by James Anson
"Stop that, his purring goes right through me," growled Robert. "What was the message?"
Michael passed him the paper. Robert read it and swore.
"Have to find an excuse to miss that; see what you can come up with."
Michael looked round and nodded to his ancestor's portrait on the wall. "Looks well here. I'm not getting him back, am I?"
"Nope, he brought us together. What are you hanging round for?"
"To drag you out," said Michael. "You've been cooped up for over a week with that damned book. You need some fresh air. I'll go and make sandwiches."
"Mike! Just a minute!" Robert hared after him.
Michael was peering into the fridge. "Good, there's some cold ham left. Cheese and pickle all right for you? Couple of cans of beer. I'll get the horses saddled - we'll go for a good ride up by the old racecourse."
"Mike, I'm too busy. I have to get this chapter right."
Michael slung the bag over his shoulder. "Come on, Rob. I missed having you out with me lately." He looked like a beseeching, blue-eyed spaniel.
Robert sighed. "Don't know why I let you get away with it. Here - " he went to a drawer and tossed over a large bar of fruit and nut. "Put that in too. I could do with a breather."
Robert leaned back comfortably against the tree-trunk. Michael was sketching beside him, Flash and Piper were grazing steadily and he had been scribbling in his notebook.
"I think I've thought of a way round it," he said to Michael.
"Um," said Michael. He had no idea of what 'it' was, but so long as Robert was happy ...
Robert looked at him a moment. "Turned out well, hasn't it?" he remarked.
"Said it would."
"Fine to be as confident as you are," said Robert. "And it's our anniversary next month - bet you forgot. What are you getting me?"
"Taking you to Switzerland," said Michael. "Lucerne. You'll like it. First class travel, too. Well, for most of us."
"Hang on," said Robert, sitting up. "Who is us? Us as in you and me, or us as in - ?"
"Only sixteen of us," said Michael, "and that's counting the horses. The army said fine - you're going as my assistant. Just like Paris. You enjoyed yourself there," he added brightly.
"Enjoyed myself! I spent the whole time throwing people up onto horses after you put your shoulder out, and being an agony aunt for the lads. All I didn't do was see Paris, except from the windows of a horsebox! Besides, they'll suspect about us - surprised they haven't already."
"It doesn't happen in Ireland," said Michael. "And if by chance it did, as you've found yourself a decent Irish fella to live with, well, that makes it all right. Now, are you going to see the Alps with me?"
"Yes," sighed Robert. "And if I don't see them there will be trouble. Let's see what you've sketched ... Not bad. I heard from Captain Higgins this morning: we have our theories down to two now. I'll give him a mention in the book if I ever crack it."
"You will," said Michael. "Never give up on anything, you. Got me, didn't you?"
"Oliver Fleming’s murder is a harder nut than you ever were," said Robert.
"Anyway, was worth it. Now, pin your ears back and listen. Remember where I was stuck? Well this is how I see it going now."
He began to read.
Part Two – Second Round
Chapter Eight
Michael paid off his taxi and gave the grumbling driver instructions on the quickest way back to the nearest main road. Then, hefting his bag, he paused to survey his home.
Parsons Farm drowsed in the early morning light; a heat mist drifting over gave it a look of rural enchantment worthy of inclusion in Country Living. Michael always saw it that way; of course he ignored the squeaking gate, the sagging fence and the fact that though the moss-grown roof tiles were undoubtedly picturesque, they also hid the fact that the roof leaked badly in several places.
It was now 5 a.m.; the birds were singing their socks off, while from down the lane Mr Perkins' cockerel, Frodo, added his voice to the dawn chorus. Michael hoped Robert was sound asleep; he tended to be restive and unappreciative if woken early, and by any standards 5 a.m. was early.
