Shaker pointed the stag end of his crop toward Betty, then swept it forward. She moved forward on the right and Sybil shadowed her on the left. They knew he was heading back over the field at the base of Hangman’s Ridge, toward the tiger trap into the woods of After All. A hog’s-back jump was also placed in this fence line about three football fields farther down, should anyone have difficulty with the tiger trap, which looks like a big coop with logs vertically next to one another. Again, an easy enough jump, but it helps if a horse has seen one before.
Somehow no matter how many gates one puts into a fence line they never seem to be in the right place when hounds are running. Bobby, as Second Flight Master, dealt with this frustration constantly.
Hounds left Comet as they walked along the bottom of Hangman’s Ridge.
“Ooo,” Pookah exclaimed, “bear tracks.”
Feeling especially good today, Dreamboat said, “Pookah, don’t fret over a bear. We’ll get plenty of fox today. It’s a perfect day. Low clouds, the right temperature, moisture in the earth and best of all, no wind. Perfect, perfect, perfect.”
As they rode along the foot of the eerie ridge, some trees grew out horizontally from the earth. There were also odd, dark rock formations.
Sister thought it was a perfect day, a day Mercer would have loved. She prayed he could see all this and appreciate the tribute. He was truly loved.
Not one given to expressing deep emotions, she felt them. Irrational as it was, Sister often sensed her son or husband near and she thought other people who had lost someone dearly loved could feel their spirits as well. Somehow she believed Mercer was with them today and if they saw their quarry, she would know it for certain.
Shaker popped over the tiger trap, Kilowatt floating over, followed shortly by Aztec, a smaller horse than Kilowatt, but such a handy fellow. One by one, the field jumped into the woods while Bobby, once through the gate, shepherded the Second Flight toward them by a different trail.
Hounds cleared. Fifteen minutes elapsed, then Dreamboat shifted into third gear, shouted, “Follow me!” and once again, all on! The hounds’ music swirled around the trees, intensified as they crossed Broad Creek, then moved up along the fast rushing waters only to cross again. Within ten minutes, the pack was at Pattypan, always so difficult.
Athena, the great horned owl, had been lazily dozing inside the forge. Mice were everywhere. It was a bit like taking a nap in the supermarket. She cursed when the hounds lurched through the long high windows. “Damn you all!”
No hound bothered to reply because they hurried to Aunt Netty’s den—tidy, as always.
“She’s not here!” Cora surmised.
“Maybe she’ll come back,” Pansy said hopefully.
“Oh, we’ll give the old girl a run for her money,” Ardent promised, for Aunt Netty had teased him many times.
Hounds jumped out the other side of the forge.
Anticipating the direction once Dreamboat headed again into the woods, Sybil loped onto the narrow deer trail to head toward the Lorillard farm. She had to gallop, as this was a longer route, but there was no way through the thick undergrowth, the reason Pattypan was such a good place for a den. There was one way in and pretty much one way out. At least that old farm road ran in both directions.
Sister pushed Aztec onto the road but hounds circled the woods before they shot toward the Lorillard farm. She had a lot of territory to make up. Right behind her, O.J. twisted so many times in the saddle to avoid low-hanging branches, she knew she wouldn’t be needing Pilates today. Behind her, Ginny Howard had the same thought, with Walter moving up behind as other people fell back.
Back on the good road between After All and the Lorillard place, hounds could be heard screaming toward the old home place. By the time the entire field reached the white clapboard home, hounds scratched at the back door.
Sam stood outside in front with Aunt Daniella, who used her cane. Hearing the hounds, she wanted to see the show. Sam didn’t want to leave her, even though hounds blazed for his mudroom door.
Inside, Uncle Yancy cursed a blue streak. Aunt Netty had led the entire hunt right to his best place! She pretended she hadn’t done a thing but she did flatten herself on the top shelf, along with Uncle Yancy.
As the field waited, Shaker dismounted, walked to his hounds.
“Good hounds, good hounds. Come along now.”
“Two foxes!” Pickens screamed, totally beside himself. “Two.”
“Open the door,” Taz begged. “Please open the door. Let me at ’em!”
