Cut Throat

by Lyndon Stacey

  He had been a good listener, interrupting only occasionally and then with intelligent questions. Once past the initial astonishment, he had assimilated the information remarkably quickly, considering that it was presumably all new to him. Ross supposed that was all part of his military training and probably what had helped to raise him to the rank he had attained.

  It had begun to rain about half an hour ago and now it was lashing down, or more accurately along, periodically thrown against the window like sea spray. Ross watched it absentmindedly and pitied anyone caught at sea on a day like this. He hoped the motor museum was a mainly indoor affair and that the boys’ visit would not be spoiled. They had planned to go to the cinema after Beaulieu, so they wouldn’t be back for several hours yet.

  Finally the Colonel lifted his thoughtful gaze from the desktop and looked directly at Ross.

  ‘I suppose I should say that I’ve been guilty of misjudging you,’ he said then. ‘But, quite frankly, I haven’t. All along I’ve struggled to reconcile what I was hearing of you with the impression I was forming of your character. The two just wouldn’t mesh. It’s a relief, in many ways, to know the truth. I’m not usually guilty of poor judgement.’ He sighed. ‘If only the whole thing wasn’t such an infernal tangle. I mean, Darcy! I can hardly believe it. Poor Franklin! The thing is, I can’t see an easy way out of it. Whatever we do, people are going to be badly hurt. It’s a bloody mess!’

  Ross nodded his agreement.

  ‘I wish you’d told me before,’ the Colonel said, not for the first time.

  ‘I wish I could have, believe me,’ Ross said. ‘But it wasn’t my decision to make. I’m sorry.’

  In spite of the unhappy situation, it was good to be back on the level with this man for whom he felt a good deal of liking and respect.

  ‘I understand,’ the Colonel said. ‘But is there no other way to resolve it all? This plan of yours seems sound enough but I don’t like your involvement. If Darcy falls for it, he’ll be like a cornered bear, lashing out at whoever’s closest, and that will be you. Heaven knows, you’re hardly his favourite person as it is!’

  Ross shook his head. ‘I wish there was but it’s important to catch him red-handed. It’s the only way to be certain. I’m not out to play the hero, I can assure you. McKinnon’s men will be there to take over as soon as we’ve hooked our fish. I don’t think there’ll be any danger.’

  It was one of those statements, blithely made, that he was to remember later.

  The telephone on the desk rang, forestalling any further comment.

  The Colonel answered it, listened and handed it wordlessly to Ross. It was McKinnon calling back, rather faint and crackly due to the effects of the high wind on the line, but what he had to say was clear enough.

  ‘Okay, it’s on. You’ll have all the back-up you need. One of my men will be with you about seven o’clock to fit the wire. And, Ross – be careful, will you?’

  As he replaced the receiver his heart was thudding heavily.

  ‘It’s set,’ he told the Colonel, calmly. ‘All we have to do now is bait the trap.’

  ‘Are you going to ring from here?’

  Ross shook his head. ‘Better not. I’d normally use the one in the stable office. I don’t know how closely Darcy’s monitoring the yard now but he’s pretty smart and I don’t want to run any risk of giving the game away at this late stage. Just remember, when your phone rings don’t answer it.’

  The Colonel stood up with Ross and accompanied him to the door.

  ‘You’d better borrow a coat,’ he said, following Ross out into the hall. ‘Otherwise you’ll be soaked to the skin by the time you get back to the yard.’

  In the comparative gloom of the hall Roland was standing, apparently absorbed in study of the telephone directory.

  ‘I thought you’d gone out,’ his father grunted, without ceremony.

  ‘I came back,’ he stated somewhat unnecessarily. He put the directory down on the highly polished table beside the phone. ‘Awfully breezy out there. Not the day for golf.’

  The idea of anyone setting out at any time that day with a view to playing golf was so preposterous that Ross had to smile. Roland touched an imaginary cap and disappeared through the open door into the kitchen.

  The Colonel wasn’t amused. ‘I sometimes wonder if my son isn’t one or two beagles short of a pack,’ he said, shaking his head.

  Ross laughed, then looked thoughtfully from the kitchen doorway to the telephone on the hall table, and thought that Roland might just be the cleverest one of them all.

