by Gwen Moffat
They rode to the swing bridge, the visitors awestruck at the sight of the river boiling through the narrows, they traversed the slopes below Glenaffric, where the brood mares regarded them with casual interest, and then they entered the forest.
Miss Pink was mounted on a pinto: a skewbald mustang which, Sophie said, was an Indian pony and would go anywhere. The animal was smooth and responsive while travelling in line and his rider wasn’t bothered about his behaviour when solo. She was going over her proposed actions; the horse was a minor consideration.
About five miles into the forest they stopped for an early lunch and Miss Pink turned back, assuring Val and Clyde she would be fine on her own, walking, and the pinto knew the way home; there was no chance of getting lost.
She started back at a fast walk. The horse felt her sense of urgency and it was all she could do to hold him until she was out of earshot. Half a mile away, trusting that the dust would muffle hoofbeats, she let him go. She had noted obstacles on the way in and was confident that if she could keep on the same line there were no overhanging branches and the only tricky moments would come at the creeks. The first he took like a dog, sliding down to the water on his haunches, clawing and lunging up the far bank, his rider clinging to the horn, her spectacles jumping on their cord, shirt-tails flying. She stopped to replace her glasses and twist her cap back to front yardie fashion, the better to see where she was going.
That first creek sobered the pinto. Perhaps he was intelligent enough to know that a stumble with this weight on his back could result in serious trouble; whatever the reason, he kept to a smooth and steady lope as far as Glenaffric’s pastures, slowing further as he breasted the slopes below the house.
Miss Pink slid down at the back door and looked around as she stretched her legs. There were two vehicles in the yard: a pick-up and a Jeep. She remembered that Edna had been out in a Jeep on the morning of the search for Charlie. No one was visible in the corrals and the kitchen was empty, although there were signs of occupation: a newspaper opened to the Byer story, used mugs, plates in the steaming sink. There was a faint murmur in the depths of the house.
She walked purposefully along passages and through rooms. She passed the alcove where the scent bottles had been displayed and saw that other ornaments had been advanced to close the gap. She came to the den with its monstrous trophies and, surveying it at a glance, she checked. The shelf above the fireplace was bare. It should be covered with silver horses; there wasn’t one in sight.
A thickset woman who was vaguely familiar was vacuuming Edna’s bedroom. Miss Pink switched off the machine at the socket.
‘Where is Mrs Gunn?’
‘She’s outside.’ The maid was as phlegmatic as if Miss Pink were a member of the household. ‘Just shout, you’ll find her.’
‘Very well.’ Miss Pink was thoughtful, taking stock of the woman. ‘What happened to the silver horses in the den?’
‘They was stole.’
‘Naturally.’ It was tart. ‘Like the snuff boxes and all the rest.’
‘I guess. Jen will flip when she finds out. Who’s gonna tell her?’ The woman looked hopefully at Miss Pink.
‘I can do that. Is anything else missing? Apart from the load that Byer took?’
‘I haven’t noticed nothing but it’s a big place and Skinner only took the horses yesterday. I guess we’ll find what else is gone when we dust.’
‘You’re saying he took them yesterday?’ Miss Pink’s brain raced… brown paper sacks on the seat of his pick-up… ‘She shouldn’t be left on her own,’ she murmured.
‘Tell me about it.’ The woman heaved a sigh. ‘But we don’t come Sundays and it wouldn’t never occur to us that the family weren’t gonna be here. ‘Sides, Skinner were family once; who’d have thought he’d rob an old lady — there, it’s his stepdaughter he’s stealing from, isn’t it, all to come to her now?’
Another woman was washing the dishes in the kitchen. ‘Have you seen Mrs Gunn?’ Miss Pink asked, doubting it but producing an excuse for her presence.
‘She went out.’ Jerking her head towards the slopes at the back of the ranch.
‘On foot?’
‘Oh, no, she were riding. She won’t have gone far.’
‘She’s not out alone on Ali!’ Miss Pink was appalled.
‘No. On her own little horse.’
‘Is that wise? I didn’t know — she was allowed — that she rode still.’
