In the Shadow of Winter

by Lorna Gray

The fear lay in the fact that after my unnecessary histrionics of last night, he most certainly knew.

  A short while later and still looking very bleary-eyed, I crept stealthily down the stairs. To my dismay, he was already up and sitting at the table, and I braced myself to receive the brunt of his natural scorn. But I ought to have known that he wasn’t the sort of man to press his advantage, and instead he was seemingly absorbed in fiddling about with what looked like the remains of my father’s gramophone. The crank mechanism had broken years ago; it had lain abandoned in the back room ever since and he had stumbled across it, I presumed, when he had been listening from there the previous morning.

  “Fresh tea in the pot, if you want it,” he said without lifting his head.

  I downed a cup in silence, unsure of what to say. I didn’t want to give his knowledge the form of words, that was certain, but I also didn’t like this feeling that I had anything to apologise for. I had after all worked hard over the years to create a sense of moral poise and it was most unfair that it had seemingly abandoned me at the first hurdle.

  “We need to take a look at your dressings at some point,” I said finally, thinking that here at least I could demonstrate something of my regained calm.

  He looked up then and smiled gently. “It’s fine, I’ve already done them. The wounds are healing brilliantly, all thanks to you.” He was being very kind.

  “Oh,” I said in a very small voice, and hurried out of the room.

  The ponies all greeted their breakfast with their customary enthusiasm and Myrtle could be relied upon for her usual pail of milk but as I handed her a treat, I realised with a fresh pang of worry that we had eaten the last of my usual stores. It meant that we were back to that old favourite of roots and beans and although it might generally be considered normal to enhance one’s diet with a bit of illegal bartering, to try to buy more now would be foolish in the extreme. With suspicion already lingering around me, to suddenly use double my week’s rations would be dangerously incriminating.

  “Well, boys,” I murmured. Myrtle’s two half-grown sons were nibbling cheekily at my sleeve. “I think I can keep you off the menu for now, but I can’t promise anything.”

  Matthew found me staring sorrowfully down at the chickens; he must have seen me standing there through the kitchen window.

  “Are you all right?” he asked tentatively, possibly fearing a ferocious retort.

  Glancing around in instant anxiety to check no unexpected passers-by were likely to see, I gave him a quick uncertain smile; “I’m trying to make the cockerel into dinner. I know he’s intensely annoying and deserves everything he gets but it’s very hard. If I think about it much longer I’m going to end up turning us all vegetarian.”

  He gave a gentle laugh which did more to ease away my discomfort than any words could do. “Would it help if I offered to do it for you?”

  I felt a rush of unexpected gratitude. “Would you? Oh yes please!”

  “That’s settled then. I do want something in return though … No, please don’t look at me like that anymore. This isn’t another attempt to force an opinion from you – I don’t want to upset you again. It’s something I hope you’ll find relatively easy, now that you’ve foolishly committed yourself to my cause.” He smiled at my expression, “Really it is. You’ll be exercising your ponies today, yes? Excellent. I was wondering if you would mind allowing your course to drift past Warren Barn? I’d really like you to confirm that those men are still there and if they are, see if you recognise them at all. You don’t need to go up to them or anything, just look from afar. I’m sure they’re perfectly harmless in daylight and if we can start to build a picture of who they are and what they’re up to, we’ll do a heck of a lot better.”

  “I … see,” I said carefully, thinking fast.

  “Don’t worry though if you’d rather not,” he added hastily, mistaking my hesitation for reluctance.

  “No, no, it’s fine,” I said quickly, “I was just thinking about the logistics, that’s all.”

  “Really?” He seemed surprised. “You truly are an unusual woman, aren’t you? Most would have quite rightly told me to push off.”

  I had the distinct impression he was consciously making an effort to be pleasant to me and it looked like he might reach out, but his hand changed direction at the last moment so that he leaned on the hen house instead. I came then to the sharp realisation that the events of the previous night had caused this politeness and I was suddenly aware that whatever reaction I deserved from my outburst, this careful handling was not the one I would have chosen.

