Gay Cavalier Read online

  He went on, eagerly outlining his plans for spring and summer, and Deirdre's heart sank as she listened. So much depended on chance in Dennis Sheridan's scheme of things. He had engaged a young steeplechase jockey called O'Ryan to ride several of his horses at local meetings. O'Ryan was a professional, he would have to be paid and Dennis himself would not now be able to ride in the point-to-points he had entered, so that would mean finding a capable amateur rider to take his place.

  Then, during the summer, there would arise the question of shows, she thought wearily. It was her father's practice to exhibit in Hunter and Jumping classes at the major shows, for on the prizes he won depended his reputation. His superb horsemanship was responsible, as much as the quality of his horses, for his long list of successes in this field, yet he was talking now as if, singlehanded, Deirdre would be able to repeat them this summer. And she knew that it was impossible. Rudolph required a man to ride him and most of the young horses would need a great deal of schooling, before any could be expected to acquit themselves well in the showring.

  Paddy's remarks this morning flashed into her mind and she found herself wondering whether Colonel Carmichael had any racing or show-jumping experience. He had offered to help but—Deirdre bit her Up. For some quite inexplicable reason, she was unwilling to ask for Colonel Carmichael's help. He had already, by his purchase of Moonbeam, staved off the immediate threat of financial disaster. His action had been generous, for he had told her that he was not well off, and he had his farm to convert and stock—it was out of the question to ask more of him than he had already done.

  Besides, he was a stranger. But now here was her father, suggesting, once again, that she should try to sell him Snow-goose…

  Deirdre got to her feet and said, with a hint of impatience:

  "Daddy, I—I'll have to go, I'm afraid. It—it's time, and I've things to pick up in Carfield."

  Dennis caught her hand. "So soon? Ach, well, there'll be time to talk of all this later on. Try not to worry, child, will you? I may have overreached myself a trifle but 'tis only temporary, as I told you. Half a dozen good sales and we'll be out of the wood. You made one yesterday, and if necessary I'll take Sir Henry's offer for a couple of the youngsters, not that he's bid me a fraction of their worth, the old skinflint that he is!" He raised his face for her kiss, and Deirdre felt a sudden rush of tenderness for him. She kissed him affectionately and left him, when it came to the point, with reluctance.

  She hadn't the heart then to suggest parting with the car, but nevertheless, on her way out of Carfield twenty minutes later, she pulled up outside a garage which she knew did a big trade in second-hand cars, and parking the Armstrong beyond the petrol pumps, went into the showroom. It was deserted, save for a dark, shrewd-faced man in a worn blue suit, who introduced himself as the Sales Manager.

  Deirdre, trembling at her own temerity, outlined her proposition, and his brows came together as he listened.

  "That's the car there?" he asked, nodding in the direction of the parked Armstrong.

  "Yes. It's not quite a year old."

  "It's a very fine car," the Sales Manager agreed. He did not bother to go and look at it, contenting himself with a cursory inspection from the door of the showroom. "But, you see, madam, cars of this type haven't a good resale value. Anyone who can afford to own a car like yours buys it new—it's the Eights and Tens that go on selling second-hand. Why, I could sell as many of 'em as I can get my hands on, every day of the week—there just aren't enough small family saloons on the market to meet the demand for them. But your Armstrong is a very different cup of tea. I couldn't give you its list price, for a start, not even if you buy a Ten off me, because, whilst I might sell it tomorrow, I might have it on show for months before I found a customer to look at it. Mind, I'm not saying I won't take it. But my advice to you would be to try to sell it privately, advertise it in the papers or offer it around amongst your friends. If you can't find a buyer, come back and see me again. I might possibly know someone who'd be interested. We do get some of the American officers coming in occasionally, from that new base at Barminster, and they go in for high horsepower cars."

  He did not even ask for her name and address, and Deirdre returned, crestfallen, to the Armstrong.

  It was not going to be as easy as she had hoped to effect economies, she told herself ruefully, as she pressed the starter and the powerful engine sprang sweetly to life.

