Cut Throat

by Lyndon Stacey

  Ross’ eyes snapped open and he sat up. The room swam briefly then steadied. Roland was holding the smug-faced, mahogany Buddha which Ross had recently taken to using as a doorstop.

  ‘Found this on the floor at the top of the stairs,’ Roland said, noticing the direction of the American’s gaze. ‘The archetypal blunt instrument.’

  Ross regarded it with disfavour. ‘I never did like that thing,’ he said with feeling. His head had cleared now and the worst of the pain subsided, leaving in its place a dull ache.

  His first thought on seeing Roland casually holding the Buddha had been one of suspicion but common sense quickly intervened; after all, if Roland had just attacked him from behind the door, he would hardly carry him to the sofa and wait around for him to recover consciousness, would he? Or would he?

  Ross wasn’t sure. He looked at his watch and was surprised to find that only twenty minutes had passed since he had originally set out for his meeting with Franklin Richmond.

  ‘I don’t think you can have been unconscious for long,’ Roland said, divining his thoughts.

  ‘I don’t suppose you saw anyone leaving?’ Ross asked without much hope.

  Roland shook his head. ‘’Fraid not, old chap. I came down to the yard – looking for you, as a matter of fact – and saw your jeep outside with the engine running. I stopped for a chat with Darcy, who’d just come to pick Sarah up, only she wasn’t ready. When you didn’t appear, I came on up. I seem to be making a habit of picking up the pieces, metaphorically speaking,’ he added thoughtfully.

  ‘And you didn’t see anybody?’

  ‘Not a soul. Turned the jeep engine off, though,’ he added, with the air of a child expecting to be praised for its initiative.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ross said wearily.

  ‘Not at all, old boy. Least I could do.’

  ‘I must say you’re taking this all very calmly,’ Ross observed. ‘Everyday occurrence in the antiques trade, is it?’

  Roland’s grey eyes narrowed momentarily. ‘Military family. In the army myself, y’know. Besides, you’re not exactly a gibbering wreck, yourself.’

  ‘I haven’t the energy.’ Ross looked round the room. ‘Well, it would seem I disturbed a burglar. I can’t imagine what they thought I had worth stealing.’

  ‘A burglar?’ Roland was on his way to the bathroom. He returned with a towel, dripping water. ‘Here, this may help. A burglar, you say? In broad daylight?’

  ‘What else?’ Ross held the blissfully cold wad to his head, watching Roland closely all the while.

  He shrugged. ‘You’re probably right, old boy. Thing is, are you going to call the police? Ought to really, you know.’

  Ross groaned. ‘No, I don’t think so. I couldn’t face them right now. By the way, what was it you wanted me for?’

  Roland looked momentarily lost. ‘Oh, nothing that can’t wait. Don’t you think you ought to see a doctor?’

  ‘Probably, but I guess I’ll survive. I’m already late for a dinner date.’ Cautiously, he stood up. His vision fragmented then cleared.

  ‘You’d better let me drive you,’ Roland said, regarding him with a judicious eye. ‘Are you going like that?’

  Water had run down Ross’ neck and soaked his cotton shirt.

  ‘It’ll dry.’ He took a comb from his pocket and, discarding the soggy towel, gingerly tidied his hair. His scalp was sore but the skin seemed unbroken. He thanked providence for a thick skull.

  Even though he was not sure he entirely believed Roland’s version of events, he accepted his offer of a lift with gratitude. His head still felt muzzy, and after all, if the Colonel’s son had been his assailant – for whatever reason – and had wanted to do him lasting harm, he had had ample opportunity.

  When they reached the yard, Sarah was just leaving with Darcy. She waved and Ross felt strangely as though time had stood still for the last half-hour or so. He put the jeep back in its parking space behind the cottage while Roland went to fetch his own car.

  The Colonel’s son drove his white Aston Martin at speed with casual brilliance and a fine disregard for other road users. Ross gritted his teeth and almost wished he had elected to drive himself after all. All the same, Roland deposited him safely in the car park of the Dovecote barely ten minutes later than the appointed time.

  Ross thanked him and said he would call a taxi for the return journey.

