Wild Horses Part 11

'Stay on the line,' I said. 'Wait.'

I left the kitchen, found the plain-clothes men starting to blow dust on things for fingerprints and hovered until Dorothea's door opened to let out the policewoman who was beckoning to the men to bring back the stretcher.

I said to her, 'Mrs Pannier's son is on the telephone. Please can Dr Gill talk to him?'

She looked at me vaguely and retreated into Dorothea's room with the ambulance people, but it seemed that she did pa.s.s on the message because presently Robbie Gill opened the bedroom door again and asked me if Paul were actually on the line.

'Yes,' I confirmed. 'He's waiting to talk to you.'

'Tell him I won't be long.'

I relayed the message to Paul. He was impatiently displeased. I told him to wait and left him. Angry and anxious about Dorothea, and concerned about the missing books, I found rea.s.suring Paul impossible. I couldn't even be decently sympathetic. I was sure he wouldn't give the books back unless I took him to court, and even then I had no list of what I'd lost.

Robbie Gill accompanied Dorothea on the rolling stretcher right out to the ambulance, solicitously making sure she was gently treated. Then, looking stern, he came back into the house, strode down the hall to where I waited by the kitchen door, walked over to the central table and picked up the receiver.

'Mr Pannier?' he asked, then grimaced crossly as Paul spoke on the other end.

'Mr Pannier,' Robbie said forcefully, 'your mother has been beaten about the head. She's unconscious from those blows. Her right arm is broken. In addition, she has knife wounds to her body. I am sending her to Cambridge...' he named the hospital... 'where she will receive the best attention. I cannot tell you whether or not she will survive.' He listened with disgust to Paul's reply. 'No, she was not s.e.xually a.s.saulted. I have done everything possible. I suggest you check with the hospital later. It is now out of my hands.' He thrust the receiver back into its cradle, compressed his mouth as if physically restraining himself from swearing, and squeezed his eyes with ringer and thumb.

'How is she really?' I asked.

He shrugged wearily, his expression relaxing. 'I don't know. She put up a fight, I should think. Tried to defend herself with her arm. It's odd... it's almost as if she had two two a.s.sailants.... one that hit her arm and her head with something hard and jagged, and one that used a knife. Or perhaps there was only one a.s.sailant, but with two weapons.' a.s.sailants.... one that hit her arm and her head with something hard and jagged, and one that used a knife. Or perhaps there was only one a.s.sailant, but with two weapons.'

'It's a useless question,' I said, 'but why why attack her?' attack her?'

'A dear good old lady! The world's grown vicious. Old ladies get attacked. I detest that son of hers. I shouldn't say that. Pay no attention. He wanted to know if she'd been raped.'

'He's the ultimate four-letter case.'

'The police want to know why the whole house is in this state.' He waved an arm at the devastation around. 'How do I know? They weren't poor, they weren't rich. Poor old bodies. They relied on you lately, you know. They loved you, in a way. Pity you you weren't their son.' weren't their son.'

'Valentine was part of my childhood.'

'Yes. He told me.'

'Well... what happens next?'

'The police are talking about attempted murder, because of the knife wounds. But... I don't know...'

'What?' I prompted, as he hesitated.

'It may be fanciful... I don't know if I'll say it to the police... but it would have taken so little to finish her off. Just one stab in the right place.' He paused. 'You saw her, didn't you?'

'Yes, when you moved back from her bed.'

He nodded. 'I thought so. You saw those slashes. Two of them, one relatively superficial, one very deep. The first one cut her clothes open. Why wasn't there a third? You know what I think? I think it was an aborted aborted murder. I think he changed his mind.' murder. I think he changed his mind.'

I stared.

'You can call me crazy,' he said.

'No, I think you're clever.'

'I've seen knife murders. They often look like frenzy. Dozens of stab wounds. Deranged mind at work. They can't stop. Do you see?'

'Yes,' I said.

'I don't know why I'm telling you. Pay no attention. With luck Dorothea will live to tell us herself.'

'How much luck does she need?'

'Frankly,' he said dispiritedly, 'quite a lot. Concussion's unpredictable. I don't think she has intracranial bleeding, but I can't be sure. But that abdominal wound... it's bad... it depends on infection... and she's eighty next month... but she's well in herself... healthy for her age, I mean. I've grown fond of them both, though I used to fight with Valentine on the surface, obstinate old cuss.'

I thought Robbie Gill a good doctor, and I said so. He brushed off my words.

'Can I ask you something?' I said.

'Of course.'

'Well... how long ago was Dorothea attacked?'

'How long ago?'

'Yes. I mean, was she attacked before before the tras.h.i.+ng of the house? All this damage must have taken quite a while to achieve. Or had she been out, and came back at the wrong moment? Or did someone try to beat some information out of her and go too far, and then pull the place apart looking for whatever he wanted?' the tras.h.i.+ng of the house? All this damage must have taken quite a while to achieve. Or had she been out, and came back at the wrong moment? Or did someone try to beat some information out of her and go too far, and then pull the place apart looking for whatever he wanted?'

