said warmly, putting out his hand.
'I just wanted to sound you out about possibly coming on one of our training courses,' she continued as they shook hands. 'It wouldn't be until July or August but I need to start sorting out a list. I'd very much like to see you there.'
Linc battled a feeling of unreality. Hilary Lang did a lot of the coaching for the British international team.
> 'Where would it be?' he asked. As if it mattered! He would travel to Timbuktu for the chance to be included on one of her courses.
'Possibly Stoneleigh. It'll probably be a long weekend. Do I take it you're interested?'
'Extremely,' Linc confirmed.
'Good. I'll be in touch,' she said briskly. 'And by the way, well done for riding that grey. Sean O'Connor used to ride him in Ireland and had some success but I don't think even he was too sad to see him go. Night Train needs a hell of a lot of work but you did brilliantly. Your mum would have been proud of you.'
Back at the lorry Linc saw Crispin for the first time that day. Boyishly handsome with brown eyes, a wide infectious grin and short brown hair that he'd recently taken to wearing softly spiky, he was enough like Linc for them to be recognisable as brothers, but took after his mother more than the paternal line.
'I've got some incredible shots!' he exclaimed with enthusiasm. 'I kept moving between the watersplash and that Lovers Leap fence and absolutely everything happened at those two jumps!'
'What happened with that poor girl?' Linc asked.
'I don't know.' Crispin hadn't ridden since their mother had died and wasn't in the least bit horsy. 'The animal seemed to hesitate and then slip off the edge. Its front legs went down in the ditch and it somersaulted on top of her. It was gruesome! Nikki says she died on the way to hospital. I'm not surprised. Honestly, Linc, I don't know why you do it. You must be mad! Especially with our family history.'
'Oh, come on, Crispin. You're beginning to sound like Dad. You know as well as I do that accidents like that are pretty rare. By the way, you'll never guess who I've been talking to . . .' He told his brother about Hilary Lang and her exciting proposition. 'So what does this mean? Are you chucking in the job to become a full-time eventer?' Crispin joked.
'No. Even supposing I could afford to. Actually, I've been thinking about the money thing; it's not cheap, this eventing business, and I could really do with a lorry of my own. I can't keep borrowing the Hathaways'.'
'Well, what about a sponsor?'
'Mmm. Unfortunately it's not all that easy to drum up much interest in eventing. It's not exactly a sport that gets massive exposure.'
It was something he'd thought about quite a lot lately. Eventing was an extremely expensive sport, with relatively poor prize money – even at the very top – and offers of sponsorship were like gold dust. For a rider aiming for the national teams, it was impractical to have to rely on one horse, even if that horse was a dazzling talent, which Linc had to admit Noddy wasn't. Two horses, however, meant double the bills. Double the feed bill, two sets of shoes each time, more tack, more vet bills, entry fees, and livery fees. If only he could keep them at home that would be one less expense. Ah, well.
Linc didn't visit the Vicarage the following day. Ruth and Josie had offered to see that Noddy had some gentle exercise to ease any stiffness in his muscles and Linc was able to give all his attention to estate business. When he'd got back from Talham the news on Abby had been indeterminate. Her condition was no worse but neither was it improving. The determined cheerfulness amongst the adult members of her family was heartbreaking. They had been thrilled with Noddy's blue rosette and Hilary Lang's interest, and pressed Linc to stay for a meal to give them the complete story of the day's events, which he did, skipping over the fatality at the drop fence. They didn't need any more bad news.
The whole atmosphere couldn't have been more different than on his return to Farthingscourt, where the subject was taboo and his father never asked how his day had been.
Sunday was largely uneventful, except for reports in the late afternoon of two men being seen taking too close an interest in the JCB that was parked out at Piecroft Copse. Linc went over to look but saw nothing suspicious. As a precaution he notified the police who promised to drive out that way a couple of times during the evening.
Routine work on the Sunday had given Linc a chance to rethink his strategy re the tack thieves, and in the evening he found the Jenkinses' telephone number in the directory and called to ask if they could remember the exact date the attempted robbery had taken place.
Because of having been away on the riding course, Mrs Jenkins was able to tell him straight away and, after ringing off, Linc called Jack Reagan.
'Jack, can you remember where the greyhound racing was on April the second?'
'Second of April?' the forester repeated. 'Swindon, I think.'
'Did you go that night?'
'Yeah. Lousy weather it was. Why?'
'I don't suppose you'd still have the racecard, would you?' Linc asked, mentally crossing his fingers.
'Probably,' Jack said slowly. 'I make a note of the placings to study the form. What do you want it for?'
'I'm looking for someone who was running a dog that night. Look, could I borrow it? I'll let you have it back.'
'It doesn't give details, you know. Only names, and some of those are syndicates.'
'Yeah, well, it's a start. If you could take it to work, I'll drop by and pick it up.'
Linc drove to the Vicarage just as the sun was rising the following morning, and found that even so Josie was at the stables before him.
Wearing jeans and a hooded fleece jacket, she had her long dark hair in a loose plait and wore no discernible make-up but still managed to look good. She greeted him with a friendly smile that was a million miles away from the coldness of their initial meeting.
'I'm on stable duty today. Roo's having a lie-in.'
'Hi. You haven't fed him, have you?' Linc asked.
'No. Ruth said you'd be wanting to ride early. I – um, thought I might come with you, if that's okay?'
'Yeah, fine. That'd be nice.' Linc was surprised how much the idea appealed to him.
Cromwell, the cobby grey that Josie and her mother shared, was a stout gentleman approaching middle age and, according to his rider, reminded her of a portly country squire in tweed and a yellow waistcoat.
'And a pipe,' Linc suggested, joining in. 'Don't forget his pipe.'
Josie laughed. 'What about Noddy?'
Linc shrugged. 'To be honest, I've never really thought about it. What do you think?'
'Well, I see him as handsome but slightly foppish and indecisive, like the sort of character Hugh Grant plays.'
'Oh, no!' Linc protested. 'He's quite a strong character when you get to know him. More of a James Bond type.'
'Roger Moore, then. Definitely upper-class. Not like Syrup and Treacle. Abby used to say they're like Punch and Judy, loud and vulgar.'
Her voice trailed away, and Linc guessed that she'd recognised her own accidental use of the past tense.
'How is she this morning?' He knew their mother telephoned first thing every day.
'No change,' Josie said. 'It's like we're all in some sort of limbo; not knowing whether to be sad that there's no improvement or happy that she's no worse. She just lies there, day in and day out, with those machines bleeping and hissing, and sometimes the noise drives you mad and you just long for silence, but then you remember what silence would mean . . .' She paused, clearly distressed, and Linc wished there were something he could say that would help. Realistically, there wasn't.
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