‘Quite clear,’ Keith said hastily. The inspector’s manner might be patronising, but he wanted the rest of the story.
The inspector glared at Enterkin, but went on. ‘The only explanation to fit the facts was that Mr Grass had been climbing the fence with his gun in one hand and slipped or started to lose his balance. The gun went out of his hands and landed on the path. It may have bounced or slid some way before it went off – if there were any marks, the overnight snow obscured them. Mr Grass, seeing the danger, threw up his hands to guard his face, with the result that his hands as well as his head were badly damaged.’
‘Making identification very difficult?’
‘That’s a fact. There was no doubt about the clothing, of course, but, in view of the value of the estate and the importance of the man, the courts, the lawyers,’ with a glare which Enterkin absorbed with signs of amusement, ‘and the insurance companies were insistent on identification of the body itself. In the end, they accepted a combination of medical and dental evidence, together with the print of a naked foot from the polished floor of his wardrobe.’
‘Rather an unlikely sort of mishap, wouldn’t you say?’
The inspector, who had started to relax, tautened up again. He transferred his visible hatred from Enterkin to Keith. ‘Nothing unlikely about it,’ he said. ‘People are careless with guns every day of the week.’
Keith decided to ignore the sweeping condemnation. ‘Mr Grass was careful, not to say fussy, with guns,’ he said.
‘They can all slip from time to time – especially a man who carries a flask.’ The inspector took a large silver flask out of the carton.
Enterkin took it out of his hand and examined it. ‘Whatever kind of reputation he had, it wasn’t as much of a drinker. You had this tested?’
‘As a matter of routine, yes. It contains neat whisky.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘Nothing that we could detect.’
Enterkin unscrewed two silver cups from the cap of the flask. ‘As executor, I think I’m entitled to take a sample. Purely to test the quality, of course. Would you care to join me, Inspector? I’d appreciate a second opinion.’
The offer was well meant but badly received. The inspector shook his head angrily. The solicitor, who had meant the offer as an olive branch, hardened his heart. ‘You, Keith?’ he asked.
Keith looked up from the magnifier. ‘In my capacity as human guinea-pig, just in case the analysts didn’t look for the right poison, why not?’
Enterkin poured the second cup for Keith and sat back. As he sipped the excellent malt, the solicitor’s mind strayed again. He enjoyed a brief mental picture of the inspector attending the memorial service on a hand-cart as half of a tableau re-creating Rodin’s famous statue “The Kiss”. He would be partnered with one of the older of the female legatees, and the pair would be attired in long woollen combinations.
Keith tossed his whisky off and put the silver cup down on the inspector’s desk. Enterkin refilled it.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector,’ Keith said, ‘but that explanation of Mr Grass’s death just won’t wash.’
Inspector Glynder got to his feet and glared over their heads. ‘I am also sorry,’ he said. ‘But I have had enough of the pair of you, sitting in my office drinking and trying to stir up trouble. You had better go now, before I lose patience altogether. And take your precious rubbish with you.’
Keith was honestly surprised. He had been aware of a slight friction between the two branches of the law, but, insulated as he was by lunchtime wine topped up with whisky, he had thought that he and the inspector were having no more than a friendly chat. ‘I think you should listen,’ he said gently. ‘If you don’t, you’ll end up with egg all over your face, because I’ll take the matter a whole lot further. I’m not saying that there wasn’t an accident, but, if there was, then somebody tampered with the evidence to make it look like foul play.’
Inspector Glynder sat down suddenly. ‘Why would anybody do that?’
Keith shrugged. ‘To cover up his own negligence, perhaps,’ he suggested.
Enterkin opened his mouth, and then closed it again.
‘Evidence?’ the inspector asked at last.
‘I take it that you didn’t get any expert ballistical advice?’
‘Why the hell should we?’ the inspector asked angrily. ‘It was a plain enquiry into an self-evident fatal accident, not a criminal investigation. And you can’t match shot to a gun as you can a bullet.’
‘All the same, you can match shot to a cartridge, and a cartridge to a gun. And this cartridge,’ Keith held up the spent cartridge, ‘did not fire the contents of that envelope.’
