Dead Man Riding (6 page)

‘It started with the Relief of Mafeking.' The shortsighted eyes ranged round us as if that should tell us what we needed to know. To nudge him along I asked, ‘The celebrations?'

His glare focused on me. ‘Celebrations! You think it's something to celebrate – that we're killing honest hard-working farmers because we think we know how to run their country better than they do? Shooting men off the backs of their own horses on their own land – is that something to put out the flags for and light bonfires for and get drunk and march round the town singing songs for?'

I started saying that as a matter of fact I agreed with him, but he didn't take any notice.

‘I lived with the Boers for two years. I rode with them, worked with them, ate with them. They're some of the straightest men on earth and this wretched government's sending our young men out there to kill them. And when I dare to stand up and say it's an abomination, I get ruffians invading my land, trying to burn down my stables with my horses inside, and where are the police? Nowhere.'

He paused for breath and Alan slipped in, ‘But why are people accusing you of murder?'

‘Let me tell it my way. After the Mafeking nonsense, I'd had enough. I decided it was time to tell the people round here what was really going on. They're mostly farmers, you see, just like the Boers. I thought they'd understand if I explained it to them.'

From behind me Meredith sighed under his breath, ‘Another optimist.'

‘So I hired a hall and put up posters. We drew a big crowd, nobody can deny that.'

Alan asked, ‘Who's we?'

‘Robin and I. Dulcie wanted to come but we made her stay at home. Just as well. No place for women, as it turned out. They howled me down. Howled me down and dragged me off the platform. Probably would have torn me limb from limb if Robin hadn't pulled me out and driven back here like a bat out of hell. So we got home, put arnica on our bruises and I thought that was that. At least I'd tried to keep faith with my Boer friends.'

I asked, ‘So did somebody get killed?'

‘No, that wasn't until the next night. We were back home here, just Robin and Dulcie and me. It was about ten o'clock and I'd gone out for a last look at the horses, as I always do. Most of them were out in the fields but we had Sid in his box that night and a couple of mares and foals in the main stables. Anyway, as soon as I got outside the door I smelt burning and there was the new hay barn alight and people capering round it cheering and shouting like savages. I went back inside to fetch Robin and my shotgun. When we got outside again some of them were coming this way shouting they were going to set light to the stables. Well, what would you have done? I ask you all, what would you have done?'

He waited as if he really wanted an answer. There were tears running down his cheeks. He'd started crying unashamedly when he talked about the mares and foals.

‘Can you imagine the sheer wickedness? Wanting to set light to stables with horses inside, and him the son of a horseman.'

‘Who?'

‘The one I'm supposed to have killed. Mawbray's son. Mawbray the magistrate's son. I heard his voice giving orders to them. I shouted to them to stop but they kept coming so I fired both barrels. Robin fired too. They shouted a bit. I reloaded and fired again, then they were all running and squealing like a rabbit with a weasel's teeth in its gizzard.'

‘Except Mawbray's son?' Alan asked.

‘As far as I knew at the time, he scuttled off with the rest of them.'

‘But if you're supposed to have killed him…?'

‘Perhaps he died in a ditch somewhere. Perhaps Old Nick took him straight down to hell to save the trouble and expense of a funeral. All I know is, I shot at where his voice was in the dark and nobody's seen hide nor hair of him since. And if that's murder then you're all under a murderer's roof and you'd better make the best of it or go elsewhere.'

Silence, except for a lot of deep breaths round the room. Then Alan said, surprisingly mildly in the circumstances, ‘I wish I'd known.'

‘Would've cost a fortune to put all that in a telegram. So if you'd known you wouldn't have come?'

‘No, I'm not saying I shouldn't have come, but I shouldn't have brought my friends.'

The Old Man seemed to relax a little. ‘Understandable, my boy. We'll feed and water them and get them bedded down for the night, then Robin'll get out the wagonette in the morning and take them back to the station.'

‘Yes, I think that's best.'

‘But you'll stay, my boy?' It was almost a plea.

Alan only hesitated for a moment. ‘Yes. Yes, I will.'

Kit said, ‘In that case I'll stay too.'