‘She don’t ride.’ The woman was indulgent. ‘She’ll be walking round the pastures just. Don’t do no harm. We know where she is.’
There was no sign of her in the fields beside the fenced track that led to the forest and, since she hadn’t returned to the house, it was reasonable to assume that she was ahead. Miss Pink pushed her reluctant horse uphill towards the trees, increasingly uneasy.
It was the horse that alerted her. He was plodding up the long zigzags, his breathing the only sound other than the creak of saddle leather, and suddenly his head came up with a start. Miss Pink couldn’t see what had attracted his attention but she was on her guard. They were approaching an elbow and, above and below, there were chutes of soil and trampled vegetation where animals — deer or moose — had ignored the serpentine trail and cut corners by plunging straight down the hill. And now something was approaching fast; she could hear it although it remained invisible.
She dug in her heels and the horse leaped round the elbow and up the gentle gradient of the trail. After some fifty yards she drew rein, turned him carefully on the narrow path and waited. Too late she realised that if this were a bear — or a mountain lion chasing deer — she was facing towards the predator when she should be facing away, poised for flight. But a lion would never attack a horse and rider — surely — and as for a grizzly, she had the advantage of surprise; she knew he was coming, but he didn’t know she was there.
It was there and gone in a flash but the image was imprinted on her retina: a small black horse sliding as the pinto had slid into the creek — jumping on to the track and diving over the edge on the downhill side. And, sitting like a limpet on his back: Edna.
Miss Pink was immobile, listening to the crashing progress below. After a while she started back, keeping to the trail, filled with renewed disbelief each time she passed that precipitous chute.
Edna was in the barn rubbing down the little black horse. Sweat didn’t show on that hide and in the dim light. She looked round as the animal turned to eye the visitor. ‘I like to keep them looking nice,’ she said amiably.
‘Why’s she sweating?’
‘Is she sweating, dear?’ Miss Pink put a hand on the wet back. ‘She’s been chased,’ Edna said. ‘One of the geldings has been giving her a hard time, which is why I brought her in.’
The mare dropped her head. ‘How far did you go?’ Miss Pink asked.
Edna walked round to the far side of the animal and started to hum. Miss Pink said loudly, ‘I really think, if you want to ride, you shouldn’t go alone. Anything could happen and no one would know where you were.’
‘You’ll come with me?’ Edna asked brightly.
‘Of course.’
Miss Pink strolled out of the barn, mounted the pinto and trotted away to the homestead. The place looked abandoned but those horses that had not been needed on the pack-trip were still in a corral. She transferred her saddle to a mouse-coloured gelding and set out on the Bobcat trail.
She came to the zigzags above the point where she had caught sight of Edna, confident in the belief that the other woman, having seen her leave for the homestead, would never suspect that she might double back on a fresh horse. Edna was up to something; no one, senile or sane, would descend a hill so recklessly, risking her horse’s life, without some powerful motive.
Edna hadn’t cut all the corners but still she had gone downhill fast; where springs crossed the trail fresh prints were deep and widely spaced in the mud. That mare hadn’t been walking. The shoes were distinctive, an oval rather tha
n a circle (and why did Edna keep a horse shod if she didn’t ride?). It was a simple matter to follow her trail back, all the way to the old mines, but there, among the ruins and the spoil heaps, the spoor was lost.
The mousy horse was sure-footed but quickly bored. They wandered about the mines, Miss Pink studying the ground, seeing hoof prints that were not those of the black mare but probably made by her own horse two days ago. She paused above a draw and sighed in exasperation: at a fruitless quest, at her horse that wanted to go home; thinking that Edna could have skirted the mines altogether and made for the ridge above — but why? What was there on the Bobcat ridge to attract her, except by way of a jaunt, but always she came back to the conviction that Edna had not been out for fun. Had the woman been in such a hurry in order to reach home before her absence was discovered? The maids knew, of course, but they thought she was walking a horse round the pastures.