Tempted as Shaker was because he knew his hounds had to be right, he led them away. If he had opened the door to the Lorillard’s mudroom, they would have ripped it up, and it’s never a good idea to desecrate a landowner’s property.
Waiting, Sister looked back at Ben. Tapping the brim of her hunt cap with her crop, she rode to Phil as Ben came forward.
“Great run,” Phil enthused as Gray came alongside him.
“Phil”—Sister leaned forward on Aztec’s gleaming neck—“we know that Navigator was actually Benny Glitters. Why don’t you tell us about how the horses were switched? That’s why Harlan was killed, wasn’t it? He knew.”
Wedged in, Phil couldn’t take off, but he threw his leg over his horse, dropping to one side, and ran like hell toward Aunt Daniella.
Sam stepped in front of her as Sister, also wedged in, tried to stay clear of Phil’s horse. Ben, too, but Phil had a head start and they were at this moment encumbered by being mounted. Ben reached inside his coat and took out a .38 from his chest holster, well hidden by his heavy winter frock coat.
A tall man, Phil threw Sam to the ground but the slight man gamely rose to try to fight the bigger, heavier man. Phil reached for Aunt Daniella.
Without flickering an eye, she brought up her ebony cane between his legs with great force.
He bent over and that fast, Sam, using both hands, smashed him with an uppercut that sent teeth flying. Phil hit the ground. Ben dismounted, holding his gun to Phil’s temple.
With Kasmir holding Kilowatt, Shaker ran over just as Sam hit Phil again. Shaker put Phil’s arm up behind his back, lifted him up and held him tight.
Sam got control of himself.
“You have the right to remain silent …” Ben began reading Phil his rights, as Phil would be charged with murder.
It had happened so fast. Not one of those now seventy people said a word. Even the hounds stood still, waiting for a command from the huntsman.
Sam took Aunt Daniella by the elbow, for the exertion had cost her. He supported her while Gray, also dismounted, gently took his aunt’s other arm. He handed her her ebony cane, which she had dropped after whacking Phil.
She looked stunned, then looked at all the people wearing black armbands. Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. She put her head on Gray’s shoulder and the tears flooded out.
“He would be so proud,” she gasped, oblivious of Phil or anything else.
“Yes, he would. And he would be proud of you.” Gray kissed her cheek as he and Sam gently walked her to the front door.
Uncle Yancy couldn’t help it. All this commotion. He snuck out, creeping around the back of the mudroom to look. Sister saw him and tears came to her eyes. Mercer had indeed sent a sign.
CHAPTER 31
Two weeks later, a lovely service was held for Mercer, who was buried in the Lorillard plot next to his grandfather. Daniella had requested that his horse Dixie Do be at the service, along with the entire pack of The Jefferson Hunt.
Gray held Dixie’s reins. Mercer’s tack glowed, the run-up stirrups gleamed. The hounds sat silent as stone, with Shaker on foot, in livery, at their head.
The entire hunt club attended, as did many members of Keswick, Farmington, Oak Ridge, Stonewall, Bedford, Deep Run, Casanova, Rockbridge, and Glenmore. Mercer had hunted with so many people over the years.
The glorious day saw a few crocuses peeping up out of the ground. If one stared intently, red could be
seen returning to buds, although the trees still looked barren. Spring was stirring.
After the service, everyone retired to the Bancroft residence because the Lorillard place wasn’t big enough to hold all these people. The Bancrofts had paid for everything, as well as opening their home.
Uncle Yancy—still stuck with Aunt Netty, and back in the mudroom—was glad the party was held elsewhere.
A large framed photograph of Mercer as a child on his first pony stood next to an identically-sized photograph of Mercer in full formal kit wearing a weazlebelly and top hat on Dixie Do, braided for Opening Hunt.
O.J. had flown back from Kentucky for the service. She talked with guests eager to catch up with her, with Kentucky hunting. Sister, Gray, Betty, and Tootie gathered for a moment by the punch bowl.
“It was an ingenious crime.” Betty did give the Chetwynds credit. “And it made their fortune for 121 years.”
