The Tell-Tale Horse

CHAPTER 20

One of the people who had a grasp of wireless technology was High Vajay, riding out today. He needed a blast of energy, given his marital troubles.

It was Saturday, March 1, and the field was quite large. Less than three weeks remained in the season. The day had proved so mild, in the low fifties, the trailers jammed Foxglove Farm.

The horrendous cow Clytemnestra, together with her equally worthless son, Orestes, had been placed in a five-board fenced paddock with extra grain, a brand-new salt block, and mounds of hay. Five boards wouldn’t stop Clytemnestra any more than three if she chose to bust a move, but it made Cindy Chandler, the pretty blonde owner, feel better.

Caneel, one of her hunters, watched everyone from an adjoining paddock.

Kasmir and High rode with Faye. The Merrimans were out, as was Cabel, which showed pluck on her part. She’d apologized individually to everyone who had witnessed her meltdown at Mousehold Heath. All the Custis Hall regulars came save Felicity, whose parents had descended upon her.

Sister made a mental note to speak with Charlotte Norton about Felicity. The worst thing the Porters could do would be to yank Felicity out of school. She sincerely hoped that wouldn’t be the case. Not only would it interrupt what should be one of the happiest times of a young person’s life, it would set her against her parents.

Val, noting Cabel’s difficulty mounting Mickey (for she’d forgotten her mounting block), gave Cabel a leg up. “Mrs. Harper, I’ve always wanted to ask you why you spell your name as you do. I thought Cabel had two l ’s.”

“Does,” came the quick reply. “I kicked the l out of it.” She laughed, as did Val.

The warmth worried Sister in terms of scent, but the low cloud cover might help a bit. She had read every book there was about scent; there weren’t many. She’d pored over other people’s old published hunt diaries and read the work of hunting correspondents for the British papers over the last two centuries. They didn’t know any more about scent than she did.

What she did know is that two lovely foxes lived at Foxglove. One, Grace, kept close to the stable because Cindy put out jelly beans, corn, and other tidbits that Grace devoured.

Another fox, larger, lived under the old schoolhouse used from 1870 to the 1940s.

She counted seventy-two people, a nice number. The Custis Hall girls rode at the rear of first flight.

Shaker cast hounds away from the stable toward two ponds with a pretty little waterwheel. It was a dwarf compared to the giant waterwheel at Mill Ruins, Walter Lungrun’s place. Cindy was forever improving her ponds. Originally, a long pipe poured water from the upper pond to the lower, and the water was then recycled back up by means of a pump in an enclosed pump-house. She had recently installed this small waterwheel, finding the soft lap of water on the paddles soothing.

Hounds found no scent around the ponds, which surprised Sister, for usually there was a hint near the cool dampness. Hounds moved up the meadows past the woods to their left where the old springhouse stood, still useful. They feathered by the schoolhouse. Iggy, the schoolhouse fox whom hounds called Professor, was nowhere to be found.

Shaker jumped the coop over the road and then the coop on the other side of the dirt road, hounds casting in the rougher meadow there. They’d been out twenty-five minutes at a walk. Cooler air touched Sister’s cheeks; a little wind current fluttered across the meadow.

Dragon, out today because Cora was footsore, sniffed, feathered, moved faster, then opened. Within the blink of an eye the entire pack was flying. Dreamboat, Diddy, Darby, Doughboy, Dana, and Delight did wonderfully, as did the third-year hounds, Trudy, Trident, Tinsel, and Trinity. Two young entry came out today, Parker and Pickens. Both Sister and Shaker thought Saturday a bit much for first year, but these two had matured faster than their littermates and currently ran smack in the middle of the pack.

Hounds ran straight as an arrow until reaching Soldier Road, the local east-west route that climbed laboriously over the Blue Ridge Mountains. Interstate 64 farther north took most of that traffic, for which everyone was grateful.

Soldier Road had narrow ditches on either side for runoff. Sister and Keepsake, happy to be out today, cleared one clambering up the low embankment to the macadam road. Watching her hounds, she noticed the macadam did not throw them off. Scent had to be red hot. The oil odor of macadam, especially when warming, conceals scent. She cleared the second runoff ditch, plunging into unkempt fields. They blasted through those fields, skirted the base of Hangman’s Ridge, veered east into the wildflower field, awaiting spring’s clarion call, and up and over the hog’s-back jump into After All Farm.

Dragon, in the lead, was stretched to his fullest. Right behind came Diddy, then Trinity. To her surprise, once she cleared the hog’s back, Sister saw Pickens fourth as the hounds ran in the woods, the denuded trees offering some views.

On and on they screamed until arriving at Pattypan Forge, impressive in a forlorn fashion.

Aunt Netty lived at Pattypan Forge, Uncle Yancy leaving out of frustration once she arrived. But hounds hadn’t been on Aunt Netty snug in her den, furious about this commotion outside her tidy abode.

Hounds cast around the forge, large heavy stones set in place in 1792. This time Diddy picked up the signature odor and off they ran again.

Straight through the trees, into the pinewoods, scent thick in the air, needles cushioning hoofbeats, then out and into the hardwoods again, and down into Broad Creek. The crossing had become tricky. People dotted the last few miles, four coming a cropper at the crossing alone. The temperature was cool enough to feel uncomfortable if one is soaking wet.

Onward. Keepsake, nostrils wide, ears forward, loving every second just as much as the silver-haired woman on his back, scarcely touching the reins.