The inspector sat quietly, very much on his guard, but Enterkin gave a grunt. Keith paused for a moment, marshalling his thoughts. He found that he had emptied the silver cup. He recaptured the flask from Enterkin and refilled it. This really was excellent whisky.
Keith held up the two cartridges. ‘These are both Eley Grand Prix. They’re both stamped as containing Number Six shot, which would be normal for small-game shooting.’ He handed the two cartridges to the inspector, took a sip and went on. ‘You may like to compare them. One has been fired, of course, so it’s open at one end. But if you look at the brass end you’ll see that apart from the small dent made by the firing-pin they’re virtually identical. This means that the cartridge has never been reloaded. When you reload a cartridge you have to force a re-sizing die onto it, because it was expanded by pressure when it was fired. It leaves a slightly different contour just above the rim.’
‘Nobody ever suggested that it had been reloaded,’ said Glynder.
‘No. But without even opening your little envelope I could see that, along with the shot, the pathologist recovered a plastic wad. Wads quite often do penetrate the target of a close-range shot. Plastic wads like that are used in some cartridges, mostly for clay pigeon shooting, and they’re widely sold to those who reload their own. But they are not used in the Grand Prix.’
‘They might both have been reloaded,’ the inspector said.
Keith shook his head. ‘No. It’s one of the things you learn to recognise. I load my own, and I know that if it’s a reload it’s Number Six, and if it’s straight from a manufacturer then it’s whatever size is printed on it. Those were both straight out of the box. Here’s one of the general’s reloads, if you want to compare it.’ Keith took a cartridge from his pocket and handed it over.
While Inspector Glynder pored over the three cartridges, Keith picked up the silver cup. It seemed to be empty again, but then, it was ridiculously small. He held it out to Enterkin who had taken fresh possession of the flask.
After a minute, the inspector sighed. ‘You’re saying that the wad removed from Mr Grass’s head could not have come from the empty cartridge in his gun. Is that a fair summary?’
‘It is.’
‘The cartridge which killed him was a reloaded one? You said that these wads are used in other cartridges.’
‘It was a reload,’ Keith said. ‘Definitely.’ He poured some of the tiny pellets into his palm. The inspector looked unhappy but made no protest. ‘This shot is home-made. It varies slightly in size. And there seems to be a tiny dimple in each one, which is typical.’
‘Thank you for your –’
‘An analyst could give you a good indication as to whether the original lead had come from old battery-plates, lead pipe, roofing lead, printer’s metal, spent bullets or what-the-hell, and that might give you a further lead.’
‘It might, might it?’
Enterkin saw the danger signals and was content with an internal smile that never showed on his round and innocent face. Keith was away in a world of his own. ‘As far as I know,’ he said, ‘there’s only one man pouring shot around here, and that’s Joe Merson the poacher. I’ll ask around for you and see if I can find out if anyone else pours shot. Merson’s away just now, but you could look in his place and get samples. Of course, his mixtur
e may change from time to time, depending on where his lead supplies come from. The trouble is that cartridges get passed from hand to hand. Somebody running short borrows a few. Even if he doesn’t use them, he may repay the loan with a random selection out of his bag. What we’ve got to do –’
A man can only stand just so much of seeing his job done for him, and even less of being shown that he has slipped up badly. The inspector broke in so loudly that Keith was blasted into silence. ‘Are you absolutely sure of all this? The wad, and so on?’
‘Absolutely. Look, I’ve got an unused Grand Prix here. I’ll just cut it open and show you –’
‘No . . . you . . . will . . . not!’ If the inspector was ungracious, he might well be forgiven. He was not looking forward to reporting these developments. ‘There has been more than enough meddling with the evidence. Our experts can take it from here. You will kindly leave everything behind you and go.’
Keith was almost dumbstruck at the ingratitude, as he saw it. ‘Is that all the thanks I get?’ he demanded.
Enterkin looked from one to the other and laughed until his jowls shook, his belly wobbled and tears hopped down his cheeks. ‘Come away, Keith,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t think you’re getting any thanks at all.’
