Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

CHAPTER 3

Tuesday, February 4, some clouds and some sun hinted that the weather might turn in the foxhunter’s favor. Sister Jane knew better than to be too hopeful. She’d lived through whopping snowstorms as late as mid-April in central Virginia. As a rule of thumb, though, the last frost was around April 15 and she fervently hoped this year would run true to form. However, it was now February, a notoriously difficult month.

Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays were The Jefferson Hunt days. Back from Kentucky, Sister, her hounds, her huntsmen, and two whippers-in prepared for what they hoped would be a good day. As so many people worked, Tuesdays and Thursdays drew smaller numbers. When the season passed New Year’s Day, the diehards slipped away from work as they knew the last half of hunt season always flew by faster than the first half.

As Field Master, the seventy-three-year-old Sister led the riders in First Flight, those who took the jumps. Bobby Franklin, Betty’s husband, a man of prudent judgment, led Second Flight. Mostly they didn’t jump, although they might pop over a log.

The pasture—dull brown, patches of old snow here and there—lay below them. Within two months it would shine bright green.

Another reason people came out on this particular Tuesday was that they were hunting a new fixture, Oakside. It takes a season to learn a fixture, sometimes more, both for hounds and staff.

Led by Cora, an older, wiser hound, the pack fanned out over the lower pasture. They’d lost the line, easy to do in even the best of conditions, for the fox is every bit as smart as the old myths and stories tell us.

Noses down, concentration intense, the Jefferson pack made Sister proud. Shaker Crown, her huntsman of many years, knew when to urge them on and when to sit tight and shut up. This was a sit-tight-and-shut-up situation.

Pookah, young, a trifle silly, was momentarily distracted by the pungent odor of a bobcat. “Hey, this smells kind of interesting.”

Diana, an outstanding hound in her prime, walked over, checked it out. “Pook, that’s a bobcat. You know that’s a bobcat. Why waste your time?”

“Well, if we can’t pick up the fox again this could be fun. I want to have fun.”

“Shut up. Forget it and go to work.” Cora growled convincingly.

Pookah immediately did as she was told. You didn’t cross Cora.

Most members of the field want to gallop along. The more they gallop, the better they think the hunting. Granted, moving along at pace is always a thrill, but for Sister, staff, and those foxhunters who loved hounds, they marveled at the work below. This pack performed beautifully.

Dreamboat was one of the D line, for foxhounds take the first initial of their name from their mother’s name. He stopped, sniffed, sniffed more, his tail started to flip like a windshield wiper. Now Dreamboat was not a particularly brilliant hound. He was the good foot-soldier type. He had always been overshadowed by his littermates, Diana, Dragon, and Dasher. He did his job, was always in the middle of the pack but today was his day.

“Here he is!” he sang out in his resonant voice.

As Dreamboat was a reliable fellow none of the lead hounds bothered to check the line. Within seconds, Dreamboat up front, the pack spoke in unison.

Shaker, on Hojo, the perfect huntsman’s horse, bold, fast, and handy, fell in behind the pack. Way out on the right of the pack rode Betty Franklin, whipping in. On the left, just now dipping down into a swale, rode Sybil Fawkes, also whipping in.

Sister waited for a moment before trotting down the hill, riding behind Shaker by about thirty yards. Just behind her rode Maria and Nate Johnson, owners of Oakside. Out of the corners of their eyes they caught sight of their daughter, Sonia, behind Sybil by about a football field in length, riding tail. Sister wanted to train young people for staff positions and as Sonia was in her early twenties and could ride, this was working out.

The Johnsons rode up to direct Sister, who did not yet know the territory that well. Good thing, too, because the fox crossed a shallow creek, headed into a woods, and burst out again. Of course he didn’t run in a straight line, so everyone looped in the woods a bit. When they emerged, an old fence line dividing the Johnsons’ property from their neighbors’ appeared and so did the fox. The crafty fellow paused for one moment, looked back at the approaching hounds, then scooted under the fence and put on the afterburners to create havoc.