  An hour and a half later, just before eight o’clock, Ross was in Woodsmoke’s stable, directly beneath his own room, awaiting Darcy Richmond’s arrival. The rain had stopped but the wind, if anything, had increased. He had been there perhaps ten minutes but didn’t think he’d have to wait much longer. Ross didn’t doubt that Darcy would come, for a quarter of an hour earlier Franklin’s nephew had been on the receiving end of a very disturbing phone call.

  Knowing that Franklin would not be at home, because he was at that moment with McKinnon, Ross had telephoned and asked to speak to him.

  ‘Ross!’ There was a pause while he imagined Darcy frantically speculating as to what might have gone wrong with his plan. ‘Er, Uncle Frank’s not here at the moment,’ he went on, recovering his poise. ‘Can I take a message?’

  ‘Sure, thanks. Just tell him he needn’t pick Peter up this evening because I’ve got to go out and can drop him off on the way, if you like. I’ve just got a couple more phone calls to make, then I’ll run him home in the Land-Rover.’

  He had put the receiver down smartly, pretending not to notice Darcy’s urgent protests, and then lifted it again and left it lying on the table.

  The Scotts had been evacuated, at Franklin’s request, to the main house, and the Colonel would let his telephone ring unanswered. Unless he had miscalculated badly, Ross felt sure that Darcy would by now be well on his way to the yard in a state of near panic. He could almost find it in himself to feel sorry for the guy.

  Almost.

  Woody munched steadily on his hay, showing the unconcern of a veteran towards both the gale and Ross’ unusual behaviour. Suddenly, though, he pricked his ears and swung his head towards the door. In the same instant, Ross heard the roar of a rapidly decelerating engine above the howl of the wind.

  Instinctively, he pressed himself flat to the stable wall as Darcy leapt from his car and immediately began shouting alternately for Peter and Ross. He sounded panicky and, receiving no answer, ran to the door that led up to Ross’ room. He took the stairs two at a time, judging by the speed of his ascent, and banged briefly around before charging down again and out into the yard.

  Peering through the stable window, Ross saw him check the tackroom and the stable office and, on the way out, pause to read to the numberplate of the yard’s Land-Rover. What he saw obviously didn’t reassure him and he began yelling again with renewed vigour.

  ‘Ross! Peter! Where the hell is everybody? Ross! Damn you!’

  He ran over to the cottage but found to his frustration that the door was locked. It said something for his state of mind that he didn’t apparently find it strange that both of the Scotts should be out, when the Land-Rover was parked in clear view in the yard and their family car was beside the cottage. Instead, he made a sound that was something between a howl and a groan, and kicked the door hard in desperation.

  ‘Where are you?’ he yelled at the top of his voice. ‘Peter! Ross! For God’s sake, somebody! Maggie! Oh, God, they can’t have gone. Please don’t say they’ve gone! Ross, damn you . . .’ He rattled the door frantically, then stood back from the cottage looking up at the windows.

  Ross judged it was time to make his presence known. He stepped quietly out of the stable, pushing aside Woody who had finally succumbed to curiosity and was standing with his head over the door, steadily winding a length of hay into his chomping jaws. Darcy had now given up at the cottage and was run
ning towards his car.

  ‘Looking for someone?’ Ross called.

  Darcy stopped mid-stride and whipped round. His eyes narrowed as he saw Ross and he looked quickly past him for a sight of Peter.

  ‘Where is he? Where’s Peter?’ he hissed. ‘And where did you come from?’

  ‘I was hiding,’ Ross said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. ‘I wanted to see what you’d do when you couldn’t find us. Your reaction was pretty interesting. Why, for instance, should we not go? What could possibly be wrong?’

  For a moment Darcy appeared to consider caution, but his hatred was stronger. With a very ugly expression he stepped a pace or two closer. ‘You sneaky bastard! You set this up, didn’t you? How did you find out?’

  ‘About what?’ Ross would have liked to take a step or two back but in this wind he wasn’t sure what the effective range of the wire strapped to his chest would be.

  ‘Don’t act stupid! About the Land-Rover. Why didn’t you go out this morning? You said you were going out.’

