Hotspur

CHAPTER 3

As the last human left the grave site, a tremendous clap of thunder shook the earth.

Inky, a member of the gray fox clan who happened to be black, had been watching the activity at the grave site so intently that she jumped at the thunder. She looked toward the west. Roiling low clouds would be directly overhead in fifteen minutes or less.

Her curiosity, overcome by the weather, gave way to a mad dash for her den, a tidy place two miles west of After All Farm. Inky lived on Sister Jane’s place, Roughneck Farm, at the edge of the cornfield, near a mighty old walnut, on high ground above a small tributary feeding into Broad Creek. She lived very well and at one and a half years of age she was a sleek, healthy creature with unusually bright eyes.

The first huge raindrops splattered around her just as she reached the border of Roughneck Farm. Another few minutes and she’d be home. The sky, dark now, seemed close enough to touch. Sister pulled out onto the farm road in her new red GMC truck. Her headlights caught Inky for a moment, but the fox did not stop to give the older woman the pleasure of her company. She raced for her den, shooting in as thunder rumbled overhead and lightning momentarily turned the sky lavender green.

Inky hated getting wet. She nestled in her sweet-smelling hay bed, which she’d carried home after the last cutting.

Like all foxes, reds and grays, Inky was a highly intelligent, adaptable creature. Part of this adaptability derived from being omnivorous like humans. Whenever that insufferable cat, Golliwog, would fuss at Inky for visiting the kennels where she liked to chat with Diana, a young gyp, Inky would remind her as she left that Golliwog was an obligate carnivore.

This would infuriate Golly, who in retaliation would stir up the hounds. Then Shaker would open the front door of his clapboard cottage and speak to the hounds to quiet them. Golly could be vengeful, but she was smart. Inky had to give her that.

As Inky dried herself she wondered who was in that grave. The human emotions had cast a strong scent that carried up to her. As soon as the storm was over she thought she’d go out again and visit her parents, who lived deeper in the woods near strong-running Broad Creek. Perhaps they would know something. And she wanted to tell her family that Peppermint had passed on. He had loved chatting with his former adversaries, as he’d dubbed the foxes. Peppermint had always had a quaint turn of phrase like the older gentleman he was.

Inky knew that when humans were feeling wretched the shock waves would vibrate over the countryside. Her curiosity was thus more than a mental exercise; it was key to survival.

“Hello, Inky,” Sister said, noting the lovely animal racing beside the road.

“I worry that she’s getting too tame.” Shaker pressed two fingers around the knot of his tie.

Never comfortable in a coat and tie, he was a proper fellow. Given the circumstances, he would not cross the Bancroft threshold unless respectfully dressed. Lean and wiry, Shaker exuded a toughness that belied his kindly nature.

Both Shaker and Sister had hurried to clean up after Betty had hopped into her car. She’d pick up Bobby, fill him in, clean up herself, and meet the master and huntsman at After All.

“The legend of the black fox.”

“Bull. We’ve always had black foxes.” He half snorted. “We just don’t always see them.”

“I know that.” She turned the windshield wipers to a higher speed. She wasn’t 100 percent familiar with her new truck yet, so she had to fiddle with the stick on the steering column.

“Be nice when you learn to drive this thing.”

“Be nice when you learn to treat me with respect.”

“Oh la.” He half sang. “Janie, none of this bodes well, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t. And I know I’m using Inky as an excuse, but you will recall a black fox gave us a hell of a run just before Ray died, and then again before Raymond died.” Ray, her son, was killed in a freak harvesting accident in 1974. Her husband, Raymond, died of emphysema in 1991. “And Raymond’s grandmother would always rattle on about how her mother swore that in 1860 all they hunted was black foxes.”

“Hunted Yankees after that.” Shaker, born and bred in Mount Sidney, Virginia, half smiled as he said it.

“Jesus, think we’ll ever get over it?”

“The Jews built Pharaoh’s pyramids five thousand years ago and they’re still talking about it. The Irish still fuss about Elizabeth the First like she just left the throne. People have to have something to bitch and moan about.” He caught his breath for a moment. “If you ask me, people can’t do without their tragedies. Makes them feel important.”

“You might be right. The Bancrofts aren’t like that, thank God. Shaker, I can’t exactly fathom it. Not to know where your child is for all those years and then to find out she’s been buried on your own property all along. A ring on a bony hand.”

“Horrible.” Although he wasn’t a father, he could sympathize as could most anybody with a heart.

