The whippers-in were ordering the hounds and the landlord of the inn was collecting the last of the stirrup cups, indicating that the hunt was about to move off. He retrieved the big red-coated rider’s cup last of all and smiled diffidently at the man, who had every air of being the master of the hunt.
“Should be a good day, Colonel,” he said chattily,
“Damn well hope so,” the colonel muttered, and briskly caught up with his companions on the way through a gate beside the inn where they trotted out into the open fields beyond. Once through the narrow opening they fanned out and broke into a canter behind the vanguard of sniffing canine noses.
Darslow got back into his car as the pack set off and headed out of the village in the opposite direction to the way he had entered it. Simon waited until he had rounded the first bend and then pulled out in pursuit.
Bucksberry rests in a shallow scoop of land between two low tree-crested ridges. The village consists of little more than a couple of dozen houses, most of them strung out along each side of the one main street like beads on a necklace. From the back fences of the houses the fields run flat for half a mile before beginning to slope gently upwards. The road meanders for nearly a mile before forking into two lanes which curve around the base of each hill.
At this junction Darslow turned left. As he followed, the Saint glanced across the fields to his right and saw the hunters reach the end of the flat land and begin heading uphill along a path that would take them through a broad gap in the trees and over to the open country on the other side.
Darslow’s next move was so unexpected that the Saint had to brake hard to avoid coming up too close behind him. As the Austin rounded the foot of the hill it made a sudden right turn through a gateway onto a rutted cart track leading towards the top of the hill.
Simon cruised the Hirondel around the next bend, and as soon as the hedges hid them he came to a halt in a fortunate pull-off beside a farm gate.
“What do you think he’s up to?” Chantek asked.
“It must be something to do with the hunt,” said the Saint. “Or one of the hunters. At the pub, he must have been trying to find out where they were going to have their first try at drawing a fox. The answer must have been the woods on top of that hill, and he’s meaning to get there first.”
“But what for?” she persisted.
“Maybe he’s one of those fox-hunting buffs who can’t ride or can’t afford a horse and like to follow the action on foot.”
He got out of the car and watched the Austin pulling itself up the track. At the top of the hill it stopped and Darslow climbed out. He walked quickly around to the back, unlocked it, and lifted out the package he had put there the night before. The hunt was now halfway up the slope, the huntsman shouting encouragements to the hounds as they cast about for a scent.
Chantek scrambled out of the Hirondel and looked at the Saint uncertainly.
“Stay here and watch Darslow’s car,” he ordered, and without further explanation he vaulted over the gate and sprinted towards the spinney which the professor was entering.
He covered the quarter mile of steep gradient in a shade over sixty seconds and reached the edge of the copse before Darslow had made his way very far into it. With the skill of an Indian scout Simon dodged quickly and soundlessly between the trees until he was no more than a good stone’s throw behind the professor.
Darslow tramped as quickly as the undergrowth would allow along a diagonal course that eventually brought him out on a footpath that bisected the wood and linked the fields either side of the ridge. In a moment he went behind a bush, knelt down, and seemed to be unwrapping his mysterious package.
Simon moved stealthily closer. From the corner of his eye he could see the first of the hounds enter the gap between the trees. Close on their tails came the huntsman and the whips, followed by other riders led by the colonel.
The top of the ridge formed a small plateau some two hundred yards across, and the leading riders were still only a third of the way into the wood when the crack of a single pistol shot sliced like a bullwhip through the still morning air.
Every bird in Cambridgeshire seemed to take wing at once. Their squawks and the noise of their flapping wings almost managed to cover the startled cries of the other riders and the neighing of the colonel’s mount as it reared. But the colonel made no sound. He appeared to move in grotesque slow motion as his arms flew wide and he pitched backwards out of the saddle and lay still where he landed.
6
The riders who had been nearest him reined in their horses sharply, wheeling them as if instinctively forming a protective cordon around the shot man, while those who had been bringing up the rear of the hunt spurred forward to see what was happening. One of the leaders tried to wave them back as the huntsman dismounted and knelt anxiously beside the spread-eagled figure.
For a quartet of heartbeats the Saint stayed as motionless as the tree that shielded him while his brain absorbed the full import of what he had witnessed. The shot had sounded fairly close and from somewhere directly ahead. As his eyes probed the terrain to try to pinpoint its exact source, the bushes quivered and Darslow half rose from his hiding place less than a dozen yards away.
The undergrowth was denser here than in the part of the wood through which he had stalked the professor. The briers ran like hurdles between the rose-set trees, and together with the carpet of decaying leaves and twigs made moving both quickly and silently almost impossible. Simon opted for speed rather than stealth. Had Darslow been alert he could easily have heard the Saint coming but he was too preoccupied with what was happening along the path to his left.
The first the professor knew of his approach was when Simon’s forearm snaked across his vision and clamped across his throat. At the same time a band of steel seemed to fasten on his right wrist as his arm was bent back and hoisted roughly along the line of his spine. The message in his ear was unchallengeable.
“One squeak and I’ll break your arm. Understood?”
Darslow nodded his head the fraction that was all the freedom the Saint’s hold allowed.
Simon released his grip on the other’s wrist but kept the back hammer in position with the pressure of his body. With fast and expert thoroughness he ran his free hand over the professor’s clothes. When the search produced no weapon he switched his attention to the ground, but the only object in view was the mysterious parcel which lay open at Darslow’s feet. It did not contain a Santa Claus costume as the Saint had originally half hoped. Instead, all that spilled from the waterproof wrapping was a large bundle of rags which exhaled a malodorous mixture of aniseed and paraffin.
Along the path the riders’ initial shock was beginning to wear off. Others had now dismounted and were standing or stooping uncertainly around the colonel’s body. Another scarlet-coated man appeared to be taking charge. He shouted instructions in an authoritative tone that easily carried the hundred yards to where Simon and Darslow stood, detailing two members of the hunt to go for help. As they turned their horses and set off at a gallop back towards the village, he turned his attention to some braver souls who were beginning to explore the woods on either side and another who was edging cautiously along the track.
“Come back, you fools, do you want to get killed as well?” he called, and they hesitated, neither returning to the cluster around the colonel nor going farther.
The Saint sensed that their indecision was temporary. They were younger than most of their companions and looked as if they might find the gamble exciting. He and Darslow were protected by a thick screen of trees and bushes which would also hinder the horses if the riders decided to comb the wood, but if they rode along the path they would certainly be seen.