‘You lecherous bastard,’ he said. ‘All you had to do was ask me to go out. I’d have gone out. You didn’t have to get me drunk.’
The easy tears began to roll down his cheeks. And after the self pity, the promises, I thought. Always the same pattern.
‘You got yourself drunk,’ I said.
‘You shouldn’t have given me the Scotch,’ he said. ‘It was your bloody fault.’
‘You know damn well I never gave you any Scotch.’
‘You just put it here on the table and left it here for me to find. If that’s not giving it to me, then what is?’
‘You’d convince yourself it grew on a tree in the garden. You went out and bought it.’
‘I tell you I didn’t,’ he said indignantly. ‘I just found it on the table.’
He managed to get the mug to his mouth without spilling the contents.
I considered him. If by some extraordinary chance he was telling the truth, someone wished him very ill. But as far as I knew he had no active enemies, just bored acquaintances who tended to cross the road at his approach and disappear into convenient doorways. On balance I thought it more likely he had bought the bottle somewhere and was trying to shift the blame. The days when I could effortlessly believe what he said were ten years back.
‘As God’s my judge, Jonah, it was here on the table.’ A couple more tears oozed out. ‘You never believe a bloody word I say.’
He drank half the coffee.
‘I’d never buy whiskey,’ he said. ‘Sour bloody stuff.’
Once the craving took him he would drink whatever he could get hold of. I’d known him pass out on creme de menthe.
He worked on the grudge that I didn’t believe him until he was back to full-scale anger. With a sudden half-coordinated swing he hurled his mug of coffee across the room where it shattered against the wall. Brown rivulets trickled downwards on the floor.
He stood up, upsetting his chair, his head lowered aggressively.
‘Give me some bloody money.’
‘Look... Go to bed and sleep it off.’
‘You stupid sod. I need it. You and your goody goody airs. You’ve no bloody idea. You don’t begin to understand. You’ve pinched my whiskey. Just give me some bloody money and go stuff yourself.’
Sophie Randolph cleared her throat.
Crispin swung violently around to her to forestall any adverse suggestion she might make, and that time the sudden movement took his nausea out of control. At least he had enough self-respect left not to sick up in her face: he bolted for the back door and we could hear his troubles out in the yard, which was quite bad enough.
‘He’s my brother,’ I said.
‘Yes.’
She seemed to need no further explanation. She looked around at the debris. ‘Will he clear that up?’
‘No chance,’ I said, smiling. ‘I’ll do it later, when he’s asleep. If I do it too soon it enrages him... he would just make a worse mess.’
She shook her head in disapproval.
‘He isn’t like this all the time,’ I said. ‘He goes weeks sometimes without a drink.’
Crispin came back looking greener than ever.
‘Money,’ he said aggressively.
I stood up, went along to the office, and returned with five pounds. Crispin snatched it out of my hands.
‘The pub isn’t open yet,’ I observed.
‘Bugger you.’ Crispin’s gaze swung round to include Sophie. ‘Bugger you both.’
He lurched out of the door and through the window we watched him walk a slightly pompous path to the gate, trying to behave like a country gent and forgetting that he still wore yesterday’s clothes and yesterday’s beard.
‘Why did you give him the money?’
‘To save him stealing it.’
‘But...’ She stopped doubtfully.
I explained. ‘When the craving’s on him, he’ll do literally anything to get alcohol. It’s kinder to let him have it with some shred of dignity. He’ll be drunk all today and tonight but maybe by tomorrow it will be over.’
‘But the pub...’
‘They’ll let him in,’ I said. ‘They understand. They’ll sell him a bottle and send him home again when he shows signs of passing out.’
Although to my mind she would have been better off in bed, Sophie insisted that she should be out seeing to her car. She compromised finally to the extent of letting me ring the local garage, where I was known, and arranging the salvage. Then, dressed in jeans and sweater two sizes too big, she spent most of the morning sitting in the squashy leather armchair in the office, listening to me doing business on the telephone.
Kerry Sanders was pleased about River God and didn’t quibble about the price.
‘That’s more like it,’ she said. ‘I never did go for that goddam name Hearse Puller.’
‘Well... I can have him fetched from Devon any time, so where and when would you like him delivered?’
‘I’m visiting with the family this week-end.’ Even now, I noticed, she avoided using their names. ‘I’ll be going down there for lunch and I’d like the horse van to arrive at around four thirty.’
‘Certainly,’ I said. ‘What address?’
‘Don’t you have it?’
I said I could find it, no doubt.
She came across with the information reluctantly, as if imparting a secret. A village in Gloucestershire, as open as the day.
‘O.K. Four thirty, on the dot,’ I said.
‘Will you be there yourself?’
‘No. I don’t usually.’
‘Oh.’ She sounded disappointed. ‘Well... could you make it?’
‘You wouldn’t need me.’
‘I’d sure like it,’ she said, her voice hovering uncertainly between cajolery and demand, and I realised that for all her assurance she was still unsure about this gift.
‘You mean,’ I said, ‘To perform introductions?’
‘Well. I guess so.’
Nicol Brevett, this is River God. River God, meet Nicol Brevett. Howdy partner, shake a hoof.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll arrive with the horse.’
‘Thanks.’ Again the mixture in her voice. Partly she definitely thought I ought to jump to it when asked, and partly she was genuinely relieved I had agreed. I thought she was crazy to marry into a family which made her nervous, and I wondered why they had that effect on her.
‘Have you heard any more about those two men?’ she asked.
‘No.’ Apart from a sore spot when I brushed my hair, I had forgotten them. Too much seemed to have happened since.
‘I’d like you to find out why they took that horse.’
‘I’d like to know, sure,’ I said. ‘But as to finding out... If you care enough, how about hiring the Radnor Halley Agency? They’d do it.’
‘Private detectives?’
‘Specialists in racing,’ I said.
‘Yes, Well. But... I don’t know...’
It came back every time to the way she reacted to the Brevetts.
‘I’ll do my best,’ I said, and she was pleased, but I had no confidence at all.
I spoke next to a transport firm in Devon, arranging that they should pick up River God early the following morning, and meet me at three o’clock beyond Stroud. What was the ultimate destination, they asked, and with sudden caution I didn’t give it. Ten miles beyond our rendezvous, I said, and I would show them the way. I put the receiver down feeling slightly foolish, but the loss of Hearse Puller had been no joke.
I telephoned to the Devon farmer and asked him to send a man with River God to look after him, and also to produce him well groomed with his feet and shoes in good condition. The farmer said he hadn’t the time to be bothered, and I said that if the horse looked too rough he’d get him straight back. He grunted, groused, agreed, and hung up.
‘You sounded very tough on him,’ Sophie said with a smile.