  I smiled grimly at myself as he turned to lead the way back into the house – for someone who had recently confessed to thinking the unforgivable, I was hardly in a position to resent it.

  “By the way, I had a thought this morning,” I said to the back of his head as I followed him in through the door. “I have a friend in the telephone exchange. She might be able to tell us who your Irishman placed that call to or if she doesn’t know, she might be able to ask the girls in case someone else does. I know it’s a long shot, but it has to be worth a try.”

  Chapter 11

  The sun was warm on my face as, with a click of my tongue, the ponies set off at a leisurely trot, scuffing across the top of the compressed powder and dodging the treacherous pockets of shade with their concealed slicks of ice. We were following the blurred tracks laid down by fox and manhunt; I was riding one and leading two, which was quite restrained by the standards of the hunt’s grooms in the area – they were often seen leading three or sometimes even four fresh hunters out on a hack – and after squeezing through the tall metal gates of the Park, I threw caution to the wind and risked a canter amongst the towering drifts along the wide inviting verge. The ponies were good little creatures and cantered steadily alongside without a murmur before we slowed to a walk and set about slithering down the hill.

  The valley was steep here and even this new March sun could not hope to travel high enough in the sky to bring much warmth to this shady little corner. The previous day’s rainwater had formed sinuous rivulets through the softening crust before freezing in the heavy night air and we had to pick our way gingerly down to the old stone bridge at the bottom and on through the last gate and out into open fields.

  The large house that belonged to the park stood high upon the hilltop and although it was strategically concealed by young trees and the contours of the valley slopes, I still felt the glare of its silent windows. It was an attractive building, very much in the Cotswold style, and it nestled on the crown of the high ridge so that the rear wing gazed out above me over rolling farmland. On the far side, where it faced south to catch the sun, the great gabled windows of an impressive frontage watched over idyllic gardens, bursting in summer with lavender and impressive topiary, before leading the eye down into fresh young plantations and the still waters of the great lake beyond. Now, though, we left the house and its tall gables behind and followed the increasingly slippery track round to the rather smaller farmhouse while my eyes scanned the route ahead. I was looking for any sign of Matthew’s two men but I didn’t need to search particularly closely – they were clearly still there; their car was nestling in the remains of the drift that had enclosed it outside the tall double doors of the larger stone barn.

  The farmyard was just a small collection of buildings, simple and workmanlike, while the pretty little house itself was huddled down in the lowest part of the valley just out of reach of the stream which in warmer weather ran busily at its feet. There were two barns; one a large stone building which bore the name Warren Barn in faded whitewash, and the other a low tumbledown structure which looked like one more bad storm might be enough to crush it entirely; and as I approached, I wondered how it was that Jamie Donald had managed to end up in such a place. As far as I knew, he had never been a farmer; but as I drew closer, I answered my own question.

  Clearly visible behind the car and the open barn doors lay woodworking be
nches and tools which swiftly reminded me of the Inspector’s description of joiner. The rough unfinished skeletons of gates and doors lurked in the shadowy interior, and Jamie had, I realised, been employed by the Estate to make the endless repairs that were essential for keeping the livestock in, or keeping unwanted visitors out.

  Watching the car cautiously as the track brought me nearer, I saw two men climb out and I could see another down at the house. They planted themselves in my path with unwarranted authority and, naturally on edge, I halted, keeping a wary eye on them both. There was little doubt that these brutes were the Irishmen from Matthew’s story.

  One had a face which was curiously slack and devoid of expression, and he looked as though he depended very heavily on his companion for instruction. There was no mistaking his animal strength however, and I did not doubt that he was the sort to react swiftly and brutally to anything he did not understand.

  The other must have been Matthew’s gunman; he had great hulking shoulders and walked with the heavy stride of solid muscle, and he had thin lips which he now licked speculatively:

  “What do you want? This isn’t a public road.”