“When I lost Ray, well, you were there. Yes, it was dreadful. Yes, I wanted to die with him. But at least I knew. I could say good-bye. I could grieve. All those years that Tedi and Edward hoped and prayed and then settled into a dull ache of a life. And now, to finally know where Nola is. Where she’s been all along . . .”

“I think Tedi knew.”

“In her heart—yes, I think she knew Nola was dead the night she went missing. But Edward could never give up.”

“Alice Ramy broke bad.”

“Wonder who’s going to tell her?”

Alice Ramy, the mother of Guy Ramy, turned bitter and disruptive after her son’s disappearance. Her only positive outlets seemed to be the prize chickens she bred and her gardens. But even these activities led to frustration. At least once a year her dahlias would be shredded when the prize chickens escaped into her gardens for a feast.

Shaker shifted nervously in his seat as they drove through the majestic wrought-iron gates, the serried spear-points gilded, of After All Farm’s main entrance. “Ben Sidell will tell Alice.”

“There are plenty of people who still believe Guy killed her and then disappeared. Some ass would come back from a vacation in Paris and declare, ‘Saw Guy Ramy on the Left Bank. He’s bald now.’ You know perfectly well they never saw a goddamned thing.” Sister’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. She, too, was nervous.

“Guy Ramy might have killed someone over Nola, but he would have never killed Nola,” Shaker said.

They peered out their windows through the streaming rain. Half the hunt club members were already there. A tightly knit community, the Jefferson Hunt Club supported one another instantly through every crisis—but felt free to gossip about one another with equal alacrity.

A red Mercedes S500 was parked closest to the front walk, trailed by a silver Jaguar, a 1987 Ford pickup, a hunter green Explorer, and a Tahoe. The number of trucks suggested people had walked away from their farm chores to hasten to the Bancrofts’. A Toyota Land Cruiser announced that Ralph Assumptio was there. He was a cousin on his mother’s side to Guy Ramy.

Sister had to park halfway down to the barns.

Shaker picked up the golf umbrella resting slant-ways across his feet. “You stay there. I’ll come ’round to your side.”

He opened the door and the rain slashed down.

When the arc of the red and yellow umbrella loomed outside, Sister opened her door and stepped down, ducking under cover.

She clutched Shaker’s strong forearm. “Well, let’s do what we can.”

A huge hanging glass lantern, supported by four heavy chains, cast diffuse light into the rainy evening. The white columns glistened as did the slate roof of this magnificent Palladian triumph.

The fan window above the oversized black door was handblown glass, as were all the paned windows.

After All, one of the great mansions of the early eighteenth century, had received many visitors in both joy and sorrow.

As they reached the front door, Walter Lungrun opened it before the harried butler could get to it. For a moment, with the light framing his face, Sister felt an odd sense of comfort—something akin to homecoming. She shook off the unexpected feeling, deciding that all her nerve endings were on red alert. Of course she was glad to see him. She’d known Walter, at a distance, since his childhood.

“Sister, thank God you’re here.” Walter bent down to kiss her cheek. “You, too, Shaker. Tedi and Edward are in the living room. Ken and Sybil, too.”

A servant hung their dripping raincoats in the coat closet. They heard Betty and Bobby come through the door as well as other people behind them.

Walter took Sister’s hand and led her to the living room, crowded with people. Shaker walked on her other side. People parted for Sister. They usually did.

Tedi sat perched on the edge of her Sheraton sofa, the cost of which alone could buy most Americans a lovely home. When she looked up to see one of her oldest friends and her master, she burst into tears again and stood up, throwing her arms around Sister. “Janie.”

Edward, whose eyes also were wet, stood up next to his wife and embraced Sister when Tedi relinquished her. Then Tedi hugged Shaker, and Edward shook his hand.

“Thank you for coming, Shaker.”

“Mr. Bancroft, I’m terribly sorry for the circumstances.” Shaker, always correct as a hunt servant, addressed Edward, a member, by his surname.

“Yes, yes.” Edward’s lip began to quiver and Shaker reached for his hand again, holding it in both of his.

“Janie, sit with us.” Tedi pulled her down on the sofa.

A servant in livery—the Bancrofts, wonderful though they were, had pretensions—offered refreshments on a tray. Perhaps they weren’t pretentious. It was the world into which both had been raised. This was part of life.

“You knew it was Nola.” Tedi wiped her eyes.

“The ring.” Sister draped her arm around Tedi’s thin shoulders.

“Edward went to see. I couldn’t go. I just couldn’t.” Tedi choked, then composed herself. “I don’t know how Edward did it.”

