Deadfall

by Lyndon Stacey

  Linc shook his head firmly. 'Much as I would love to think I'd helped, I really can't take any credit. I'm sure it was just a coincidence. Let's just hope she goes on from here.'

  'Oh, she will now, I'm sure of it,' Ruth declared happily, and Linc hadn't the heart to point out that there was still an awfully long way to go.

  That afternoon Linc travelled to the north of the county to meet the owners of a working watermill. His architect and builder were waiting in the car park when he arrived and together they were taken on a fascinating guided tour of the mill house and adjacent bakery and tearooms.

  The mill was magnificent, and Linc was fired with even greater enthusiasm for the Farthingscourt project. He stood for several long minutes watching the water slide from the smooth surface of the millpond, gathering speed down the head race to fall in a silver stream into the metal buckets of the huge overshot wheel.

  In contrast, with the stream diverted away from the wheel and the pond empty, the mill at Farthingscourt was at the moment a sad, lifeless affair, awkward and inelegant, like a ship in dry dock, and he longed for the day when it would start milling once again.

  After spending a couple of informative hours discussing marketing and ways of maximising efficiency, he left the mill, and with no set appointments or meetings for the rest of the day, turned the Discovery towards Warminster and Sam Menzies' greyhound training kennels.

  The map he had printed from the website proved relatively simple to follow and in twenty minutes or so, Linc saw the glossy, white-painted sign that announced Redshaw Training Kennels to the passing world. Mindful of the warning-off he'd received, he drove past slowly and stopped about fifty yards further on, in the car park of a pine furniture showroom. In common with all the estate vehicles, the Discovery bore the Farthingscourt name and logo in yellow on its dark green paintwork, and although he had no intention of allowing himself to become paranoid, it seemed sensible not to advertise his investigation unnecessarily. Having had a quick look round the pine shop and bought a letter rack he didn't really want, he left the Land-Rover in the car park and walked back along the road to the kennels.

  These were reached via a long gravel track with trees on one side and an open field on the other. An unimaginative square bungalow sat at the end with a cluster of outbuildings and wire-netted pens to one side. The doorbell beside the blue front door summoned a dark-haired, middle-aged individual who probably hadn't seen his feet for many years, and three snuffling pug dogs that yapped at Linc from the safety of the doorway.

  'Sam Menzies?'

  'Yes.' The trainer scratched his ample stomach through a cotton shirt whose seams and buttons defied all the known laws of physics. He looked his visitor up and down through rather puffy eyes and waited.

  'Good afternoon, Mr Menzies. My name's Lincoln. I'm interested in buying a greyhound, and I'm told you're the man to ask.'

  'I might be.' Menzies looked marginally more animated, and the pugs, evidently deciding that Linc didn't constitute a threat, waddled down the step and began to sniff round his feet. 'How much do you want to spend?'

  'I've no idea,' Linc said honestly. 'But I want a decent animal. One with a good pedigree and a realistic chance of winning.'

  'Puppy or in training?'

  'You tell me.'

  'Well, I know of a lovely Green Baize litter just born a week or two ago,' the trainer told him, looking all at once much more enthusiastic. 'Green Baize was a champion in his day and the bitch was the top money-winning bitch of her age group last year. You could look a lot longer and do a lot worse.'

  'That sounds interesting.' Originally conceived as a cover story, the idea was quickly taking root in his mind. 'How much would I have to pay?'

  Menzies wasn't sure, but the sum he guessed at was an eye opener for Linc.

  'Come and have a look at my dogs, Mr Lincoln,' the trainer suggested quickly, perhaps sensing that his prospective customer was having second thoughts. Pulling the door shut behind him, he hitched his flannel trousers up a reluctant inch or two, came down the steps and set off for the kennels with Linc and the three pugs in his wake.

  'Fellow I was talking to at Ledworth a few weeks ago suggested I look up a chap called Barnaby,' Linc said as they reached the outbuildings. 'Not sure if he's an owner or a trainer but I was told he might have a dog for sale.'

  They had halted in front of a metal door, for which Menzies produced a key from one of his pockets.

  'Don't think I know anyone called Barnaby,' he said, shaking his head. 'I know a Barney. Barney Weston. But I wouldn't go to him for a dog. He's small fry. Wouldn't know a good running dog from a mongrel if he didn't see its papers!'

  'It could have been Barney, I suppose. Is he local?'

  'Wincanton way, I think. But I wouldn't go to him,' the trainer reiterated. 'He's not been training long. You want someone with experience, being new to it yourself.'

  Happily unaware that his determined running down of the opposition was doing him no good in the eyes of his visitor, Menzies took Linc on an extensive tour of his facilities, missing no opportunity of comparing his kennels with those of his smaller rival. The dogs were wide-awake and expectant; Menzies explaining that they were due to be fed in twenty minutes or so. They all looked well cared for and happy, and Linc had no doubt that the trainer knew what he was about; he just couldn't like the man.

