The Silver Falcon (5 page)

‘There he is –' Charles had hugged her. ‘Look at him, Miss Cunningham – that's my Derby winner!' They had gone back to the house and drunk champagne, until she slipped away to her room, leaving them to celebrate till the morning.

‘You've brought me luck,' he told her that day. ‘We'll get through these letters and then we'll go look at the little fellow. And damn it, Miss Cunningham's too much of a mouthful. I'm going to call you Isabel.' It had all begun after that.

It was eleven o'clock when she got up to go.

‘You're sure you'll be all right? You can stay here if you don't want to sleep at Beaumont tonight,' Tim suggested. ‘I can go over there and leave you the bungalow.'

‘No thanks, Tim. I'm very tired. I don't mind going home now. I feel so much better, you've been a great help.'

He saw her into the Range Rover. ‘Any time,' he said quietly. ‘I'll come up tomorrow. And don't worry about anything.'

‘I won't,' she said. ‘Good night.'

There was no sign of what he was thinking as he waved her out of sight. It was a popular misconception that the Irish showed their feelings. They could be very secretive and very patient. Tim Ryan had never admitted to himself that since he knew Charles Schriber had cancer he had been quietly waiting for him to die. He went back into his bungalow and poured himself another drink. It was a luxurious open-plan room, furnished to his own choice. And the style betrayed the background of gentility which he preferred to hide. The family were old and, like so many of the Irish upper classes, beset by lack of money. The Georgian mansion where he had been born was empty and for sale; his father, with an unmarried sister and his grandmother, who was ninety and senile, lived in a modest house on the estate. There was no money and no prospect of any. At twenty-seven, Tim had found himself a well-known amateur jockey with a host of well-connected friends, but without a penny to his name. It was chance that introduced him to Charles Schriber. They met at Punchestown races, where a mutual friend brought them together. He mentioned to Tim before the meeting that he was entertaining a very rich American who needed a racing manager, having sacked the previous incumbent.

‘There's a chance for some lucky fellow. He's a tough nut, but he's got more money than he knows what to do with, and some of the best horses in the States.'

By six o'clock that evening, Tim had got himself the job. He couldn't and wouldn't have worked for an ignorant or vulgar man whose only interest was making money. There had to be something more. He respected Charles more than he liked him; he had seen men who showed up well so long as they were in the winner's enclosure, but Charles Schriber knew how to accept defeat with equal grace. He was a hard man, who knew what he wanted and made certain that he got it, but he was generous and completely fair. Breeding top-quality horses was not just his hobby, but a highly successful business, netting him millions of dollars a year.

He had been just as shrewd in choosing his second wife. She was a rare woman, Isabel Schriber. It couldn't have been easy to be his secretary then his wife, inside a year. Tim had seen her gradually overcome the suspicion of her husband's friends and the reserve of his staff, who were ready to resent the slightest show of arrogance from someone who had so recently been one of themselves. She had acquitted herself with modesty and dignity; she hadn't fawned on local society in order to be accepted. She filled her role as Charles's wife and left public opinion to decide for itself. He wondered how so much money and the power that went with it would affect her. Most women would be frightened, casting about for support. She had asked him to help her carry out her husband's wishes. But he felt sure she would have gone on whatever his answer had been.

As Isabel drove up to the house she was surprised to see the lights burning in the study window. Instinctively she glanced up to the first floor. Her bedroom was shuttered and dark. Charles was resting there overnight. Rogers had told the maid to get a guest room ready for her. She had slept in her husband's dressing room since he became seriously ill.

She knew that Andrew Graham had been waiting for her; even before he opened the study door and came out, she sensed his presence in the house.

‘Isabel? Where have you been – I came along after dinner and nobody knew where you were?'

‘I went down to see Tim,' she said. ‘Rogers knew that perfectly well.'

‘I didn't think you'd have stayed on so late,' the slow voice reproached her. ‘I thought maybe you'd gone calling somewhere else.'