  He’d been undecided as to whether to mention the attack to Richmond, as he couldn’t see what connection it could possibly have with Franklin’s problems, but in the event, the decision was taken from him.

  Franklin took in Ross’ slight pallor and still damp shirt and instantly wanted to know what had happened. Ross told him the whole story, backtracking to Leo’s departure and including Lindsay’s fall.

  ‘Is she all right?’ Franklin asked, concerned.

  Ross nodded. ‘I rang earlier. She’s a bit bruised but otherwise okay. She was lucky.’

  ‘And you think it was Leo?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘And tonight?’

  ‘I can’t think who else,’ Ross said, an image of Roland holding the Buddha flashing across his mind.

  Franklin shook his head in disbelief. ‘He must be unhinged, Ross. He could have killed you.’

  Ross was already uncomfortably aware of that. Had Roland in fact saved his life by coming up to find him when he had?

  It was only a relatively short drop from the window at the back of his room into the sand of the schooling area. Very easy for somebody to leave that way if they wished to remain unseen. The window had been open; it almost always was in this heat. On the other hand, Roland had said he’d found the Buddha at the top of the stairs . . .

  The waiter materialised bearing their drinks and took their food orders, apparently memorising them along with those of two neighbouring tables.

  ‘So, what are you going to do about him?’ Franklin asked when they were alone once more.

  Ross shrugged. ‘What can I do? I’ve no proof and no idea why he should be in my room. If he was after money, he’ll have been disappointed, that’s for sure. I presume he didn’t intend to attack me. If he saw me go out, he would’ve thought he was safe for a while, but then I charged back in like a stampeding rhino.’

  ‘What if he comes back?’

  Ross chuckled. ‘If he tries again this evening, he’ll wish he hadn’t. I left old Fido on guard!’

  ‘Seriously, though. If he’s determined, he might have another try. You’d better be careful.’

  ‘Oh, I will,’ Ross promised. ‘I need another dose of Leo like I need a hole in the head! He’s already been busy spreading malicious rumours.’ He told the businessman about Leo’s efforts at the show.

  Franklin was thoughtful, and later, as they tackled an excellent game pie, he sighed heavily. ‘You know, I can’t help feeling that it’s a shame our friend Leo has such a cast-iron alibi for the time Bellboy was killed. It would be so neat if he was our man. From what you say, and what McKinnon tells me, he’s ruthless enough.’

  ‘He’s nowhere near smart enough, though,’ Ross pointed out. ‘His idea of subtlety is a smack in the face. Your guy is devious. He’s not so hot-blooded; prepared to take his time.’

  ‘That’s what makes him so frightening,’ Franklin agreed. ‘And so difficult to stop. And added to that, if he’s as keyed in to what’s going on as we think he is, he could quite possibly use Leo’s mischief-making to cover his own tracks.’

  Ross nodded, feeling depressed. He’d thought of that. ‘I’m supposed to be helping you, not adding to your problems,’ he apologised.

  ‘It’s hardly your fault,’ Franklin protested. ‘Look, I’m going to ask McKinnon to put a man on Leo. See if we can’t catch him in the act.’

  Ross stopped chewing in surprise. ‘You don’t have to do that,’ he protested. ‘You’ve got enough problems of your own.’

  A smile hovered about Franklin’s mouth.

  ‘You are my prob
lem, if you’ll excuse the terminology,’ he said. ‘I have a vested interest in your career, remember? I need someone to ride my horses and you happen to fit the bill rather well. I don’t intend to let a psychopathic ex-groom jeopardise my chances of seeing my horses jump at Olympia.’

  13

  The two-day show at the weekend passed off with reasonable performances from all the horses that attended, even Ginger, although none of them was quite good enough on the day to carry off a prize.

  Ross was content. In all honesty, you had to expect more days like that than not.

  Leo was again at the show and doing his work well. Several of Ross’ friends and acquaintances came up to him, openly expressing disbelief at his ex-groom’s claims. Many more, unfortunately, turned their backs on him or made disparaging remarks that he was somehow able to overhear.

  ‘Well, it’s a good way to whittle down your Christmas card list,’ Ross remarked dryly to Mick Colby, who was one of those who dismissed Leo’s vicious rumour-mongering for what it was.

