Beth turned away from the wire. ‘She doesn’t want to know about rabbits,’ she said to me. ‘It’s as if she’s afraid of them. She’s more nervous than they are. How odd!’
‘You’d better come out,’ I said to Isobel.
I tossed my harvest of cauliflower leaves inside for the benefit of the rabbits and we adjourned to the lawn. A few minutes’ work with dummies confirmed our first suspicion. The spaniel bitch worked perfectly on canvas dummies but refused to touch any that were covered with rabbit-skin.
‘She’s been corrected for chasing,’ I said, ‘and somebody’s used too heavy a hand.’
Isobel had been very quiet but suddenly she snapped her fingers. ‘Got it!’ she said. ‘I knew I’d seen the beggar before. Let’s go inside.’
Beth went to put Anon back in the isolation kennel. When she caught up with us, Isobel was leafing through back numbers of sporting magazines on the kitchen table and I was making a pot of tea.
Isobel muttered as she flicked over the pages – whether to us or to herself I could not be sure. ‘More than a year ago . . . it was a trial at Elmhill, which makes it November or December . . . somebody from Ayrshire way . . . performed beautifully . . . then she was put out for failing on a rabbit and let me through into second place with Starlight . . . otherwise she’d have . . .’ Isobel stopped and slapped the page. ‘Here it is. She even appears in a group photograph. Salmon of Glevedale. Rotten name, but no wonder she more or less answered to Anon. Salmon . . . Anon . . . they could sound alike to a dog’s ears.’
Isobel passed the magazine around us and we agreed that the markings were similar although not unique. ‘There’s a strong resemblance,’ I said.
‘Resemblance be damned,’ Isobel said. ‘It’s the same bitch.’
Beth was at the sink, plucking tonight’s dinner. ‘You can’t be sure,’ she said.
Isobel disdained to reply. She could forget a face, an appointment or a good resolution but her memory for dogs was always phenomenal.
‘Entered and handled by J. Franks,’ she read out.
‘If that’s Johnny Franks,’ I said, ‘he’s not Ayrshire. Dumfriesshire.’
‘That’s Ayrshire way,’ Isobel retorted, ‘which is what I said. Give him a ring. He’ll know who he sold her to. Unless . . .’
I could guess what she meant. ‘The body wasn’t his,’ I said. ‘Johnny’s about seven feet tall. The man we found was quite small. I’ll phone Johnny after six.’
Isobel blew a raspberry. ‘Don’t be a cheapskate,’ she said. ‘Standard rate starts in a few minutes. Sergeant Ewell will be here soon, busting to know whether we’ve been able to help him. I’ll feed the pups while Beth does some lunch. Henry can take over the plucking. You phone.’
On paper I was the senior partner, but Isobel had become a mother figure in the firm. Like any good mother she was indulgent, but when she put her foot down it was better to submit.
Directory Enquiries, I learned, had been computerised. In my innocence I would have thought that that would make it easier to hunt up a particular name in a particular town, but no. Without the exact address, said the female voice, she was unable to help me. In the end I had to phone an acquaintance in the same Telecom area and ask him to look in his local phone-book.
I got Johnny Franks on the phone at last. He wanted to chat about old times at my expense, but I managed to bring him to the point. I can be extravagant about many things but something in my upbringing, during which the use of the telephone was considered to be a luxury and proof of a lack of forethought, makes me very conscious of the passing of the minutes while I am on the phone. ‘We have Salmon of Glevedale here for the moment,’ I said. ‘What can you tell me about her history?’
A cheap little telephone amplifier lives beside the phone in the kitchen. It paid for itself in the first week in the time saved in not having to repeat telephone conversations for the benefit of partners who had heard only one end. I switched it on.
‘She’s one of a litter that we named after gamefish – Trout, Marlin, Grayling and so on. I sold her originally as a half-trained pup,’ Johnny said in his deep bass voice. ‘She had a marvellous pedigree and she was coming along well. The owner lived in a house called Glevedale, not far from here, hence the registered name. He finished her training for himself. Did a good job, mostly, but he came up against the usual steadiness problem. He didn’t have access to a rabbit pen and instead of patience he used a check-lead and a stick; and you know the problems that can make.’
