Cut Throat

by Lyndon Stacey

  ‘I’ve heard a lot about you, young man,’ he said, genially enough. ‘Lindsay would have it that you’re a pretty hot property. I shall expect great things.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ he promised, returning the smile.

  Behind them, Leo led a big brown gelding out of the covered stables.

  ‘Ah, King,’ the Colonel said. ‘King’s Defender. Let’s see what you make of him.’

  ‘Sure.’ Ross nodded. He greeted the animal with a pat and a Polo mint and then tightened the girth. The horse stood like a gentleman as Leo gave Ross an efficient leg-up into the saddle, and he rode into the school adjusting his stirrup leathers as he went.

  Richmond and the Colonel made their way along the outside of the arena and leaned on the fence, the Colonel’s tweed-suited frame propped upon a shooting stick. Bill Scott stood beside his employer and Leo and Sarah stood at the gate to the yard. The two-year-olds had been checked over and moved to another field, and half-a-dozen show-jumps of varying sizes had been erected for Ross’ use.

  He put his intensely interested audience out of his mind and concentrated on the job in hand. King felt mature, calm and confident, but Ross guessed he was going to have to work for his jumps. Nobody had told him anything about any of the horses as yet and he hadn’t asked. He knew this was a test of his ability to read and adapt to his equine partners.

  After ten minutes or so of suppling exercises – circles, serpentines and changes of speed – Ross put King’s Defender at one of the easy training fences. The horse flicked his ears back and forth as he approached, waiting for Ross’ command. Sensing what the horse wanted, he sat deep into the saddle and drove him hard at the jump. With a swish of his tail King responded and the coloured poles flashed safely by beneath his neatly folded legs.

  Ridden decisively, the horse didn’t put a foot wrong and Ross relaxed and began to enjoy himself. It had been nearly a month since he had last been on a horse, and the satisfaction of settling into a smooth partnership again was immense.

  Leo led a second horse through the gate as Ross slowed up, and without stopping to speak to the Colonel, he changed horses.

  The difference was absolute. This mare was smaller, much younger and bubbling with nervous energy. Ross rode her with gentle hands, playing with the bit in her mouth, asking her to listen. Gradually she settled. He turned her towards a small jump and she exploded into action. Caught momentarily off guard, Ross had to use much skill and not a little strength to bring her under control again.

  Rebelling, she threw her head up, legs ramrod stiff, and stopped with her nose touching the poles. He swore at himself under his breath for being caught out like a novice. Swinging the mare away, he circled a time or two, then put her at it again.

  This time he was ready. He kept her on a short bouncy stride and urged her on from three strides out.

  Success.

  She bounced over the fences like a rubber ball, legs in all directions, head high, but touching nothing. As he slowed the mare down, Ross caught sight of the Colonel and Richmond nodding and smiling as they turned away from the fence, and knew he had passed the first test.

  As Ross dismounted in the yard, the Colonel came over and gave the little mare a carrot. ‘Not bad,’ he commented. ‘She’s not the easiest ride.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Ross could see that praise would be hard earned.

  ‘Come up to the house tonight and we’ll have a chat, all right?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Franklin Richmond lingered a little longer.

  ‘He’s taking a big chance on you, you know,’ he said, studying Ross’ face keenly. ‘We all are. If it hadn’t been for young Lindsay’s recommendation you wouldn’t be here, because I have to say you don’t exactly come with impeccable references.’

  Ross was surprised to hear he came with any references at all. ‘I’ve made one or two mistakes,’ he admitted. ‘But then, who hasn’t?’

  Richmond smiled ruefully. ‘Who indeed?’

  He had started to turn away when Ross said impulsively, ‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’

  He paused. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Why did you assume someone poisoned your horse deliberately?’

  Richmond looked up at the cloudless sky and sighed. ‘Ah. I thought you must have noticed that. The thing is, I had a horse die last year, too, and that most definitely wasn’t an accident. I suppose you’ve heard about Bellboy?’

  ‘Sure, but I didn’t realise he was yours until yesterday. He was found dead with his throat cut, wasn’t he? There was quite a buzz on the circuit for a while.’