  ‘I must try it,’ the Englishman joked. ‘But honestly, you’d think people would believe the evidence of their eyes, not the word of some spiteful moron who’s obviously got an axe to grind. And it’s not as if he’s doing himself any good by it. People may listen to him but he won’t win himself any friends, and he can kiss any idea of another groom’s job goodbye!’

  ‘My heart bleeds for him,’ Ross murmured.

  Danielle rode alongside the pair, glancing archly through her lashes.

  ‘And who are you kissing goodbye, Mick?’ She pronounced his name ‘Meek’ and judging by the look in his eyes, he didn’t mind a bit.

  ‘Depends who’s offering,’ he responded swiftly.

  ‘Oh, I’ll ask around for you, if you like,’ Danielle informed him coyly as she rode on by.

  ‘The little minx!’ Mick breathed, grinning.

  Ross philosophically regarded this cementing of friendships as the silver lining to Leo’s cloud.

  It was hard to be philosophical, however, when on Monday morning Bill Scott passed the Sportsman across the breakfast table. He said nothing but the look in his eyes warned Ross that something was amiss.

  The paper was open on the equestrian pages and there, amidst reports on the flat racing season and the World Dressage Championships, was Harry Douglas’ column. On this occasion it bore the headline STRESS AND THE COMPETITION RIDER.

  Ross read on with a deep sense of misgiving.

  The article began by citing the recent, tragic case of a flat-racing jockey who had never quite regained the winning edge after suffering a totally unexpected fall. The article went on:

  It is not always the extent of injuries that determines the severity of an accident, more the level of trauma or shock suffered.

  Some jockeys, three-day-event and showjumping riders thrive on high levels of risk – others ignore it or find ways to deal with it. Most methods are harmless, such as one rider who uses yogic meditation to improve his physical and mental balance, and others who play golf or racket sports to help them wind down and relax between competitions.

  Unfortunately, there will always be a few who can find no safe way to cope with the stresses of competing in these unavoidably hazardous sports. These few, and they are only a few, will either take the sensible option of retirement or, regrettably, resort to artificial stimulants such as alcohol or drugs to help them through. Neither is a lasting solution, of course. Sooner or later, each one of them will be found out and will face the censure and pity of their fellow competitors.

  So are we asking too much of our horses and horsemen? No, I don’t think so. In my opinion it is up to each individual and those around them to recognise their own limitations and withdraw from competition before they endanger themselves, their horses or, as in a case overseas last year, the spectators.

  ‘Well?’ Bill was obviously awaiting a reaction.

  ‘Well, what?’ Ross enquired coolly, putting the paper down. Inside, he was seething.

  ‘Well, that’s you, isn’t it?’ the stable manager stated baldly. ‘That bit about the case overseas . . . that’s you.’

  ‘Bill!’ Maggie looked unhappy.

  ‘Well, it is. Anyone can see that.’

  ‘I don’t think it mentions my name,’ Ross said, helping himself to a slice of toast.

  Bill grunted. ‘He doesn’t need to.’

  ‘Nobody will take any notice, Ross. You’ll see.’ Maggie smiled encouragingly at him. ‘All the same, he shouldn’t be allowed to write things like that. And to think, he used to come and drink coffee at this very table when Stephen was here.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s not worth worrying about,’ Ross said.

  All the same, it rankled. Douglas’ raking over the ashes of the incident in the States was well below the belt.

  There had been casualties amongst the onlookers when his horse had somersaulted into the crowd that day, although they hadn’t told him right away. Most were minor, but one ten-year-old girl had suffered damage to her spine and was now confined to a wheelchair. He had visited the child in hospital until her mother had found out and screamed abuse at him.

  Many a time when Ross rode into the ring he thought of that little girl, and her thin, brave face regularly haunted his dreams, but to suggest that he could in some way have prevented it . . .

  Bitterness welled up and he pushed aside his plate, got up and made for the door. He felt, rather than saw, Bill’s scornful expression as he left the room.

  To avoid the sticky heat, Ross made for the cool twilight of the tackroom. Before he reached it, however, a Mercedes convertible swept into the yard bearing James and Lindsay.

