The Shadowy Horses

I assured him it took quite a lot to tire me. "I come from hardy stock, you know."

"Oh, aye?" The blue eyes didn't look convinced. "I thought you came from London."

"Very funny," I replied.

Jeannie smiled. "What part of London?"

"West London. Chiswick. But I live in Covent Garden

now, I have my own flat. The first Grey to leave Chiswick in two generations," I told them, proudly. "My parents thought it terribly brave of me, moving all that way. You'd have thought I'd gone to darkest Africa."

David's eyebrow arched. "And what do they think of you coming to Scotland?"

"Oh, well, after Covent Garden, nothing shocks them. And they got rather used to me gadding about when I worked for the British Museum."

"Aye, I ken how it is." Jeannie nodded, straight-faced. “The Eyemouth Museum is always sending me off to exotic places, like."

I grinned. "Is your museum in an old building, or a modern one?"

"The Auld Kirk," she replied. "Down by the harbor. But the museum itself is just new—they opened it to mark the hundredth anniversary of the Disaster."

"What disaster?" I asked, then waited while the two of them shared a look that seemed a sort of silent conversation.

"Maybe," David advised Jeannie, "you'd best take her through when Mum is there, after all. She tells the tale better than anyone."

Jeannie agreed. "You'll just have to wait," she told me, "and let Granny Nan tell you about the Disaster. I'd not want to spoil the story."

"I hate waiting," I complained.

David smiled. "Aye, so does Peter. And unless you want your headache to come back, you'd do well to stay clear of the sitting room. The rain," he said, "does not improve his temper."

Jeannie studied him with knowing eyes. "Is that why you're hiding in here, then?''

"I'm not hiding, I'm running errands. I was to see how Verity was feeling, first, and then go down and check on Fabia's photographs."

I looked at him, curious. "Is Fabia a good photographer, really?"

"Bloody good." His nod held conviction. "I had my doubts when Peter gave her the position, but he kent what he was doing. He usually does."

"It's only that she seems so young."

"Aye, she'll be twenty this summer. But she's been practically raised in a darkroom, that lass. It's what her father did," he explained. "Photography. He could have made quite a name for himself, if he'd bothered to put in the effort."

"I gather," Jeannie said, "that he was something of a... well, a..."

"Sod," supplied David, rocking back in his chair. "Aye, that he was. He and Fabia's mother, they made quite a pair. All their parties and flash cars and Paris weekends. Peter finally had to cut them off—they were spending his money right, left and center.''

Jeannie frowned. "She was a fashion model, wasn't she, Fabia's mother?"

"Aye."

"And where is she now?"

"America, I think." He shrugged. "When the money stopped, she lost all interest in living with Philip. Fabia was only a wee thing when she left, I don't suppose she even remembers."

I felt a twinge of pity for the girl. "Still," I said, "it can't have been easy."

"No," agreed David. "It's amazing she's turned out as sane as she has, being brought up by Philip. He wasn't all there, if you ken what I mean."

Giving in to my curiosity, I asked how Peter Quinnell's son had died.

"A bottle of tablets washed down with a wee bit of brandy," was David's blunt reply.

"Oh."

"Not that it really surprised anyone—we'd all seen it coming a long time ago. And at least some good's come out of it. Peter's got his granddaughter back."

I frowned. "I'm sorry ... what do you mean, he's got her back?"

"Well, Philip wouldn't let him see the lass for years. Never sent so much as a photograph, or a card at Christmas. Like I said, he was a sod. To Peter," he informed me, "family is everything. Not seeing Fabia fair broke his heart."

Jeannie made a sour face. "He should have counted his blessings."

"Now, don't be unkind." David grinned. "She may be a wee bit difficult, at times, but she is doing a good job with the photography."

"Speaking of which," said Jeannie, in her motherly tone, "were you not going downstairs to check on the lass, Davy?"

"Aye, so I was. One more shortie," he promised, reaching for the nearly empty tin, "and I'm away."

He strolled out of the kitchen whistling, and Jeannie rose to salvage what remained of her shortbread, tucking the tin safely away behind a stack of plates in the cupboard. Draining my teacup thoughtfully, I leaned back in my chair.

"He seemed in a good mood," I remarked. "Very chatty."

"Who, Davy? He's always like that."

"Not with me." I spoke the words half to myself, and turned my gaze to the window. The wind had risen again outside, throwing spatters of rain against the glass and drawing a faint half-human moan from the empty field. Outside, against a corner of the peeling window ledge, a large gray spider brooded, curled beneath its web, long legs drawn up in petulant ill-temper while it waited for the rain to stop. It reminded me of Quinnell, that spider—impatient to get on with things, but thwarted by the one thing neither spiders nor archaeologists could control: the weather.