  Paddy was waiting in the yard when Deirdre reached home. His expression was glum and there was an angry glint in his blue eyes, but he opened the garage doors for her and helped her to alight before he spoke. Then he said, in the grim tone she knew meant that he was controlling his temper with an effort:

  "I've bad news for you, Miss Deirdre, Ye'd best hear it before you go into the house."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  At the sight of Paddy's expression, Deirdre braced herself. Paddy, she knew, was not easily upset and usually nothing short of an earthquake—or some mishap to one of his horses—could upset his equilibrium. And there had been no earthquake…

  So she asked, with much misgiving: "What is it, Paddy? Surely nothing's happened to any of the horses, has it?"

  Paddy's expression became, if possible, grimmer than it had been before. "I'm afraid that's it, Miss Deirdre. 'Tis Snowgoose, so it is."

  "Oh, dear!" Snowgoose was being trained as a show jumper and she was valuable. She was also on the sales list. "Is she hurt?"

  Paddy nodded. " 'Twas an accident, ye understand, a pure accident. Terence had her out and I was with him, on Gay Cavalier. We were out on the Melford road, the two of us, walking along as quiet as could be, and not intending a soul any harm. Sure, we'd meant to pay a visit to the Colonel's to see the horse he has there, Lancer— that same one the vet's wanting to fire." He scowled. "Ach, ye know I don't hold with firing a good horse—"

  "Yes," Deirdre agreed, containing her impatience, "but what happened to Snowgoose?"

  " 'Twas an airplane," Paddy returned bitterly, "one of those creations of the devil they call a jet. It came down towards us, screeching like a banshee, the way they do. Sure, the thing wasn't more than a foot or two off the tops of the trees! It scared the life out of Snowgoose and she went nearly mad, so she did, and had Terence off her before I could lift a finger to help him. And then—ach, Miss Deirdre, it all happened so quick I'd no time to draw me breath, hardly—the mare was off down the road hell for leather, as if Ould Nick himself were after her! There was a car coming round the bend—sure, the mare hadn't a chance to pull up, so she hadn't. She just went straight into the side of it. 'Twas a big car, American I'd say, by the looks of it, and the driver one of the officers from Barminster. A young feller, with red hair. He"—Paddy shuffled his feet awkwardly—"he's here, Miss Deirdre, waitin' to see you."

  "But"—the colour drained from Deirdre's cheeks and she clutched at the old groom's arm in her agitation—"what about Snowgoose? How badly is she hurt?"

  "She's cut about the shoulders on the near side, and her knees scraped where she came down on them. 'Tis nothing that won't heal. But the car!" Paddy shook his grizzled head. "God preserve us, Miss Deirdre, the car's in a terrible mess. 'Tis at the front door now, you'll see it for yourself."

  "Oh." There was more to come, Deirdre realized. She waited.

  Paddy's scowl deepened. He sighed. "The young feller is making a great fuss. It seems 'twas not his car but his Commanding Officer's that he'd borrowed. He's wanting Terence to say that 'twas his fault and Terence will not. They're still arguing at the front there—I've sent Bridget out to them, to keep them from each other's throats. Sure now, Miss Deirdre, 'twas not Terence's fault at all but a pure accident, like I was sayin', the blame of the jet pilot, so it was. Not that we've the least chance of catching him," he added glumly, "for he'll be away off out av trouble in his airplane and not a soul the wiser."

  "Oh, goodness!" Deirdre was conscious of a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. This—on top of everythi
ng else! "I suppose I'd better go and see the American gentleman."

  "If you can call him a gentleman!" Paddy retorted with heat. "Sure, all he has to do is claim from the insurance—"

  "Yes," Deirdre agreed doubtfully, "if he's insured. I mean, he's not the owner of the car, is he? Perhaps that's why he's making so much fuss."

  "Well"—Paddy sighed again—"there's also a small matter of Terence punching him on the nose, Miss Deirdre."

  "Oh, Paddy, no!" Deirdre stared at him aghast.

  Paddy avoided her eye. " 'Tis impulsive the boy is," he defended, "and wasn't he worried sick about Snowgoose at the time? And her pouring blood, so that we'd no chance at all to see how badly she was hurt! Sure, I was fit to punch him meself but Terence was nearer. Him carrying on about his car, indade, when the mare was hurt!"— Paddy's righteous indignation blazed in his eyes.