The scorching pace now told on those whose horses weren’t fit. Some people themselves had gotten out of shape over the holidays and hadn’t recovered form. Bathing-suit weather usually took care of that.

On and on those hounds ran, Shaker behind them. Betty, on Magellan, a huge grin on her face, whipped in on the left. Betty disappeared in the woods. Sister caught sight of her once more, bursting into the open; same with Sybil, riding Postman today, covering the right.

Her whippers-in stuck to their places as well, using good judgment. The staff work today proved as good as the hound work.

On they ran. Sister glanced behind her, the field strung out like pearls that had popped their string. Tedi and Edward were close behind, once again demonstrating the wisdom of riding fit Thoroughbreds. Gray was nowhere to be seen. In that quick glance she caught a glimpse of only a dozen people.

Good God, she thought to herself, what’s happened to them? That thought lasted only a split second because the Custis Hall girls rode tail and they were equal to most crises; also the pace, flaming, incinerated the thought.

Hounds leapt into the graveyard at the old Lorillard place, where they threw up. Scent disappeared as if a magician had put the fox back in the hat instead of the rabbit. They whined a moment and cast themselves away from the large pin oak in the middle of the graveyard, guarding Jemima Lorillard’s grave among others.

Nothing.

Shaker removed his cap, wiping his brow.

Sister did likewise.

Tedi and Edward remained behind her but close. Walter, on Rocketman, caught up. She counted heads: twenty-three people. No sign of the hilltoppers.

“Where is everybody?”

“Lost the hilltoppers at the crossing,” Walter replied. “Bobby is bringing them the long way around.”

“Jesus,” was all she said, because the long way around meant he circumvented one mile north for an easier crossing. “Hilltoppers are supposed to be able to ride. They should also be able to jump at least a log in the road.”

“Well, he had some green people today; better safe than sorry,” Walter replied, and he was right.

“The run of the season.” Edward lifted his top hat to salute the hounds.

“By God, it was!” Walter agreed and did likewise with his hunting cap.

Coming up behind was Kasmir and he, too, lifted his topper. High and Faye had succumbed to the pace but Kasmir, although a touch portly, was as fit as his mount.

“Couldn’t help it,” Sister bragged. “Those young ones were fabulous.” She wanted to shout to the heavens, Thank you, Jesus! but instead sat quietly while horses, hounds, and humans recovered their wind. One by one, riders straggled in, the number now thirty-two, still a far cry from seventy-two.

“We ran an eleven-mile point.” Walter flipped his Reverso wristwatch, the perfect watch for hunting despite its expense. “One hour and fourteen minutes with a brief check at Pattypan Forge.”

“It truly was the run of the season.” Tedi needed a pickup from her flask, which contained an excellent port. “Sister?”

“Forgive me, folks.” Sister, parched, took a draft, even though staff is not to drink alcohol during a hunt, one of those rules usually observed in the breach.

Everyone who had a flask reached for it.

Shaker rode up and Walter handed him his flask. “I know, I know.” Walter smiled. “But you must be dry as a bone.”

Shaker shook his head no. He kept sweet tea in his flask. He’d learned the hard way that he couldn’t drink, regardless of occasion.

Sister also kept iced tea, unsweetened, in her flask, but Tedi’s exquisite port lured her.

“Boss.” Shaker sighed with deep joy.

“Huntsman.” She smiled at him. “I say we head back.”

So they did, and not halfway into the woods, just at the edge of where the old Lorillard property adjoined After All Farm, they hit again. The music filled the air, echoed off hills, gave horses another burst of energy.

This fox happened to be Uncle Yancy. Why he was this far east was anyone’s guess, but he took them straight to Pattypan Forge again, where he ducked into his harridan’s den. This time hounds dug at the entrance with conviction, because they could hear squabbling inside.

“You lazy, good-for-nothing, what makes you think you can come into my den?”

“Hounds were hot on my tail, my sweet; then again, I haven’t seen you for far too long.” He blinked with a sweet expression.

“I ought to throw your sorry tail right out of here.” Aunt Netty swished her own tatty brush.

“Now, my sweet, don’t be hasty,” he cooed.

Trinity whispered to Dasher, “Will she throw him out?”

“Nah, they fight all the time.”

After blowing “Gone to Ground,” Shaker hopped back up on Kilowatt—he was already in love with this game, athletic horse—and they walked slowly back to After All Farm.

Along the way they passed some of those who had turned back early.

They rode up on the Custis Hall girls in the wildflower field, helping guests who had parted company with their mounts. Sister thanked Val, Tootie, and Pamela for catching the horses.

The walk back took forty-five minutes. Sister wouldn’t take any jumps. Most accidents occur skylarking on the return when many horses are blown.

Keepsake, Kilowatt, Magellan, and Postman could have popped over. So could Tedi and Edward’s horses, but it wasn’t worth it. It’s a foolish field master who risks life and limb going home. When hounds are running, that’s a different story.

Finally the stable at Foxglove Farm came into view, the weathervane’s arrow point indicating a slight wind from the northwest.

However, what caught Sister’s eye and everyone else’s was the squad car at the stable.

“I hope no one’s seriously hurt,” Sister whispered to Walter.

No one was hurt, but Faye Spencer, naked, tied to Cindy Chandler’s mare, Caneel, sat in the paddock. Caneel had been drugged. Faye had been shot through the heart.