O.J. joined them. “Alan and Meg did have tests run on Benny’s, I mean Navigator’s, lineage. Sure enough, he goes back to Matchem. I guess Harlan and who knows, another worker or Old Tom himself, switched the stallions at night. They greatly looked alike. Sometimes the cleverest crimes are the simplest.”
Gray shook his head. “Can you imagine the work? Now the Jockey Club has to go through all the pedigrees for the last 121 years to correct them.”
“They can do it.” Sister smiled. “I have great faith in them. Remember, the founding member of the Jockey Club was Domino’s owner, James Keene.”
“Lucky Phil confessed,” Tootie remarked. “Just spilled it all out.”
“Well, honey.” Betty put down her punch glass. “He had nothing to lose anymore and I don’t think he was in his right mind at the end. The strain of that remarkable dishonesty, the knowledge, the weight of the crime passed to the oldest son from generation to generation, and then the horror of two murders. He told Ben he didn’t really want to kill anyone. He couldn’t see a way out.”
Ben joined them. “I heard my name.”
The small group reviewed what they’d just said.
The sheriff sighed, then said, “You know, Phil cried and cried, and said it was like killing his brother. He loved Mercer. And he said they were actually related. His grandfather had a long affair with Mercer’s grandmother, Daniella’s mother. He said he really felt he’d killed his brother. Obviously, the Chetwynds can afford the best lawyers but he says he wants to be put away.” Ben shrugged. “For what, for reputation? For the money? Kill for that? Even if he had to shut down Broad Creek Stables because of the scandal, Phil would never have been poor.”
“He couldn’t live with the shame,” Sister posited quietly. “Old name, old ways, old money.”
“It’s crazy.” Tootie couldn’t quite understand it. “So he creates more shame. Crazy.”
“That it is.” Sister put her arm around Tootie’s waist. “People have been doing irrational things for thousands of years. We aren’t going to stop now.”
O.J. asked Ben, “Okay, the stallions were switched, but why did Old Tom Chetwynd have Harlan Laprade killed when he brought the slate memorial to Walnut Hall?”
“Money,” said Sister. “Harlan must have been asking for more and more. Blackmail. Harlan loaded Benny Glitters on a big boxcar full of horses going to Broad Creek. No one would really notice that Navigator, who’d ridden on the train from Virginia, was switched. Harlan was in charge of the shipping. Only Old Tom and Harlan knew.”
“And was Harlan a frequenter of houses of ill repute?” Betty couldn’t help but ask.
Ben nodded. “Not that his wife didn’t know he’d done such things in the past, but no one wanted her to know where his clothes were found. The disappearance was bad enough. Making it look like Harlan died in a whorehouse gave Old Tom a cover. Also, Old Tom was sleeping with Daniella’s mother. He didn’t mind getting rid of her husband, who by all accounts was a good horseman but a bad husband. King David did it too, remember?”
“Does Daniella know now?” O.J. asked.
Gray’s voice was low. “She probably does but like her own mother, there are some things a lady doesn’t want to investigate. All this has been quite enough.”
Ben spoke again. “Phil killed Mercer then strung him up. He’s a strong man. If the pogonip lifted, he hoped no one would look closely as they’d become accustomed to the hanging dummy. He wanted to go to the breakfast, look for Mercer, then worry about his friend not showing up. Then he could go out and look for him. Bold and clever.”
And just then, Sam, next to his aunt, her ebony cane in hand, walked in front of the enormous silver punch bowl.
Ed Bancroft tapped a glass. The room fell silent.
“I thank you all for your tribute to my son,” said Daniella. “He was a good son, a good horseman, and a good businessman. I was and will always be proud of him. There are over two hundred years of Laprades and Lorillards buried at the old home place and soon I will rest next to my son.” A murmur went up but she held up her hand. “To everything there is a season. I think Mercer went before his time but we do as the Lord commands. So it was his time and I look forward to mine. All good things must come to an end. When I go, don’t mourn me. If there is any quality of mine you admire, make it your own. The quality I most admired in my son, apart from his love, was his eagerness for life.
“Thank you again and I especially thank Tedi and Edward Bancroft for giving Mercer his last social engagement.” She smiled. “I thank my nephews, Gray and Sam, and I thank Jane Arnold for Mercer’s hunt.
