Free Dead Man Riding by Gillian Linscott

horse’s neck. ‘Seawave Supreme.’ Like a herald announcing a title. ‘You like horses?’
    â€˜Yes.’ It was practically a guilty secret because most of the people I knew thought that liking horses went with everything we despised, such as country squires and Conservatives. ‘Especially Arab horses.’
    Which was true. For me, they’d always had a kind of gallantry about them that made the heart lift just to see them.
    â€˜Want to see the others?’
    â€˜Yes please.’
    He vaulted over the gate, head down and heels up, almost as easily as a young man and straightened up beside me, pleased with himself. We fell into step together back down the track. It was my first taste of what was to be one of the oddest things about that summer – the feeling of at least two worlds going on at the same time, side by side. The evening before he’d confessed to murder, I’d spent most of the night lying awake wondering if he’d meant it but there we were, strolling along with the sun coming up as if we had nothing to think about but horses. I suppose I might have started quizzing him about Mawbray’s son and all the rest of it – an older version of myself might have done just that – but it would have been an intrusion, brutal bad manners. Besides, it was such a fine morning and I liked him. We walked down past the house then up again along the track we’d been on when he’d shot at us the night before. He pointed with his whip.
    â€˜That’s the barn they burnt. It was empty because we hadn’t got the hay in at the time, but they didn’t know that, the devils.’
    It was up near the road. We must have passed it in the dark without seeing it. A few blackened timbers stuck up at odd angles and the grass all round it was burnt brown. We looked for a while then he opened a wide farm gate to the left of the track and we went into a broad meadow that sloped up to the road on one side, down to a curving line of willows and alders on the other. From where we were standing you could hear a river but not see it and I guessed it was hidden in the trees. I found out later from the map that it was a tributary of the Waver that ran down to the Solway Firth. There were some pockets of mist down by the river. When the Old Man stood by the gate and whistled, heads and necks of horses came out of the mist and the little herd came galloping uphill to us. They were mostly mares, three bays and two greys, with a couple of youngsters.
    â€˜Two year olds,’ he said. ‘Sid’s first sons.’
    â€˜Sid?’
    â€˜Seawave Supreme. Sid’s his stable name. He’s one in a lifetime, that horse. Best stallion I’ve ever bred.’
    â€˜Why Seawave?’
    I hoped he might confirm at first hand the story Nathan had passed on, about bringing the original mares and stallion from Arabia.
    â€˜You want to know? Come with me and I’ll show you.’
    He stroked the necks of the nearest mares then pushed them gently aside so that we could get back through the gate. We went back down to the house and when we went through the gateway to the yard we found Robin letting out the hens. He said ‘Good morning, sair’ to the Old Man and gave me a diffident little bob of the head. The two Afghan hounds were sniffing around and came up to the Old Man to have their long heads caressed.
    â€˜Morning, Robin. We’ll be needing the wagonette. When you’ve finished in the stables, will you go and get Bobbin. He’ll be down by the river as usual.’
    Robin just nodded and walked away through a gap in the wall next to the cart shed.
    â€˜Robin’s not very talkative with human beings,’ the Old Man said, ‘but he understands horses better than anyone you’ll ever meet. Came over on the boat from Ireland a couple of years ago and stayed.’
    He followed Robin through the opening by the cart shed. It opened into