‘Please yourselves. All of you are welcome to stay or go as you like. Anyway, you'll eat now. We eat late these evenings, because of keeping watch.'

He got up suddenly, dislodging the dogs' heads from his knees, went to the outside door and yelled into the darkness, ‘Robin.'

Imogen, looking shaken, mouthed, ‘Who's Robin?'

Alan shook his head. Soon afterwards there was a stamping of boots in the lobby and one of the best-looking men I'd seen in a long time came into the room. He was probably in his mid-twenties, quite tall with dark curly hair and eyes that looked black in the lamplight. He wore moleskin trousers, a coarse white shirt open at the neck, a red neck-cloth with white spots and an old black waistcoat. He'd walked into the room as confidently as a horse into its meadow but when he saw us all sitting there he looked on the point of bolting. The Old Man took him by the arm.

‘Alan, Robin. Robin, this is my great nephew and these are his friends.'

That seemed to be all the introduction anybody was going to get because the Old Man then walked across the room, drew back a curtain that had been hiding a flight of stairs and yelled up, ‘Dulcie, suppertime.' There was the sound of feet hitting bare boards overhead. He dropped the curtain back and explained, ‘Dulcie's been catching up on her sleep.' Then he went to pick up his shotgun, stopped, shook his head, unhitched a heavy driving whip from the back of the door instead and went out.

*   *   *

If any of us had made a sudden move or said anything I think Robin would have run out after him. He stood with his weight forward on his feet ready for a quick move, like an animal that had strolled accidentally into a circle of predators. I couldn't blame him. Although the kitchen was a big room the seven of us filled it and we were oddities there. The men had got to their feet out of politeness on being introduced, but with the four of them standing together and him on his own it must have looked more like a threat. We all stood there frozen until the silence was broken by the pad of feet downstairs and a rattle of rings as the stair curtain was drawn back.

‘Well I'm gloppened. What o'clock is it? Why didnae somebody wake me?'

The men spun round and four jaws dropped in unison. If Robin looked like an animal among predators, this woman – Dulcie presumably – was as thoroughly at home and self-possessed as a lioness lolling on a tree branch. She wore a lilac-coloured velour wrap patterned with bunches of purple grapes, with a shawl collar that fell open to show a pink chemise pushed out by a swell of uncorseted bosom like a wave just before it breaks. Her hair was chestnut brown with a few strands of grey in it and reached down to her waist. She'd made a token move towards controlling it by taking the two front hanks and knotting the ends loosely at the back of her head. Her face was too plump and round for beauty but when she smiled – and she was smiling at all of us – she looked so pleased with herself and everything else that it was like being given a present. She was quite a lot older than we were, but her little white teeth and plump brown feet seemed almost childlike.

‘I'm Dulcie,' she told us, ‘Dulcie Berryman.'

The voice was pure Cumberland, with the ‘I' coming out as ‘Ahm'. The accent had an extra warmth and laziness about it in her case, as if it came from the depths of a goosefeather bed. We introduced ourselves in a confused way that couldn't have left her with much impression of who was who but it didn't seem to bother her. She picked Alan out.

‘Your uncle will be reet glad you're here. You've seen him?'

Alan managed to stammer out the understatement that yes, he'd seen him. Dulcie's appearance seemed to have shaken him at least as much as being shot at. I was struck by her self-possession, as if she came down every evening to find her kitchen full of strangers. She might have felt gloppened – whatever that might be – but she'd recovered quickly. She made no comment on the double shotgun blast not far from the house that must surely have woken her, or the fact that one of her unexpected guests had an arm bandaged with her pudding cloths and the room reeked of carbolic. An unworthy thought came to me. The floors upstairs must be bare boards because I'd heard her feet on them, so sound would travel. She must have been aware that there were a lot of people downstairs, probably even heard what was being said. She'd have known too that at least some of the company was male so could have dressed more formally if she'd chosen. I'd been dragooned into enough amateur theatricals in my time to recognise somebody making an entrance when I saw it.

‘You'll be clemmed with hunger, poor things. Get the dishes, Robin lad.'

At least with her there to protect him Robin didn't look as if he intended to bolt after all. He walked round the men, keeping as much space between himself and them as the furniture allowed, opened the sideboard cupboard and took out a stack of plates.

