The Shadowy Horses

"Now," said Peter, turning his attention to the common room, "I'm wondering if we shouldn't bring the camp beds up, as well? Davy," he addressed the man just struggling through the doorway with another load of sleeping bags, "what do you think?"

"What do I think of what?"

"Camp beds."

"Christ, no," David said, with feeling. "They're students, Peter—they like sleeping on the floor." He dumped his armful of sleeping bags and turned to me, his smile warming the air between us. "Morning."

"Good morning."

Peter, looking the picture of innocence, was preparing to say something clever, and Adrian, aware that he was missing something, was glowering across at me, when I was suddenly saved by—of all people—Fabia. Waltzing through the stable door, her blond hair fetchingly ruffled by the fierce rising wind, she provided a welcome distraction. Adrian's eyes left my face like a compass needle swinging to magnetic north.

But she didn't appear to notice. She'd come looking for David. "Your mother just rang," she said. "She says she's having trouble with the car, and can you please go up and get her."

"What, now? Right this minute?"

Fabia nodded. "She didn't sound too keen on being stuck up there alone, with this storm coming."

"Nonsense," Peter said. "Nancy's rather fond of storms, as I recall. She likes the thunder."

David smiled. "All the same, I'd best not keep my mother waiting, not when I've been summoned."

"You can take the Range Rover, if you like," said Fabia.

"Aye, all right." Turning, he held out his hand. "Give us the keys, then, and I'm away."

Brian came through the doorway as David went out, and shuddered as a sudden gust of wind shook the building. "Jesus," he said, ducking his head to light a cigarette, "it's worse up here than it is at the harbor."

Peter arched a solicitous eyebrow. "How's the boat?"

"Oh, the boat's fine," said Brian. "But Billy's a wreck. We had the bloody Customs and Excise officer around this morning. Scared poor Billy half to death. Good job we'd only been out a few hours—the boat was clean. And the last shipment's safely up here, where nobody would think to ..." He suddenly stopped, and his head came up.

I'd seen that expression before, I thought—that strange, fixed expression. I'd seen it on Robbie.

Fabia, beneath his stare, swallowed apprehensively.”What?''

"You stupid cow," he told her, slowly. "You bloody stupid cow."

Adrian stood up, protectively. "Brian..."

"I'd figured it was Mick who grassed," said Brian, heedless of the interruption, seeing only Fabia. "But it was you put the officer onto the Fleetwing." His tone was certain of the fact, and I remembered what little I'd heard of Fabia's telephone conversation yesterday, in the front hall. Tomorrow morning, she'd said. Had she been ringing the Customs and Excise then, telling them to inspect Brian's boat? But why?

Brian had his own theory. "What, angry with me, were you, for giving your boyfriend the shove?"

"Her boyfriend ..." Adrian frowned.

"Oh, aye. She and young Mick have been having it off for a month or more, now. You and I," he told Adrian, "outlived our usefulness."

The storm was drawing closer. I could feel the pricking heat of it, the dark oppressive heaviness that dulled the dead air around me. Peter, standing by the wall, shook his head slightly. "Brian, my dear boy, this hardly seems..."

"I didn't make that call because of Mick," said Fabia, rising to Brian's bait. "And I never wanted them to search your stupid boat. I wanted them to come here." Her eyes freezing over, she turned to face Peter. "They will come, you know—they'll be on their way now. And they'll find what you're keeping down in the cellar. I can just see the headlines, can't you?" The tone of her voice was pure venom. "And what will Connelly say, do you think, when he finds you've been using the dig as a cover for smuggling?"

Peter's eyes held a terrible sadness, like a god who must witness the fall of an angel. "Fabia, why?"

"Because," she said, "I want to see you suffer." Adrian, shocked, burst out: "Fabia!" and she wheeled on him in a temper.

"You don't know anything about it!" she accused him. "He killed my father, understand? He made my father's life a living hell, and then he killed him."

Peter seemed to age before my eyes, his features collapsing with the weight of painful memory. "Fabia," he tried to explain, "your father was ill..."

"He was not."

"He was ill but I loved him."

"Liar!" She hissed the word. "You never loved Daddy as much as you loved your precious work, your precious reputation. He told me." Her eyes, filled with hate, found her grandfather's stricken ones. "He told me everything."

The lights flickered briefly and I suddenly realized how dark it had grown outside—the shadows closed around us and vanished again as the warm glow hummed to life. And then the sky exploded, and the storm came down like vengeance.

XXXV

Jeannie, blown into the big room on a wet and swirling wind, seemed scarcely to notice the tension. She was too busy looking at Brian. "Where's Robbie?"