The Prophet of Paradise

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

THUMPER BILLINGTON’S ATTENTION was far away from his early morning encounter with Ryman. A generous offer from a respected publication had him cloistered in his study, crafting an article on The Life and Morals of Jesus of Nazareth, known more commonly as The Jefferson Bible. A condensed cut-and-paste rearrangement of Biblical text, Jefferson selected the passages he thought instructive and deleted those that referred to miracles, the supernatural, Christ’s divinity, or resurrection.

Although not a theologian, Billington was a recognized authority on the Founding Fathers, particularly the Virginians. He had authored half a dozen well-received books on such topics as the Constitution, the Presidency, and the Supreme Court. His most widely read work was a biography of his late father, who served eighteen terms in the House of Representatives.

The appeal of this assignment was mainly for the intellectual stimulation. The money was pocket change. The Billington portfolio and landholdings negated any need for actual labor. The Montfair estate was the largest privately owned parcel in Crutchfield County and had belonged to the Billingtons since Colonial times.

The estate employed a core staff of four full-time workers—two married couples who lived on the property—plus a variety of hourly workers and contract farmers who raised beef cattle and grew corn, soybeans, wheat, and hay. Five horses occupied the historic stone barn, which had been home to more than a dozen riding and driving horses before the proliferation of motorized vehicles and farm equipment.

The current residents were off-the-track Thoroughbreds who had transitioned from racing to foxhunting: Lenny (short for Leonard Slye), Thumper’s number one field hunter; Ozzy, a youngster just starting his transition from race track to hunt field; Minnie Dee and Trisky, his daughter Elizabeth’s horses who, with her away at college, were mostly ridden by Thumper’s wife Shelagh (herself then away attending to family business in Ireland); and Bee, an all-purpose mount who had been too thick and slow to make it on the track but proved to be a sane, steady fellow no matter who was on him or what he was asked to do.

The property also held the kennels, stables, and huntsman’s residence for the Montfair Hunt. The current huntsman, Crispian “Crispie” O’Rourke, shared the small house with his significant other, Patti Vestor, and the two of them shared their lives with sixty-some working foxhounds and four staff horses, also ex-racehorses.

Among the staff mounts, Crispie’s number one was Kashmir, a strikingly handsome dark bay. Nimby, an unremarkable but reliable chestnut, was his alternate. On the Tuesday and Saturday hunts Patti rode Pennywise, a feisty strawberry roan mare (whose color closely matched Patti’s reddish-blond hair and pink, freckled complexion). Her Thursday mount was an aging gray named Lap Dance (by Big Woody out of Tiny Dancer), most likely in his final season as a staff horse.

Four staff horses, particularly with one nearing the end of his career, was a thin number for a three-day-a-week hunt in the demanding Montfair country, with its rolling terrain and numerous jumps. Thumper had his eye on a few prospects. Bolstering the number of mounts for the staff would be especially important when Shelagh returned and resumed her duties assisting the huntsman as a whipper-in.

Thumper’s concentration was broken by a rapping sound. He looked up to see Crispie standing in the doorway.

“Sorry if I’m interruptin’, Boss. You wanted me to get with you about plans for tomorrow marnin’.” A newly naturalized American citizen, Crispie wished to soften his Galway brogue. But the occasional lapse into his native vernacular still occurred.

“Right, right.” Thumper stood up and walked around to the front of the massive mahogany desk that dominated the study. He motioned Crispie to one of the leather club chairs in front of the stone hearth. “Something to drink?”

“Water would be fine.”

“Yes, of course.” Thumper opened the small refrigerator hidden behind the bar front in the corner of the room and grabbed a bottle of water for his guest and a Diet Coke for himself.

As Thumper plopped down into the adjoining chair, Crispie withdrew a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket. “I’ve made up the draw list for tomorrow. Fourteen and a half couple, mostly veterans, but there are two and a half couple of puppies I want to take. Beamer, Boston, Hempstead, Harkness, and Westward.”

“Hempstead’s a bit of a babbler, isn’t he?”

“A wee bit, yes. But I tink…er, think he has a good nose and a decent voice once he gets to work. We need to see if he can get past the babbling, or if that’s gonna be a problem. I’ll be taking out most of our steady, seasoned hounds.”

“Conman?”

“Maybe not yet. We had some trouble with him last season, going off on his own. Might wait a bit on bringing him.”

“Okay, I’m with you. All the puppies have looked pretty good on deer.”

“Aye, they have. Deer are ’specially thick but the puppies have been payin’ ’em no notice. Not a-tall.”

“Nope, not a-tall,” Thumper said, mimicking the lingering trace of Crispie’s accent. “Although Ryman’s young Thoroughbred took notice of one this morning. Pitched him off and gave him a good bonk on the head.”