The gelding rested a hind leg, shifting his rider’s balance. She grumbled at the strain on her spine and glowered resentfully at a mound of broken beams and iron sheeting on the other side of the draw. Litter, but the land was big enough to contain it. Over there was a platform that could be man-made, it looked too level to be natural, and there was a spoil heap below. No doubt the mound of wood was plugging a shaft. She didn’t like this place, there were shafts everywhere: death traps.
She moved up the side of the draw, crossed it and approached the spoil heap. There was a lot of copper in the rock and she was conscious of growing familiarity; the features were similar to that place where there was a shaky covering above a mine shaft. There would be a shaft here but there was no cover. A baulk of timber lay across the platform, the roof collapsed behind it. It was the same place. Nature — erosion, gravity, an earth tremor — had done its work and the prop had moved.
The timber had fallen on something pale — not a stone — something like frayed filaments. She dismounted and tried to tease the object from under the weight but with no success. It looked like strands of nylon rope. On the other side of the baulk was a neat white circle the diameter of a finger. It had been cut clean with a knife.
She stood up and looked from the timber to the collapsed roof. She knew that underneath the prop was a length of nylon. Nature hadn’t been at work here but someone with a rope, like the one she carried on her saddle, rope that served a multitude of purposes: to catch a cow, tether a horse, or collapse the roof above the entrance to a mine shaft.
*
At Glenaffric the tack room smelled of burned nylon. There were nine saddles set neatly on wooden bucks, coiled ropes on several horns. One coil had an end like a leech, shining black where it had been fused to prevent fraying.
Miss Pink crossed the yard to the house where she found the maids dismantling the den, the smaller trophies a welter of antlers and heads in the middle of the floor. Mrs Gunn, they told her, was on the patio and she was directed down the main corridor.
She hadn’t seen the patio before today: a paved space on the north and shady side of the house, with chairs and a table in turquoise plastic, echoing the coloured window shutters on the house. There were chaises longues but Edna was sitting upright at the table, a half-full bottle of Jim Beam in front of her and a number of glasses.
‘Expecting company,’ Miss Pink observed, sitting down without invitation.
‘It’s a party; they’ll be here soon.’
‘Ah yes, Jen and Bret, and Sophie. They’re bringing the horses over from Benefit.’
Edna poured two measures of bourbon and eyed Miss Pink across the rim of her glass. Miss Pink didn’t drink; she asked, with what sounded like mild curiosity, ‘Did Clyde help you put the body in the mine shaft? He was a big man. You couldn’t have done it on your own.’
Edna’s expression was unreadable. She had worn her usual look of vacuous good humour, now her face relaxed and the faded eyes were blank, no emotion showing at all. Miss Pink regarded her warily. ‘Bret saw someone below the hunting camp,’ she said. ‘It was a Saturday, the maids weren’t here. You took the black mare and you galloped through the canyon. I’ve seen what you can do on a horse — on that horse. Charlie’s death wasn’t rigged to look like an accident; Ali bolted when you fired. And then you threw the gun in the river?’ She stopped on the question and saw that Edna’s eyes were sharp and intelligent. They reached for their glasses and drank together.
Edna smiled her fatuous smile and it reached her eyes, obscuring the intelligence. ‘Do I say something now?’
Miss Pink breathed deeply. ‘Byer could blackmail Val,’ she said, ‘because he thought it was she or Jen who had visited Charlie, but it was neither of them. It was you.’
‘I never went to the cabin,’ Edna said in a normal voice.
‘No, of course not. It was Bret who visited Charlie and drank his coffee, but Val didn’t know that when she found the mugs the following morning and washed them and the pot. She thought Jen had been there. But you weren’t there?’ Miss Pink considered this and nodded. ‘You could be speaking the truth’ — Edna’s eyes narrowed — ‘but it was immaterial to Byer. He didn’t know the truth but what he did know was dangerous. He tried blackmail on Val and it worked. And then he tried it on you? And you shot him with his own rifle.’
Edna was amused. ‘So I put him in the river and I left his truck there, and I called a cab to bring me home.’
‘Clyde helped. Maybe he —’
‘Clyde was fishing.’
