Longshot

‘You’d better all come to our house,’ Fiona said in a shaking voice as we edged round the wreck. ‘It’s nearest.’

No one argued.

We turned into a long village street with no lighting, and passed a garage, darkly shut, and a pub, open.

‘How about a quick one?’ Harry suggested, half serious.

Fiona said with some of her former asperity, ‘I should think you’ve heard enough about drink for one day. And you’re not going anywhere dressed like that except straight home.’

It was too dark to see Harry’s expression. No one cared to comment, and presently Ingrid with the torch turned into a driveway which wound round behind some cottages and opened into a snowy expanse in front of a big Georgian-looking house.

Ingrid stopped. Fiona said, ‘This way,’ and led a still silent procession round to a side door, which she unlocked with a key retrieved from under a stone.

The relief of being out of the wind was like a rebirth. The warmth of the extensive kitchen we filed into was a positive life-giving luxury; and there in the lights I saw my companions clearly for the first time.

Chapter 3

Everyone except Ingrid was visibly trembling, John Kendall included. All the faces were bluish-white, suffering.

‘God,’ Fiona said, ‘that was hell.’

She was older than I’d thought Forties, not thirties. The Ace Cleaners bag reached nearly to her knees, covering her arms, bordering on the farcical.

‘Take this damned thing off me,’ she said. ‘And don’t bloody laugh.’

Harry obligingly pulled the cleaner’s plastic bag up and over her head, taking her knitted hat with it, freeing heavy silver-blond hair and transforming her like a coup de théâtre from a refugee to an assured, charismatic woman in jodhpurs and blue blazer with the turtle-neck sweatshirt showing white at throat and cuffs.

Although she was tall the sleeves were all too long for her; which had been a blessing, it seemed, as she had been able to tuck her hands inside them, using them as gloves. She stared at me across her kitchen, looking with curiosity at the man whose clothes she wore, seeing I supposed a tallish, thinnish, youngish brown-eyed person in jeans, scarlet sweater and incongruous dinner jacket.

I smiled at her and she, aware of the admiration in my expression, swept a reviving glance round her other unexpected guests and went over to the huge red Aga which warmed the whole place, lifting the lid, letting volumes of heat flow out. The bad temper of the journey had disappeared, revealing a sensible, competent woman.

‘Hot drinks,’ she said decisively. ‘Harry, fill the kettle and get some mugs.’

Harry, my height but fair and blue-eyed, complied with the instructions as though thoroughly accustomed to being bidden, and began rootling round also for spoons, instant coffee and sugar. Swaddled in my blue bathrobe he looked ready for bed; and he too was older than I’d thought. He and Fiona were revealed as well off and perhaps rich. The kitchen was large, individual, a combination of technology and sitting-room, and the manner and voices of its owners had the unselfconscious assurance of comfortable social status.

Mackie sat down uncertainly at the big central table, her fingers gingerly feeling her temple.

‘I was looking at the horse,’ she said. ‘Must have hit my head on the window. Is the jeep all right?’

‘Shouldn’t think so,’ Harry said without emotion. ‘It’s lying in water which will be frozen over again by morning. The door on my side buckled when we hit. Filthy ditch-water just rushed in.’

‘Damn,’ Mackie said wearily. ‘That on top of everything else.’

She huddled into her fawn-coloured padded coat, still deeply shivering, and it was hard to tell what she would look like warm and laughing. All I could see were reddish curls over her forehead followed by closed eyes, pale lips and the rigid muscles of distress.

‘Is Perkin home?’ Fiona asked her.

‘He should be. God, I hope so.’

Fiona, recovering faster than anyone else, perhaps because she was in her own house, went across to a wall telephone and pressed buttons. Perkin, whoever he was, apparently answered and was given a variety of bad news.

‘Yes,’ Fiona said repeating things, ‘I did say the jeep’s in a ditch... it’s in that hollow just over the top of the hill after you leave the A34... I don’t know whose horse, damn it... No, we had an abysmal day in court. Look, can you get down here and collect everyone? Mackie’s all right but she hit her head... Bob Watson and his wife are with us... Yes, we did pick up the writer, he’s here too. Just come, Perkin, for God’s sake. Stop dithering.’ She hung up the receiver with a crash.

Harry poured steaming water onto instant coffee in a row of mugs and then picked up a milk carton in one hand and a bottle of brandy in the other, offering a choice of additives. Everyone except Ingrid chose brandy, and Harry’s idea of a decent slug cooled the liquid to drinking point.