The Riverdale Pony Stories Box Set (Books 1-6)

by Amanda Wills

  Cloud's mane was burnished silver in the moonlight and his neck was arched. All he needed were wings and he could be Pegasus.

  ‘Do you think you'll be alright to go a bit faster, if we take it steady?’ Poppy called.

  ‘Uh huh,’ Charlie said, tightening his grip.

  Poppy squeezed her legs and Cloud broke into a canter. He was as surefooted as the black-faced sheep that every so often loomed out of the darkness, the glow of their eyes just visible in the inky light. It was exhilarating, racing across the wide, open moor in the dead of night, and a smile crept across Poppy's face. Charlie clung on like a limpet.

  ‘I thought riding was for girls and sissies but this is brilliant! When we get home can you teach me?’

  ‘'Course I can. We'll ask Scarlett to lend us Flynn.’

  Ahead Poppy could just make out the shadowy strip of conifers that hid Witch Cottage from view. ‘Nearly there,’ she whispered.

  Cloud slowed to a walk. The squelch of his hooves as he crossed the peaty ground sounded unnaturally loud in the still night air. He plunged into the darkness of the trees without hesitation. The conifers towered over them, their branches like twisted limbs, and Poppy felt her pulse quicken. She checked the luminous hands of her watch. Five to midnight. Ghosts or no ghosts, this was seriously spooky.

  Cloud shifted and swerved through the trees. Eventually they reached the edge of the narrow forest. Poppy asked the Connemara to halt and he stood quietly as she peered into the gloom. The silhouette of Witch Cottage was as elusive and unformed as the first strokes of a watercolour painting.

  ‘Now what?’ she whispered.

  ‘We should stay hidden in the trees, just in case,’ said Charlie, slithering to the ground.

  ‘In case of what?’ Poppy jumped off, too, and held Cloud's reins tightly.

  ‘Old crones and ginger cats, of course.’ Charlie's grinning teeth gleamed in the moonlight.

  They stood in silence either side of Cloud. Charlie fiddled with his camera. Poppy scuffed the ground with the toe of her jodhpur boot. She felt as conspicuous as an angel perched atop a Christmas tree, and not a little foolish. She stifled a yawn. Why on earth had she agreed to let Charlie drag her into the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night on such a crazy adventure?

  After ten minutes in the dank shadows Poppy was starting to feel the cold. She turned to her brother. ‘Come on, Charlie. Let's go home. There's patently no-one here. Not even a ghost is silly enough to be out at this time of night.’

  ‘Five more minutes?’ he pleaded.

  Poppy hugged herself and exhaled loudly. ‘Alright then. But I am never, ever coming on one of your stupid adventures again. Got it?’

  ‘Thanks, sis.’ Charlie ducked under Cloud's neck. Soon he was twiddling with his camera again, pointing it at the cottage and zooming the lens in and out.

  Poppy was stifling another yawn when he clutched her arm and whispered urgently, ‘There's a light in the cottage.’

  ‘Absolutely Hilarious with a capital H,’ Poppy whispered back, rolling her eyes.

  ‘No, really Poppy, there is. Look!’

  The tremor in his voice made Poppy grab the camera. She pointed it at the cottage. At first she thought the glow in the upstairs bedroom was moonlight reflecting off the window.

  ‘Is it the old crone's burning cloak?’ stammered Charlie. ‘I knew Scarlett was telling the truth.’

  Poppy shook her head. The beam of light was moving, as if a powerful torch was being waved around. Cloud had stiffened, his head high as he stared intently ahead. Charlie gripped her arm even tighter.

  ‘Look at that!’

  Poppy followed his gaze and gasped. A pick-up truck was rolling silently down the hill towards the cottage. They watched, transfixed, as two burly-looking men let themselves out, pulled an old tarpaulin off the back of the beaten-up truck and started unloading wooden crates.

  ‘What are they doing?’ breathed Charlie.

  Poppy held her finger to her lips. The men were talking to each other in low voices, pointing to the light in the window. One took a mobile out of his pocket and started tapping furiously. The other picked up a crate, ducked under the low door frame and disappeared into the cottage.

  Cloud shifted uneasily. Poppy rubbed his forehead and willed him to stay quiet. The man with the phone hefted a crate onto his hip. Once he was inside the cottage Poppy turned to her brother. ‘I don't like this. We should go.’