Michael made his way up the path to the side passage door, noting that Robert had been busy again: grass freshly trimmed and the borders tidy. He sniffed appreciatively at the stocks and opened the side door. (On most farmhouses the front door is never used except on great social occasions like weddings and funerals - unless, of course, a member of the family is the sort of bright spark who bets that it is possible to ride Daisy in the front and out the back. This feat, though certainly possible, invariably leads to conflict with the domestics.) Michael therefore unlocked the passage door, and was immediately confronted by a very large jug filled with dried flowers, which he just managed to avoid stumbling over. He gave it a curious look; while Robert had several strange habits, up to now a taste for interior decoration had not been one of them. He dropped his bag beside the bench flanking a row of wellington boots, drying anoraks and Robert's bicycle, and entered the kitchen.
He was immediately overwhelmed by Sam who came out of his basket like a coiled spring, barking effusively; Frobisher, warming his now elderly bones on the Aga, merely opened one eye then closed it again. There was a chirrup behind him as Kasper shot through the cat flap. Michael hurriedly checked to see he had not also brought a mouse with him, or something else equally undesirable. Amos, he guessed, would be snoozing away in his basket in Robert's study; Amos disliked sharing the kitchen with his companions, who tended to enjoy late night parties.
Michael greeted the animals, trying desperately to quieten Sam at the same time. He put the kettle on and glanced at the clock. Hardly worth going to bed. A shower, change of clothes and - he peered in the refrigerator - yes, a bacon sandwich, then he could get right out to the stables.
"There you are now, Mr March!" Mrs Paget placed a well-filled plate in front of her employer: fried potatoes, tomato, black pudding, mushrooms and bacon, all cooked to perfection. Robert waved an appreciative fork.
"I know you like a good breakfast," she went on. "I've put Mr Faulkner's in the oven. Saw he was back. He'll enjoy a good meal after being abroad."
"He's been in Dublin, not Afghanistan!" said Robert. "Dunno, though, you could be right. They nearly killed me once with their awful white pudding. Had heartburn for a week."
"I'll start on your study now," said Mrs Paget, "then strip your bed and get the washing under way." She departed to Robert's study to recover all the missing cups, plates and mugs which had taken root there since her last attack.
Robert's normally edgy morning disposition had not been improved by being woken at 5 a.m. by a combination of Michael, Michael's dog, the dawn chorus and that bloody Frodo. He'd tried to doze off again, but even with a pillow over his head sleep had been impossible. Still...
He looked at his breakfast, smiled and. passing Amos a succulent piece of bacon, started eating. He was well along when the kitchen door opened. Michael entered, bringing with him a strong smell of horse and a preoccupied expression. Robert surveyed him critically. He looks disgusting as usual, he thought.
Michael made his way to the bookshelf by the cooker; originally intended only for those books devoted to the culinary arts, it had gained interlopers. So handy to be able to read while you were doing something boring like stirring a white sauce.
"Morning, Mike," said Robert brightly.
Michael went on searching, then with a grunt of triumph pulled out a battered and much- thumbed volume and began to search through its pages.
"Morning, Mike!" said Robert, much more loudly.
Michael looked at him vaguely, stopped reading and, crossing to the wall-telephone, began to dial a number. He nodded to Robert.
"Agnes? Yes, I am back! Get Jack, will you? It's about horses." Michael put his hand over the mouthpiece. "Cow," he muttered. There was a short silence. "Jack? Oh, good. I've just had a look at Piper's droppings. I think I'd better get a worm egg count do
ne. Yes, I've checked up in Codrington's, all the symptoms. And another thing ... when I looked at his - "
At this point Robert snatched up his plate and, with a glare of outrage at Michael, departed to his study. As he left, Michael was going into even more nauseating details of his horse's internal problems.
Fortunately Mrs Paget was just putting the finishing touches to his now pristine study, so Robert was able to enjoy his breakfast in peace. He returned to the kitchen to collect another plateful of toast and found Michael chuckling over someone's accident on the hunting field. Broken neck at least, Robert surmised from the degree of amusement generated. Then he remembered Mrs Paget's monthly salary was due. Finding insufficient funds in his wallet, he returned to the kitchen and demanded Michael's immediate attention.
"Money!" said Robert. "We need to pay Mrs P. Where's your wallet?"
Michael looked about. "Jacket's over there. Good luck," he said.