Chapter Ten
As the big car wafted them back towards Whinkirk and Keith imagined himself boiling Inspector Glynder in oil, Enterkin gradually brought his chuckles under control. ‘An excellent week’s work,’ he said at last.
‘We’ve only been here a day and a bit,’ Keith pointed out, ‘and I’ve hardly even glimpsed the guns.’
‘A good week’s work all the same.’ Enterkin dried his eyes and became serious. ‘If you don’t do another hand’s turn until Monday, you’ve earned your fee for the week.’
‘Why are you so pleased? Surely the fact that your client didn’t die in a simple accident will only make a lot of stramash and complicate your life for you.’
Enterkin shook his head. ‘It’ll simplify it no end. No doubt your revelations will be a disaster for somebody. Offhand I can think of several, including the perpetrator of whatever crime was committed, several insurance brokers – and Inspector Glynder, who will have one hell of a lot of explaining to do.’
‘Insurance brokers?’
‘Yes.’ Enterkin’s chubby face lit up in smiles again. ‘I refrained from telling you what we wanted because your evidence, if the matter should come to court, will carry more weight if you can honestly state that you came to your conclusions with minimal prompting. However, I can now tell you that your discoveries may well save the executory from total disaster.’
‘The trust’s all right isn’t it?’ Keith asked anxiously.
‘I hope so. But as residuary legatee it gets what’s left over after the beneficiaries and the taxman have had their whack. To cover the tax liability, Mr Grass took out several enormous insurance policies. But he took them out shortly after General Springburn – er – peppered him, I think, is the expression. The insurers called for medical reports, took note of the incident and insisted on a qualification that excluded accidents while shooting.’
‘But if he was murdered, they still pay up?’
‘Certainly.’
‘But suppose he was murdered by one of the beneficiaries.’
‘Same answer, except that that particular beneficiary would be debarred from inheriting. You had me worried when you pointed to the possibility that somebody had tampered with the evidence in order to cover up their own negligence. Unlikely, though.’
‘I was only trying to offer Glynder a face-saver. How do you like that petty-minded dreip, though? If I hadn’t pushed him, he’d have hushed the whole thing up.’
‘I’ll tell you something,’ Enterkin said. ‘While you and he were having your little altercation, I was wrestling with temptation. I was sorely tempted to manufacture a fictitious legacy for the inspector. He struck me as a man that’d do anything for a thousand or two. Such as coming to the service as Lady Godiva, in a long wig, flesh-coloured body-stocking and suitable padding, mounted on one of Mr Grass’s horses.’
‘For the pleasure of seeing that,’ Keith said, ‘I’d chip in half the legacy.’
‘Would you really?’
Keith realised in time that he was talking about a large sum of money. ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you what, though. I’ll make you my offer when I’ve seen all the guns, and if you care to accept a lower figure I’ll kick the balance back to you as a secret fund for the inspector’s legacy. How does that sound?’
‘Musical. My boy, you have a twisted mind. What a lawyer you’d have made! But no,’ Mr Enterkin said wistfully. ‘It was just the whisky doing my thinking for me. Sober, I wouldn’t think of such a thing.’
‘Pity, though.’
‘It is indeed,’ Mr Enterkin said with a sigh.
*
Keith would have preferred a return to Whinkirk House, but Mr Enterkin was adamant that they be driven to the inn. He had some telephoning to do, he said, and there was more confidentiality to be obtained by borrowing Harvey Brown’s tiny office than at Whinkirk House where all the many telephones shared a common line.
‘All right, then,’ Keith said as they entered the village. ‘I’ll take the car on and walk back.’
Mr Enterkin shook his head.
‘But I haven’t had more than a glance at the guns yet.’
‘And if you get in among them today, you’ll take root. I’ll probably want to consult you after I’ve done my telephoning, or even during it, and I don’t want to hang about.’
‘You’re just afraid that I’ll keep you waiting for your dinner.’
‘You couldn’t,’ Mr Enterkin said. ‘I’m dining out.’