Knowing that the neighboring farm wasn’t available for hunting, Shaker had to halt his pack. Taking hounds off a hotline is miserable work because, in a sense, you are punishing them for doing their job. Hounds have little sense of human boundaries and if they did, they wouldn’t care.

To make matters worse, the entire field could view this beautiful red while watching the whippers-in jump the three-board fence to bring back the hounds.

Shaker pulled up to blow them in. Had he gone on, the hounds would have taken that as a signal they could continue. If the huntsman was right behind them, they were right. Like any huntsman, Shaker, frustrated, blew his horn three long notes in succession, and prayed his whippers-in could do their job. Not an easy one.

Betty rode right up on the pack’s shoulder, looking down at Thimble and Twist. “Leave it.”

“It’s red-hot!” Thimble protested.

On a blindingly fast Thoroughbred, Sybil called out the same order on the left side where Giorgio, a hound of stunning beauty, obeyed.

Sonia, without being told, rode past Sybil, got in front of the pack, slightly turned toward them and cracked her whip. That sounded like rifle fire and scared the hounds. They slowed down.

Then Betty and Sybil, who had worked with the pack for decades, knew everyone and vice versa, called again. “Leave it!”

Diana stopped so the others did, too, as Diana and Cora had the respect of all the hounds. Hounds, like humans, are pack animals. Some have natural authority and often they build on this, earning trust by their work.

“Not fair! Not fair!” Trident howled.

“How could they do this to us?” Dasher cried.

“Good hounds. Good hounds.” Betty praised them, which offered some salve.

“Come on. Come along,” Sybil pleasantly ordered, turning her horse back toward the fence.

“Why do they do this? Why?” Trident, who had been right behind Dreamboat, spoke in misery.

“Humans are perverse,” Trooper replied.

“True, but you have to admit, they rarely break us off a line,” Cora counseled.

Back at the fence, the hounds wiggled back under it while Betty, not under pressure, looked for a place with a top board off to jump. Yes, she could and just did jump a three-board fence, but it wasn’t her preference. She rode Outlaw, her tough Quarter Horse, who had that odd little engine push when he jumped.

Thoroughbreds’ jumps were usually smooth, often seemingly effortless; they spoiled their riders. Quarter Horses could jump without a doubt, but they always felt—to Betty, at least—as if there was a little extra wiggle there in the rear.

Sybil didn’t think anything about the fence being three boards. She leapt back over, as did Sonia.

The hounds gathered around Shaker, who lavishly praised them.

The medium-built, muscular huntsman leaned over, citing Dreamboat directly for all to hear; hounds, horses, and humans.

“Dreamboat, you were a star.”

“Me?” The good fellow gazed up, then realized “Me!”

Dreamboat stood on his hind legs as Shaker leaned over, reaching down, and took the offered paw.

The happy hound rejoined the pack. Shaker paused for a moment, looking to his master.

Sister asked Maria, “If we follow the creek south then turn back toward your farm, think we’ll be okay?”

“Sure.”

“If we find another fox that runs out of the fixture, we’ll just deal with it,” the elegant Master said.

A narrow path followed the creek. Resuming the search, hounds headed south, a few floated into the woods.

As Sister rode along, she memorized suitable crossings on the new fixture’s creek. As the waters were clear she could see the bottom, a big help. Nothing like getting into water only to sink in nasty silt.

Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty. Betty, on the other side of the water, picked her way through, as there wasn’t a path on that side. The problem was always those tendrils hanging from trees, Virginia creepers, and little bushes with loathsome thorns. It was a good horse that willingly plunged into the stuff, which Outlaw did. Not that he didn’t complain about it.

Twenty minutes. Twenty-five. The temperature, midforties, felt warm, especially if one had put on extra layers, since it was below freezing at ten o’clock when hounds were first cast.

Thirty minutes.

“Hey, gray,” Dreamboat called out, having picked up a scent. “Fading,” he cautioned.