'Hey, slow down,' he protested. 'You think like a policeman.'

Like a film-maker, I thought. I said again, 'How long since she was attacked?'

He pursed his lips. 'The house was trashed first.'

We digested it in silence.

'You're sure?' I asked finally.

Gill said, 'Judging from the comparatively small amount of swelling and the rate of bleeding, Dorothea hadn't been in that state very long before her friend Betty found her. I came at once when Betty phoned me. I wasn't much longer than five minutes on the way. Betty might be lucky that she didn't arrive here ten minutes sooner.' He sighed. 'It isn't our problem, I'm glad to say. We can leave it to the police.'

'Yes.'

He looked at his watch and said it had been a long day, and I agreed with that too. When he told the police he was leaving, they decided to take his fingerprints. They took mine also, and Betty's: for elimination, they said. They wrote brief statements from Betty and me, and we told them Paul's fingerprints would be everywhere, like our own.

Betty's husband came to collect her with wide consoling arms, and at length I drove back to Bedford Lodge and downed a medicinal large one with Moncrieff.

Summoned by Ed on my say-so, all available crews, technicians, wardrobe people and actors (except Nash) gathered in the stable yard at dawn on Sunday morning.

I mounted a wooden chair to address them and, in the fresh ever-moving East Anglian air, wondered how Shakespeare could have expected Henry V's words before Agincourt to be heard by any but the nearest knights, given the clinking noises of armour on horseback and the absence of microphones.

I at least had a megaphone, equipment perhaps over-familiar to my audience.

'I expect,' I said loudly, when movement in the company had diminished to restless impatience, 'that most of you have by now read yesterday's "Hot from the Stars" column in the Daily Drumbeat Daily Drumbeat.'

I reaped stares, nods, and a good many sardonic smiles. No overt sneers. Something, at least.

'As you can guess,' I went on, 'the column badly disturbed our parent company in Hollywood. Fortunately our producer a.s.sured them that you are all doing a very good job here. Some of you may like it, some may not, but Hollywood has confirmed that I continue to direct. Nash Rourke has told them he is in favour of this. In consequence, nothing has changed. Whether or not you agree with the Drumbeat's Drumbeat's a.s.sessment of my character, if you want to continue to be employed on this enterprise, you will please make a private commitment to give this film your best shot. For all our sakes, the creation of a well-made, visually exciting commercial motion picture should take priority over any personal feelings. I want you to be able in the future to say with a.s.sessment of my character, if you want to continue to be employed on this enterprise, you will please make a private commitment to give this film your best shot. For all our sakes, the creation of a well-made, visually exciting commercial motion picture should take priority over any personal feelings. I want you to be able in the future to say with satisfaction satisfaction that you worked on this film. So it's back to business as usual, which means will the lads now saddle the horses and everyone else continue with the schedule that Ed has distributed. OK? Good.' that you worked on this film. So it's back to business as usual, which means will the lads now saddle the horses and everyone else continue with the schedule that Ed has distributed. OK? Good.'

I lowered the megaphone, stepped off the chair and turned my back to the company to join Moncrieff, who had been standing behind me in support.

'Socked it to them,' he approved with irony. 'We could make a film of making this film.'

'Or a book,' I said.

Our female star, Silva Shawn, loped across the stable yard to join us. As usual, when not dressed in character, she wore flapping dark voluminous layers of clothes reaching to her ankles, with black Doc Marten boots below and a charcoal hat above, a hat that looked like a soft collapsed topper sitting on her eyebrows. She walked with long strides and arrived at most meetings with her shapely chin thrust forward in the body language of belittle-me-if-you-dare.

O'Hara had strongly warned me not to pay her any compliment she could possibly construe as s.e.xual hara.s.sment, which I found difficult to comply with, as the adjectives which sprang first and naturally to my mind, apart from delicious, were divine, bewitching and ultra-desirable: but 'Never call her darling,' O'Hara had instructed.

'Why did you pick her if she's so touchy?' I'd asked him, and he had said succinctly, 'She can act.'

To date her acting in the film had chiefly consisted of the notably explicit bedroom scenes with Nash (punctuated by No, no, no, moans from Howard) that we had captured the previous week. We had in fact faithfully adhered to Howard's script in the matter of words: what infuriated him was that I had ignored his intention to have Nash and Silva deliver their lines fully clothed. He had set their restrained show of affection in the drawing-room. I had transferred it to the bedroom, letting the verbal restraint remain, but contrasting it with growing physical desire. Silva, without self-consciousness ('bodies are natural') natural') had allowed delicately lit shots of her nudity in the bathroom. The rushes had quickened many pulses, including my own. Whether she chose to admit it or not, there was a sensual quality in Silva's acting diametrically opposite to her chosen off-screen stance. had allowed delicately lit shots of her nudity in the bathroom. The rushes had quickened many pulses, including my own. Whether she chose to admit it or not, there was a sensual quality in Silva's acting diametrically opposite to her chosen off-screen stance.