“Is he all right?”

“I hope so. He was certainly concussed, but by the time I left him he seemed to be functioning okay. You know Ryman, thickest damn skull in Crutchfield County, possibly in the whole state of Virginia. Still, though, I wish he hadn’t insisted on driving to Warrenton. He was still mumbling to himself about the deer when he drove off.”

“Those deer are mighty thick indeed. Gettin’ inta Patti’s garden somethin’ fierce. Eatin’ everything in sight, knockin’ stuff down. Even took out a piece a that nice fence I put up for her. ’Carse, could be other things gettin’ in there. Rabbits I’m sure. Raccoons and possums likely.”

Crispie took a swig from the bottle of water, a frequent appurtenance since he’d taken the pledge several years before. “Um…is there any update on when Shelagh…er, Mrs. Billington…will be back? Nardell can fill in as the third whip for now, but I reckon she’ll return to back-up status once the missus comes home.”

Thumper took a sip of his soda. “It seems the missus will be staying on the Old Sod for awhile longer. Needs more time to wrap up her father’s affairs than she’d thought.” He noticed a tightness in the Irishman’s mouth, as if trying to hold his tongue. “What? Have you heard something from your sister?”

“Ah, nothin’ really. Only that Mrs. Billington is getting in some pre-season hunting while she’s there, exercising the hounds, carrying the horn in her father’s place while the hunt looks for a permanent replacement.”

“Really? She hadn’t mentioned that, only that there was so much to sort out with her father’s estate, taking up all her time.”

“I’m only passin’ along what me sister mentioned.”

Thumper’s cell phone rang. The screen showed Ryman as the caller. “Hey, Ry. What? Is that a siren I hear? You okay? Jesus Christ, I told you not to drive… What? Oh, man, I’m sorry. Right, I’ll meet you there. You’re not driving are you? Bar’s there? Good. Have you called your mother? Yeah, sure, I’ll pick her up. No, of course she shouldn’t be driving alone.”

He clicked off the phone. “Fergus McKendrick just suffered what looks to be a massive heart attack. He’s being rushed to the hospital, although Ryman doesn’t seem to think there’s much hope.”

“Holy Mother a God,” Crispie whispered and crossed himself. He muttered something else that Thumper, although fluent in Latin and passably familiar with Gaelic, could not make out.

The two men stood but remained in silent reflection for a long moment, the only sound the whir of a weed trimmer off in the distance, one of Thumper’s hourly workers keeping the place shipshape.

Crispie was the first to speak again. His hesitant tone revealed his discomfort at the question that had to be asked. “D’ya tink…well, I mean…do you think we’ll still hunt tomorrow? What with Mister McKendrick maybe dyin’ an’ all?”

“A good question. But too soon to say. Best to assume for now that we’ll hunt as planned, see how things develop.”

Thumper looked up at the portrait of his great-grandfather, the imposing visage of Thaddeus Augustus Billington the First. The painting hung above the stone hearth, the focal point of the room. “What do you think Fergus would have wanted?”

“Me?” Crispie asked, not sure if Thumper was addressing him or the portrait.

“Yes, you.”

“Well, sir, I tink Mister McKendrick woulda wanted us ta go huntin’.”

“I tink you’re right.”

Crispie followed Thumper into the kitchen where Natasha Nutchenko was preparing lunch. Her gray hair was secured in a tight bun and her summer house dress clung to her pale, ample flesh. She sang a snappy Polish children’s tune as she worked. She once tried to explain the lyrics to Thumper, something about a man from Krakow, seven horses, a rusty sword, a red woolen cap, and I’ll kick your ass if you mess with me. He could only assume his years spent studying the Classics left him bereft of the ability to understand Polish folk culture.

“I’m sorry,” Thumper said, “but I’m going to have to skip lunch today. An emergency’s come up.”

“No, but you cannot skip lunch. I am vorking all morning on special chicken salad, your favorite.”

“Your chicken salad is every bit as delicious even days later.”

She was not appeased. “Lettuce is vilting, valnuts is soft, celery not crisp.” She planted her palms on the counter and hung her head. “Fine. Run off to emergency. Vhat is problem?” She looked over at Crispie. “Hound is needing toenail trimmed?”

“It seems Fergus McKendrick’s had a heart attack,” Thumper told her. “I’m on my way to pick up Mrs. McKendrick, take her to the hospital.”

The annoyance drained from her broad face, replaced by shocked dismay. She bowed her head again, crossed herself, and muttered something in Polish. “I am sorry. Yes, yes, of course chicken salad can vait.”

The two men left through the mud room. Crispie drove the staff truck back to the kennels while Thumper piloted his car down the long main drive of Montfair, wondering if the woman he was on his way to pick up was now a widow.