  Richmond nodded. ‘So you see, when I found a message on my answering service, telling me one of my horses had suddenly died, I thought it was happening all over again.’

  ‘But didn’t they ever find out who killed him?’

  ‘No.’ Richmond sighed again. ‘I think the general consensus was that I had it done.’

  ‘For the insurance?’

  ‘Yes. Well, to be honest, I’d probably have thought the same if it was somebody else’s horse,’ Richmond said. ‘After all, he was seventeen – a fair age for a competition horse, by anyone’s standards – and we were thinking of retiring him at the end of the year. So you can see how people put two and two together. The value of the current Hickstead champion, still in training, would be far greater than that of a retired one, however good he’d been.’

  ‘But that’s not how it was,’ Ross stated slowly, watching the businessman’s face.

  ‘I loved that horse, Ross,’ Richmond said simply, and the remembered anguish showed clearly in his eyes.

  The day passed quickly. There were horses to exercise, to rub down, and to feed. Lunch. Then more exercising, grooming and feeding, tack to clean, and finally the yard to be washed down and swept. At six-thirty in the evening, contented horses munched hay, knee-deep in dry straw beds, and the four weary workers were free to go their separate ways for the evening.

  Ross was exhausted. There were ten horses in the yard, in various stages of training, and he had ridden six of them at one time or another during the day. In addition to that, he had done his share of the routine stablework once he had learned where everything was. It was the hardest day’s work he’d done since leaving hospital four months previously and a dull but persistent ache in his left knee reminded him of that.

  Sarah had climbed on her bicycle and departed for her home in the village, and as Ross lay where he had collapsed on the sofa in his room, he heard Leo go down the wooden stairs and, a few moments later, the roar of his motorbike as he left the yard.

  After the evening meal, Ross combed his hair, pulled on clean boots and jeans and made his way to the main house as the Colonel had suggested.

  At the end of the drive the large grey-stone building looked centuries old as it sat basking in the last of the evening sunshine. Masters, who presumably doubled as chauffeur and butler, opened the impressive, stone-arched, oak front door and with a stiffly polite bow, showed Ross into the study.

  Colonel John Preston turned away from the darkening window at the rear of the room as Ross entered. His gaze travelled up over cowboy boots, faded Levis and blue cotton shirt to Ross’ face and then beyond. ‘Thank you, Masters,’ he said, and the other man withdrew.

  ‘So,’ the Colonel said, after offering his visitor a leather-upholstered chair and a glass of sherry, ‘you’re a Yank.’

  Ross didn’t rise to the bait, merely inclining his head. He sipped the sherry, which was horribly sweet.

  ‘I don’t like Yanks,’ his employer stated uncompromisingly. ‘We could have won the war without them and we don’t need them now.’

  ‘Then why hire me?’ Ross asked evenly.

  The Colonel snorted. ‘I didn’t have much choice with that niece of mine pestering me. Robbie Fergusson, who owns King’s Defender, was threatening to take his horses away if I didn’t find someone soon. Franklin offered to put up the airfare, so what had I got to lose?’ He p
aused, observing Ross thoughtfully over his glass. ‘Lindsay says you’re good. Are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ross said, returning his gaze steadily.

  ‘A big-headed Yank.’

  ‘Did you want me to say no?’

  The Colonel harrumphed.

  ‘I’ve made enquiries about you,’ he said after a moment. ‘Rumour has it you’ve lost your nerve.’

  ‘But you don’t listen to rumour.’

  ‘You think not?’

  ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ Ross observed with indisputable logic.

  The Colonel chuckled suddenly. ‘You don’t beat about the bush, do you, Mr Wakelin?’

  ‘You’re not exactly pussyfooting around yourself,’ Ross said, deciding the gloves were off.

  ‘No, it’s not my way.’ The Colonel regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Tell me, how do you like the place? Do you think you’ll fit in?’

  Ross relaxed a little, sensing another hurdle safely negotiated. He was faintly surprised at the degree of relief he felt, realising that now he was here, he wanted to stay.

