Give a Dog a Name (Three Oaks Book 4)

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘When he reached the fence, he could see the dog at the edge of one of Crail’s best coverts, running riot among the pheasants. He says that he followed her up as quickly as he could in order to get her back under control and, like an idiot, in his haste he forgot to leave his gun on his own side of the boundary. Just as he caught up with her, she pegged a hen pheasant which had been sitting tight. He took it away from her and the head keeper chose that moment to appear. He – the keeper – hit the roof.’

  ‘That I can believe,’ I said. Lord Crail’s head keeper was a retired warrant officer from the Scots Guards and he regarded each pheasant as his personal baby and a poacher as something lower than a soldier with a dirty rifle.

  ‘Right,’ Gordon said. ‘There had already been bad blood, because those pheasants had wandered from Crail’s land in the first place. It was quite legal, if opportunist, for Randall to shoot them while they were over the boundary, but it didn’t make for good relations. The upshot was that they made a case of it. Crail pushed it for all it was worth. Randall had been shooting alone, so his usual companion wasn’t along to back up his version of the story. End of shotgun certificate.’

  Lord Crail, a regular client of ours, was the mildest of men but he lived in terror of his head keeper. Crail might have pressed the prosecution but I was ready to bet that the ex-RSM had been pushing Lord Crail. Randall had my qualified sympathy. A spaniel that suddenly runs amok presents the handler with a thousand problems and Crail, whose own dogs were often guilty, knew it as well as I did.

  I tiptoed around the question that was at the forefront of my mind. ‘Could happen to anybody,’ I said. ‘Anybody who didn’t have the sense to leave his gun on the right side of the fence. It wouldn’t make the dog popular.’

  ‘It didn’t,’ said Gordon. ‘That springer had been the apple of his eye. You’d know more about it than I do but, from what the doggy people were saying, I gather that he’d brought her on too quickly in training and had turned a blind eye to certain danger signals. Then he blamed her for the loss of his sport when his own incompetence was to blame. He took a real spite against that poor little bitch. Whenever he got uptight about not being able to go shooting any more, he’d give her another beating. He seemed to think that he could knock the devilment out of her.’

  ‘Instead of which,’ I said, ‘he should have gone right back to basic training from the beginning. That way, he could have had her rock-steady by the time he got his certificate back.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Gordon sighed and a shadow passed over his cheerful face. ‘I suppose he was just blowing off steam. The Randalls live near the far end of the village but on a calm night we could sometimes hear her . . . But I won’t go on about it. The memory makes me feel sick and I haven’t been able to stay in the man’s company since it began. Somebody made a complaint to the SSPCA but as far as I know they didn’t do much about it.’

  ‘You seem to be speaking in the past tense,’ I said. ‘It’s stopped, has it?’

  Gordon, who had been leaning back in his chair and talking to the ceiling sat up suddenly and focused on me. ‘If it’s the springer you’re after, she comes of first-class stock but I think you’re too late. I haven’t seen her around for a few days.’

  ‘You think he’s got rid of her?’

  ‘Or had her put down. I’m an early riser and I’m usually settled here before the first shift of dog-walkers – the husbands – goes out. Then, about nine-thirty, when the kids are at school, the breakfast dishes are done and the washing machine’s doing its own thing, the second wave begins. That’s the wives. Mrs Randall used to come past here with the dog every morning, regular as clockwork. I still see her around but I haven’t seen the dog for a while. If you’re thinking of selling Randall a replacement, you’ll have to wait until he gets his shotgun certificate back, if he ever does.’

  ‘He should be training another one now,’ I said. ‘But I wouldn’t sell a spaniel to a man I couldn’t trust to treat it well. So. How does Randall occupy his leisure now? Has he taken up stamp collecting? Or photography?’

  Again, Gordon looked at me curiously. ‘Each time I think I can see a pattern in your questions, you ask something that makes my mind boggle – whatever “boggle” means.’ He stretched out for a fat dictionary and leafed through it. ‘Did you know that “boggle” comes from the Scots word “bogle”? Meaning ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night? Never mind. No, as far as I know he doesn’t have any hobbies. He wouldn’t have the patience and he can get all the photography he needs done for him without bothering himself. His pal’s the photographer. Tony Jarrow, the shooting companion.’

