Justice Hall - Laurie R. King [45]
“Give us twenty minutes,” said Marsh’s voice, and Alistair withdrew, to continue into the block of stables. This was little more than a hollow square, with a quarter acre of cobbled courtyard flanked on three and a half sides by the enclosed stables. Most of the boxes were scrubbed and empty, but the rich odours of straw, ammonia, and dubbin pulled us down the row to the remainder of Justice Hall’s equine populace, to the hunters and hacks and the huge, placid draught horse with the leather boots for lawn-mowing hanging over its stall, and a pair of fat ponies so venerable they might have carried Lady Phillida as a child.
We had lost our pair of spies, I was glad to see. Probably they had decided that the current surface was not suited for stockinged feet, and been unwilling to risk the wrath of Miss Paul. In any case, the back of my neck ceased to itch, and we could relax our tongues a fraction as we made our way down the spacious, old-fashioned horse boxes.
“I should like to see the effects left by Marsh’s nephew,” I told my companion, although I kept my voice low.
“Why?”
A reasonable enough question, to which I had no ready answer. “Holmes asked me to look at them,” I replied, which seemed to satisfy Alistair. More than it did me.
The last box was filled by a great gorgeous stallion, his bay coat as polished as one of the tables in the Hall, haughty and unwilling to give us mere humans more than a glance. He filled the eye, the epitome of Horse, and he well knew it. I wondered uneasily if this was a recent acquisition; horse-breeding is a long-term occupation.
“Does it belong to Marsh?” I asked Alistair.
“No. Darling intends to build up a stud here. Or he did; things are somewhat uncertain now.” The thwarting of “Spinach” Darling was clearly cause for satisfaction. I had to admit, however, that as gentlemen’s occupations went, this at least was well timed. The wholesale slaughter of innocents in the trenches had extended to England’s requisitioned horseflesh as well; four years of loss had still not been overcome. Any offspring of this gleaming animal would bring a good price at auction.
I said something of the sort to Alistair. He snorted.
“Oh yes. Darling has many plans for Justice. He stands about wringing his hands, fearing his agreements with Henry will be as dust.”
“A place like this wants working industries, if it’s to survive. Agricultural revenues won’t support it, not with capital taxation.”
Those last two words would have sparked a tirade in most gentlemen of his generation, men who saw a way of life being sucked dry by the viciously ruinous taxes imposed in recent years, men faced with the impossible choice of selling off the land that kept the house going, or tearing down the house itself. Alistair, however, merely shrugged.
“It should be worked, yes.” But he was not about to admit that the man to do so was Sidney Darling.
This wing of the block was now ended, and we had the option of either turning up our collars and sprinting across the wide cobbles to the end of the other arm, or retracing our steps. I waited to see what Alistair would do. In Palestine, he would not have hesitated in walking out into the downpour—or rather, he would have done so with all deliberation, hoping this irritating female would wilt, or melt. But we were in England, and Ali was Alistair. He shot a quick glance at my footwear (which was nearly as sturdy as his own) and chivalrously turned back.
Marsh was there, one elbow on the half door of a pony box. Alistair’s head went up and he strode forward vigorously; I went more slowly, to study their greeting and to better look at Marsh Hughenfort.