  ‘I did,’ Ross said, coldly furious now that Darcy had confirmed his guilt beyond doubt. Something in him had clung to the hope that he was wrong, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary. ‘You damn’ near killed me, you evil son-of-a-bitch!’

  ‘I meant to!’ Darcy had thrown caution to the winds now, his easy-going, Mr Nice Guy image gone as if it had never existed. ‘I wish I had, you bastard! You’ve ruined everything with your interfering nosiness. I should have hit you harder that night in your room. You sucked up to Franklin. You tried to turn Peter against me. I warned you twice and I thought, after the other night, you’d be finished! I thought the Colonel would throw you out. And Uncle Frank . . . he thinks the sun shines out of your arse. I thought it would show him you’re no better than the rest of them . . . But he stuck by you. Why?’

  The last word sounded agonised and Ross got the impression that Darcy’s hatred of him had now become even more prominent in his mind than the extortion plot. He felt the hairs prickle on the back of his neck. Being the target of such undisguised venom was not a comfortable experience. He wondered how much McKinnon would need to hear before he considered moving in.

  ‘He stuck by you too, fella,’ he said steadily. ‘Even when you didn’t deserve it.’

  ‘He had a guilty conscience!’ Darcy declared scornfully. ‘He cheated my father and felt he had to make it up to me. So he played the Good Samaritan – helping his penniless nephew; sending him to expensive schools; giving him a job and shares in the company; forgiving all his sins. I screwed his wife, did you know?’

  Ross nodded. He felt a pang of sympathy for Franklin, who was no doubt listening with McKinnon.

  ‘And he forgave me!’ Darcy gave a great shout of laughter. ‘What a bloody saint! I told him it was just once but it was right from the start and he never guessed! God knows how he ever made any money, he’s a pushover. It should have been half mine, you know, the company,’ he added bitterly. ‘My father owned half of it.’

  ‘But he sold it to Franklin for gambling money,’ Ross observed mildly.

  ‘That’s a lie!’ Darcy cried, his face suffused with hatred. ‘Franklin tricked him and I’m going to make damned sure he doesn’t do the same to Peter and me.’

  ‘Is that why you tried to blackmail him?’

  ‘I did blackmail him!’ Darcy asserted proudly. ‘I was going to bleed him dry. I’d have done it, too. I would have bled him dry and then taken Peter from him. He was running scared until you came along and fouled it all up!’

  Gotcha! Ross thought, triumphantly. That should be all that McKinnon needed to hear. The wind gusted mightily and a shower of slates slithered off the roof. Somewhere in the distance a tree groaned and toppled with an impressive crash.

  Darcy ignored the slates, stepping nearer to the American. ‘What have you done with Peter?’ he asked then, remembering why he had come.

  ‘Nothing. He’s at the cinema, as far as I know.’ Ross stood his ground, caution battling with pride. ‘He’s quite safe. He still has to rely on that wheelchair, though, doesn’t he? Tell me, how do you live with yourself, knowing you did that to your own son?’ He had no proof, but everything pointed to it: their physical similarity, Darcy’s affair with Marsha and his jealousy over Peter’s admiration for Ross.

  Darcy’s reaction removed any lingering doubt.

  ‘No!’ He almost screamed the word and Ross took a step back in spite of himself. ‘I never meant that to happen, I swear it! The driver was incompetent. He wasn’t meant to hit any of the children, just scare them – to scare Franklin. It was just another threat. He was an incompetent fool!’

  ‘You’re the fool, fella!’ Ross said contemptuously. ‘You had everything going for you but you just couldn’t get rid of that chip on your shoulder. Well, you’ve had it now.’

  ‘Says who?’ Darcy sneered, stepping ever closer, menace in every line of him. ‘There’s no one else here. Who’s going to believe a drunken, nerve-shattered cripple with a grudge?’

  Without taking his eyes off the American, he reached into an inner pocket and produced a flick knife with which Ross was uncomfortably familiar. The blade clicked open smoothly.

  Where the hell was McKinnon?

  ‘Especially,’ Darcy went on, ‘when they find you’ve tried to commit suicide by cutting your wrists. Or maybe they won’t find you until it’s too late. “Poor Ross,” they’ll say. “He just couldn’t take it any more.” And I’ll be as shocked and upset as the rest of them.’