  “Afternoon, I haven't met you before, have I? I’m just riding through,” I explained politely, catching a movement behind them as the man from the house began hurrying over.

  “Well, this here is private property so I suggest you simply turn about and take your pretty little self back the way you came.” His voice was hard and dry, the words more a blur that had lost a few crucial vowels and consonants, and I brightened inwardly, knowing that I had at least solved the mystery of their origins.

  “I just need to get through that gate and then I’ll be out of your way.” I gestured to the small gate below the house which led back into the woods and gave what I hoped was a very sweet smile. “I’ve not got far to go then you see. Sir William—”

  “What you need to do, lass, is turn about.”

  “Oh, come off it,” I said with the beginnings of impatience. A leer had spread across the other’s slack mouth and gathering myself together, I gave a click of my tongue and urged the pony forwards.

  As quick as lightning a hand flashed out and caught at my pony’s reins. I gasped and swore uselessly at the silent brute, suddenly realising my folly as he held my pony fast.

  “Let go of my horse!” I squeaked, not even pretending to be brave any more. No amount of tugging on the reins would release them.

  Casting an approving glance at his fellow, the talkative one stepped in and thrust his broad face up to mine. “I’ve asked you nicely to turn about and now I’m telling you, this is private property and you’re trespassing. Unless, of course, you’d like to stay and keep us company?” Then he reached up and touched my hair.

  I knew it was a ploy. I knew it was just a joke at my expense playing on the stereotype of countless gothic dramas but all the same I could not help batting away his hand in disgust. He gave a laugh.

  Then a voice I recognised spoke with forced authority from somewhere close behind;

  “What is going on? Let that woman go! Miss Phillips?”

  Relief flooded in and with it came anger and the abrupt return of my pony’s reins. I straightened up to my full height and looking straight over the nearer man’s head, fixed the estate manager with my most disapproving stare. “Mr Hicks, these men were attacking me. Kindly inform them of who I am.”

  There was an unpleasant pause. But then, with a scowl at me, the nearer one turned away to launch into a furious but muted argument with Hicks, which involved much gesturing and shaking of heads. The silent man continued to stare at me with a disconcerting kind of blankness, almost as if his mind were just resting there for want of anything better. Ignoring him, I strained my ears to listen but I could catch nothing beyond the occasional oath from the brute and a spluttering protest from Hicks. Eventually, however, the manager seemed to gain his point and, hastily flapping his hands to silence the last protest from the other, he finally approached me with a cringingly deferential air.

  “Miss Phillips, let me apologise. These men are just trying to protect a crime scene; you’ll have heard about that sad business? But of course you may take your usual ride through the park. Sir William would be most upset to hear about this.”

  “Yes, he would, wouldn’t he,” I said acidly, thankful that my voice held no trace of a tremor. I turned my gaze to the two thugs, “What are your names?”

  They exchanged glances beneath lowered brows. Finally, the man who’d argued with Hicks spoke sullenly, “What do you want them for?”

  “Miss Phillips,” Hicks interjected hastily, “I’m sure we can resolve this matter ourselves. They meant no harm and, as you know, Sir William is not in the best of health …”

  “Your names,” I snapped. “I have never in my life been spoken to as you just have and I may wish to take this matter further. Your names, or do I have to tell Sir William that his estate manager was condoning a friend being attacked by his staff?”

  I glared down at them as they fidgeted sulkily. They looked to Hicks but he held up his hands helplessly. He looked scared and I wondered who was actually in charge here.

  “Davey Turford.” There was an unexpected mumble from the less alert one and, judging by the expression on his fellow’s face, this had the misfortune of being the truth.

  I turned to the other. “And you?”

  It looked for a moment that he might refuse but then, with a brief show of teeth that passed for a smile and was all the more sinister for it, he growled, “Simon.”

