The Crowded Grave

shoulder of beef.
    “Courtesy of Ivan’s ovens,” Pamela said as she put the dish down on the table. “Mine wasn’t nearly big enough.”
    With a theatrical flourish, Ivan waved a huge Sabatier knife and began to carve.
    “The roast beef of old England,” said Ivan. “With Pamela’s own
raifort
which the bizarre English called the radish of horses, so it is very suitable for tonight.”
    Dishes of roast potatoes and
petit pois
appeared on the table as Ivan piled slice after slice of perfectly done beef, still pink in the center, onto big serving plates that were passed down. Ivan’s server went back to the kitchen and returned with a trayfilled with gravy bowls. Hubert rose to start pouring out the Haut-Brion and Pamela returned to Bruno’s side. She looked cool and serene, not a hair out of place, as if the vast joints of beef and the gravy had all appeared by magic and without the slightest effort on her part.
    “This is magnificent, what you’ve done for me,” Bruno said, taking her hand.
    “It’s not every day you have a big birthday,” she said, squeezing his hand in return.
    “This is the first time I’ve really had a birthday at all,” he said. “I never knew what I was missing.”
    “Well, brace yourself, because next year won’t be quite so special. And besides, it’s not over yet.”
    “How can there be more to come after such a gift, such a feast?”
    “Well, I presume you’ll want to ride your new horse in the morning. That means you get to spend the night here,” she said, releasing his hand to run her fingertips up his thigh. “And now behave, because your friends want to drink another toast with the Haut-Brion and I can’t wait to taste it.”

17
    Bruno and Pamela strolled arm in arm through the early morning light to the stables as she told him of his horse. Seven years old, it was of a breed known as a Selle Français, the best-known sporting horse in the country and a national legend since it had won a gold medal for France at the Seoul Olympics. The Selle Français was mainly of Anglo-Norman breed, which Pamela explained had combined English Thoroughbreds descended from Arab stallions with the medieval warhorses of Normandy. The result was a classic show jumper and hunter, easily trained, sturdy and of calm disposition. Hector was a gelding and had been a good jumper but a little slow for steeplechasing and so had spent the last three years in a riding school that was cutting back because of the recession. One of Pamela’s friends had heard that Hector was for sale at a bargain price, and she and the mayor and the baron had decided this would make the perfect gift for Bruno.
    “I’ve ridden him and he’s intelligent, safe and very strong,” she said. “He won’t get you into trouble and he’ll probably manage to rescue you from anything stupid.”
    “He sounds like you,” Bruno said, and kissed the side of her neck. Despite last night and this morning, he still felt amorous.
    “Not in the stables,” she replied, hugging him quickly before pushing him away. “Now, Bruno, this is serious. This is your first ride on Hector and it will define your relationship. Remember what I told you.”
    Repeatedly and softly murmuring his horse’s name, Bruno let himself into Hector’s stall, a carrot in his hand, and waited for the horse to approach him. Hector ambled across, took the carrot and stood still for Bruno to caress his head and neck, to run his hands over the back and chest and legs and get the horse accustomed to his touch. Hector meanwhile was turning his head to watch and sniff at Bruno, probably smelling the extra carrots he carried in his pocket.
    Bruno carried out the full inspection as he had been taught, eyes, mouth and ears, hooves and fetlocks. He gently put on the bridle and led the horse out to the yard and walked him around while Pamela saddled Bess, and Fabiola emerged yawning from her
gîte
to attend to Victoria. Once the other two horses were saddled and mounted, Bruno brought Hector back into the stable, saddled him and walked him out to stand between the others. He kept patting Hector’s neck and murmuring into his ear and waited until the horse settled before mounting him.
    “We’ll just walk around the paddock at first,” said Pamela, leading the way.
    Hector was a couple of hands taller than Victoria, Bruno’s usual ride, so he felt much higher in the saddle. The spring of the ribs was about the same, so his thighs and knees were