  ‘But -’

  ‘No buts, Charlie. I don't know what those men are up to, but I don't think we should hang around to find out. They don't look the type to be messed with.’

  Not giving him the chance to argue, she led Cloud over to a fallen tree and vaulted on, holding her hand out for Charlie to follow suit. He clambered on, looking wistfully over his shoulder as she turned Cloud for home.

  Once clear of the conifers Poppy pushed Cloud into a canter, keen to put as much distance as she could between them and the two shadowy men.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘You look washed out. Are you feeling OK?’ Caroline looked at Poppy in concern as she nibbled on a piece of toast the next morning.

  ‘I'm fine.’ Poppy smiled briefly at her stepmother and took a slurp of orange juice. The truth was she was shattered. After they'd slunk back into the house she'd been so wired sleep had been impossible. She'd lain in bed, her imagination working overtime as she'd wondered about the men at Witch Cottage and, more importantly, the crates they'd been carrying.

  A text from Scarlett was a welcome distraction.

  Are we riding this morning or what??!! I have a new pony to try out you know!!

  Poppy took a final swig of juice and tapped a message back.

  'Course we're riding :) I'll be over in 20 mins x

  Red's chestnut coat shone and his four socks were dazzlingly white. Scarlett had even pulled his mane and oiled his hooves.

  ‘Blimey, you must have been up at the crack of dawn,’ said Poppy. Cloud, who had grass stains on his hocks and a tangled mane and tail, looked positively scruffy in comparison.

  ‘I woke up at four I was so excited,’ Scarlett said. ‘I've been getting him ready since six. He's even had a bath. With warm water, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Poppy. Scarlett used the hose on Blaze and Flynn.

  ‘Where shall we go?’ said Scarlett.

  ‘I want to head over towards Witch Cottage.’

  ‘Not again. You and Charlie are obsessed with that place.’

  ‘Ah, but wait until you hear this.’ Poppy told her best friend about their nocturnal visit and the men they'd seen. Scarlett's jaw hit the floor.

  ‘I can't believe I missed it. I wish you'd told me you were going.’

  ‘You won't even go near the place in the middle of the day. Would you have really wanted to come on Charlie's ghost hunt at midnight?’

  ‘Probably not,’ Scarlett admitted. ‘Do you think you should call the police?’

  ‘What would I tell them? It was too dark to get proper descriptions or see their number plate. I don't even know if they were doing anything illegal. That's why I want to see what's in those crates they delivered.’

  ‘I'd forgotten how close it is to the prison,’ said Poppy, gazing at the granite walls of HMP Dartmoor, the two ponies walking side-by-side.

  ‘We went to the museum there last summer,’ said Scarlett.

  Poppy raised her eyebrows. ‘There's a museum at the prison?’

  Scarlett nodded. ‘You should go. Charlie would love it. They've got all the weapons the warders used to use on the prisoners, like straitjackets, manacles and cat o'nine tails, and the knuckledusters and other weapons the convicts made. It's really interesting.’

  Poppy pictured the two thickset men she and Charlie had seen the night before and her heart missed a beat. ‘Do prisoners still escape?’

  ‘They used to, in the olden days,’ said Scarlett. ‘It's only a Category C prison now. The prisoners are low risk. They make gno
mes and toadstools to sell as garden ornaments, can you believe? Mum bought one for her rose garden.’

  Poppy couldn't imagine the two men they'd seen the night before painting red hats and impish grins onto stone gnomes. The fact that Witch Cottage was so close to the prison was a coincidence, she told herself.

  Scarlett elected to hold the ponies while Poppy scooted across to the dilapidated stone building. The minute she walked through the door it felt different. The air, which had smelt so fusty the first time she'd explored the cottage, was alive with static. She ran lightly up the stairs to the first bedroom, expecting to find it piled high with crates. But the room was empty apart from the two wooden boxes still stacked by the window. Were they the same as the ones the men had unloaded from the pick-up? Poppy inspected the room, her eyes narrowed, searching for any clue. There were marks on the floor. Had they been there before? And had the doorframe always been cracked? She couldn't remember.