  ‘A professional?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s only an amateur camera buff but he’s well equipped and he has his own darkroom. Wins prizes in local competitions sometimes.

  ‘I think Jarrow was relieved rather than otherwise when Randall lost his certificate. He got their shooting to himself and, anyway, their dogs never got on. Jarrow has a boisterous young Labrador which bounced all over poor Duchess – the spaniel. So I don’t suppose you’ll get to sell many dogs around here.’

  ‘I’m not on a selling trip today,’ I said. ‘But I’d be interested to know if anybody around here suddenly acquired a new springer bitch.’

  Gordon gave me a puzzled look and then shook his head in irritation. ‘I’ll keep an eye on the dog-walkers and let you know if I spot any new acquisitions. You know, I’d made up my mind that you were being blackmailed but now I’m not so sure. When do I get to know what the hell this is all about?’

  His question, which was a natural one, brought me up with a jolt. The neat confluence of information had lulled me into a feeling that our troubles were almost over. I realised suddenly that we had taken only a small step forward and that a solution was still beyond the horizon. Gordon might all too soon see his question answered in the popular press. And, I thought grimly, if any paper referred to me in a headline as ‘Dog Man’, I would definitely sue.

  ‘I’ll come back as soon as I can and spill the beans,’ I said. ‘You already have my promise. Meantime—’

  ‘More questions?’

  ‘Only one, but in several parts. Then I’ll let you get back to your writing.’

  He laughed and waved a dismissive hand. ‘Don’t worry about that. An hour of interesting chat is worth a week of slogging away at the magic machine. I can only do so much original work in a day, a week or a year. After that, even worse rubbish comes out. Between times, I need to listen and talk, get the feel of human contact. Around here, I only get the bland public face of comparative strangers. Ask away.’

  I took a little time to order my thoughts and decide exactly what I did want to know. ‘I need to establish a link between either of those men – or their aunts and cousins – and one or more of a different lot living over in my direction. It’s a long shot, but you may have seen them together or heard a name mentioned. Start with Aubrey Stoneham. Does the name mean anything?’

  ‘Very little. If it’s the same man, I’ve seen it in the paper when he’s opening a fête or pontificating about dogs. I don’t know that I’ve ever set eyes on him.’

  ‘He’s tall,’ I said, ‘and, unless you’re titled or in Parliament or the owner of a million acres, the way he looks at you makes you keep glancing down to see whether your flies are open. His face seems to be in Technicolor. Maybe that’s because I only see him after a day in the cold air, but I don’t think it’s that. Broken veins, brown shadows and although he’s lost most of his hair his stubble comes in blue and doesn’t take much time to do it. A long nose that seems to have been finished in a pencil sharpener. His mouth goes up on the left as though he were smiling. That ought to give him an enigmatic look like the Mona Lisa but it only makes him look crafty. I’ve never seen him in anything but the sort of clothes that go with a Range Rover, which is what he usually drives.’

  ‘If you hadn’t said that about his mouth,’ Gordon said, �
�I’d have told you that I could think of three or four of him. But they all live here in the Neuk of Fife. You paint a good word-picture. If I’d ever seen him, I’d have recognised it.’

  ‘Skip Aubrey Stoneham, then,’ I said. I thought about Arthur Lansdyke’s other neighbours. ‘Try Tony Ellingworth. Also tall. His nose is thin but it’s as colourful as Stoneham’s. For all I know, the rest of his face would match it, but most of it’s hidden behind a beard which is usually long and untidy. When it’s trimmed – by his wife using a hedge-trimmer, I think – he can pass for respectable from the neck up. From there down, he’s scruffy on principle. When the beard’s short, it reveals an Adam’s apple that bobs when he talks. He looks as though he buys next year’s clothes now and buries them in the garden for the winter. Not much chin inside the beard, which is greying. Hair the same.’

  ‘Don’t go on,’ Gordon said. ‘I know the type. And I’m afraid it’s another no.’

