We played the game several times more before we went through to supper. This was a spread of cold food, so that the servants could have their own Christmas party. I still didn’t feel like eating much, but the array of cold beef, cold ham, veal and ham pie, Cornish pasties and assorted pickles was very tempting. It was washed down with more wine or local cider, and finished with liquors, chocolates, nuts and dates.
At last, full of food and Christmas cheer, we all went to bed. Even the Wexlers could find nothing to complain about and Junior declared it “a real swell Christmas.” I was inclined to agree with him. It had been a marvelous Christmas Day and if only a man had not driven his van off the road to his death, it would all have been perfect.
Chapter 23
BOXING DAY AT GORZLEY HALL
DECEMBER 26
Off to the hunt. Looking forward to a good ride. I hope I get a decent horse.
I was awakened to cold gray light by Queenie with a tray of tea.
“Morning, miss. They told me to get you up early because you’ve got to go on one of them fox hunts,” she said. “Rather you than me, sitting on a horse in this weather.” She put down the tray. “What was you thinking of wearing?”
“I have only brought one set of jodhpurs with me, Queenie, so I don’t think there is much choice. My warmest jumper to go with them, and Bunty is lending me a hunting jacket.”
I looked out the window to see the orchard vanishing into mist and Lovey Tor not even visible. At least it wouldn’t have frozen overnight if the mist had come in. I dressed and went down to find coffee, tea, pasties, sausage rolls and mince pies laid out on the sideboard for the early risers. One by one the other hunters came in and helped themselves to something to eat and drink. From outside the window came the clatter of hooves, a sound that always sends a shiver of excitement through me. I have always adored hunting, even though I do feel sorry for the fox. I suspect that hunting must be in my blood—and the fox is usually smart enough to get away.
Bunty came in, with a black velvet jacket in her hands. “I’ve an extra black crash cap too if you want to match,” she said. “I hope you’ll be all right. Freddie’s horses are both a little crazy, you know. He was often seen flying through the village because one of them had bolted with him.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said. “That sounds most encouraging.”
“He was never a particularly good rider,” Bunty said. “I expect you’ll be fine. You should go out and get first dibs on the one you like.”
“Is one less skittish than the other?”
“No idea,” she said. “I’ve never ridden them.”
Thus encouraged, I went out to see a groom holding two leading reins, on the ends of which were a tall bony gray and a chestnut that was stamping and snorting like a warhorse, its breath hanging in the cold air like a dragon’s fire. I noted the double bridle and the size of that tossing head and decided on the gray.
“Her be Snowflake, miss,” the groom said as he attempted to give me a leg up into the saddle. “Her got a right mean streak and a will of her own, if you don’t mind my saying so. She can be a right cow at times. Always tries to give me a nip when I’m brushing her. I told the master he should get rid of her, but for some reason he were fond of her.” He shook his head. “Never did have good judgment, poor bloke.”
After a lot of dancing around on Snowflake’s part I finally managed to get into the saddle and Snowflake spent the next five minutes trying to buck me off. I noticed Badger watching, his eyes wide with terror.
“I think I might bow out,” he said to Monty.
“Rubbish, old bean. We’ve got a mount that’s docile as a kitten for you. Bunty and I learned to ride on old Star. He’s a bit of a plodder but sure and safe. You’ll be just fine.”
They went around to the stables and soon a procession came out. Lady Hawse-Gorzley led the way on a magnificent bay hunter, then Monty and Bunty. Behind them rode the colonel on a large, almost black hunter I presumed must be Sultan, and then Badger on a round animal not much bigger than a pony. Darcy came out and gave me a look as he swung himself effortlessly into the saddle of the warhorse. It snorted and pawed a couple of times but it was quite clear that it recognized Darcy as the master. He tried to ride over to join me but Snowflake backed away.
“Them two don’t like each other much,” the groom called. “Leastways, she don’t like no other horses at all. Like I said, a right cow.”
“I’d come and say good morning, but I think I’d better not,” Darcy called as Snowflake skittered again. “Will you be all right?”
“As long as no horses come near me and nothing else spooks her, I suppose so,” I called back, trying to sound more breezy than I felt.
“Off we go, then,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley called and we set off down the drive and through the village, our hoofbeats echoing dramatically through the misty stillness. Nothing else stirred as we passed the green. The villagers were enjoying sleeping late for once. The road took us over the hill and through deserted moorland until we heard the baying of hounds and the clatter of harnesses ahead of us and came to a lonely pub where the hunt was assembling, a splendid-looking mass of red and black coats and well-groomed horses. There were already a good number of riders and spectators assembled and the publican was going among them passing out stirrup cups of hot grog. My cheeks and fingers were already stinging with cold and I needed no second urging to drink one myself.
“Ah, Lady H-G, you’ve brought your guests, I see.” A dapper little man with a Ronald Coleman mustache rode up to us. He was mounted on a good-looking gray and both rider and horse were immaculate.
“Good of you to let them join us, Master,” she said.
“Well, let’s hope they all know how to ride, what? And the rules of the hunt. I’m a stickler for rules, as you should know.”
“I do, Master. Believe me, I do,” she said and turned back to the rest of us. “This is our master of hounds, Major Wesley-Parker. Major, this is Colonel Rathbone. Do you military men know each other, by any chance?”
“Can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure,” the major said, extending a hand to the colonel. “Which regiment, sir?”
“Bengal Lancers. Finest fighting force in India,” the colonel said.
“Bengal Lancers, what? Then you must know old Jumbo!”
“Jumbo?”
Everybody knows old Jumbo.” He paused. “Jumbo Bretherton, the brigadier.”
“Oh, Brigadier Bretherton,” the colonel said. “I never knew him as Jumbo.”
“Didn’t you? Thought everybody called him Jumbo.”
“Not his junior officers,” the colonel said.
I had been riding at the back of the group, since Snowflake reputedly loathed other horses, and I had had a chance to observe the others. I watched the colonel now. Shouldn’t someone with the Bengal Lancers have a better seat? I wondered. Wouldn’t half his days be spent in the saddle? And why didn’t he know the nickname of his brigadier? And why did nobody know him if he’d previously had a house in the area? Something I had heard came back to me—that one of the escaped convicts had had a music hall act in which he had played, among other things, an elderly colonel. Could he possibly be hiding out under our noses playing the part of the colonel again? In which case, who was the woman with him, posing as his wife, since we’d been told the convict’s wife had committed suicide when he was sent to prison? At least it would be worth mentioning my suspicions to Inspector Newcombe. Then I had to turn my attention to the matters at hand as another horse approached Snowflake and she danced away, eyes rolling. Final stragglers arrived, including Johnnie Protheroe on a fine-looking hunter and the Sechrests, also well turned out and riding with flair.
“Here we are, Master, all present and correct,” Johnnie said, touching his crop to his cap.
“No high jinks this time, young Protheroe,” the master said.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Master.” Johnnie grinned as he swung his horse into the group. The horn was sounded. The last stirrup cups were drained. The hounds, who had been sniffing around, tails wagging, suddenly were all business, moving off excitedly.
“Off we go, then,” the master shouted, turning back to us. “And remember, it’s dashed misty out there. I don’t want anyone winding up in a bog. And if we go anywhere near Lovey Tor, stay well to the right of Barston