“I wish you all a good life and I know Mercer would want me to say, ‘Good hunting.’ ”
Everyone applauded and Daniella was mobbed. Sensing her fatigue, Sam walked her to a chair. Gray left the small group to attend to his aunt, get her another drink, do all the things Mercer used to do.
That night, Sister visited the stables at Roughneck, saying good night to each of her horses, including the two newcomers from Broad Creek. Then she walked across to the kennels, careful not to awaken anyone if possible. She spied Inky looking at her from the edge of the orchard.
She winked at the beautiful vixen who remained motionless. Then Sister walked back up to her house, the pale smoke curling from the chimney.
She thought the Three Fates had cut the threads of two good lives recently as they were spinning out the lives of others. Spinning, spinning, spinning, and she prayed she would live a much longer life to be part of the tapestry.
To the Reader,
You might wonder how The Jefferson Hunt could have such a good season in such nasty weather. I have no idea.
Our season (Oak Ridge Foxhunt Club) from January to March 2014, proved bitter, snowy with odd, wild temperature bounces as in fifty degrees. Yes, fifty degrees. Without gilding the lily, it was the strangest, worst winter I’ve ever experienced, yet the hunting was terrific. On the days of the huge temperature bounces it was not terrific, granted. The rest of the time, we picked up fox after fox and ran as best we could in snow and sometimes over ice patches. When the snows melted, we ran in mud, returning splattered to the trailers. But when we smiled our teeth were white.
Parking proved more of a problem than hunting.
For those of you who do not foxhunt, most of us who do, do not go out in a deep powdery snow. For one thing, should a fox be out they can’t get away from you. Usually they are tight and warm in their dens. If there is a good crust on the snow, I will take hounds out because the fox, being light, can get away. However, one must be careful because if the crust is too thick it will cut hound pads. One has to use judgment, obviously. Also, if the snow is deep it tires horses and hounds quickly.
A light snow, a few inches on the ground is perfect and to hunt while flakes are twirling down is the best. The horses and hounds become so excited, hounds will throw up snow at one another and people ignore the snow sliding down their collars. It’s too much fun to complain.
If nothing else, I hope the Sister Jane novels impart the respect we hav
e for our quarry and the care we give to our partners: horses and hounds.
Given that 80 percent plus of the U.S. population lives in cities and suburbs, the connection with nature is fading to the detriment of all living creatures. You and I are medium-sized predators. All mammalian creatures divide into predator and prey. To know where one falls on that scale goes a long way to integration in that scale. In other words, sisters and brothers, we are not the crown of creation. But we sure can be fun.
Up and over,
Rita Mae Brown
During hunt season, mid-September to mid-March, you can follow some of our hunts at http://www.facebook.com/sisterjanearnold
Dedicated in Loving Memory
to
Idler, American Foxhound, Bywaters blood
Who patiently taught me to carry the horn
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The oldest equine graveyard in the United States is at Walnut Hall. Benny Glitters, however, is a fictional horse.
The owners of Walnut Hall, Meg Jewett and Alan Leavitt, are not fictional, and Lexington, Kentucky, is grateful for this. Their generosity and kindness is legendary. I especially call attention to their support of the library.
And I thank Alan again for the exciting tour he gave me of his stables and its residents.
As for Jane Winegardner, MFH of Woodford Hounds, what can I say about a beloved friend of years and an inspiring Master? Whenever I think of this hard riding lady, I remember the laughter first.
I also thank Robert M. Lyons, MFH, and Justin Sautter, MFH, of Woodford for their hospitality to Oak Ridge members and myself when we visit.
My much abused whipper-in, Dee Phillips, walked me through most of the DNA material, all that stuff about a mother’s DNA, etc. Thank God, she is a tolerant soul as well as a terrific whipper-in to myself as well as Deep Run, the grand hunt outside of Richmond. The history of that group alone would make a fabulous novel. Deep Run has experienced everything: war, fast women, beautiful horses, men too handsome for their own good and the good of the ladies, and all of this shining with that Virginia veneer of perfect manners. Ah, yes.
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