'The horse, Hugh – nobody would look twice at a horseman on the hill. There've been riders up there already this morning. They went straight by him.'
He looked at her doubtfully. He'd not been in a saddle since heaven only knew when. But if he could stay on top it would double his mobility, never mind his credibility...
'I'm not much of a horseman, Mary.'
'Sammy's not much of a horse.'
He couldn't disappoint her now, and – damn it – he dlidn't want to.
Besides, it might actually work. 'Hell, Mary – I'll give it a try,' he said.
XI
TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER he wasn't quite so sure the horse had been such a good idea.
She was a docile enough creature, undeniably, easy to ride on the flat and tolerably sure-footed on the hillside. But however many dummy2
times she had been up the sheep-track – he supposed it was a sheep-track, though there was no sign of any sheep – she hadn't learned to traverse it willingly: he was already sweating with the effort of dragging her up and he suspected that only the near impossibility of turning round kept the beast going. In fact there was now no turning back for cither of them – they were saddled with each other.
He scanned the escarpment above him for movement. At least Mary's memory of the lie of the land had been exact, and only the skyline of bare tuft was above him.
And one thing was established anyway – he felt it in his bones: this had been how Alan had unwittingly created the necessity for his own death. He had ridden out innocently for his early morning exercise using his favourite route, and had set up his own appointment in Samarra.
It was a thought that turned the sweat on his back clammy.
Moreover, the deerstalker might even be the man Alan had seen, in which case he might recognise the horse, even if he failed to recognise her new rider.
He looked critically at the mare. No, that was hardly possible: Sammy – it was an unlovely diminutive for Samantha – was a most anonymous horse, a very common, brown, ordinary horse without a single distinguishing mark.
He toiled on up, past the wire fence with its strands conveniently looped for easy passage — Sammy knew the drill of old and waited patiently while he refixed them — and then on under the furze patch. Beyond it the going was easier and the skyline was still empty.
dummy2
He looked back down towards the village, to the house and to the window from which Mary was watching his every step. Far beyond it he could see an electric train racing silently towards Eastbourne, flashing sparks from its wheels. And beyond that a great blue-black column of rain and raincloud spreading slowly like the wrath of God across the miniaturised landscape.
The rain was five, maybe seven miles away – and how fast did rain travel?
He reached the end of the furze, the jumping off point and a suitable resting place for the horse. He could wait here for the rain to reach him, and then go on in with it, or go straight in the moment Mary gave him her signal.
He looked back towards the house again, and as he did so he saw the white bath towel flap over the window sill – that was the signal that Deerstalker was still in position.
Wait or go?
Roskill realised suddenly that he was very close to being frightened, and the longer he waited, the more frightened he'd get.
Go then!
He held the reins carefully in his left hand and using the advantage of the hill swung himself into the saddle. Sammy backed nervously, sensing her rider's fear, and for one brief, blind second of panic Roskill felt he was losing control of her.
He urged her forward and felt her gears engage. Up the last few yards on to ground that was only gently sloping, and turn —
dummy2
The burial mound stood out against the grey sky –
Jingling harness, horse snorting and spluttering, landscape jumping
– mustn't lose stirrups...
He approached the mound directly, uncertain until the last moment whether to veer to the left or the right of it. The right would be safer, as the man wouldn't get a direct look at him, but equally he wouldn't get a direct view either and the whole point of this crazy ride would be lost.
Left, then –
Sammy thumped stiff-legged past the burial mound, at the last moment turning slightly crab-wise against the hillside's slope and so giving him a perfect view of his quarry, deerstalker, field-glasses, open mouth and all.
And then, in a second of total confusion, he was past: and tugging savagely at the reins, fighting to stop Sammy from breaking into a canter which would take them all the way to Alfriston.
He was fifty yards on before he managed to turn the mare and quieten her to a walk. And by then Butler was no longer lying prone, but was sitting staring at him in the midst of a small pile of belongings, the wind riffling the pages of a foolscap notebook beside him.