  ‘I like it. You’ve got some promising young horses, I’d say.’

  The Colonel nodded, pleased. ‘They’re a mixed bunch, I suppose, but yes, I’d agree there’s a fair bit of talent there. All they need is the right jockey.’

  They sat in silence for a moment, sipping sherry. Somewhere a dog scratched at a door and Ross heard Masters’ voice as he let it out.

  ‘I think you’ll find the grooms are good workers,’ the Colonel said then. ‘Leo is new, of course, barely a month here, but he’s had experience – worked in racing stables in Ireland – and he’s a competent rider. He had good references. Sarah is a local girl. She’s young but immensely dedicated.’ He took a long sip of his sherry. ‘Bill’s a real gem. Came to us ten years ago but he’s been around stables all his life. He’s probably forgotten more about horses than you’ll ever know.’

  Ross had always felt that to be a rather dubious recommendation, but he nodded nevertheless.

  ‘He was a very good steeplechase jockey in his day, until injury put him out of the game,’ the Colonel went on. ‘Never be too proud to ask for his advice.’

  Ross took another sip of sherry, trying not to grimace.

  ‘Who’s in charge in the yard?’

  The Colonel looked at him keenly. ‘You are, if you want to be. But I had hoped you would work as a team.’

  ‘Sure. I hope we will, too, but I like to know where I stand.’

  Colonel Preston grunted and poured himself another sherry, offering Ross a top-up that was politely declined. For a moment there was silence.

  Ross looked around appreciatively at the Colonel’s comfortable study. Worn leather armchairs, an untidy desk, bookshelves from floor to ceiling on one wall, and family photographs everywhere, including some of the Colonel in his army days. One caught his eye particularly.

  ‘My late wife,’ the Colonel said, seeing the American’s interest. ‘Lindsay’s aunt. There is quite a family resemblance, isn’t there? I see Caroline every time Lindsay smiles. It’s almost as though she lives on in her.’

  ‘I see what you mean.’ Ross leaned forward to look more closely. ‘She’s very beautiful. You must miss her.’

  ‘Her car was forced off the road by a drunk driver playing chicken. Our twelve-year-old daughter was in the passenger seat. They were both killed instantly.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ There didn’t seem to be anything else to say.

  The Colonel looked bleak for a moment then pulled himself together.

  ‘So, tell me about yourself. I’d not heard of you until Lindsay spoke of you, although I believe she may have mentioned you in her letters. How long have you been riding?’

  ‘About fifteen years. I started when I was twelve, when I went away to school and spent the holidays with my uncle who was a dealer with a small spread in Indiana. It wasn’t – ah – convenient for me to go home at that time.’ No need to mention his overworked lawyer father, and his flighty socialite mother who had begun to see the disadvantages of having a teenage son around to remind people of her encroaching years.

  ‘Uncle Walter taught me to ride. It was a baptism of fire, I guess you’d say,’ Ross related with a boyish grin. ‘He believed falling off was the best way to learn how to stay on. There were times, when I was spitting out teeth and mouthfuls of dirt, I disagreed with him. But now, I think he was right. It sure taught me to sit tight. Gradually it got so I’d be the one who sorted out the awkward horses, and as I grew older I got a name for it. People would send my uncle their problem horses for retraining, and then one or two of them wanted me to continue riding for them. It was only a seasonal thing because by then I was at college, but I guess I was hooked already. When I graduated I went on to law school – Dad wanted me to join him in partnership – but I couldn’t settle to it. I took a year out, started riding for a yard near my uncle’s, and never went back.’

  ‘So you’re quite well known in the States, are you?’ the Colonel enquired.

  ‘In Indiana, maybe.’ Ross laughed. ‘I’m afraid I got caught in a rut, with a name for being a rough-rider, a sort of trouble-shooter, and that was all I was given to do. Then, a couple of years ago, I went to ride for a trainer-cum-dealer with some really promising horses and began to have some success. The trouble was that every time I got a horse up to top level he would sell it on for a handsome profit and I’d be back to square one again. Good for his business, not so good for my career. Last year I toured the circuit with a string of horses, including one permanent ride owned by a friend of the boss. Vixen. A mare with a great deal of talent and, unfortunately for me, a brain tumour.’