  Frustrated, she walked around the room a second time, examining every inch. Her attention was caught by the hum of a mosquito. She watched it as it spiralled up towards the ceiling and landed on the loft hatch.

  ‘Poppy!’ Everything OK?’

  Poppy yanked open the ancient window and stuck her head out. Scarlett was sitting on the old stone wall with Cloud and Red grazing next to her.

  ‘Just coming,’ Poppy shouted back.

  Halfway down the stairs she stopped, shook her head at her own foolishness, and sprinted back up. The ceiling was so low in the tiny bedroom that she could almost touch it if she stood on her toes. She pulled one of the boxes into the centre of the room, climbed onto it and gave the loft hatch a tentative shove. It lifted easily. Poppy poked her head into the roof space. Expecting darkness she was surprised to see a patch of blue sky in the corner, then remembered the hole in the catslide roof.

  She jumped off the box, carried the second one over and stacked them on top of each other. Now the ceiling was level with her shoulders and Poppy was sure she would be able to climb in. Testing her weight on the frame of the hatch, she looked around, taking in the shafts of sunlight, the swirling particles of decades-old dust, long-abandoned swallows' nests and the smell of dead mouse.

  In the middle of the attic was the brick chimney breast. Behind it flapped the corner of a green tarpaulin. Her heart hammering, Poppy hauled herself through the hatch. A rusty nail caught her shin and she yelped in pain. The roof of the attic was so low she had to bend double. She crabbed sideways along one of the worm-ridden beams and peered around the chimney breast.

  Hidden under the green tarpaulin were around a dozen wooden crates. Poppy pulled the closest one towards her and prised open the lid.

  ‘Mobile phones?’ said Scarlett, her face perplexed.

  Poppy nodded. ‘Dozens of smartphones of all different makes. They were still in their boxes with the Cellophane on and everything.’

  ‘And nothing else?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Scarlett looked around her fearfully, as if she was being watched. ‘I knew this place was cursed. It was a mistake to come back.’ She swung into the saddle and turned Red for home.

  The chestnut gelding disappeared into the trees and Poppy had to trot to catch up. ‘What are they doing there, that's what I want to know.’

  ‘I don't know and I don't care. We should let the police deal with it, Poppy. Go and see that inspector you saw before.’

  Poppy thought of the wide-girthed Inspector Bill Pearson and his penchant for digestive biscuits. Perhaps she should phone the police but a niggling voice in the back of her head told her she'd be wasting their time. ‘Maybe.’

  Seeing the worry on Scarlett's face she changed the subject. ‘How's Red? Are you pleased with your new pony?’

  ‘Pleased?’ Scarlett reached down and patted the chestnut gelding's neck. ‘I am beyond happy. He is the most gorgeous, lovely, brilliant horse in the world.’

  ‘Apart from Cloud,’ Poppy corrected her.

  Scarlett laughed, the mobile phones pushed to the back of her mind, and she spent the rest of the ride home extolling Red's countless virtues. Poppy smiled and agreed in all the right places, but her thoughts were in a tiny attic under a catslide roof, where dust motes danced and faceless men stashed their ill-gotten gains under slippery green tarpaulins.

  Chapter Twelve

  At breakfast the following morning Caroline announced a shopping trip to Plymouth. Poppy's shoulders slumped.

  ‘Torture,’ muttered Charlie into his Shreddies.

  ‘You've grown so much this summer your trousers could pass as shorts. We'll have to either stop feeding you or start balancing books on your head,’ Caroline told him. ‘Poppy, you need a new blazer and school skirt. And you both need new school shoes. It's not long until the start of term.’

  ‘Don't remind us,’ grumbled Poppy. Although she couldn't say she actually hated school, she had so many more interesting things she could be doing than learning about poems and probability. And the prospect of standing in a manically busy shoe shop holding a ticket in her hand waiting to have her feet measured on a sweaty measuring machine while dozens of out-of-control toddlers weaved around her legs did not appeal.

  ‘We'll pop into Baxters' on the way home if you like?’

  Slightly mollified, Poppy nodded. She never passed up an opportunity to spend half an hour looking around the leather-scented tack and feed store on the Tavistock road.

