Free Time Enough To Die by Lillian Stewart Carl Page B

blaze?"
    "The brownish-red one with the streak of white on his nose?"
    "That's Great Caesar's Ghost, ran at the Grand National last year."
    Matilda looked at the sleek, long-limbed horse. He stood masticating a mouthful of grass, eyes glazed, like an elder statesman enjoying his gin and tonic in the library of the Reform Club. “So Reynolds is well-known on the racing circuit?"
    "In an insignificant sort of way. Caesar is a one-off, probably worth more than all the other horses put together."
    "How'd he do in the race?"
    "He came in dead last. But there was a snap in Country Life, the Queen with Reynolds several paces behind her, looking like he'd been invited specially to share a Pimm's Cup with the royals."
    "He entered the Grand National for the social contacts,” said Matilda, “not for the race itself."
    "Spot on."
    The gate was adorned with several horseshoes. “To keep the boggarts away,” Gareth explained. “A local superstition."
    "Can't have any boggarts,” Matilda agreed with a smile. She was glad Sweeney wasn't along to sneer at yet another testimony of faith, misdirected or otherwise.
    They strolled down a long drive, passed a posh-looking brick house, and approached the stable buildings. The place appeared very tidy, whitewashed, mortared, and swept. A faint musky odor was the only evidence that large animals inhabited the premises. Across the cobbled yard came an old man with the apple cheeks and bulbous nose of a connoisseur of the local ales. Gareth called to him. “Excuse me, we're looking for Jimmy."
    "You've found him, lad."
    Gareth introduced himself and Matilda, and passed on Reynolds's directions, adding, “If it's no trouble. I suppose you're still putting away Reynolds's tack and rubbing down his horse...."
    "No, no horses been out today.” Jimmy considered them, then turned and looked at the mound of the fort. “Well, it's trouble, right enough, but I can organize something.” He ambled through the wide stable door, which, Matilda saw with some surprise, was festooned with cobwebs.
    She glanced at Gareth. He was gazing into the middle distance, expression unreadable. He might be checking up on whether Reynolds had been riding this morning. He was also checking up on her theory of the hidden coin. Working with him would be valuable experience, but she'd have to keep on her toes a little better than she had so far.
    The door of the house opened. A woman dressed in a beige skirt and sweater stepped out and stopped dead. For a moment Matilda thought she was going to pop back inside like a cuckoo into its clock, but no, she squared her shoulders and came forward. “How do you do,” she said in a thin, breathless voice. “I'm Della Reynolds. Have you come about the note?"
    A promissory note? Matilda asked herself, sensing a wave of anxiety from the woman. She and Gareth hardly looked like accountants in their pants and windbreakers. Hurriedly Matilda introduced herself and her colleague and explained about the horses.
    Della's pale, almost colorless, blue eyes flicked to the fort and back again. Anxiety wilted into dull resignation. “Oh, well, yes.... Jimmy?"
    The old man glanced out the door. “I'm working fast as I can, Missus."
    "Oh, well, yes.... “Della looked down at her beige leather pumps. Even her hair was beige, held back by little-girl barrettes. Her features seemed to be only tentative sketches on her pale face. Cosmetics wouldn't help, Matilda told herself. The living woman was less substantial than the ghost of long-dead Claudia.
    The silence stretched longer and longer. Finally Gareth shifted the camera bag from one shoulder to the other and asked, “Do you hire lads from the town to muck out the stables, Mrs. Reynolds?"
    "Sometimes lads” she told her feet. “Sometimes girls."
    "I suppose it's convenient to have the traveler's camp just up the way. They're always willing to do the odd job."
    Della didn't look up. Her flash of terror was so quick Matilda barely caught