‘By God I do!’ I said.
‘After that, even a fur glove would give her the shakes. He brought the bitch back to me for retraining and I said that I’d see what I could do. I even tried feeding her on top of madam’s fur coat, which didn’t do much for my love-life. In the end, I thought that I was making progress. In all other respects she was bloody good. I even ran her in a trial which was being held at Elmhill, on land which I knew for a fact was free of rabbits, but I’m damned if the only bunny for ten miles around wasn’t shot under her nose. She was steady all right. Too damned steady. She didn’t want to know about it and we were put out.’ We heard him give a gusty sigh. ‘Luck of the draw, I suppose, but it was hard. She was well worth an award.
‘Her owner wanted to use her on a rough shoot which depended largely on the rabbits, so that was no good to him. I sold him a fully trained bitch and took Salmon back. I made him the best deal I could, because at least he’d been honest enough to admit that the fault was his. Even so, it was an expensive lesson for him.’
‘It would be,’ I said. I had had much the same experience more than once. ‘But what happened to Salmon in the end?’
‘An American turned up, last August, wanting a springer he could use while he was over here and then take back with him. Well, you know how it is at the start of the season. All the good dogs are sold, or if they’re not you’re in trouble. I only had my breeding stock, some pups and Salmon.
‘As it turned out, she was just what he wanted. They don’t shoot ground game in his neck of the woods and the last thing he wanted was a dog which would take off after a gopher or a squirrel. And he said that bum-punching quail over pointers was no more interesting than shooting clays down-the-line – the same going-away bird every time. I got a damned good price for her, for the second time. I’ll take her back again if he’s gone off her. Selling the same dog over and over again is my idea of good business.’
‘You could change her name to Yoyo,’ I said. ‘It’s a better name than Salmon. Who was the American?’
‘Hang on a moment.’ I fretted on the line while he consulted his diary or his receipts book. ‘His name was Falconer,’ he said at last. ‘David C. Falconer. I gathered that he was over here for the winter, setting up a UK branch of his business. I’ve no home address for him – the Kennel Club might be able to help – but he was staying at the Stoneleigh Hotel, near Kinross. That’s a small place—’
‘I know it,’ I said. ‘Thanks. If I can ever do you a favour . . .’
‘You could lend me Salmon for a few days,’ he suggested.
‘Delighted,’ I said, ‘in return for the pick of all the litters.’
We exchanged insults for a minute in the way that only friends can and then rang off.
‘If she’s that good,’ Beth said, ‘I suppose we couldn’t snatch a litter off her while she’s here?’
It was a nice idea but, as I pointed out, we didn’t have that marvellous pedigree; nor would we have clear title to the pups.
‘Aren’t you going to phone the Stoneleigh Hotel?’ Isobel asked.
I switched off the amplifier. ‘I ought to wait for the Sergeant,’ I said reluctantly. I was as curious as the others. But I knew the Stoneleigh Hotel. It was, as Johnny had said, a small place but with sporting aspirations. The proprietor’s brother was a wildfowling guide with control of the goose shooting on some of the land around Loch Leven. I had made use of his services in the past and sometimes referred my own clients
to him. But the proprietor’s wife was a very garrulous lady and our last phone-bill had been almost indistinguishable from the national debt.
‘If you don’t, I will,’ Beth said.
I sighed and looked up the number. If those two spoke together, the call would never end.
As I feared, Mrs Blagdon answered the phone. She remembered me well and was disposed to be helpful. I switched on the amplifier again and asked for Mr Falconer.
‘Gone, my dear,’ she said. ‘Home to the States. He left the Friday before last.’
That seemed to be that. ‘Did he leave a forwarding address?’ I asked.
My question released a spate of words which I was unable to stem.
