Cut Throat Read Free Page B

ceiling and partly obscured by a half-drawn partitioning curtain, was the bed.
    Ross’ last meal was a distant memory, so pushing the recent tragedy determinedly to the back of his mind, he dumped his bags, combed his hair and went in search of Bill Scott’s ‘missus’ and something to eat.
    The door of the Scotts’ cottage stood open, spilling a column of light into the yard. Ross found himself in a large room that obviously served as kitchen, dining room and lounge, and bore signs of once having been three smaller rooms. Directly in front of him was a scrubbed pine table round which you could comfortably have accommodated a baseball team, and beyond it, sprawled in an armchair and watching a game show on the television, was Bill Scott. He didn’t look up as his wife bustled forward to greet Ross, and beyond telling him to come in and shut the door behind him took little notice of the American. Ross wondered what he could have done to antagonise the older man; after all, they had barely exchanged a dozen words.
    â€˜I’ll do it, Ross. You sit down,’ Mrs Scott said, pulling a chair out for him. ‘Your dinner’s just on ready.’
    A pie with melt-in-the-mouth pastry and boiled potatoes appeared before him almost before he had settled into his chair, followed shortly by a large wedge of something she called Dundee cake and a mug of steaming coffee. Whatever else might befall him in his new job, Ross reflected, he wouldn’t starve.
    It seemed Bill hadn’t eaten either. He came to sit at the table but his attention was clearly still on the television quiz and it was left to his wife to initiate conversation, which she did with a shocked reference to the fate of poor Sailor.
    â€˜Poison!’ she said, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Whatever next? Poor Mr Richmond is so unlucky.’
    â€˜In what way?’ Ross asked.
    â€˜Oh, don’t let’s go raking all that up,’ Bill said wearily. ‘What we’ve got to do now is make sure the others are all right.’
    His wife ignored him.
    â€˜His best horse was killed in a knife attack last year,’ she told Ross. ‘It was horrible. We had the police here and reporters hanging around for days. Poor Sarah was that upset, she had to go on tranquillisers.’ Her eyes shone, recalling the drama of it all.
    â€˜Oh yeah. I remember now,’ Ross said. ‘Lindsay told me about it when it happened. Didn’t he win the Hickstead Derby?’
    â€˜Yes, and it’s history now, so just let it be,’ Bill cut in.
    Ross would have liked to know more but felt that provoking an argument would probably not be the best way to begin his association with the Scotts.
    In the mellow light inside the cottage, the couple appeared to be in their mid-forties: he tanned, with receding salt-and-pepper hair and a deeply lined face; she a comfortably rounded, attractive brunette.
    â€˜Have you been to England before, Ross?’ she asked, as the meal wound to a close.
    â€˜Once when I was a kid,’ he said. ‘My father brought me with him on a business trip and we saw the Christmas show at Olympia. It was pure magic. I think that’s when I decided I wanted to be a rider.’
    â€˜It’s a lovely show,’ she agreed, getting to her feet. ‘More pie? Or cake?’
    Ross declined, sitting back in his chair and looking about him. The cottage was attractive in a homey sort of way, furnished and upholstered with quality but not extravagance. Assorted mementoes of foreign holidays sat incongruously amongst more traditional English pieces, reminding Ross of the Buddha in his own room.
    He would have liked to have questioned Bill Scott about the horses and the other staff, but as soon as the meal was over, the stable manager retired to his armchair once more and appeared to have his attention firmly fixed on the flickering screen before him. Ross thought that perhaps he didn’t