Рита Браун: Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

The entire hunt club attended, as did many members of Keswick, Farmington, Oak Ridge, Stonewall, Bedford, Deep Run, Casanova, Rockbridge, and Glenmore. Mercer had hunted with so many people over the years.

The glorious day saw a few crocuses peeping up out of the ground. If one stared intently, red could be seen returning to buds, although the trees still looked barren. Spring was stirring.

After the service, everyone retired to the Bancroft residence because the Lorillard place wasn’t big enough to hold all these people. The Bancrofts had paid for everything, as well as opening their home.

Uncle Yancy—still stuck with Aunt Netty, and back in the mudroom—was glad the party was held elsewhere.

A large framed photograph of Mercer as a child on his first pony stood next to an identically-sized photograph of Mercer in full formal kit wearing a weazlebelly and top hat on Dixie Do, braided for Opening Hunt.

O.J. had flown back from Kentucky for the service. She talked with guests eager to catch up with her, with Kentucky hunting. Sister, Gray, Betty, and Tootie gathered for a moment by the punch bowl.

“It was an ingenious crime.” Betty did give the Chetwynds credit. “And it made their fortune for 121 years.”

O.J. joined them. “Alan and Meg did have tests run on Benny’s, I mean Navigator’s, lineage. Sure enough, he goes back to Matchem. I guess Harlan and who knows, another worker or Old Tom himself, switched the stallions at night. They greatly looked alike. Sometimes the cleverest crimes are the simplest.”

Gray shook his head. “Can you imagine the work? Now the Jockey Club has to go through all the pedigrees for the last 121 years to correct them.”

“They can do it.” Sister smiled. “I have great faith in them. Remember, the founding member of the Jockey Club was Domino’s owner, James Keene.”

“Lucky Phil confessed,” Tootie remarked. “Just spilled it all out.”

“Well, honey.” Betty put down her punch glass. “He had nothing to lose anymore and I don’t think he was in his right mind at the end. The strain of that remarkable dishonesty, the knowledge, the weight of the crime passed to the oldest son from generation to generation, and then the horror of two murders. He told Ben he didn’t really want to kill anyone. He couldn’t see a way out.”

Ben joined them. “I heard my name.”

The small group reviewed what they’d just said.

The sheriff sighed, then said, “You know, Phil cried and cried, and said it was like killing his brother. He loved Mercer. And he said they were actually related. His grandfather had a long affair with Mercer’s grandmother, Daniella’s mother. He said he really felt he’d killed his brother. Obviously, the Chetwynds can afford the best lawyers but he says he wants to be put away.” Ben shrugged. “For what, for reputation? For the money? Kill for that? Even if he had to shut down Broad Creek Stables because of the scandal, Phil would never have been poor.”

“He couldn’t live with the shame,” Sister posited quietly. “Old name, old ways, old money.”

“It’s crazy.” Tootie couldn’t quite understand it. “So he creates more shame. Crazy.”

“That it is.” Sister put her arm around Tootie’s waist. “People have been doing irrational things for thousands of years. We aren’t going to stop now.”

O.J. asked Ben, “Okay, the stallions were switched, but why did Old Tom Chetwynd have Harlan Laprade killed when he brought the slate memorial to Walnut Hall?”

“Money,” said Sister. “Harlan must have been asking for more and more. Blackmail. Harlan loaded Benny Glitters on a big boxcar full of horses going to Broad Creek. No one would really notice that Navigator, who’d ridden on the train from Virginia, was switched. Harlan was in charge of the shipping. Only Old Tom and Harlan knew.”

“And was Harlan a frequenter of houses of ill repute?” Betty couldn’t help but ask.

Ben nodded. “Not that his wife didn’t know he’d done such things in the past, but no one wanted her to know where his clothes were found. The disappearance was bad enough. Making it look like Harlan died in a whorehouse gave Old Tom a cover. Also, Old Tom was sleeping with Daniella’s mother. He didn’t mind getting rid of her husband, who by all accounts was a good horseman but a bad husband. King David did it too, remember?”

“Does Daniella know now?” O.J. asked.

Gray’s voice was low. “She probably does but like her own mother, there are some things a lady doesn’t want to investigate. All this has been quite enough.”

Ben spoke again. “Phil killed Mercer then strung him up. He’s a strong man. If the pogonip lifted, he hoped no one would look closely as they’d become accustomed to the hanging dummy. He wanted to go to the breakfast, look for Mercer, then worry about his friend not showing up. Then he could go out and look for him. Bold and clever.”

And just then, Sam, next to his aunt, her ebony cane in hand, walked in front of the enormous silver punch bowl.

Ed Bancroft tapped a glass. The room fell silent.

“I thank you all for your tribute to my son,” said Daniella. “He was a good son, a good horseman, and a good businessman. I was and will always be proud of him. There are over two hundred years of Laprades and Lorillards buried at the old home place and soon I will rest next to my son.” A murmur went up but she held up her hand. “To everything there is a season. I think Mercer went before his time but we do as the Lord commands. So it was his time and I look forward to mine. All good things must come to an end. When I go, don’t mourn me. If there is any quality of mine you admire, make it your own. The quality I most admired in my son, apart from his love, was his eagerness for life.

“Thank you again and I especially thank Tedi and Edward Bancroft for giving Mercer his last social engagement.” She smiled. “I thank my nephews, Gray and Sam, and I thank Jane Arnold for Mercer’s hunt.

“I wish you all a good life and I know Mercer would want me to say, ‘Good hunting.’ ”

Everyone applauded and Daniella was mobbed. Sensing her fatigue, Sam walked her to a chair. Gray left the small group to attend to his aunt, get her another drink, do all the things Mercer used to do.

That night, Sister visited the stables at Roughneck, saying good night to each of her horses, including the two newcomers from Broad Creek. Then she walked across to the kennels, careful not to awaken anyone if possible. She spied Inky looking at her from the edge of the orchard.

She winked at the beautiful vixen who remained motionless. Then Sister walked back up to her house, the pale smoke curling from the chimney.

She thought the Three Fates had cut the threads of two good lives recently as they were spinning out the lives of others. Spinning, spinning, spinning, and she prayed she would live a much longer life to be part of the tapestry.

To the Reader,

You might wonder how The Jefferson Hunt could have such a good season in such nasty weather. I have no idea.

Our season (Oak Ridge Foxhunt Club) from January to March 2014, proved bitter, snowy with odd, wild temperature bounces as in fifty degrees. Yes, fifty degrees. Without gilding the lily, it was the strangest, worst winter I’ve ever experienced, yet the hunting was terrific. On the days of the huge temperature bounces it was not terrific, granted. The rest of the time, we picked up fox after fox and ran as best we could in snow and sometimes over ice patches. When the snows melted, we ran in mud, returning splattered to the trailers. But when we smiled our teeth were white.

Parking proved more of a problem than hunting.

For those of you who do not foxhunt, most of us who do, do not go out in a deep powdery snow. For one thing, should a fox be out they can’t get away from you. Usually they are tight and warm in their dens. If there is a good crust on the snow, I will take hounds out because the fox, being light, can get away. However, one must be careful because if the crust is too thick it will cut hound pads. One has to use judgment, obviously. Also, if the snow is deep it tires horses and hounds quickly.