  “E’s my brother,” offered Davey, again surprising us all. Simon Turford shot him a loaded glance and he shut his mouth quickly.

  “Right then, Davey and Simon Turford.” I settled back in the saddle with the applied authority of a school ma’am, “Do you apologise or do I need to make a formal complaint?”

  I wondered if I had gone too far when I saw their mouths tighten. But then at long last their thin lips formed something which may have passed for an apology and I was able to nod and gather up the reins. “I will let this matter drop this once, but if either of you so much as think of bothering me next time …” I let the threat hang.

  Then I turned to the beleaguered manager. “Mr Hicks, would you be a dear and open the gate?”

  Chapter 12

  My mood could only have been described as buoyant as the ponies laboured their way homewards towards the glistening village; so much so that I couldn’t help hallooing jovially as we trudged past the Manor driveway. John was standing watching his grooms as they fiddled about inside the smart horse lorry with its Daimler engine, and it seemed that they must have been changing the partitions because I could see great panels of plywood being nailed to hollow frames in the workshop nearby. He looked up as I called my greeting and lifted a hand. Then he beckoned.

  With a fleeting regret for the post-drama exuberance which had inspired my greeting and would now cause my delay, I turned the ponies into the drive.

  “Afternoon,” he said as we drew near.

  His greeted was rather lacklustre and it became instantly apparent that not everyone was having quite such a successful day. I noticed then that his expression was clouded and with a sudden rush of care, I said, “Why, John, what’s the matter?”

  He mustered a cheerful enough smile. “Oh, nothing much, just the usual. How are you anyway? Forgiven me for invading your peace yesterday?”

  “Of course, but have you forgiven me for being so cross?”

  He gave me a tired grin. “I don’t suppose you have time for a cup of tea? I could do with a break, and you’d make the perfect excuse. You could put your ponies in a stable for five minutes, couldn’t you? Please?”

  I very nearly refused and made my excuses but he looked so much in need of a friend that I felt guilty for even hesitating and so instead nodded my agreement. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

  The Manor stables were amazing. They had been built into the remains of the
old tithe barn and many of the original oak beams still hung gracefully overhead. The air had that wonderful sweet horsey scent mixed with straw and, as we clopped our way quietly along the row, twelve eager heads appeared over their half-doors to investigate the newcomers. They were each magnificent beasts, tall and strong, designed to carry men over mile upon mile of uneven ground in pursuit of the unlucky fox and I was swiftly reminded of my youthful adventures on the similar horses that my father had kept. It was pleasant to indulge in these memories and I could do so without any trace of regret – somehow I had never quite embraced the rough and tumble of the hunting field, though I had been fearless enough, and I had given up jumping perfectly readily with the acquisition of the problematic but inspiring Beechnut.

  Hanging the small saddle over a convenient bar, I shut the stable door on the three little curious faces and turned to follow John back along the row towards sunlight, greeting the residents as I passed. The stables were always clean but this time I noticed a hint of shabbiness in the chipped paint and tatty buckets which had not been there before and I wondered what his father said about this. Keeping up appearances was paramount to the Colonel.

  “He’s off next week, now that the weather forecast claims to be improving at last.” John had stopped by an elegant dark bay thoroughbred who lipped politely at his proffered hand. I gazed thoughtfully at the horse’s sensitive face, taking in his dark eye and supple mouth as he investigated me in his turn. “You remember him, don’t you? Union Star – your father broke him in for me, so you should remember.”

  I nodded slowly, thinking, but any need for a reply was stolen by the horse suddenly sniffing hard and taking hold of my pocket in his teeth. He gave a sharp tug and tasting success, pulled harder, drawing a startled squeak as he made me stagger against the stable door, jamming my hip painfully against the wood as he worked to get at the cubes of swede I kept in my pocket.

  “Gerroff!” snapped John, giving him a smack that sent him rushing to the back of his box. He looked at me in concern, “Are you all right? That’s unlike you to take cheek from a horse.”