  It was worse, much worse than she had feared, Deirdre thought, as she made her way, her feet dragging a little, to the front of the house.

  An enormous saloon car was parked at the edge of the lawn, its gleaming paintwork scored in a dozen places, where either Snowgoose's frantic heels or her swinging stirrup irons had caught it. At the front a chromium-plated spot-lamp hung drunkenly, suspended by one wire, and the near side front mudguard was ominously crumpled. Deirdre looked at it with horror. It seemed incredible that a runaway mare could have inflicted so much damage on so solid a monster as this vast American car.

  Angry voices floated to her across the intervening space —Bridget's high-pitched and reproachful, Terence's sullen, the American's furious and barely controlled.

  Behind Deirdre, Paddy said scornfully: "At it hammer and tongs, so they are! But, sure, he'll get no change out av Terence if he stays all night, arguing."

  "Did you," Deirdre asked, "report this to the police, Paddy?"

  "I did not then. Sure, I never thought of it, Miss Deirdre. What good will the police do?"

  "They'll have to be told. Go and ring them up now," Deirdre commanded. She waited until Paddy had taken himself off with unconcealed reluctance and then, her chin held high, she approached the contestants.

  "I'm Deirdre Sheridan," she announced, "and I've sent for the police. I'm sorry this has happened"—she turned to the American—"but perhaps it would be better if we didn't discuss it until the police come. If you'd care to come into the house, I could give you tea whilst we're waiting."

  The angry young American spun round to face her.

  "Tea?" he exploded. "Tea?" He was tall and redheaded, his uniform mudstained and crushed, his cheeks flushed and one eye rapidly closing. Under normal circumstances, he would have been good-looking, Deirdre realized, feeling suddenly more than a little sorry for him. Clearly, he had suffered at Terence's hands, although—judging by the latter's bruised and battered countenance—the battle had not been entirely one-sided.

  She smiled at him. "Of course. The least I can do is to offer you tea. I mean—"

  "For crying out loud!" exclaimed the visitor. He sounded shocked. "You have the nerve to ask me to take tea with you when your servants have assaulted me? Servants furthermore," he added menacingly, "who have unbroken horses which they can't control out on the public highway! Horses that run amok and—" He gestured, with a shaking hand, to the car. "Just look what your horse has done to that automobile! Just look! Why, goshdarn it, it's enough to make an angel weep."

  "I'm very sorry," Deirdre told him, as gently as she could. She waved the indignant Terence to silence as he opened his mouth to argue. To Bridget she said: "All right, Bridget dear, you needn't wait. Go in and make tea and take Terence with you. Do what you can for his poor face. I'll talk to—to Lieutenant—to this gentleman. Then, when the police come, they can decide whose fault it was. Can't they?"

  "As far as I'm concerned," the Lieutenant put in pugnaciously, "they can't. I'm a serving officer in the U.S. Army Air Corps and your police don't have any jurisdiction over me. And, in any case, I can't wait here any longer. I have to deliver this Cadillac to my Commanding Officer. I shall give him my explanation and I guess you'll be hearing from him in due course, Miss—ah—Miss Deirdre Sheridan. I guess you can tell your police what you like, at that. It doesn't concern me." He made to get into the battered Cadillac but Deirdre forestalled him, a hand on the door.

  "If you won't wait," she said coldly, "I can't compel you to, of course. But if you don't mind, I shall have to know your name and address to tell the police, because they'll want to know it. And—and the name of your insurance company too, because—"

  "Now wait a minute!" He glared at her. "Are your horses insured, Miss Sheridan?"

  "Well—" Deirdre was caught off her guard. Her father had a policy that covered his animals when in transit, in the horsebox, but she didn't know its terms. "I suppose they are. But—"

  "You suppose!" the Lieutenant scoffed. "I guess they aren't insured for third party damage, anyways. Which means you're expecting my C.O.'s insurance to pay the lot. And it'll be plenty. Why, this Cadillac's worth a small fortune and it'll just about have to have a complete re-spray." He looked at the scored paintwork and shuddered.

  "I'm awfully sorry—" Deirdre began again.

  He said bitterly: "You're sorry! Gee, you've reason to be, Miss Sheridan, at that."