Isabel came into the room; she didn't sit down. The feeling of calm had gone; she was on the defensive and she didn't know how he had managed to put her there. She remembered Tim's remark. ‘Andy telephoned.' He had usurped her role yet again, and given the news of Charles's death without reference to her.

‘I brought you these,' Andrew said. ‘I thought you ought to have a proper night's sleep. It's been a rough day for you.'

It was a plastic phial, full of tablets.

‘You should take two of them,' he said. He sounded very tired himself. ‘They don't leave any hangover in the morning. If you wake in the night you can take two more. Jane has one occasionally.'

‘No thank you,' Isabel said. ‘I've never taken a sleeping pill in my life. Charles hated anything like that. It's very kind of you, but I don't need anything.'

The eyes were sad, and ringed with fatigue. He looked much older than she had realized. ‘Please take my advice. You'll have more of a reaction to all this than you expect. You'll have a lot to cope with now.'

She felt suddenly guilty; there had been no need for him to come or wait so long, except that he was trying to help her. She had been hostile and rude. She took his arm and walked with him to the door. ‘Andrew,' she said. ‘I want to thank you for all you did for Charles. You've been the most wonderful friend. You meant a great deal to him.'

‘We saw some good times together,' he said quietly. ‘And some bad. I can't believe he's gone. I hope you'll feel you can come to me, Isabel. If ever you need advice or help – and don't be bullheaded about those pills – get some sleep –'

‘I will,' Isabel said. She held out her hand and he took it. ‘I won't forget.' She closed the door behind him, outside she heard his car start up. It must have been parked at an angle in the courtyard. She hadn't seen it when she drove up from the yard. The house was heavy, silent. He had left the sleeping pills on the hall table. Charles had been obsessive in his dislike of any kind of drug. Listening to his angry denunciation of their friends for taking tranquillizers or appetite suppressants, she had wondered whether Frances Schriber had chosen that way to take her life. She didn't touch the plastic phial. She went upstairs to the guest room.

The funeral was due to take place at ten thirty in the morning, two days later. Isabel woke early. She had been sleeping very badly, waking at intervals during the night. Andrew Graham's sleeping pills had been left in the bathroom by the maid Ellie. Isabel had meant to throw them away and then forgotten. If she were patient and emptied her mind, sleep would come. When it did, it was so deep that it took Ellie some minutes to wake her. She had drawn the curtains and the room was full of the morning sunshine. She had put a breakfast tray beside the bed, and was standing by it. There was an anxious look on her face.

‘Mis Schriber? Mis Schriber it's past nine o'clock.'

Isabel sat up. ‘Oh, thank you, Ellie –' She pushed her hair back, dragged up her pillows behind her and reached for the cup of coffee which the maid had poured out. ‘It's a beautiful day. I'm glad. Run the bath, will you please?'

There was something about the way the girl was waiting, twisting her hands in front of her, the look of anxiety still on her black face.

‘Ellie? What is it – what's the matter?'

‘Mis Schriber – downstairs in de study – Mista Richard is here! He says to tell yuh he's come for de funeral. Man, whatever would Mista Charles say!'

Isabel threw back the bedcovers. I'll run the bath, Ellie. You go and tell Mister Richard I'll be down in a few minutes.'

It didn't take her long to bathe and dress. At the study door she hesitated. Almost the last words Charles said before he lost consciousness were a warning to her. ‘Don't trust him, Isabel. Don't ever trust him.' Her hand was on the door handle and she still hesitated. Then she turned it and walked in. He had his back to her; he was standing by the window looking out over the lush green pastures. He turned round, and she saw that he was holding a glass full of whisky. It was a little past nine thirty.

He walked towards her and held out the hand which was free.

‘You must be Isabel. I'm Richard, the prodigal son.'

He had red hair and blue eyes; he didn't resemble his father. His voice was gentle, with only a trace of American accent. He was the most striking man she had seen in her life.