‘He was going to,’ she said, ‘but he never did. That’s worried me, I don’t mind telling you. I was expecting him to stay until the Saturday or Sunday, but on the Friday morning his room had been slept in but he’d gone and all his luggage with him. Well, he hadn’t done a moonlight flit because his room was paid for until the weekend. He’d been with us since August and we’d given him a weekly rate. And the wee dog as well. As you know fine, we don’t mind dogs in the rooms here, but his spaniel turned out to be a snorer so we’d made her a comfortable bed in the stables.
‘I was surprised that he hadn’t left a note or anything, or a tip for the maid, though some people are like that. And he had promised to leave a forwarding address.’
‘Is there any mail for him?’ I asked.
‘Well, no. But I’ll tell you something odd. Twice, when I was doing his room, I found in his waste basket an empty envelope which had come from the States, and each time it had been addressed to somebody else at General Delivery, Kinross, and marked “Collect”. That’s the same as Poste Restante, isn’t it? If it had only been once I’d have thought that somebody’d given him a letter to read. But twice?’
At the risk of prolonging the call, I asked, ‘Do you remember the names on the envelopes?’
‘Yes. And that’s another funny thing. The name was Hawker. Falconer, Hawker, it makes you think, doesn’t it? And I’ll tell you something else. There’s been a policeman asking about him.’
That sounded as though the police already suspected the identity of the dead man. ‘When was this?’ I asked.
‘In the middle of last week,’ she said.
Not the same enquiry, then. ‘The local police?’ I asked.
‘From Kirkcaldy, I think,’ she said.
That told me nothing. The Fife Constabulary has its headquarters in Kirkcaldy. I was about to terminate the call with a quick but courteous enquiry after the state of her health, but the others were mouthing questions at me.
‘What sort of man was he?’ I asked reluctantly.
‘Very brisk and businesslike and rather full of himself, not overly polite like most of those Yanks. But I could do with more like him. Always kept himself to himself and he was very considerate with the staff. And his wife was a real sweetie.’
‘Wife?’ I said. ‘Was she staying with him?’ Surely a wife would have reported a missing husband. Wives notice that sort of thing.
‘She came over for a week in the early autumn. I think they’d had a quarrel and she came over to make it up. Very lovey-dovey they were for a while, but by the time she left they were bickering at each other again.’
There were many more questions which could have been asked but it seemed to me that I had already strayed into territory which the police would regard as their own. I thanked Mrs Blagdon and, with some difficulty, terminated the call.
‘That clinches it,’ Beth said. ‘Anon’s a snorer. Even from the isolation kennel she makes the windows rattle.’
‘I don’t want to say that I told you so,’ Isobel said cheerfully, ‘but I told you so.’
*
Henry’s surplus leisure during his long retirement was filled by reading mysteries or watching them on the box, announcing the solution of each long before the dénouement, confidently although not always correctly. At the same time, Isobel was reluctant to let me claim the credit for her feat of recognition. They felt bound by good manners to signal their intention of leaving for home, but when Beth said that the pheasant would stretch to four portions they accepted with more haste than grace.
As it turned out, we had finished our meal and washed up and were at ease in the sitting room before Sergeant Ewell made his appearance. The Sergeant was not the sort of officer to be dealt with on the doorstep. I took him in, gave him a seat and offered him a drink.
‘That would depend,’ he said slowly. I noticed that he was looking tired. ‘If you’ve nothing to tell me, I’ll count myself as being off duty.’
‘Perhaps you’d better stay on the wagon for a while,’ I said.
I was about to reveal all, but Isobel jumped in ahead of me. ‘What have they found out about the body?’ she asked.
The Sergeant looked at her shrewdly. He knew perfectly well what she was really saying. We wanted his news first. ‘I suppose there’s no harm,’ he said. ‘You’ll keep this in confidence?’
We said that we would.
‘Mind, then, you’ve had nothing from me.’ He leaned back in the deep chair and closed his eyes, only to reopen them suddenly. ‘God, but it’s good to sit down for a second. I was nearly away, then. We’ve been at panic-stations all day, and I was drawn into it over the dog.’
That could only mean one thing. ‘You know who he was, then,’ Henry said in tones of disappointment.
The Sergeant shook his head. Evidently there was an alternative meaning after all. ‘It was the pathologist’s report on the autopsy did it,’ he said.
