Dead Man Riding by Gillian Linscott

that sent him staggering backwards. The drawer crashed to the tiled floor and a confusion of straps and curb chains and spools of thread scattered all over the place. The Old Man kept his feet but staggered and ended up leaning against the opposite wall. I got on hands and knees to pick things up and it was some time before I realised that there was something wrong. His head was bent over and his breath was coming fast and shallow. I went to him but he waved me away.
    â€˜It’s all right. Don’t make a fuss, woman. For God’s sake don’t fuss over me.’
    I went back to picking things off the floor, but kept an eye on him. After a while his breathing became more regular. He straightened up and smiled but still looked shaky. ‘Heart misses a beat or two sometimes. Comes back again – anyway, always has so far.’
    I only just caught the last few words because they were said under his breath as he turned away from me. He was looking up at his picture of galloping horses and sea waves.
    â€˜Have you seen a doctor?’
    â€˜Bloody waste of money. And don’t go gossiping to Alan. I’m not going to let them make an invalid out of me. Understood?’
    I didn’t promise. When he’d finished looking at the picture he helped me collect up the oddments and we got the drawer back. I thanked him and started back upstairs. When I was halfway up he called after me, ‘That ride – are you still game?’
    â€˜Of course.’
    â€˜Next week, when the moon’s full.’
    *   *   *
    The men showed us their hay mattresses, ranged along one side of the barn with old apple boxes in between for their books and spare clothes. One of the mattresses was at some distance from the others with a pile of hay in between – a defence against Nathan’s snoring, they said. They were proud of themselves and had organised a lunchtime picnic on the grass outside – cheese, cold sliced beef, pork pie, bottles of ale for them and tea made in a big kettle they’d borrowed from the kitchen, hanging from a tripod of hazel rods lashed together over a fire made from dead branches they’d collected in the wood. Like most of the practical things, the fire was mostly Nathan’s work. He’d even cut out a big square in the grass and rolled up the turves he’d taken from it as neatly as Swiss rolls so that they could be put back later. The flames from the fire were transparent in the sunlight and the smoke smelled sweet. As we ate we discussed the food supply question. The things we had brought with us were running out and we couldn’t go on eating up the household’s meagre stores. That meant shopping would have to be done in the town and our reception there so far hadn’t been encouraging.
    â€˜Alan and Meredith have got to go there on Monday in any case,’ Nathan said. ‘If we borrowed the wagonette, we could get a crate of ale and a leg of ham and so on.’
    â€˜And come back at a gallop, chased by a rabble yelling murder and throwing stones?’ Kit said. He was managing to eat neatly, one-handed, but from the cautious way he moved, it was clear that the arm was still giving him pain.
    Judging by Nathan’s expression he seemed to think that was quite a good idea.
    I said hastily, ‘It might be a good idea if the three of us went. People are less likely to throw things at women on the whole.’
    Surprised looks from Midge and Imogen at that. We’d agreed that we weren’t going to let the men cast us as providers of food and washers of dishes. But I had my own reasons for wanting to try the temperature of the town. It seemed to me that we wouldn’t get any answers by sitting up there on our hill. Alan’s mission to the police was a step in the right direction, but there were certain to be people in the area who knew things the police didn’t. It was too much to expect that I’d find out