He moved along a bit faster, hooked into the woods on the path side, then opened in earnest, his resonant hound baritone sounding beautiful.

Another run, maybe ten minutes followed, but it seemed longer as there were many obstacles to dodge. Finally the scent pooped out.

By now it was twelve-thirty. Two and a half hours seemed sufficient, given conditions and the newness of the fixture. Sister didn’t want to risk heading into forbidden territory should they get another line.

So many times a decision a Master must make isn’t good for hunting but necessary for landowner relations. She hoped, in time, the neighbor would learn that the club did no harm and was happy to do some good if you needed a gate fixed or perhaps useful information. She would call upon the neighboring farm after this first season down here and hope for the best.

Oakside’s neighbors, new people, were not country people. Like most new people, especially those moving from cities or suburbs, their property lines seemed inviolate to them. This is deeply unrealistic but it was best folks learn this lesson in a gentle manner. That didn’t necessarily mean Sister would someday be able to hunt that land but it did mean that hounds can’t read. You can post all the NO TRESPASSING signs you want, won’t do a bit of good to four-legged hounds with a snoutful of scent.

Walking back, the group came up to the old, now unused Saddlebred barn. The Johnsons had their hunting barn up by the house. The five-stall Saddlebred barn, built decades ago by an owner of these lovely horses, rested farther away and had been let go by an interim owner. The abandonment gave it a sorrowful air.

As she rode by, Sister noticed glowing skulls with red eyes pushing up from the ground, red paint on the sides of the barn reading, Murder, Help, I’m Being Held a Prisoner, plus a mannequin hanging from the rafters.

Maria and Sonia, with Nate’s help, had created a haunted barn as a fund-raiser for the pony club last year. A haunted barn it remained.

“Those darn skulls get me. It’s the damned red eyes,” Sister remarked to Maria.

“Scared the devil out of the kids.” Maria laughed.

Walking behind Sister, Phil Chetwynd teased Maria, “If you ever have a big fight with Nate, we’ll know where to look.”

Mercer, next to Phil, chirped, “I don’t know, Phil, I’d worry more about you. Taking all those road trips.”

Phil grinned. “Truthfully, I think sometimes my wife is glad to get rid of me.”

“Hear! Hear!” Sister called out and people laughed, most especially Phil.

Once back at Roughneck Farm, a forty-five-minute drive from Oakside, hounds were carefully checked for barbed-wire cuts, sore pads, anything unusual.

Betty and Tootie untacked horses to clean them as Sister and Shaker checked, then fed hounds.

The Master and huntsman watched the boys eat. The boys ate first, then the girls. Shaker figured if any of the girls were going into heat early the scent would linger and might cause a ruckus among the boys. And the boys always knew before humans had a sign. Of course, given that all had just hunted together without a hint of someone coming into season early, hounds were safe but Shaker stuck to his program. Sister rarely interfered. Her philosophy was if you have a good huntsman who doesn’t drink, run women, or is cruel to horses, leave him or her alone.

Shaker hadn’t gone to Kentucky. Sometimes he’d go along to away meets but mostly he didn’t want to be far from his hounds. He did enjoy riding with other huntsmen and had struck up a friendship with Glen Westmoreland at Woodford as well as Danny Kerr, huntsman at Camargo Hunt, another rousing Kentucky hunt. Shaker enjoyed talking shop. Most huntsmen did, especially as they were few in number, 162 in North America, give or take one or two depending on circumstances.

“Dreamboat, this was your day. It was the best day you ever had,” Sister called to the racy-looking hound as he enjoyed his food, drizzled with corn oil for the taste and also the shine it put on the coats.

“Funny, isn’t it?” Shaker smiled, for he liked the hound so much. “He really did me proud.”

“I love this pack. It’s taken a lifetime of breeding and work and I’ve always loved my hounds, but Shaker, I think this is the steadiest, hardest-working pack I’ve ever had and of course, much of the credit belongs to you and our whippers-in.”