  He took his leave a quarter of an hour or so later, promising to let Menzies know what he decided but already sure in his own mind that Redshaw Kennels wouldn't be receiving his custom.

  Halfway down the drive he was forced to step on to the verge as a pick-up truck with oversized wheels and darkened windows swept by. Two horns and a row of lights decorated the roof of the cab and Linc took an instant dislike to its unseen driver.

  Partly because Menzies had tried so hard to put him off, and partly because of the chance that the name Cara Jenkins had overheard might have been 'Barney' instead of 'Barnaby', Linc thrust the thought of waiting estate business to the back of his mind and drove as fast as he dared to Wincanton. His borrowed racecard had helpfully furnished him with the telephone number of Weston's Greyhounds, in the form of a small advertisement, and a call had ascertained that its owner would be in and happy to see him.

  Barney Weston couldn't have been more different from Sam Menzies. A neat, softly spoken thirty-something, he greeted Linc and showed him round his kennels, welcoming his interest but never once trying to push him into a decision. Linc had once again posed as a prospective owner and was impressed that Weston made it clear that greyhound ownership should not be undertaken lightly.

  'You have to remember that your puppy won't race until fifteen months at the earliest and, even barring injury, will retire at four or five,' he warned, before showing Linc a litter of puppies in what he called his maternity wing. 'Therefore he'll probably have six or seven years or more in retirement. Rescue centres are full of unwanted, retired or injured greyhounds.'

  Linc assured him that his dog, should he get one, would be cared for to the end of its natural.

  The maternity wing, housing the nursing bitch and her five leggy, lean pups, was a cosy room well away from the main kennel area, where mother and babies could enjoy a little peace. Linc was fascinated by them. They were like nothing he'd seen before. Even his father's wolfhounds had been more conventionally puppy-looking than these were.

  Leaving the puppies behind Barney took Linc to see the food preparation room.

  'What do you feed your dogs?' Linc asked with interest, looking round at the clinically clean, stainless steel bowls and a gas cooker with what looked like a huge jam-making saucepan on top. He sniffed appreciatively. 'It smells good.'

  Barney grinned. 'Beef chunks, natural gluten-free biscuit, seaweed and a vitamin supplement. I buy frozen beef and cook it up every day.'

  'Do they have anything special when they're racing?'

  'Pasta,' the trainer said. 'Chock full of carbohydrates for energy.'

  He com
pleted the tour, speaking to each dog as he passed its kennel, his fondness for all of them showing on his face. He told his visitor of his plans for a room with heat lamps, and, further in the future, a swimming pool to assist with fitness and recuperation. As they left the kennel area, Linc found the idea of greyhound ownership had well and truly taken root.

  'So if I were to buy a dog, would you be willing to train it for me?' he asked, as Barney made him a much-needed cup of tea in the cramped kitchen of his cottage. It seemed the animals' accommodation had priority in this household. There had been no mention of a Mrs Weston, and the house had all the hallmarks of a bachelor pad.

  'I'd love to.'

  'I spoke to Sam Menzies earlier and he mentioned a litter by a dog called Green Baize – if I have that right.'

  'Green Baize is a super dog,' Weston agreed. 'His first season's pups are starting to win already. They won't be cheap but then it costs just as much to keep a slow dog in training as it does a champion. It's worth making that initial outlay.'

  Linc nodded. It was the same with horses.

  'But actually, I can offer you an even better deal. I've got a couple of saplings – young, unraced dogs – that you might be interested in. They're also by Green Baize, out of my own bitch. I was going to keep them for myself but if you'd let me train it I might be prepared to sell you one. To be honest, I could do with the cash.'

  'That sounds very interesting. I'll bear that in mind.'

  'So you weren't tempted to go with Sam then?' Weston asked after a moment. 'He's very successful.'

  'Yes. So he told me,' Linc said.

  Weston laughed. 'I take it you didn't tell him you were coming here.'

  'You were mentioned.'

  'I can imagine what was said. No, it's all right,' he said, shaking his head. 'Sam and I will never see eye to eye. We're on different planets. You see, he's in it for the money, and I'm in it for the dogs. I'll probably never be as successful as the Sam Menzies of this world but I'll be content, and you can't ask for more than that, can you?'

  By the time Linc left the Weston establishment, ten minutes later, he was a fair way towards deciding to invest in one of the Green Baize saplings Barney Weston had offered. The possibility of his being the mastermind behind the tack thefts hadn't survived beyond two minutes of Linc's meeting him.