Robert fished out the wallet and extracted all the money he could find. Then, seeing they were still short, he attacked Michael's breeches pockets. This finally got him their owner's undivided, squirming attention, so he got in a quick grope as well.
"Do wish you'd remember to change your money before you come home," grumbled Robert, looking with displeasure at the pretty colleen on the orange and green note.
Now fully solvent, he went off to settle with Mrs Paget. When he returned, Michael was finally off the telephone and starting on his breakfast. He looked at Robert.
"Sod!" he said, with feeling. "And by the way, who's responsible for that jug of flowers in the passage? Nearly tripped over the damn thing this morning."
"Mrs P.," said Robert. "A woman's touch ... rather like it myself. We need something better to look at than a row of wellingtons and your bootjack! More coffee?"
Michael nodded and Robert poured them both a cup and settled with a sigh of contentment.
"Had a terrible journey," said Michael. "Plane bounced all the way, people falling about, spilling whiskey all over the show ..."
"So what's new?" said Robert. "Aer Lingus using sub-standard rubber bands again, are they?"
Michael ignored the slur on his nation's airline. "Then," he went on, "I had to travel on what I swear was a milk train, stopped everywhere. And when I get to Gretton the taxi driver swore Larton didn't exist! 'Been here man and boy,' he said, 'but I've never heard of no Larton.'"
"Thank you, Walter Gabriel," said Robert. "So why, after all that privation, didn't you just sleep in - you look terrible - instead of rushing out to the stables to muck out with Jos? He gets paid to do it, after all."
"Waste of money," said Michael. "You should do it. Give you a real appetite for breakfast that would, shake out all the cobwebs."
"You're joking!" said Robert. "I'm not wasting my valuable time playing nursemaid to two smelly horses. Here, more toast." He passed the plate over. "And how long are you home this time?"
Michael looked up. "Just five days, then I'd better get over to Hickstead to see how the horses have travelled before we take 'em back to Dublin for a month's rest and light training before the International. We did well at Ballsbridge. You should have come over - you would have enjoyed it."
"I did wonder about that," said Robert, "especially when I read the headlines in The Sun."
There was a short silence.
"I know I shouldn't ask," said Michael, "but what are you going on about now?"
Robert marched to the dresser and opened a well-filled drawer: the contents rose dramatically as he did so. Extracting several sheets of newsprint, he closed the drawer with some difficulty.
"I'm on about you," said Robert with some emphasis, "and fun-loving Amy, Countess of Merton. You made all the tabloids. Herself with the dashing Chef d'Equipe of the Irish Army Jumping Team, Commandant Michael Faulkner, a popular escort at Dublin Horse Show events. Is it true her husband is going to shoot you?" Robert inquired, with only mild interest. He passed the pages to Michael, who glanced at them.
"I do wish they'd stop taking photos of me with my mouth open," he remarked.
"You're ruining my breakfast, you know."
"Good," said Robert. "You are going to have time to concoct a reasonable story as I'm off to see Halliwell this morning. I'm not happy about the book at all. Some messages on the board for you: Jess wants to talk to you about Ashley's progress at school; Fred rang - he would like you to whip-in for the next Meet - Maud's crocked up and the doctors grounded her for a month. Poor old girl looked wretched when she called. Gave her a gin - she cheered up a lot. Now I've read The Sun, I know why you've come back from Dublin looking like the survivor of some very gaudy nights," Robert added tartly.
Michael studied the message board. "What's all this about 'River Committee, Tuesday night'?" he asked.
"That's for me," said Robert. "I'm on the committee to clear up that sodding smelly river. Should have been done years ago. Can't understand why the whole village hasn't been wiped out before now by cholera."
"What sodding smelly river?" asked Michael in surprise.
"The Piddle, of course," said Robert. "We walk by it every time we go to the village. You know, it goes under the bridge where you always stop and admire Tipton's pigs. That sodding smelly river. Think your sense of smell's atrophied - it's being with all those bloody horses."
"Shouldn't wonder," said Michael, pouring more coffee. "Are you going anywhere near that horse bookshop I like while you're in London? The one off Buckingham Palace Road," he added hopefully.