‘Didn’t he drown?’ Isobel asked. I could tell that she was straining to keep the excitement out of her voice.
‘He drowned. Oh, he was drowned all right. But he’d drowned in fresh water.’
‘I always thought that he could have come down from upstream,’ Henry said.
The Sergeant shook his head again. ‘They thought that at first but now they say not. If he’d drowned in the river, they’d have found diatoms, whatever those may be, in the lungs or the heart. The pathologist said that if he’d had the body earlier he could have told where the water came from to within a mile, but now the most he can say for sure is that he suspects tap-water. Water that had been well filtered, anyway. And there were faint traces of what might have been soap or something suchlike. There was too little of it for a certain analysis.’
‘That makes it murder,’ Beth said, round-eyed. ‘Doesn’t it?’
‘Aye. That’s what they’re thinking. It’s hard to see how he could have drowned in the bath in all his shooting gear, gone down the plug-hole and come out in the Eden.’ The Sergeant stopped and wiped the half-smile off his face. ‘But that’s not a fit subject for joking. It’s all too easy to drown somebody in the bath. Think of George Joseph Smith. Just lift up the heels and the deed’s half done for you. Now, I’ve told you all I know. Did you learn something from the dog?’ He looked round our faces and must have detected suppressed triumph. ‘You haven’t?’
‘Wrong for the second time,’ Isobel said.
‘The second time? I’m o’er tired for guessing games,’ the Sergeant said.
‘You were wrong first time,’ Isobel said, ‘when you told us that she was coming into season. She was going out. In fact, she’s clear now. If she’s been on the loose around St Andrews for the past ten days, God knows how many dogs have mounted her—’
‘Who said anything about ten days?’ the Sergeant asked. He was still relaxed and almost somnolent but it was clear that he was missing nothing.
Isobel and Henry looked at each other. ‘That’s how long it is since her owner vanished from his hotel,’ Henry said.
We teased the Sergeant for a little longer and then gave him the facts. He wrote them down in his notebook. He seemed impassive but I could tell that we had rung a bell from the way his pencil checked at the name of the hotel and again at the presumed identity of the corpse.
Henry had not missed the signs. ‘You knew of him?’
The Sergeant slapped his notebook shut. ‘I’ve said too much already.’
‘Nobody will know it from us,’ Isobel said. ‘And if you want to take all the credit, we won’t contradict you. If it earns you your promotion, you can come back with a bottle of Champagne.’
He hesitated for a moment, evidently torn between duty and a desire not to seem ungracious. ‘I’ll tell you this much,’ he said, ‘and then I must get word through to Kirkcaldy. We were looking for the gentleman. His name was even mentioned in connection with the corpse, his build and weight being right, but only in a joking sort of a way. You see, we thought that he’d slipped out of the country.’
‘Maybe he has,’ I said. ‘Maybe he passed the dog on to a friend before he left.’
‘Maybe,’ said the Sergeant. He seemed to have reached the limit of his revelations. He even refused to use our phone but hurried out to his car. From the window, we could see him speaking earnestly over his radio.
‘Interesting,’ Henry said. ‘They thought that he’d left the country.’
‘“Slipped out” was the expression,’ I reminded him.
‘So it was. Even more intriguing. The honest man leaves a trail behind him that a blind man could follow. But we already have two names for the gentleman and neither one of them rings true. Mark my words, Mr Falconer was up to no good.’
‘When it comes to stating the obvious,’ Isobel told her spouse, ‘there’s nobody to touch you.’
Chapter Three
On the Wednesday morning, the local paper pretended to be big with news although hard facts were few. It was stated, with apparent confidence, that the police were anxious to interview David Falconer, a citizen of the USA, in connection with the body found in the River Eden and ‘other matters’. The statement was not attributed to a source in the police, but somebody had talked because the one fact revealed was that a spaniel, believed to have belonged to Mr Falconer, was being kept at Three Oaks Kennels awaiting a claimant.
Whose Dog Are You? (Three Oaks Book 2) Page 3