‘He wasn’t. I’ve been talking to the barman at the hotel. Clyde called the bar asking for Russell that afternoon but it was already late; the barman remembers because the happy hour had begun. He overheard Pat Kramer tell Clyde that Russell was fishing. Clyde may well have started out for the Bobcats but he didn’t spend the afternoon at the Finger Lakes. Russell lied.’
‘So?’
‘Skinner knew about the blackmail because he and Byer were buddies, and Skinner wanted a piece of the action. He came here and demanded the silver horses as the price of his silence, and you caught up with him’ — Miss Pink checked, frowned, then went on firmly — ‘and put his body down the mine shaft. You collapsed the roof by pulling out the timber with a rope.’
Edna put her plump little hands on the table and showed the unmarked palms.
‘Your horse pulled it down,’ Miss Pink amended. ‘And you had to cut the rope because it was trapped under the baulk. I saw you. You didn’t see me.’
‘You saw me.’ It was quiet and flat. Edna topped up her own glass and looked in inquiry at Miss Pink, who shook her head. ‘It isn’t Skinner in the shaft,’ Edna said.
‘Who is it?’
‘No one. It’s my snuff boxes and the little scent bottles and stuff.’
‘What? Byer cached them there?’
‘He never stole them. I took them to incriminate him.’
‘But why put them down the mine? They’ll be smashed.’
‘If they were ever found it would be assumed Byer put them there — but they won’t be found. The police think Byer passed them to Skinner who took them to Seattle.’
Miss Pink stared. ‘You put the Wedgwood pieces in the creek — and the fragment in Byer’s house.’ She was so stunned that it had failed to register that the other was talking sensibly.
‘You have it basically right,’ Edna went on. ‘Where you went wrong was in thinking Clyde helped. You’re right: he did pick me up after I’d put Byer’s truck down there by the river, but he didn’t know what I’d done, why I was there, and since everyone thinks I’m senile, I didn’t have to tell him why, only to say I’d been wandering.’
‘That won’t work.’ Miss Pink was collecting her senses. ‘You must have told him because you had to impress on him that it was essential to provide himself with an alibi — fishing with Russell — so he had to know why one was needed.’
‘Only you and Russell know that.’
You old fox, Miss Pink thought. Aloud she said, ‘And Clyde had to help you put the body in the river. No way
could you do that on your own.’
‘Impetus. Byer was shot on the Bear Creek bridge. I convinced him to walk out there because I said my Jeep had broken down, right there on the bridge. I shot him with his own rifle and hoisted him over the rail. He wasn’t heavy.’
‘And you wiped the rifle,’ Miss Pink said, deflated.
‘And I wiped the rifle.’
Miss Pink thought about it. ‘Where’s Skinner?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Edna looked surprised. ‘I don’t think they’ll catch up with him. You see, he did go to Seattle but like he said, he was only a poacher, selling deer meat. However, Hilton has to find someone for Byer’s murder and Skinner fits the bill, and then, of course, he’s a suspect for Charlie’s murder too.’
‘Only if Hilton were to discover the lies that Charlie told about Jen’s parentage.’
‘There were other lies: that Skinner murdered his wife, for instance, that he stole the silver horses.’
‘Ah, those horses. They were taken yesterday. They were in paper bags in his pick-up. You were quarrelling with Skinner when I came into the kitchen. Why didn’t you mention the horses then?’
‘I didn’t know he’d taken them… I wasn’t myself —’
‘No, you can’t revert now. I know you’re not senile, that you’re not a drunk either, but it was a good act. You knew Skinner had those horses and you said nothing. Why not?’ Light dawned. ‘You gave them to him. And you left the pick-up by his house. You set him up!’
Edna shrugged. ‘Someone had to be the fall guy —’
‘How could you —’
‘— for Byer’s death, because if Hilton suspected me, the whole thing would come unravelled. Byer was killed because he knew one of us was involved in Charlie’s death, so eventually Hilton would come to me and then he’d have to know why I killed my husband.’
The silence stretched. Miss Pink helped herself to bourbon for something to do. Edna was waiting for her to ask the obvious question.
