The Shadowy Horses

He shook his head. "It's only a mile out to the house. I like the walk."

I tried to imagine Adrian Sutton-Clarke walking a country mile to work each morning, and failed. Adrian, I knew, would use his car.

A door from the corridor opened and closed and a tall, lean-faced man with mahogany hair shook his head and came, smiling, toward us. "Verity, my dear, you really must learn some respect for schedules," he teased me, bending down to brush my cheek with an affectionate kiss of greeting. "Friday, last I checked, comes after Thursday, and you did say Friday."

"Hello, Adrian." It always took me a moment to adjust to the sheer impact of his handsome face, even now. Each time I met up with him I kept hoping, rather foolishly, that he'd have chipped one of his teeth, or that his dark, long-lashed eyes would be puffy and bloodshot, but each time he turned up just as perfect as ever, a six-foot-two package of pure sex appeal, and invariably knocked me off center. Only for a moment, and then memory reasserted itself and I was fine.

David Fortune had misinterpreted the involuntary change in my expression. He drained his pint and rose politely. "Look, I'll leave you to it, shall I? I could do with a shower and a lie-down, myself. See you both tomorrow." Slanting a brief look down at me, he stabbed the menu with a knowing finger. "Try the lemon sole, it's magic."

Adrian slid into the vacant seat opposite and favored me with a curious stare. "Just how," he asked me, when we were alone, "did you come to meet Fortune? Or do I want to know?"

"We were on the same bus. We got to talking."

"Ah." He nodded. "The bus from Berwick."

"Dunbar, actually."

The waitress came. I closed my menu, and ordered the lemon sole.

Adrian leaned back, contentedly. "I know I'm going to regret asking this," he said. "But how, if you came up from London, presumably on the train, did you end up on a Berwickshire bus from Dunbar?"

I explained. It took some time, and I was nearly finished with my meal by the time I'd told him everything, beginning with the sheep on the line at Darlington. Adrian shook his head in disbelief and reached for his cup of coffee. "You see? If you'd waited until tomorrow, like you were supposed to, none of that would have happened."

I shrugged. "Something worse might have happened. You never know."

"True. Confusion does rather seem to follow you around, doesn't it?"

"So tell me," I changed the subject, balancing my knife and fork on my empty plate, "what exactly is this job you've recommended me for?"

Adrian folded his arms and smiled like the devil. "As I recall, I told you I'd explain everything on Friday."

"When I arrived, you said."

"On Friday. And today's only Thursday."

"Oh, give it up ..."

"But I'm sure Quinnell will be happy to tell you anything you want to know, when you meet him."

"That's hardly fair," I pointed out. "I'm meeting him tonight."

"So you are. Finished with that, have you? Good. Then let's get you out to Rosehill so you can settle in."

"Rat," I called him, holding back my smile.

Ten minutes later, seated in his car and speeding inland from the harbor, I tried again. "The least you can do," I said evenly, "is tell me what's wrong with the job."

"Wrong with the job?" He flashed me a quick sideways glance, eyebrows raised. "Nothing's wrong with the job. It's a great opportunity, wonderful benefits—Quinnell's a disgustingly wealthy man, so the pay is obscene. And you get room and board with it, holidays, travel allowances ... it's a marvelous job."

"You're certain of that?"

"Lord, yes. You don't think I'd have lured you up here otherwise, do you?" Again the rapid glance. "Why the sudden lack of trust?"

I shrugged. "Just something your Mr. Fortune said, in passing."

"Oh, yes?"

"He was sure that I'd be offered the job," I explained. "He wasn't so sure I'd accept."

Adrian digested this thoughtfully. We were well out of town, now, and the road was dark. I couldn't see his eyes. "I suppose," he said slowly, "that he might have been thinking of Quinnell himself. Of how you'd react."

"React to what?"

"To Quinnell."

I sighed, tight-lipped. "Adrian ..."

"Peter Quinnell," he told me, "is a fascinating old character—well-read, intelligent, one of a kind." He turned his head so I could see the half-apologetic smile. "But I'm afraid that he's also quite mad."

II

“I beg your pardon?''

"Darling, you can look positively Victorian at times," was Adrian's response. He was grinning. "Those eyes ... and anyhow, it isn't what you think. He's not the murderous sort of madman, nor even the creeping-round-the-back-stairs sort."

I lowered my eyebrows, cautiously. "What sort is he?"

"You'll be able to judge for yourself, in a minute. That's Rosehill up ahead."

I looked, but only saw a tiny, low-slung cottage set practically at the road's edge, its windows blazing warmth and light. "What, that?"

"No. That," he said, with a tutor's patience, "is the groundskeeper's cottage. The drive runs up from there, do you see? It runs right up the hill to that big house, there in the trees..."