  He appeared to find the prospect immensely satisfying and Ross felt his temper rising. It was no part of the plan to tell Darcy he was wired, but the cavalry should be arriving any moment now and he doubted that revealing it would put him in any more danger than he was in already. It might, if anything, give Darcy pause for thought.

  Ross patted his torso. ‘Maybe nobody would believe me,’ he admitted. ‘But I’d say you’ve been pretty convincing yourself.’

  Darcy’s rapidly changing expressions were almost comical. He ran quickly through surprise, disbelief and dismay, and settled once more for vicious loathing.

  ‘You sneaky bastard!’ he hissed a second time. ‘You’re wired!’

  Ross thought that rich, coming from someone who had unashamedly listened in on countless occasions, but his amusement was short-lived. Only a few feet separated them now and Darcy was advancing with a disturbing light in his eyes.

  ‘Who’s listening?’ he demanded. ‘Who, damn you? Is it McKinnon?’

  Ross stood his ground, keeping a wary eye on the knife. Because his temper was high, he smiled maliciously, gaining a perverse enjoyment from the moment.

  ‘McKinnon. Your uncle. The Colonel. Do you want me to go on? I’d say they’ve heard enough, wouldn’t you? They’ll be here any minute.’

  It was too late to back down now. Ross could only hope he could fend Darcy off for as long as it took them to get there.

  Where the hell were they? How long could it take to drive up the lane from the road, for heaven’s sake? With a sudden, sickening sense of foreboding, he remembered hearing a falling tree. If it had been one of the limes at the end of the drive . . .

  With an inarticulate cry, Darcy launched himself at Ross, his knife hand swinging for the American’s belly. Ross blocked the thrust instinctively, stepping aside as he did so, and Darcy’s foot lashed out, smashing sickeningly into his knee.

  Ross’ desperate defence crumbled. He fell back in agony, to land sitting against the stable wall. Inside the box, Woody snorted in alarm.

  Darcy stepped forward to follow up his advantage and Ross could only watch him come. There was nothing within reach that could conceivably be used as a weapon and he would be damned if he was going to give Darcy the satisfaction of seeing him try to crawl away.

  Darcy leant forward, his lip curling unpleasantly as he held the knife up for Ross to see, and Ross was calculating the merits of pulling him on to a head butt when two things happe
ned almost simultaneously. Another tremendous gust of wind blew a second shower of tiles on to Darcy’s head and shoulders and three burly men sprinted, shouting, into the yard.

  Darcy was not beyond thought. He decided to cut his losses. As two of the men ran forward, leaving one at the entrance to the Manor drive, he raced for the nearest vehicle, which happened to be the yard Land-Rover. Ross groaned inwardly. The keys were in it, as they almost always were. It was yard policy in case of emergency and had become a habit.

  Darcy wrenched the nearside door open, slid in and along the seat and gunned the engine. For one short moment Ross thought it wasn’t going to start. It was known for being temperamental.

  Not today.

  It gave a polite cough and started obligingly. Within moments Darcy had it in gear and, ignoring his pursuers’ commands to stop, had swung it round and was accelerating across the yard.

  At this point, Ross wouldn’t have given much for the chances of the single man guarding the drive but, much to his surprise, Darcy turned the vehicle the other way and drove hard at the five-bar gate into the home field.

  The gate was a heavy wooden one, built to last, but it hadn’t been fashioned with the idea of withstanding an assault from an accelerating Land-Rover, and it didn’t.

  By this time, Ross had dragged himself up to a standing position by hanging on to the stable door. His left leg, when put gingerly to the ground, felt as though it had been forcibly filleted and set up a protest that brought him out in a sweat.

  The three burly individuals looked at the departing Land-Rover, then at each other, and raced in unspoken agreement for Darcy’s abandoned car.

  ‘We’ll take it from here,’ one of them called to Ross as the powerful engine burst into life.

  Not in that, you won’t, he thought sardonically, watching the silver beauty skid as it hit the wet grass of the field.

  He briefly considered the other Land-Rover, hidden away in the shed, but doubted if his knee would co-operate enough even to get it in gear.