  ‘Hence the accident,’ the Colonel observed.

  ‘That’s right.’ Ross had no wish to talk about the horror of that day.

  ‘You were out of action for . . . how long?’

  ‘Nearly six months all told,’ Ross said. ‘They said it would be longer, but I was lucky. I heal fast.’

  ‘But you didn’t go back to riding?’ the Colonel probed.

  ‘Sure I did, but not to the same place. I had time to think while I was laid up and decided I was through with building somebody else’s career. I wanted to become a full-time showjumper and maybe one day try for the national team. I told my former boss I quit and struck out on my own.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I couldn’t get the rides. Somehow word had gotten round that I’d lost my nerve; that I’d been fired because I wasn’t fit after the accident, physically or mentally.’ The American looked bleak, the wounds too raw, too recent.

  ‘Sour grapes?’

  Ross nodded. ‘I guess so. He took it pretty bad when I left, but it wasn’t as if he’d been paying me while I was laid up or anything. I got a couple of rides from people I’d ridden for in the past, but one way or another they didn’t work out and pretty soon I found I was on a kind of unofficial blacklist.’

  ‘I’ve done a little checking up on you – newspapers and such. You were pretty smashed up, by all accounts,’ the Colonel stated bluntly. ‘It must have affected you to some degree. How do I know those people weren’t right? How do I know you won’t let me down when the going gets tough?’

  ‘You don’t.’ Ross remembered those press reports well. He had laughed over them with Lindsay, in hospital.

  Ross Wakelin, the showjumping rider who was injured in a spectacular fall at a show in Detroit at the weekend, is now recovering in hospital. His promising career has suffered an unfortunate setback after the accident, in which he sustained severe concussion, broken ribs, collarbone and left ankle, and multiple fractures to his left knee. Mr Wakelin’s condition is said by a hospital spokesman to be comfortable.

  There are believed to have been other casualties when Mr Wakelin’s horse left the arena and crashed into the crowds but their injuries are not thought to be severe.

  Comfortable! What the hell did they know? And it was strange how his career had never been described a
s promising when he was actively engaged upon it. By that time he was aware there had been other casualties among the spectators, but luckily, due to the extreme heat, the open north stand had been largely abandoned in favour of the cooler south and west ones and a far greater tragedy averted.

  ‘Then tell me why I should take a chance on you.’ The Colonel broke in on his reflections, bringing him back abruptly to the present. ‘Sell yourself.’

  ‘I’m confident I can make a go of it,’ Ross said, meeting the Colonel’s gaze steadily. ‘But I can promise you this: if at any time I think I can’t, you’ll be the first to know. All I ask is that you give me the same assurance. I’ve had enough of backstabbers.’

  The Colonel nodded. ‘That’s fair enough. Is there anything you want to ask me?’

  ‘Uh . . . Lindsay said your last rider fell out with one of the owners. What was that about?’

  ‘Ah, that was unfortunate,’ the Colonel said. ‘Stephen Douglas. He was a young lad with an ambitious father. He wasn’t really experienced enough for a responsibility of this magnitude and eventually Robbie Fergusson became so unhappy with the way his horses were going he wouldn’t let Stephen ride them any more. The situation was untenable so he had to go. Before that we had Perry Wilson. You may have heard of him? Damn’ fine rider! He retired shortly after Bellboy was killed. His heart just didn’t seem to be in it after that. You’ve heard about that business, I suppose?’

  ‘Lindsay told me about it,’ Ross confirmed. ‘It’s hard to believe someone would do something like that.’

  The Colonel sighed. ‘There seems to be very little humankind is not capable of,’ he said heavily. ‘But it’s all in the past now and we have to move on. And so, to that end, it seems we have a Yank.’

  A slow smile curved the American’s lips. ‘I’ve never worked for a Limey before, either,’ he said. Then added, after a carefully judged pause, ‘Sir.’