  "Well, I—"

  "And you ask me to take tea with you. No, ma'am, it won't do, you aren't going to get round me that way. This whole thing's your responsibility and I'm going to see you pay for it." His tone was cynical. He crammed on his cap, sketched her a salute and climbed into the car. "My name's Nelson, Dwight B. Nelson. Good-day, Miss Sheridan. You're going to be hearing from me and you aren't going to like it, I guess. You aren't going to like any part of it!"

  He slammed the big car into gear and was off in a flurry of churned-up gravel. He did not look back.

  Deirdre watched him go through a mist of unshed tears. Then, very slowly, she went into the house. There was nothing she could do, save wait for the police.

  The King's Martin police constable, a phlegmatic, middle-aged man, arrived on his bicycle ten minutes later.

  Bridget, looking glum and disapproving, showed him into the study, where Deirdre had been attempting to do justice to the substantial tea she had prepared.

  "Now, Miss Deirdre," the policeman said, taking out his notebook and regarding her searchingly. He was an old friend, but at that moment he scarcely seemed like one. "I understand that you're wanting to report an accident?"

  Deirdre nodded. "Yes, I'm afraid so, Constable Archer." Her smile was a trifle shaky. "It—it was rather a serious one."

  "Was it now?" The constable moistened his pencil. "Then maybe you'd best tell me all you know, right from the beginning."

  Deirdre did her best. The constable wrote industriously in his notebook, making no comment.

  When she had done, he rose heavily to his feet, replaced his notebook in his pocket and picked up his helmet, which he had laid on the desk in front of him. His expression was grave and Deirdre's heart sank. "Do you think—" she began but he interrupted her.

  "If you don't mind, miss, I'll have to have a word with Mr. O'Brien and Terence Regan, seeing they were both present at the accident, so to speak."

  "But do you"—Deirdre swallowed the lump that was in her throat—"do you think that we'll be liable? For the damage to the car, I mean?"

  "That," Constable Archer evaded, "I can't tell you, Miss Deirdre. Not rightly, that is. I haven't all the facts, not yet. And then, when I've got them, I'll have to put in my report to the Inspector at Carfield. No doubt he'll be getting in touch with you in due course. He'll most likely have to see the American gentleman as well, to hear his side."

  "Yes, but"—Deirdre bit her lip—"ought I to ring up our insurance company? Or write to them?"

  "You could do that, miss. But I'd wait. Of course, if the American gentleman decides to prosecute, the insurance would have to be informed. Because"—he spread his big hands—"there's no knowing but wh
at he might get damages awarded against you." But, he added kindly, "you've done the right thing, reporting it."

  "Oh, dear!" cried Deirdre, distressed. "It was such a terribly expensive-looking car."

  "Well, miss," Archer suggested helpfully, "why don't you try to settle the matter amicably, like, between the two of you?"

  Why didn't she? Deirdre thought wretchedly, recalling Dwight B. Nelson's battered furious face, his indignant threats.

  "I suppose I could try," she said, "but I don't think it'll do much good—he was awfully angry."

  "P'raps he'll have calmed down a bit by tomorrow, miss. Now then—if I could just have a word with those two men of yours?"

  "Yes, of course. I'll tell Bridget. I expect they'll both be in the kitchen."

  Archer held the door for her politely. Deirdre went past him into the hall, only to halt there with an exclamation of surprise, for the front door was open and Colonel Carmichael stood framed in it, looking about him uncertainly.

  "Oh"—he saw her and smiled—"may I come in? I rang but no one heard me and—" He broke off as Constable Archer's blue-clad form loomed up behind Deirdre. "I'm sorry if I've chosen an inconvenient moment to call, but you did promise to dine with me this evening, if you remember."

  In all the excitement, Deirdre had completely forgotten about her date at the George and—goodness, she hadn't changed and there was Archer to deal with. Her dismay was mirrored in her blue eyes and Alan Carmichael said quickly "Look, don't worry about me, if you're busy. I'll wait."

  "If you would—" She escorted him into the study, motioned him to a chair by the fire. "I won't be long, I —there's been an accident, unfortunately, and I had to send for the police."

  He looked a question. "Not serious, I hope?"