Sister looked up at the tall man, severely handsome with a full head of closely cropped white hair and a trim military mustache. He greeted guests and shepherded them away from Tedi so she could talk to Sister for a moment. “He’s a strong man.”

“Guess he had to be.” Tedi leaned into Sister. “You can’t run a business like his without people trying to tear you into little pieces.”

“Tedi, I don’t know if something like today’s discovery can bring good. But—maybe it can bring peace.”

Tedi shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t know about peace, but I must find out what happened to my—baby.”

A chill touched Sister at the base of her neck just as a blazing bolt of lightning hit close to the house. Sparks flew, pink sparks widened into a halo of fireworks, and then the room went dark.

Ken Fawkes, the Bancrofts’ son-in-law, said, “Dad, it must have hit the transformer. I’ll crank up the generator.”

Ken had fallen into the habit of calling his father-in-law “Dad.”

The servants glided into the room, lighting candles, carrying hurricane lamps. Being plunged into darkness was not an uncommon experience in the country.

Sister wondered whether she should tell Tedi what she felt, felt so strongly that it was as if she’d been hit by that bolt of lightning. “Tedi, you will find out.”

Tedi turned to look directly into her friend’s warm eyes. “Yes, I think I will. I don’t think I’m going to like it.”

Sister kissed her friend again. “So many people want to see you, Tedi. I’ll come by tomorrow.”

“No, no, let me come to you. I want out of this place.”

“Good.” Tedi embraced her one more time, holding her tightly, then released her.

Sister nodded to people, shaking hands as she made her way over to Sybil, Nola’s older sister. Sybil, an attractive forty-six years old, was red-eyed from crying. The sisters had resembled each other, but in Nola, Sybil’s features had found perfection. Sybil’s jaw was a trifle too long, her eyes a light blue, whereas Nola’s were electric blue just like Tedi’s.

Scattered throughout the house were family photographs. If Nola had not been in those photographs your eye would have focused on Sybil, a pretty girl. But Nola was there and you couldn’t take your eyes off her.

On a few occasions, Sybil’s resentment of her sister would explode. Everyone understood, even Sybil’s own peers when they were children. It was damned hard to be outshone by your bratty little sister, and yet Sybil did love her. The two of them could fall into transports of giggles, pulling pranks, riding first flight in the hunt field. Both were good students, both were good with people, and both clung to each other as the children of the very rich often do once they discover they are very rich.

“Sister—” Sybil didn’t finish her sentence as the tears came.

Sister took her in her arms. “Be strong. Grab mane. Eyes up.” She told her the same thing she used to tell her when Sybil faced a big fence as a small child. And Sybil had been good to Ray Junior. Sister loved her for that. Sybil was a few years older than her son, yet always paid attention to him and rode with him. Both of them could ride like banshees.

Nola, while always friendly to Ray Junior, was too busy conquering men even as a fourteen-year-old to pay much attention to the boy. Nola had discovered her powers early and was determined to use them.

“I will.” Sybil sniffed.

Ken joined them. “Thank you for coming.” He embraced Sister.

“I’m just so glad you and the children are here.”

“We haven’t told the children all of it. Only that their Aunt Nola was finally found. What do you tell a ten-year-old and a six-year-old in a situation like this?” Ken shrugged.

“The truth—as gently as you can, because if you don’t, someone else will,” Sister forthrightly replied. “They’re strong.”

“Mother wants us to move back into the big house, but we can’t. We’re staying at Hunter’s Rest, but I’ll be with Mother every day,” Sybil said.

Hunter’s Rest, a two-story frame house, was located at the southernmost border of the large estate. It once housed the farm manager.

“If you need to get the children away, drop them with me. The S litter”—Sister mentioned a robust litter of foxhound puppies whelped in mid-May—“need walking out and handling. And you know they’re always as welcome as you are.”

“Thank you.” Ken placed his large hand on her shoulder. Apart from a slight paunch, he was holding his own against middle age. A few strands of gray appeared in his sandy hair and eyebrows. A small bald spot like a tonsure bore testimony to the encroaching years, but one had to be taller than Ken to see it.

Later, as Sister and Shaker drove back through the continuing rain, Shaker loosened his dark blue tie. “Had the damndest feeling.”

“What?”

“Well”—he paused, then sheepishly looked over at Sister—“I think I’ve seen too many TV mysteries.”

“What?” she persisted, knowing he’d have to work up to anything that couldn’t be proven by logic.

“Well, I felt that somebody in that room knew—knew what had really happened to Nola.”