Dead Man Riding by Gillian Linscott Read Free Book Online

carbolic. She keeps it under the sink.’
    Midge and I searched under the stone sink in the far corner and found a cloth-stoppered bottle that, from the smell, was household disinfectant.
    â€˜Oh no,’ Midge said. ‘It will kill him.’
    â€˜It’ll need something strong after those tweezers. Goodness knows what he used them for last.’
    Some equine activity, I guessed. We carried the bottle over to the Old Man. He tore off a relatively clean piece of Kit’s shirtsleeve, soaked it in disinfectant and clapped it on his arm. Kit reacted with no more than a shiver and a sharp intake of breath. In his place I’d have howled like a timber wolf.
    â€˜Pudding cloths, in the table drawer.’
    At least the Old Man seemed to have a good grasp of what went on in his kitchen. There were several pudding cloths, newly laundered. He converted one of them into a pad over the wounds and used two more as a bandage. I had to admit it was quite a neat effort in the circumstances.
    â€˜Right, you’ll do.’
    Meredith had found Kit’s jacket, dumped in a pile of our luggage by the door. He held it for Kit to get his uninjured right arm into the sleeve, then draped it carefully over his bare and bandaged left arm. Kit nodded a thank you. The Old Man took a deep breath.
    â€˜So that’s that dealt with. You are all welcome. My home is your home. Alan, my dear boy, please introduce me to your friends.’
    It looked doubtful for a moment whether Alan was going to obey his great uncle or hit him. But custom and politeness won.
    â€˜Miss Bray, may I introduce you to my Uncle James.’
    As it happened, these formal introductions were the last time any of us heard him called Uncle James. Everybody called him the Old Man, almost as a title of honour. He even used it of himself. He shook my hand, Imogen’s and Midge’s, peering at us closely as if he wanted to be sure of recognising us again. I noticed that when Alan introduced him to the men he repeated their names, obviously memorising them, which he hadn’t done in our case.
    â€˜Sit down, all of you. Alan, there’s brandy on the sideboard over there. Do the honours. I expect the ladies will take tea.’
    Most of us settled in various chairs. The Old Man poured our tea himself into cups that looked like survivors of several different tea sets from a smoke-blackened clay pot that had been nudged up close to the fire. The tea was as dark as a peat bog, served without milk or sugar, and tasted as if it had been brewing all day. After all that had happened I’d have preferred brandy. The sideboard was Jacobean oak, carved with biblical scenes including a little pot-bellied Adam and Eve holding branches in front of their loins. As Alan walked over to it to get the brandy a few shotgun pellets pattered off his clothes on to the stone-flagged floor.
    â€˜Not bad shooting anyway,’ the Old Man said.
    Alan didn’t answer. His uncle got glasses from the sideboard and watched closely as Alan filled them.
    â€˜Properly, my boy. More than that. This is a celebration.’
    Alan did as he was told, pouring until the bottle was empty. I could see that the dazed feeling was wearing off and being replaced by the anger most people feel after being terrified.
    â€˜You’ve got a good steady hand,’ the Old Man said. ‘I’m glad about that.’
    â€˜You are, are you?’
    Alan carried brandy over to Kit, Meredith and Nathan then took a gulp from his own glass and faced the Old Man. If you allowed for at least fifty years difference in age there was a family resemblance, particularly the prominent facial bones and – it struck me – a ruthlessness about getting what they wanted. Alan had wanted Imogen there, and got her (though, from her thoughtful expression, probably not for much longer.) The Old Man had wanted Alan and got him, although why he wanted him was anybody’s guess.
    â€˜You