  ‘Dan Sievewright, then?’ I said. ‘Not so tall, more the sturdy type. One of those craggy, heavily modelled faces. He comes close to being every girl’s dream of macho but just misses the mark – his mouth seems not to have had enough room to grow between his nose and his chin, as though his teeth had worn down. Imagine something between Omar Sharif and Mr Punch. Brown curly hair. If looks alone counted, the film industry would cast him as a financier or politician who’s not on the side of the angels, but he’s a farmer and you’d know it – dungarees when working and a stiff suit when he goes to market. Gravelly voice. And a hell of a chip on his shoulder although he doesn’t always let you see it.’

  Gordon shook his head. ‘We’re not doing very well,’ he said.

  ‘E for effort,’ I said. ‘Dan’s brother’s similar, just as macho but with a longer face and straighter hair. Good looking and he knows it. He’s the quiet, stay-at-home one but he’s a devil with women. Never goes anywhere without his collie bitch. He’s moved through to the west coast now.’

  ‘Then need we bother with him? Not that I’ve ever seen him.’

  ‘He could still have furnished the connection I’m looking for,’ I said, ‘but if you haven’t seen him that’s that.’ I was about to give up when another name came into my head. ‘How about Dougal Henshaw? I’ve only seen him once and then he was dressed for wild-fowling, so I don’t know whether he’s as bulky as he looked or if most of it was all the sweaters under his oilskins. But he wouldn’t be easy to mistake. Dark hair, ginger eyebrows, a boxer’s nose and an upper tooth missing in front. And protruding ears.’

  Gordon shook his head again and my spirits fell. Unless one of my suspects had a connection with Randall or Jarrow quite unknown to Gordon, we would have to extend our list. Or, of course, coincidence might have thrown up the wrong two names. Perhaps we were still groping in the dark for an enemy who could see.

  ‘I’m not being much help,’ Gordon said. ‘In fact, I’m fairly sure that there’s only one person, another farmer, whom I’ve met in Bill Randall’s company and who’s from your end of the Kingdom.’ Gordon was referring to the Kingdom of Fife – an historical legacy not recognised anywhere else in the UK. Gartnaidh and the seven sons of Cruithne may be dead and long forgotten but, to the true Fifer, Fife was never a County and will never be a Region but will remain a Kingdom. Gordon might still feel like an outcast but he was already adopting local habits.

  ‘Who would that be?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll have to think. Randall often brings farmers back for a drink at the pub, or a meal if the deal’s been big enough – they feed you well without bleeding you dry. I bumped into him once in the bar when he was with one of them and exchanged a drink or two. A stringy man in his fifties with a malicious twist to his mouth. He said that he farmed not far from Cupar.’ Gordon closed his eyes. ‘Upper something . . .’

  I hid my excitement but Gordon must have sensed something. He opened his eyes. ‘Have I rung the bell?’

  ‘The answer to that,’ I said, ‘is a qualified maybe. The description fits my neighbour.’

  ‘Whose name,’ Gordon said, ‘is Andrew . . . Andrew Williamson. It’s come back to me. Am I right?’

  ‘Too right for comfort,’ I said.

  Some of my appetite had returned and when Gordon asked me to stay for lunch I accepted. He fried steaks and I ate most of mine while we asked, belatedly, after each other’s wives and spoke about army days and girls we had known. For a short while we recaptured a little of the camaraderie of service life.

  Chapter Eight

  The sun was behind the hill before I got back to Three Oaks and the afternoon was almost gone.

  Henry had again come over to help out and had spent most of the morning changing the combination setting on all the padlocks. The business seemed to have managed very well without me. Two pups had been sold, Ember’s service as a stud-dog had been booked for the following week and an owner, on the point of being sent abroad on a short contract, had left a young pointer for advanced training.

  I helped to distribute the evening feed, meanwhile repeating the new combination over and over to myself. When the dogs were fed and settled we retired to the house, switched on the microphones and put a match to the logs in the sitting-room fireplace. Work might resume later, but a rehash of the day’s events and a discussion of future plans, all over a sociable drink, was our usual milestone for the end of the day’s routine.