‘Kneyves and fawks, somebody. Left-hand drawer.' She'd picked up the Old Man's habit of casual command. Midge and I started getting up but Nathan was there first. Cutlery rattled down on the table, chairs were dragged from all corners of the room while Dulcie knelt at an oven beside the fire. A blast of heat came out and the smell of rabbit stew got stronger, fighting the carbolic. Without being told, Robin took a half-gallon brown jug out to the lobby and when he brought it back a strong whiff of ale added to the atmosphere. No nonsense this time about tea for ladies. We all got ale in a variety of containers from pint mugs to green-stemmed glasses meant for hock. I'm pretty sure it was the first time Midge and Imogen had tasted ale and I could see Imogen wincing as she sipped. She still looked shaken, which was hardly surprising.

Kit ate neatly with a fork, one-handed, but didn't say much. Nathan did most of the talking, mainly for Dulcie's benefit, making a joke of our hike and the arguments over the map, no reference to shotguns. It was clear that he and Dulcie had taken to each other. Between them they managed to make an indoor picnic of what might have been an embarrassing occasion. There were only two rabbits in the black stewpot and that meant everybody got just a few inches of shoulder or saddle or a little pale leg, plus a spoonful of gravy and a floury potato with some of the eyes and black bits left in. But there was plenty of flat oat bread, or clapbread as Dulcie called it when urging us to take another piece, and endless quantities of ale. Robin went out several times to refill the jug, walking in wide circles round us. He still seemed to be trying to decide if we were a threat and if so what sort. When Dulcie had whittled most of the meat off her little share of rabbit she picked up the bone and gnawed the rest with her pretty little teeth. Nathan laughed and gnawed too and soon our plates were all strewn with a litter of delicate bones sucked as clean as driftwood. All except Imogen's. She'd hardly touched her meal. Midge looked at the empty stewpot.

‘Oh no, we've eaten all of it. What about the Old Man?' Then clapped her hand over her mouth from embarrassment at calling him that.

Dulcie didn't seem to mind. ‘The maister says guests come first, like when he was in the desert with the Arabs.' Then, a little sadly, ‘Besides, he eats nobbut a bite or two these days.'

It was enough to break the temporary spell of the meal. The uncurtained windows were dark now and I suppose all of us thought of the Old Man patrolling outside, alone and unfed.

Alan asked Dulcie, ‘Were you here on the night it happened?' His tone was uncertain because he obviously had no more idea than the rest of us who Dulcie Berryman was – housekeeper, landlady or perhaps some unusual species of nurse.

‘What night was that?'

‘When he … When the barn got burned and so on.'

Dulcie stood up and started stacking plates, not ignoring him but not especially attentive either. ‘Yes, Ah was here.'

‘Did you see what happened?'

‘He told me to stay inside. Anyway, it was dark when they came.'

She held out her hand for my plate. As I handed it over I looked into her eyes. Brown didn't begin to describe the colour of them properly, more a very dark amber with the light shining through it. They gave nothing away, even at Alan's next words.

‘My uncle thinks he killed somebody.'

She added my plate to the pile, reached for Imogen's. ‘He has some reet queer notions sometimes.'

She had the plates in the crook of her left arm. With her free hand she picked up the piece of rabbit leg Imogen had left, stripped the meat off the bone with her teeth and carried the plates over to a stone sink in the far corner, still munching.

‘You mean, you don't think he did?'

She didn't turn. We never knew whether she'd have answered or not because there were footsteps outside then the door opened and the Old Man came in.

‘Robin, would you go and have a look at Sheba? She's not settling.'

Robin got up and went out without a glance at any of us. He didn't say a word. In fact he hadn't said a word throughout the meal. The Old Man hooked his whip on the back of the door and grinned at us.

‘You've eaten well?' Then, after our ragged chorus of thank yous, ‘Dulcie makes the best rabbit stew in the county, don't you Dulcie?' She was clattering things over at the sink. He reached up and unhooked one of the lamps from the beam, standing on tiptoe to do it. Alan was on his feet, towering over his uncle but almost conciliatory now it was clear that Kit wasn't seriously hurt.