‘Who with?’
‘Never you mind. Surely a lawyer has a right to some confidentiality.’
‘Or secretiveness,’ Keith said. A tiny thought almost germinated, but their arrival at the inn blew the seed away.
Harvey Brown was opening the bars as they came in. Mr Enterkin begged the use of the office and disappeared. Brutus planted himself in front of the empty fireplace. Keith took a stool.
‘The usual?’ Harvey asked.
Keith made a face. His stomach was sending messages on the subject of irregular drinking habits. ‘A pint of shandy,’ he said, ‘and just a dash of feminine company. No luscious barmaid this evening?’
‘She begged the evening off.’ (Once again the penny almost dropped.) ‘Am I not good-looking enough for you?’ Harvey Brown’s face had been ugly even before rival boxers had broken his nose and raised lumps which nature had omitted, but he had a charming smile.
‘Not by a mile,’ Keith said. ‘Have one with me.’ They chatted in ribald style, as men will, until Mr Enterkin came back.
The solicitor was looking harrassed. He led Keith away from the bar to a corner table. ‘Pussy was already among the pigeons,’ he said, ‘but now there’s a change of roles. The various solicitors acting for the estate, in league with the tax authorities, are now the cat, and the underwriters are the pigeon and overdue for plucking. I’ll have to get down to London early tomorrow for a meeting that may run on through another day or two. Do you want to stay here or go home?’
‘Could I take a few of the guns home with me to appraise and overhaul?’
‘I don’t see why not. I’ll give Miss Wyper a ring and tell her to look out a selection, together with their papers. Would you do me the favour of looking after this smelly tyke for me? You can come to Renfrew and see me off on the shuttle in the morning, and then take the car on to Newton Launder.’
‘Yes, of course I’ll take Brutus,’ Keith said. ‘But send the car back for me. I could use the morning here.’
‘Suit yourself, my boy, suit yourself. We’ll confer at the weekend with a view to returning here next Monday. Well, I must away. You’ll oblige me by spending the evening writing out a precognition – you know the style.’ And Mr Enterkin bounced to his feet
and left the room, whistling.
‘I can’t think what he’s so chirpy about,’ Keith said.
‘Humph!’ said Harvey Brown.
Keith went to phone Molly.
*
When Mr Enterkin presented himself at Penny Laing’s door that evening and was invited inside there was a shyness between them, not at their lovemaking of the night before, because the age was liberated although their generation had come late to it, but because of its almost explosive haste. Each had grown up in the belief that, while such affairs might occur, they were preceded by a lengthy, ritual courtship. Now that the first novelty had rubbed off their attraction for each other, each was afraid of having lost the other’s respect.
They remained standing for a moment in the shadowed interior, which smelled fresh and yet old-fashioned. Polish and lavender, Mr Enterkin decided.
‘That was a load of old rubbish you told me last night,’ she said suddenly. She chuckled. ‘Properly had me going, you did!’
It came back to Mr Enterkin that her first attraction for him had been her voice and its gentle country accent. He laughed, and the tension between them was gone. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘My tongue ran away with me. I said all that a fat old man could say without making himself ridiculous. If I had told you what I felt already, it would have sounded like the same old line that men give to women whether they mean it or not. But now I can tell you the truth. The reason why the sun has been shining all day was because I was going to see you again.’
‘I’ve been looking forward too,’ she said. They moved closer together. ‘You’re not so old. And if I don’t go on a diet soon, I’ll make two of you.’
Mr Enterkin chose to ignore the fact that she was taller than he by several inches. ‘Don’t diet on my account,’ he said fondly. ‘Nothing so delectable should be dispensed in niggardly portions.’ His words reminded him of another need. ‘If only you could cook . . .’
‘Ah, I’ve no fears on that score. And I can take a hint.’ She gave him a gentle push. ‘No need to hurry me, I’ve the whole evening off.’
The food, if not as sumptuous as Mrs Roach’s, was delicious, and the portions were far from niggardly. Between mouthfuls, he said, ‘You must hear all the gossip in the bar?’
Fair Game Page 8