  ‘Ross!’ Lindsay jumped out of the car as it stopped, looking, to the American’s eyes, totally adorable in floral print trousers and a cropped, lacy top.

  ‘Hello, Princess,’ he greeted her, smiling lazily.

  ‘Ross! Have you read it?’

  Ross sighed and nodded. ‘I have.’

  ‘Well?’ she demanded.

  He groaned. ‘Don’t you start!’

  ‘But it’s not fair!’ Lindsay protested, her wide, blue-grey eyes searching his face.

  Ross was aware of a strong urge to take her upturned face in his hands and kiss it soundly. He stifled the impulse. He didn’t think even James’ tolerance would stretch that far.

  ‘Life’s not fair, Princess,’ he said gently.

  ‘Oh, don’t be so bloody laid-back!’ she said explosively. ‘I know you better than that. You’re hopping mad, deep down. So, what are you going to do about it? Nobody could blame you for what happened to that child.’

  ‘Her mother did,’ Ross observed. She had plagued him with vicious telephone calls and letters for weeks.

  ‘But that was different. She was emotionally disturbed. She’d a history of it. The father didn’t blame you. This article is wicked. It’s libellous. You should do something!’

  ‘It’s only libel if he mentions my name,’ Ross pointed out.

  ‘Oh!’ Lindsay all but stamped her foot. ‘Don’t you care?’ she demanded despairingly.

  ‘Lindsay,’ James put his arm round her, ‘Ross is right. The best thing to do with this kind of spite is to ignore it.’

  ‘But it’s so unfair,’ she protested again in a quieter voice.

  ‘So how are you feeling?’ Ross changed the subject. ‘Any ill effects from your fall?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Her tone said it was not her that needed looking after.

  ‘Can I get you a coffee or anything?’ Ross looked from one to the other.

  ‘Er, no, thanks all the same,’ James answered for them both. ‘We’re just on our way out for the day. We really only called in to give you this. We’ve just been up to the house with the Colonel’s.’

  Ross looked down at the silver-edged envelope James was passing to him. His heart sank.

  ‘It’s our formal engagement party. Two weeks’ time. I hope you can come.’ James said earnestly, gi
ving Lindsay’s shoulder a squeeze.

  Ross forced a smile. ‘Congratulations! And thank you. Though I don’t know what I can wear. I don’t think I packed my tux.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. Anything will do,’ James assured him cheerfully.

  ‘Oh, I’ll come as I am, then,’ Ross joked, gesturing at his ragged, cut-off jeans and almost wishing he dared, just to see Lady Cresswell’s face.

  When they left, shortly after, he stood staring despondently at the unopened envelope in his hand and wondered what possible excuse he could find for not attending.

  The wedding itself he refused to contemplate.

  As the week advanced there were signs of the long-awaited break in the weather. Although it was still very warm, a fitful breeze sprang up and clouds of promising dimensions began to haunt the horizons.

  The Oakley Manor horses attended the regular mid-week show at Lea Farm. Ross decided to give the bigger classes a rest and thus also Bishop and Woodsmoke. With Flowergirl and Simone he attacked the speed classes and all but swept the board. With Fly, on the other hand, he demolished practically the entire course in two novice classes and resigned himself to returning to the drawing board.

  During a short breathing space between classes, Ross was sitting on the horsebox ramp trying not to mind the various cold shoulders being turned to him, when he was hailed by a familiar foghorn voice. He looked up.

  ‘Annie!’ he exclaimed with genuine pleasure. ‘Good to see you!’

  ‘Prove it to me. Buy me a drink!’

  ‘Sure.’ Ross located Danny and explained. Then, with Annie’s burly figure striding beside him, he made his way to the refreshment room overlooking the indoor arena.

  ‘Your leg’s no better, I see,’ she remarked as they ordered beer and made their way to an unoccupied table.

  ‘It had a slight set-back,’ he admitted.

  ‘You ought to get it looked at again. Physiotherapy might help.’

  ‘No, thank you! I’ve had a bellyful of that.’

  ‘Coward!’ she teased. ‘You men are all chickenhearted.’