"I know where it is," said Robert. "And as I'm off to see Halliwell in his office at Newington Green I'm unlikely to be passing that way."
"Oh," said Michael, sounding discouraged.
Robert made the mistake of looking at him; two sad blue eyes looked back. "All right," said Robert wearily. "Let's have the list of books you can't live without - and some money, please."
"Ah, you just cleared out my pockets, remember?" said Michael. "Can you hang on till I cash a cheque? No, better still, ask them to put 'em on my account. And give Jennie my best."
"Your best what?" asked Robert. "You never mentioned having an account there before."
"Didn't I?" said Michael, finishing his coffee. "I'd better get back to the stables." He strolled out.
"Mrs Paget wants the clothes-line shifted!" Robert yelled after him. This was greeted with a casual wave. Robert hoped that meant the matter would be taken in hand, but was not unduly optimistic.
* * * * *
On arriving in London he sought out Michael’s bookshop. A very capable young lady took the book-list and despatched a minion to search out the required volumes, then inquired if Mr March would like a cup of tea.
Mr March, reflecting how different this was from certain other London bookshops, said he would love a cup. As he sipped his tea he inquired if she was Jennie by any chance.
The young lady blushed and said she was and had Mr March seen the front cover of the latest issue of Horse and Hound?
Mr March said, No, he hadn't, without also remarking that it was not, nor was it ever likely to be, on his reading-list. She brought him over a copy.
"Isn't he handsome?" she breathed.
Mr March agreed that at least Mr Faulkn er had his mouth shut for once, and told himself that he would like to knock that smug look right off his face.
He purchased a copy for himself, to have something to complain about when he got home. After a look at the pile of books which had mounted up on the counter, he arranged for them to be sent carriage. He also resolved, after scanning the condition of Michael’s charge account, to have a serious talk with him - again - on the subject of 'living within your income'.
Feeling strangely cheered by all this he departed for Newington Green, his good mood evaporating as all his doubts about his latest book surfaced yet again.
"Never thought I'd finish the damn thing," he complained to Mr Halliwell. "Then having to rewrite most of it after I found that new information - I'm still no
t happy about that either. I'm sure there's something I've missed - been having premonitions about it."
Mr Halliwell nodded and said Mr March's copy would be available shortly and that the publishers were convinced the book would do well.
"I'm not," said Robert. "It's too cerebral for a start - leaves you feeling so bloody depressed you want to stick your head in the oven in despair at the whole world. Thought of doing it myself but Michael rang from Dublin, full of some rubbish - took my mind off the idea."
"Nonsense," said Mr Halliwell briskly. "You know you always feel like this after you have finished a book, don't you?"
"Yeah, I suppose so." Robert shrugged. "Mike says it's post-natal depression and always yanks me out on some damn trip with him. He has the oddest ideas for holidays. I sometimes think the only difference between Mike and a horse is you don't often see them curled up with a book. I said to him last time he was home, why don't we become tax exiles? Well, by the time those bloodsuckers in the Inland Revenue have their lot I'd be better off sweeping the streets! Asked him if he fancied the Isle of Man - that's far enough abroad for Mike. He said, No, they don't hunt there. I worry about him sometimes."
"And how is Mr Faulkner?" inquired Mr Halliwell, hoping to lighten Robert's mood and thinking Mr Faulkner must need infinite patience at times with his moody partner.
"As usual," said Robert. "Back from Ireland, looking like the Wreck of the Hesperus. Expect you saw he was featured in the Daily Tits? Nothing in it, of course. Just wish he had more sense. Last thing I need is reporters from that bucket of swill crawling about in the shrubbery. Think I'll get a pair of Dobermanns. He's made the front cover of Horse and Hound, too. There'll be no living with him now."
"Has he really?" said Mr Halliwell. "I must get a copy for my wife. She is a great admirer of his since you introduced them at the Royal Windsor Show."
"Are you coming down for the cricket match?" inquired Robert. "Saw we were down to play Cleobury Mortimer in the village derby. Call in for a meal if you do - always welcome. I'll push Mike on to bat - if he's not off on a horse somewhere."