“No shortcuts.” Shaker appreciated the compliment and she knew it.

The two of them had spent many an hour poring over bloodlines and performance. They also attended other hunts, singling out the special hounds there. The research never ended, the study, the planning, and they never wanted it to.

Sister’s cell phone beeped. She fished it out of her barn jacket, as she’d already taken off her good hunt coat. Peering down, she read a text:

“Call me. O.J.”

“Excuse me a minute.” She walked back into the tidy office and called Kentucky.

“Hey.”

“Sister, Alan and Meg notified the authorities as you would think they would. So Benny Glitters’s tomb has been opened with, oh, I don’t know what you call them, forensic people, I guess were there. Anyway, they found an entire human skeleton. Found the watch chain, no other jewelry. Bones and a watch.”

“What about the dog?”

“Buried with the human skeleton. No one can say for sure but it looks like the skeleton of a little terrier, you know, like a Norwich. The snout wasn’t long enough to be a Jack Russell. Oh, the human skeleton is male.”

“I’ll be damned. Did they find anything else?”

“Well, Benny Glitters.”

“Yes. Remind me again about Benny Glitters.”

“The owner, Captain Brown, of Walnut Hall before L.V.” Like most people, O.J. called Mr. Harkness by his first initials, as though he were still alive. “Brown was a very successful Thoroughbred horseman.”

“Right.”

“Before he died, he’d bred Benny Glitters. Everyone thought this would be the next great one. It surely looked like it. Well, Captain Brown died in 1894. The year Benny was eligible to race, he was sold along with the farm to L.V. L.V. was a harness-racing man but he wouldn’t have minded winning the Derby. Anyway, Benny started out brilliantly, winning everything and then just fizzled. No one knows why. He was sound. L.V. retired him, hoping he might prove useful as a stud. But then Lela, L.V.’s one daughter, he had two, fell in love with Benny, who was sweet. He became her favorite horse. She foxhunted him and when he died in 1921, she created a memorial. Benny is the only Thoroughbred buried in that graveyard, placed a little off to the side, under the trees.”

“She must have loved him very much.”

“It’s a wonderful story. The Chetwynds, your Chetwynds, did a lot of business in Kentucky, as you said. Old Thomas Chetwynd and L.V. were pals, according to Meg. Kindred spirits perhaps. Thomas had the big slate covering the tomb made, cut, engraved, and brought it out from Virginia to here. I guess there are a lot of slate quarries in central Virginia.”

“Yes. We hunt a fixture with an abandoned quarry on it. A seam of land running under a few counties, kind of like your limestone, I guess.”

“Anyway, that’s how Benny came to rest. The first Standardbred buried in what we all now know as the cemetery was Notelet, who died in 1917, and of course by then L.V. was gone. He died in 1915.”

“I don’t suppose anyone has an idea who it was down there with Benny,” said Sister, her interest piqued, inflamed really.

“No. It surely seems to be murder. You don’t just reopen a grave and stick someone and their dog in it.”

“True enough and it couldn’t have been a robbery. No one would leave a gold watch.”

“Meg said police took the watch with them after looking it over carefully at the site. No initials on it but a horsehead is engraved on the back. So I suspect whoever was down there was in the business.”

“Or an inveterate gambler,” speculated Sister.

“Didn’t think of that.”

“No good will come of this. I don’t care how long someone has been entombed, when you disturb them, troubles follow.” Sister shivered for a second as she felt the old evil of the deed.

“I wonder if troubles will follow finding and moving Richard the Third.” O.J., an avid reader and history buff, had followed that recent news story with great interest. The bones of the former English king—killed in 1485 in the Battle of Bosworth Field—were found under a parking lot.

“In one way or another it will, but I’m sure the British are equal to it. My worry is this is our problem. Well, I certainly hope it doesn’t bring trouble to Meg and Alan, or others that we know.”

“Sister, isn’t it creepy to think someone has been down there for one hundred and thirteen years and no one knew?”

“That’s just it. Someone did know.”