The Scent of Murder by Felicity Young Read Free Book Online Page A

out of her way to find excitement, never again would she complain about a dull life. Please God, get me through this, she prayed. If you do I might even start going to church again.
    Weak at the knees, the reins burning her hands through her gloves, she managed to slow Speedy enough to join up with the tweeds again as they made their way through a gap in a second, much higher, hedge. She turned at the sound of thundering hooves and pulled aside so that Aye-Aye and Lady Fitzgibbon could fit through the narrow space. It soon became obvious that that was not their intention.
    As they galloped towards the highest part of the hedge, Lady Fitzgibbon cried out, ‘Four paces, Aye-Aye,’ to her father. He assumed the jumping position, and on the fourth stride they leaped into the air together, clearing the hedge in perfect synchronisation.
    Tristram, straight legs rammed forward in the stirrups, back almost parallel with his horse’s, went one better and headed for the gate, whooping as Warrior’s hooves thudded to the ground on the other side. He pulled up in front of Florence after she made her way through the gap. His face was flushed and his breath left his mouth in clouds.
    ‘Come on, Flo, I’ll race you.’
    ‘Tristram, I’d rather not—’ But Florence had no say in the matter. Speedy had understood and chased after Warrior, charging his way up the hill.
    A rushing stream bisected the slope, carving its way downwards. Tristram slowed his horse and called over his shoulder to Florence, ‘Jumping this should save some time. We have to catch up with the main hunt on the other side.’ He spurred his horse, easily clearing the water and the steep muddy bank on the far side.
    Speedy did not give Florence time to catch her breath, let alone point out how it was all very well for Tristram when his horse was twice the size of hers. The little cob leaped like a gazelle, only to land smack in the middle of the stream. Stinging cold snatched Florence’s breath away as Speedy heaved himself through stirrup-high water. With her right leg welded to the pommel, she somehow managed to cling on. Nothing was going to detach her from that saddle.
    The horse churned through the water and then lurched up the bank, jerking Florence’s body to and fro like a floppy doll. They joined Tristram and Warrior at the top, Speedy pausing to shake, and once more Florence found herself holding on for dear life.
    Another copse lay ahead. The baying of the hounds grew to fever pitch. Florence tried to hold her horse back, but he would have none of it. He took off after Warrior, as keen to be a part of the action as anyone — except her.
    And then realisation dawned.
    She spied a fleeting russet form, glimpsed a bushy, white-tipped tail — brush, she corrected herself. Now what? Well, what had she expected? That they would pat the fox on the head and let it go?
    The hounds closed in, their snarls and growls unravelling into a tangle of yelps and screams. Horses danced. Riders cheered. The scent of blood filled the air.
    All of a sudden Sir Desmond’s strong hands were pulling her from the saddle and hauling her towards the mêlée. Florence tried to dig her heels into the ground, but Sir Desmond was too strong for her. Mr Montague cracked his whip and sent the hounds scurrying from the mutilated corpse.
    ‘What’s happening? What are you doing?’ she cried.
    ‘Wait, Uncle, this isn’t necessary,’ she heard Tristram protest.
    ‘Of course it’s necessary, my boy. Tradition.’
    Tristram grabbed his uncle’s hand and attempted to pull it from Florence’s arm.
    ‘Out of the way, Mr Slater,’ Montague said, gritting his teeth and elbowing Tristram in the side.
    Tristram grunted with pain and dropped his hold on his uncle. Sir Desmond tightened his grip on Florence.
    Mr Montague picked up one of the fox’s detached paws and ripped the hat from her head.
    Florence struggled against Sir Desmond’s firm hold. ‘Wait, stop!’ she cried.
    Too