  When Linc arrived to ride Noddy just after eight on Thursday morning, he was surprised to find Ruth chatting to Sandy, who was sitting on the bonnet of a battered MG. Noddy was already saddled and waiting, as was Ruth's own horse, Magic; each with a blanket thrown over to keep their backs warm in the chill of the spring morning.

  'Hi there,' Linc said, sliding out of the Discovery. 'What brings you here?'

  'Sandy's found you another half-cheek snaffle,' Ruth said, her creamy complexion tinged with a pink that indicated that this wasn't the only reason for his visit.

  'Good of you to bring it over,' Linc told the saddler.

  'Made a good excuse to come and chat up a beautiful lady,' Sandy told him frankly. 'And you know me – I'm not one to miss an opportunity like that!'

  'I thought that might be it,' Linc said, laughing. 'Well, I'm on a tight schedule, so I shall have to get going. Are you coming, Ruth? Or have you had second thoughts?'

  'Oh, no. Magic comes first,' she said. 'Itinerant tradesmen are two a penny!'

  Mounted and clattering down the road, Linc enquired after Abby, in whom there had apparently been no further change, and they chatted about everyday matters for a few minutes before he voiced a query that had been on his mind for a day or two.

  'Do you think, if I asked your sister out, that she would accept or slap my face?'

  'Aha!' Ruth said, smiling. 'I wondered how long it would be before you overcame your preconceptions about models.'

  'I don't think I was the only one with preconceptions, but was it that obvious?' Linc asked ruefully.

  'In a word, yes! But I don't blame either of you, really.'

  'Thank you. That said, do I take it that I've got a chance?'

  'Better than evens, I'd say.'

  'Great. My next problem will be where to take her. I've not done much socialising since I've been back. Got any ideas?'

  'Well, Sandy was telling me about a pub in Shaftesbury that has live music on Friday and Saturday nights. In fact, he's taking me there tomorrow night,' she added, the pinkness again in evidence. 'If you can wait till Saturday, I'll scout it out for you. Josie loves live bands.'

  Linc's workload at Farthingscourt was eased a little by the return from holiday of his father's secretary, Mary Poe. She sought Linc out, shortly after, with the information that, for a trial period, she was to split her services between the Viscount, in the morning, and Linc in the afternoon. Within a couple of days, he was wondering how he had ever managed without her.

  'Clive – your predecessor – had his own secretary,' Mary informed Linc as she returned his filing system to some sort of order. Fiftyish and invariably attired in the kind of tweed skirt and twin-set that first came to fashion around the time of her birth, she had a neat figure and wore her honey-blonde hair short. Living in the cosy stable cottage, as she had for the last twenty-five years, she had been heard to comment that Farthingscourt had been more faithful to her than any man. She steadfastly refused to discuss her private life and it was generally held that she had been badly let down in her youth and had never trusted again.

  'Well, I didn't want to admit defeat, but it was rapidly getting to the point where I was going to have to ask for help,' he confessed.

  Mary shook her head and tutted in exasperation.

  'You're just as stubborn as your father,' she said. 'You've taken on far more duties than Clive ever did, and he's let you get on with it. I think he was waiting for you to buckle under the strain, but you didn't, so I guess Round One goes to you. That should please you,' she added.

  Linc found that it did, immensely.

  'Oh, by the way,' Mary said, after a moment. 'Your father wants to know what's been going on between you and Jim Pepper. Apparently he's been heard making threats against you when he's had a few too many of an evening.'

  'I found him sizing up the JCB over in the machine yard, the other day. He shot his mouth off before he realised who I was,' Linc told her. 'I think he's more mouth than trousers, but I tipped off the police all the same.'

  'Sylvest— that is, your father had trouble with him a year ago,' Mary said. 'He got quite nasty. I wouldn't take Pepper too lightly, if I were you.'

  Asking Josie out had, in the event, proved easy.

  On Friday Abby moved her fingers again and Linc arrived at the Vicarage on the Saturday morning to find the mood there lighthearted. Rebecca Hathaway was home and invited him into the kitchen where Ruth was giving a glowing report of her evening out with Sandy.

  Linc walked in just in time to hear Josie exclaim, 'Ooh, you jammy cow! That sounds brilliant!'

  'What does?' he asked.

  'Sandy took Roo to a pub in Shaftesbury last night to hear a live band,' Josie told him. 'Sort of Irish folk slash rock, if there is such a thing.'

  'Sounds dire!' Hannah put in, but apart from earning a frown from her mother, she was ignored.

  'They're playing there again tonight,' Ruth said casually. 'Why don't you go then?' Linc suggested to Josie, as if the idea had only just occurred to him. 'I'll take you, if you like? I love live music. I'll even treat you to a meal.'

  Josie had thanked him and accepted, and the only hitch in the arrangement had been that, due to the venue's popularity, the dining facilities were completely booked up. They decided to eat nearby and relocate to the pub later.