2

The Church of St John the Evangelist was the principal Episcopalian church in the town. Charles Schriber had been a generous patron although he wasn't a regular attendant at the services. Isabel was driven up in her husband's large grey Cadillac. Her stepson was beside her. They didn't speak during the drive from Beaumont. She glanced at him; he was looking out of the window. He seemed perfectly relaxed. Ellie had sewn a black armband round the left sleeve of his grey jacket. He wore no hat, and his hair gleamed dark red in the sunshine. They turned into the main road. The streets were crowded, and the traffic slowed them down. The silence began to grate on her. He had declined breakfast or even coffee; in spite of the second glass of whisky which he had taken before they drove off, he seemed perfectly sober.

‘I'm so glad you came,' she said. ‘I'm dreading this service.'

‘You needn't,' he looked round at her. ‘My father was very popular with everyone. They'll all be your friends today. Where do you want me to sit?'

‘With me, of course,' she stared at him. ‘Where else – you're his son!'

‘Thank you,' he said. ‘You're being very nice.'

‘I'm not being nice at all,' Isabel said. ‘Please don't say that. I want you to take your rightful place.'

‘The congregation won't appreciate it,' he said. ‘But I'd like you to know that I do.' The car drew up outside the church, and the chauffeur jumped out to open the door for her. As she came into the church her stepson took her arm. It was a bright building, whitewashed and colourful with flowers and great sprays of evergreen foliage. For a moment the altar seemed a long distance away, the figure of the minister a blur. There was a discreet voluntary being played on the organ. And then she noticed it. There was a murmur that followed them as they walked slowly down towards the front pew. People were whispering to each other. She could feel them staring as she walked, her hand lightly resting on Richard Schriber's right arm. She saw the Grahams, his wife wearing deep black, in the pew immediately behind the first row. She saw the expression on both their faces, and Joan Graham turn to whisper agitatedly to her husband. She took her place and her stepson sat beside her. The music changed for the opening hymn and they stood up. Several times her eyes filled with tears. There was a horrible feeling of being stared at, which was not connected with being Charles's widow. It was because of the man at her side. He stood for the hymns but he didn't sing. He knelt for the prayers but he made no pretence of praying. He showed no emotion at all. The body of the church was full of people. The senator had flown in; she saw him on the opposite side, with his wife and son.

The minister gave an address. He had released the text to the newspapers and in the corner of the nave a television camera turned. He spoke of Charles Schriber as a man of honour and generosity of heart; he called him a great sportsman, a good neighbour and a faithful friend. He praised his courage, using a phrase that struck at Isabel. In time of personal trial her husband had never faltered. He had been an example to them all. She felt Richard Schriber stir beside her; she glanced at him but he showed nothing. The remark about personal trial could only refer to his first wife's suicide. She thought it an odd way to describe a tragedy. People in the congregation were weeping. There were men blowing their noses and women wiping their eyes. The minister addressed himself to the TV camera as he finished his address. A fine man and a great Kentuckian; the world no less than the bloodstock industry, would be a poorer place without him. Behind them Andrew Graham paused to kneel for a moment when the service was over. Isabel had always been headstrong, resenting his advice; it was inconceivable that she had ignored his warning and sent a message to Richard: but there was no other explanation. It was incredible that he should parade himself, escorting his stepmother into the church before everyone in Freemont. Without a trace of shame. By the time they left the church Andrew was shaking with anger. Charles had spoiled Isabel, that was the trouble. Her obstinate and ignorant action had made a public mockery of her husband's memorial service.

He set out to follow the Cadillac back to Beaumont; beside him, Joan Graham said nothing. She had seen the grim expression and the tight line of his jaw. She knew that this was not the moment to comment; she laid a hand on his knee to comfort him as they turned into the gates.

The burial was a simple service, carried out according to Charles's wishes. His body had been cremated early that morning; the small casket was buried in a consecrated plot close to the paddock west of the house. Sunshine patterned the ground through the branches of trees overhead.

Isabel stood apart from the small group of mourners. It was a private moment, a farewell which belonged only to her. She didn't need comfort or support; she stood very straight as her husband's ashes were lowered into the grave. He had left her the responsibility for what he had loved most; the stud and his horses. However difficult the task ahead might be, she promised at his graveside not to fail him.