She had been away from Newmarket for the past week fulfilling an unbreakable commitment somewhere else, but was due to ride a horse on the Heath that morning, making use of an equestrian skill she was proud of. As happened in almost all films, we were not shooting the scenes chronologically: the coming encounter between the trainer and Cibber's wife was their first, their meeting, all innocence at the start but with, in no time, a promise developing in their eyes.

Silva said disapprovingly, 'I hope you got me a good horse.'

'He's fast,' I said, nodding.

'And good looking?'

'Of course.'

'And well trained?'

'I've been riding him myself.'

Without comment she transferred her near-universal disapproval to Moncrieff, whom she considered a male chauvinist despite his spectacular ability to make even ugly women look beautiful on screen.

After so many years spent studying female curves one might have expected Moncrieff to have grown an impervious skin, but every time we'd worked together he had fallen in love with the leading lady, and Silva looked like being no exception.

'Platonic,' I'd advised him. 'Strictly hands off. OK?'

'She needs me,' he'd pleaded.

'Light her and leave her.'

'Such cheekbones!'

Silva had fortunately so far given him the reverse of encouragement. I'd noticed from the first day I met her that she looked with more favour on men with suits, ties, short haircuts and clean-shaven faces, an inclination that should ensure the comparative invisibility of straggle-bearded, shambling, sloppily-dressed Moncrieff.

'I think,' I said to Silva politely, 'they're expecting you in make-up.'

She demanded, 'Are you telling me I'm late?'

I shook my head. 'The meeting has set everyone back. But I hope to finish the Heath scenes by lunchtime.'

She loped off, skirts flapping, making her own sort of statement.

'Gorgeous,' Moncrieff breathed.

'Dangerous,' I said.

Nash arrived, yawning, in his Rolls, and went into the house to the wardrobe and make-up departments. He was followed into the stable yard almost immediately by a man of very similar build, riding a bicycle which braked hard with a spraying of gravel beside Moncrieff and me.

'Morning,' the newcomer said briefly, dismounting. No deference in sight.

'Good morning, Ivan,' I answered.

'Are we still in business?'

'You're late,' I said.

He rightly took the comment as disapproval and wordlessly retreated, with his bicycle, into the house.

'I don't like him,' Moncrieff said. 'Saucy b.u.g.g.e.r.'

'Never mind. Make him look like St George, a s.h.i.+ning champion.'

Nash himself had great presence just sitting on a horse but any speed faster than a walk revealed deficiencies, so for distance shots of him trotting or cantering we were using a stuntman, Ivan, instead. Ivan made a living riding in front of cameras and had picked up a truculent manner that would prevent his ever getting further in his profession. He had a habit, I'd been told, of holding forth in pubs about how close close he was to Nash Rourke, for whom he had doubled on an earlier picture. Nash this, Nash that, Nash and I... In actual fact, they met seldom and conversed less. Ivan had mushroomed a relations.h.i.+p from a few short businesslike exchanges. he was to Nash Rourke, for whom he had doubled on an earlier picture. Nash this, Nash that, Nash and I... In actual fact, they met seldom and conversed less. Ivan had mushroomed a relations.h.i.+p from a few short businesslike exchanges.

Trainers in many other racing centres drove out in Land Rovers to watch their strings work, but on Newmarket's mainly roadless Heath it was still the norm to oversee everything from horseback and there was no doubt Nash looked more imposing in the saddle than operating a four-wheel drive. The mega-star's s.e.x appeal brought in the pennies. My job was to make it powerful while looking natural, which in Nash's case wasn't hard.

Moncrieff was driven off up one of the few roads in a camera truck, with a second crew following, to positions we'd agreed the previous evening. The string of horses would canter up a hill, be followed broadside by one camera and head-on by a second as they came over the brow into the low-in-the-sky sunlight; rather, I hoped, like an orchestral flourish of bra.s.s after a muted but lyrical introduction. I often heard soundtracks in my head long before any composer approached them.

Ed, knowing to the minute when to start the action, remained down by the stable. Though I could easily have driven, I chose to ride up onto the Heath to join Moncrieff; and I rode the horse we'd allotted to Silva, to get its back down: that is to say, to warm him up so that he would go sweetly with her and not buck. Silva might be proud of her riding, but O'Hara wouldn't thank me for getting her dumped on her exquisite backside.

The terrible Ivan was to canter alone to the brow of the hill, riding Nash's usual mount. He was to stop there, turn his horse, and stand silhouetted against the brightening sky. I'd asked him particularly not to waste the precious light-slot by getting it wrong.

He'd been insulted that I should expect him to get it wrong.

'Don't then,' I said.

I joined Moncrieff by the truck positioned half way up the hill, and breathed sighs of relief when Ivan obliged us with a beautifully ridden canter up the hill, stopping and turning at the right place, horse and rider stark and splendidly black against a halo of gold.

'Holy Moses,' Moncrieff said, intently looking through the lens. 'It's a beaut.' He ran a long fifteen seconds' worth before cutting.

'Again?' I suggested.

Moncrieff checked that the film had run properly through the camera gate and shook his head. 'It was about perfect.'

'Great. Print. Let's reload fresh stock for the next long shot of the rest of the horses.'