  Their shopping expedition was as torturous as Charlie had predicted, the only highlight being a bowl of pasta in a little Italian restaurant on the Barbican. Poppy drooled over the black leather jumping saddles and matching bridles in Baxters' and treated Cloud and Chester to a new lead rope each. On their way home Caroline remembered they needed eggs and pulled in outside Waterby Post Office and Stores.

  ‘Hey, isn't that Scarlett?’ Charlie said.

  Through the glass window, which was pebble-dashed with posters advertising choral events, coffee mornings and rams for sale, Poppy saw her best friend ringing up someone's shopping on the till, watched by the twinkly-eyed shopkeeper Barney Broomfield.

  ‘I'd forgotten it was her first shift at the shop this afternoon.’

  Poppy waited until Scarlett had rung up an elderly lady's copy of the Radio Times and a tin of pitted prunes and asked, ‘How's it going?’

  ‘OK, I think,’ said Scarlett, looking slightly flustered. ‘Barney says it'll be brilliant for my mental arithmetic but I'm not so sure.’ She sniffed her fingers and pulled a face. ‘And my hands smell of money.’

  Charlie jiggled coins in his shorts pocket. ‘Can I have forty five pence worth of rhubarb and custards, please Scarlett.’

  ‘Sure.’ As Scarlett lifted the jar of sweets from a shelf she mouthed to Poppy, ‘Look at the front page of the Herald!’

  There was a pile of Tavistock Heralds by the front door. Poppy sidled over. The headline was like a punch in the solar plexus.

  Exclusive: Police launch investigation after daring theft of mobile phones

  By Stanley Smith

  Blood pounding in her ears, Poppy picked up the top copy and scanned the article.

  Police have launched an investigation after mobile phones worth £20,000 were stolen during a daring raid on a Plymouth warehouse.

  The thieves disabled CCTV cameras and locked the security guard in his office before helping themselves to dozens of top-of-the-range Apple, Samsung and Sony smartphones.

  ‘The phones were taken overnight on 15 August, and we are appealing for anyone who has information about the burglary to contact us,’ said a police spokesman.

  ‘Do you want to know a secret?’ whispered a voice in her ear. Poppy jumped like a scalded cat, but it was only Charlie, brandishing a small paper bag of rhubarb and custards. ‘Scarlett gave me an extra one for luck! You can have it if you like.’

  Poppy changed into jodhpurs and a tee-shirt the minute they arrived home. Hoping a ride on the moor might clear her head, she caught Cloud, gave him a
cursory groom and tacked him up. Soon they were cantering towards the Riverdale tor. At the top Poppy slid to the ground, sat cross-legged on a flat granite boulder and shared an apple with her pony as she gazed at the sweeping panorama. Directly ahead, sandwiched between their two paddocks, was the slate roof of Riverdale. Poppy could just make out a Chester-shaped brown blob by the water trough. The McKeevers' gravel drive ran parallel to the track to Ashworthy. Scarlett's home was an archetypical working farm. An old, slightly shabby farmhouse surrounded by a jumble of barns, stables and outhouses. Scarlett loved houses with clean modern lines, all glass and steel, but Poppy adored Ashworthy's low ceilings and mullioned windows.

  She couldn't see Witch Cottage from here. Even the chimneys of Dartmoor Prison were hidden behind a distant tor.

  ‘What should I do, Cloud?’

  The Connemara rubbed his head on her tee-shirt, leaving a layer of short, white hairs on the navy brushed cotton.

  ‘Tell the police, tell Dad and Caroline, or try to find out who stole the mobiles myself?’

  Telling the police or her parents was the obvious, sensible thing to do, Poppy knew that. But that would mean admitting she had lied and that she had dragged Charlie to a crime scene in the middle of the night. She had a feeling they wouldn't be impressed.

  ‘I wonder what Caitlyn would have done if she were me,’ she pondered. Cloud pricked his ears at the sound of Cait's name, as he always did. But Poppy no longer felt resentful. She wished Cait was still alive. She felt sure they'd have been friends if things had been different.

  Cait wasn't around to ask, but Jodie was. Jodie knew Witch Cottage. She was both smart and tough. Poppy had a feeling Jodie wouldn't judge her for not phoning the police. She made up her mind.

  Tomorrow she would cycle over to Nethercote.

  Jodie would know what to do.

  Chapter Thirteen