The Shadowy Horses

Kip trotted back toward us, stick in mouth, and Wally patiently tossed it out again across the garden.

Another voice intruded unexpectedly. "You'll make the dog boak, if you keep that up." A smooth voice, not unpleasant, but not the one I'd been hoping to hear. Brian McMorran's hair shone silver in the sunlight as he sauntered over to join us.

"Away wi' ye," said Wally, flatly. "And mind your language."

"Aw, she doesn't know what boak means, do you?" Brian looked to me for confirmation. "See? Of course she doesn't know. She wants to come out on the Fleetwing with me and the lads, when the sea's a bloody roller coaster, then she'd know what boaking is."

"That's enough." Wally's eyebrows lowered, and Brian grinned, exposing a line of wolfish teeth.

"All right, all right. Sorry if I've shocked you." But he didn't look the least bit sorry as he settled himself on the garden wall beside me. "I am," he confessed, "a rotten bastard, as Wally will no doubt have warned you. Cigarette?" He drew a battered packet from his rolled-up shirtsleeve, and I shook my head.

"No thanks. I don't smoke."

"Bloody filthy things," said Wally. Since he himself was smoking, I deduced that he was talking, not of cigarettes in general, but of Brian's in particular. They were a foreign brand—I didn't recognize the writing on the packet—and the smoke stank to sweet heaven as it drifted past my face.

Tucking the cigarettes back in his sleeve, Brian folded his tattooed arms across his chest and tipped back his head to look at the glorious sky.

"Grand weather," he remarked. "I'm surprised you're not out digging in the fields, the lot of you, especially after that little panto you staged last night."

"No work today," said Wally shortly. "Peter needs his sleep."

"Up all night with Granny Nan, was he?"

"Most of it."

"Silly old sod." Brian shook his head. "It'd take more than a heart attack to level that woman. She's a tough old bird."

I had no doubt that Wally privately agreed with Brian's opinion, but of course he would never have admitted as much, and so he said nothing; he simply went on tossing out the stick for Kip and smoking, and it was left to me to pick up the dropped stitch of conversation.

"How's Robbie?" I asked Brian, then saw from his expression that I'd picked a touchy subject.

"I reckon there's no damage done, no thanks to all of you." Balancing the cigarette between his lips, he squinted through the haze of smoke. "He was rabbiting onto Jeannie just now, when I left them. Wanting to go into Berwick to visit Granny Nan in hospital, though I don't imagine she'll be having any visitors today."

I murmured something vague, thinking back. "Was it her heart attack he saw, last night?" I asked. "Was that what made him faint?"

Brian nodded. "He didn't get it when it happened, on account of he was already tuned in to your Roman ghost, but once the ghost was gone I guess the signal came in loud and clear. Bit too much for the lad, having all that happen in the one night. His mind's like a fuse box, see. You overload the circuits and the lights go out."

It was, I thought, an apt analogy.

"Anyhow," said Brian, "it won't be happening again. I've told Jeannie." His face relaxed a little. "She's having a soft time of it today as well, with all of you having a late lie. No breakfast to make, and she can't even hoover the sitting room till Sutton-Clarke shifts himself. Still sleeping, is he?"

"Adrian? Yes, I think so." Kip nudged my leg and I took the damply chewed stick from him absently, tossing it out again toward the sundial. "At least, I've not seen any movement from the house."

"Fabia must be up, though. The Range Rover's gone."

"What? Oh, no," I corrected him, turning, "David's got it."

"Still?" He raised his eyebrows in surprise, and I found myself wondering whether Brian McMorran had a mother. Poor woman, I thought to myself. Her son would never sit up all night at her bedside, that much was obvious. "Bloody inconvenient, that," he commented. "I hope he brings it back by teatime."

"Why?" Wally speared his son-in-law with a narrowed glance. "What d'ye want with the Range Rover?"

"Got some boxes to unload, off the boat. Our car's too small," he explained. "I told Jeannie we shouldn't buy an import—not enough room in the boot, I said, but she thought it'd save us a few pounds in petrol."

I rose to Jeannie's defense. "And did it?"

"Oh, aye." He smiled a boyish smile that made me understand in part why Jeannie found him attractive. "But I'd rather have a Rover, wouldn't you?"

Wally calmly pointed out we couldn't all have Fabia's money.

Brian laughed. "Speak for yourself, old man. I've not given up trying."

Kip, having carried the stick back to Wally, drew back a pace, panting, then suddenly brought his lovely head up and around to stare past our shoulders at the front door of the house. When he gave his now-familiar whine of recognition and the feathered tail began to wave, my heart lurched downwards to my stomach.

But it wasn't the Sentinel, this time.

The figure coming around the house toward us, dressed in a loose shirt and trousers, blond hair swinging wildly in the warm wind, was very definitely not a ghost. Fabia tossed us a surprisingly cheerful greeting and swung herself over the low garden wall, saving herself the bother of walking the few steps further onto the gate. She looked disgustingly vibrant and full of life. The privilege of youth, I supposed. On top of which, she'd slept a good twelve hours against my six, and she hadn't stayed up all night drinking brandy and discussing whether a child's mumbled "nona" was enough to base an excavation on.