  That evening, we had more to discuss than sheep ticks, competitions and breeding policy. When we were settled with two gin and tonics, one whisky and a can of the stout that Beth always hopes will put some flesh on my bones, I told them in detail of my visit to Gordon Hemmeling.

  When I had finished, there was a pause.

  ‘Wow!’ Beth said at last. She left the room, leaving the door open.

  ‘I can’t quarrel with that comment,’ Isobel said. ‘We’ve been lucky. Or I think we have. You’re absolutely sure that nothing happened that could make waves?’

  ‘As sure as I can reasonably be,’ I said.

  Henry polished off half his whisky and put the glass reluctantly aside. ‘You’re making progress,’ he said. ‘Let’s take it apart and see where you’ve got to. You seem to have tracked down a brace of men who, between them, were quite capable of supplying the photographs and a spaniel that had obviously been abused.’

  ‘And the man’s spaniel hasn’t been seen around since before Walnut turned up here,’ Isobel said.

  ‘Quite so. I think we can assume that we’re on the right track. And John has also established a connection, however tenuous, with Andrew Williamson, the farmer whose land abuts on yours—’

  ‘And who shot a springer spaniel once before for chasing sheep,’ Isobel said. ‘Not one of ours, only one of those show-bench creatures belonging to that awful woman,’ she added, as though that made the deed forgivable. ‘What’s more, he’s had it in for John ever since . . . What was it you said to him?’

  I thought back. ‘He said that he shot any dog that chased his sheep. And I said that I shot any man who lifted a gun to one of my dogs.’

  ‘Well then!’

  Beth had returned and was leafing through the fat working diary in which almost every happening at Three Oaks is recorded, for transferring to accounts or to card index later. ‘We’ve got more than you think,’ she said. ‘I keep a note of the names of people who come to the Masterclass, mostly in case they leave something behind or go off with some of our equipment. Here it is. A man named Jarrow twice brought a young Labrador, May and June. I remember him, because there weren’t many there in June, even considering that it was the slack time of year, and I knew all the others. He took a whole lot of photographs of his own dog but he also photographed John’s training methods. I thought of asking him for copies.’

  ‘If we don’t get to the bottom of this soon,’ I said, ‘you may be able to clip them out of the daily paper.’

  Isobel held out her glass and I got up to refill it. ‘It seems conclusive,’ she said. ‘Let’s accept
Randall and Jarrow as accomplices in the frame-up. But I can’t buy all of it. I can visualise Andrew Williamson as a spiteful back-stabber. Assume that he shot a spaniel as he did once before. He might have thought that it was one of ours. He wouldn’t believe for a moment that John would really shoot him in revenge, but he might expect some sort of retaliation. So he might get his friends to cook up something to keep us quiet. But he’s – what? – more than six miles from Kilcolm.’

  ‘More like seven,’ I said.

  ‘Not across country, the way a dog would come,’ Beth said shyly. ‘Perhaps four and a half or five.’

  Isobel was not used to being set right by Beth, who was half her age but looked a third of it. It took her a second or two to get going again. ‘Even so,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ve known a dog wander that far, if he’s been walked in that direction and knows that there’s a bitch there. In fact, he might have been making for here. Next time that Mr Lansdyke phones, whoever takes the call must ask him whether Horace was walked near here during the few days before he was shot. He might have got a whiff of Stardust’s false season.’

  ‘You’re making a good case against Williamson,’ I said. ‘What is it that you can’t believe?’

  ‘This,’ Isobel said firmly. ‘Could you see Horace making his way five miles home again after being shot as severely as he was?’

  I had to admit that it seemed unlikely. ‘But you never know,’ I said. ‘If he was desperate enough and before his wounds stiffened up . . .’

  ‘Andrew Williamson might have read the address on Horace’s collar,’ Beth said. ‘He could have taken him as far as the gate of Kilcolm by car and pushed him out.’

  ‘Horace wasn’t wearing a collar when he was brought here,’ Isobel said. ‘All right, so Mr Lansdyke might have taken it off to make him more comfortable. In that case, what would have triggered the particular piece of spite against us?’