cemetery had been delayed by Kingsley’s summons and the slow cold journey on horseback. Splashes of blood and a fox’s tracks told him a rabbit had been trapped and killed in the confines of the cemetery. The blue sky and white birches roused memories that haunted him: memories of another country when he and the Buffalo Soldiers had trekked across snow-capped hills and laid waste their enemy’s village. Blood on snow was a common theme in Radcliffe’s bad dreams.
He stooped over the gravestone and brushed the frost clear from the name etched into the granite; as he did so his breath plumed, caressing the cold surface in a ghostly kiss. He took a pace back and wiped away the morning’s tears. Grief had long drained such emotion from him – these were from the cold air – but the blurred name was as fresh in his mind as it always had been.
J OHN M ICHAEL R ADCLIFFE 1874–1891
B ELOVED SON OF J OSEPH AND E ILEEN
B ROTHER TO E DWARD
I N G OD ’ S C ARING H ANDS
One son had been taken; another was missing. Now nothing mattered more than finding him.
C HAPTER E IGHT
Kingsley leaned on the wooden wall surrounding the show ring. The horse, free of its box, kicked and scuffed the sawdust. It snorted and pranced and then raised its head, nostrils flaring, gazing at the man who loved and cherished him. Kingsley allowed a smile and sipped from a hip flask. The horse whinnied and trotted around the ring, the shallow light painting a silver line from withers to tail across its black sheen.
‘Is that you, Radcliffe?’ Kingsley asked without turning.
Radcliffe had stood for a moment inside the huge doors behind the hunched shoulders of the Irishman as the horse moved in and out of shadow. The barn’s stone walls held the chill, and the horse’s snorting breath made him seem as Kingsley had said: a horse for unearthly warriors.
Neither man moved for a moment, and then Kingsley half turned. It seemed to Radcliffe that the Irishman had barely slept. Cold whiskers of frost clung to his wool coat. ‘You and your boy... there’s misery between you, is there not?’ He waited, but there was no answer from Radcliffe. Kingsley shrugged: ‘Your son. He ran off to war.’
He watched Radcliffe’s reaction. There was barely a flicker of the fear that information must have driven into the man. He knew the lawyer was waiting to find out what Kingsley was after. Valuable news had a price.
‘Aye, I’m certain,’ Kingsley said in answer to Radcliffe’s silent doubt. ‘People like to be in my debt – they tell me things. Seems he caught a steamer the night of the race.’
Radcliffe walked to where the man stood. ‘No. I checked. And so did the police.’
Kingsley snorted and spat into the sawdust. ‘The police. Jesus, Radcliffe. You know as well as I do those clowns couldn’t find a whore in a brothel. Your boy used a false name. Give the lad credit. Probably going off to find that chum of his, Lieutenant Baxter. He went to South Africa all right. Guaranteed. You should’ve let me fix that race like I said. Saved yourself this grief.’
Radcliffe nodded, resisting the fact he was in the man’s debt. ‘Thank you.’
Kingsley clicked his tongue at the horse, and it responded with a sudden flurry that caught Radcliffe by surprise. It surged forward and then braced its legs into the sawdust, stretching its head towards Kingsley’s open hand.
‘You’ll be going after him, so you’ll need a horse that’ll take you to the ends of the earth, through shot and shell and bring you back again... He’s yours. And I want nothing in return.’
The impact of the man’s offer was not lost on Radcliffe. ‘Why give me that which you prize the most?’
Kingsley looked at him. He had no need to give Radcliffe any reasons but he had already made his decision. ‘Seventeen years ago I had a bit of fun with a girl... down in Wexford. I was going off to war m’self. She had a baby... I couldn’t own up to it. Over the years
He stooped over the gravestone and brushed the frost clear from the name etched into the granite; as he did so his breath plumed, caressing the cold surface in a ghostly kiss. He took a pace back and wiped away the morning’s tears. Grief had long drained such emotion from him – these were from the cold air – but the blurred name was as fresh in his mind as it always had been.
J OHN M ICHAEL R ADCLIFFE 1874–1891
B ELOVED SON OF J OSEPH AND E ILEEN
B ROTHER TO E DWARD
I N G OD ’ S C ARING H ANDS
One son had been taken; another was missing. Now nothing mattered more than finding him.
C HAPTER E IGHT
Kingsley leaned on the wooden wall surrounding the show ring. The horse, free of its box, kicked and scuffed the sawdust. It snorted and pranced and then raised its head, nostrils flaring, gazing at the man who loved and cherished him. Kingsley allowed a smile and sipped from a hip flask. The horse whinnied and trotted around the ring, the shallow light painting a silver line from withers to tail across its black sheen.
‘Is that you, Radcliffe?’ Kingsley asked without turning.
Radcliffe had stood for a moment inside the huge doors behind the hunched shoulders of the Irishman as the horse moved in and out of shadow. The barn’s stone walls held the chill, and the horse’s snorting breath made him seem as Kingsley had said: a horse for unearthly warriors.
Neither man moved for a moment, and then Kingsley half turned. It seemed to Radcliffe that the Irishman had barely slept. Cold whiskers of frost clung to his wool coat. ‘You and your boy... there’s misery between you, is there not?’ He waited, but there was no answer from Radcliffe. Kingsley shrugged: ‘Your son. He ran off to war.’
He watched Radcliffe’s reaction. There was barely a flicker of the fear that information must have driven into the man. He knew the lawyer was waiting to find out what Kingsley was after. Valuable news had a price.
‘Aye, I’m certain,’ Kingsley said in answer to Radcliffe’s silent doubt. ‘People like to be in my debt – they tell me things. Seems he caught a steamer the night of the race.’
Radcliffe walked to where the man stood. ‘No. I checked. And so did the police.’
Kingsley snorted and spat into the sawdust. ‘The police. Jesus, Radcliffe. You know as well as I do those clowns couldn’t find a whore in a brothel. Your boy used a false name. Give the lad credit. Probably going off to find that chum of his, Lieutenant Baxter. He went to South Africa all right. Guaranteed. You should’ve let me fix that race like I said. Saved yourself this grief.’
Radcliffe nodded, resisting the fact he was in the man’s debt. ‘Thank you.’
Kingsley clicked his tongue at the horse, and it responded with a sudden flurry that caught Radcliffe by surprise. It surged forward and then braced its legs into the sawdust, stretching its head towards Kingsley’s open hand.
‘You’ll be going after him, so you’ll need a horse that’ll take you to the ends of the earth, through shot and shell and bring you back again... He’s yours. And I want nothing in return.’
The impact of the man’s offer was not lost on Radcliffe. ‘Why give me that which you prize the most?’
Kingsley looked at him. He had no need to give Radcliffe any reasons but he had already made his decision. ‘Seventeen years ago I had a bit of fun with a girl... down in Wexford. I was going off to war m’self. She had a baby... I couldn’t own up to it. Over the years
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