Cousin Once Removed

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘M’hm. Well, if you’re not fit to go on you’ll not make it back the way you came, that’s just as steep.’ Ronnie scratched his head. ‘I’ll tell you what. You follow the valley down-the-way. There’s no climbing at all. It brings you out at the old quarry at Foleyhill. I’ll bring the Land Rover round and pick you up later.’

  Keith thought it over. A mile or two downhill he could manage. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll do that. Make my apologies to your esteemed boss.’

  ‘Make them yourself. He’ll be down in a minute or two.’

  ‘No, I won’t hang about,’ Keith said. ‘This wind’s cutting me in half. You’d better give Peter his gadget back.’

  ‘Keep the wee radio,’ Ronnie said. ‘You can use it to tell me whether the track’s clear all the way down. If it is, I’ll fetch the Land Rover round at lunchtime and bring you right up to the barn.’

  Keith watched Ronnie’s departing back with some amazement. Two original thoughts in quick succession demanded a permanent memorial. He would have to come back some day and carve an inscription on his boulder.

  He began to plod gently down the bottom of the valley, nursing his strength. He passed the end of the long tract of coniferous plantation which marked the boundary between Sir Peter’s moor and the policies of Foleyhill. Here the valley broadened and the wind, less confined, was gentler. He was glad to sit down again on a grassy bank. After a minute’s rest he took the radio out of his pocket.

  The first voice to come through was Molly’s. ‘Keith, are you listening? Are you all right? Over.’

  Keith assured Molly of his continued survival and relative health. When he released the ‘Transmit’ button, Hamish’s voice took over.

  ‘Sir Peter, some daft bugger’s vandalized the butts. They’re just not usable at all.’

  Sir Peter’s voice came over, irritated but decisive. ‘The standing guns will have to fall back on the edge of the wood and the beginning of the gulley.’

  Keith progressed further down the valley and rested again. The radio kept him abreast of developments while the standing guns were moved and the walkers briefed and drawn into line. He knew the ground well and could follow their progress in his mind, aided by the radio and by an occasional shot. Despite the irritating vandalism it was shaping up to be a good day, and he promised himself some blistering revenge on whoever had made the hole in his shoulder. But his route seemed clear enough to take Ronnie’s Land Rover. Perhaps he could still attend lunch and join in the afternoon’s sport, if his knees would stop shaking.

  The walking party had, in Keith’s judgement, covered only a third of the first drive – they would be near the old sheep-pen – when a new voice came on the air, that of a young doctor who, Keith knew, was walking at the boundary end of the line. ‘There’s a dog hassling the sheep, driving them across our path. Big black and white collie. It behaves like a trained dog, I think it’s being worked by somebody inside the fir trees beyond the boundary using a silent whistle. What’ll we do? The sheep will be pushing the grouse ahead of them. Over.’

  ‘Just carry on,’ came Sir Peter’s calm voice. ‘The birds should be used to Dougall’s dog moving sheep. Who’s got the radio at the bottom end of the standing line? Jack Frazer? Over.’

  ‘Aye, Sir Peter.’

  ‘Jack. You and Molly pull round the bend of the gulley. If any birds get up in front of the sheep they’ll swing downhill and go over you.’

  Keith got to his feet and lurched on, turning this new development over in his mind. Occasional single shots, as the walking guns took their chances with rising birds, gave way to a brief crackle as a covey went over the standing guns. The old spaniel came close to Keith for reassurance. She had never known her master walk away from the shooting before. Silence fell again.

  Keith’s legs were turning into jelly and a great lethargy was creeping over him. He stumbled through a gateway and found a seat with his back to the dry-stone wall, out of the wind and with the sun on his face.

  The radio clicked and hissed. ‘Seven and a half brace,’ said Sir Peter’s voice. ‘Not a bad start.’

  It was almost too much trouble, but Keith drew out the radio and pressed the ‘Transmit’ button. ‘I must have heard fifty shots,’ he said. ‘That’s not even one for three. Over.’

  ‘I don’t think we fired fifty,’ Sir Peter said mildly, ‘and with this wind behind them they’re flying as if they had after-burners.’

  Hamish’s voice broke in. ‘Sir Peter. Sir Peter. I just glimpsed the dog again, and a man beyond, going down through Larch Wood. They seem to be making off towards Foleyhill Quarry. They’ll be our vandals, likely. If we moved quickly, we could maybe head them off. Over.’

  ‘I’m not turning my day out into a vandal-hunt,’ Sir Peter’s voice said. ‘And there’s no need. Keith, where are you? Over.’

  Keith pressed to transmit. ‘I’m on the way down the valley, about half a mile before the quarry. They’ll have to pass me or face some bloody rough walking.’

  ‘Try and see them go by. I want descriptions, car numbers, anything. Molly says you still have her camera, so get a photograph if you can. But understand this, you’re not to get physically involved. No having-a-go. And no threats with your gun. You read me? Over.’

  ‘I got you,’ Keith said. ‘Not to worry. I’m well hidden where I am, and the way I feel it’d take more than a brace of vandals to get me to shift. I’ll spot them for you. Over.’

  ‘We’ll leave it to you, then. Right, everybody, get ready for the next drive. Take over, Hamish.’

  Keith switched off the radio in case sudden voices betrayed him and stowed it away in his pocket. He dragged himself round and on to his knees and then moved slightly to one side so that he could peer through the gap where a stone had fallen out of the top of the wall. He was partly screened by a rowan tree bright with berries and, as long as he made no sudden moves, his head would be imperceptible against the dark gorse on the slope behind him. He propped the camera on the wall, put his empty gun beside him and waited. After a minute he laid his forehead against the warm stones.

  He must have dozed off. He woke with a jerk to the sound of footsteps, muted voices and irrepressible giggles. He raised his head cautiously.

  Three people and a dog were approaching down the valley. There was no need for the camera. Keith already had photographs of all three – the girl, the young man who had met him at Foleyhill and the round-faced lad whom they had guessed to be the driver of the Capri in France. All three were dressed in clothes which seemed to have been chosen for their inconspicuous colours rather than with a view to suitability or comfort. The dog, a black and white collie, stayed close to the heel of the second man.

  As they came abreast of Keith, the girl made some comment. Her voice was shaking with mirth and Keith could only make out the concluding words, ‘. . . something to grouse about.’ All three spluttered with fresh laughter.

  Still laughing, the girl stopped in her stride. ‘You two walk on,’ she said. ‘I’ll catch you up later.’ She turned and seemed to be looking straight into Keith’s face. He lowered his head slowly.

  Voices and footsteps receded down the valley. Keith could not make out whether the girl was with them. All seemed silent beyond the wall. He gave Tanya a signal which would keep her anchored to the spot until summoned and got gently to his feet. There seemed to be no sign of the girl. He walked softly the few yards to the gateway and stepped through. He still felt weak but his exhaustion had retreated in the face of anger. These people had led him into a trap and, as if putting his life at risk had not been enough, were even now chortling over an attempt to wreck twenty men’s sport for reasons which Keith could only consider to be malicious.

  When he came through the gateway, Keith got the shock of his life. The girl was squatting almost at his feet. She had lowered a pair of pink pants and was quietly relieving herself into the grass. She was still laughing to herself. At Keith’s sudden appearance, she looked up.

&nb
sp; Keith said afterwards that if he had taken time to think he would have apologized and fled. But he acted without thinking, out of the depth of his anger. He aimed the camera and released the shutter.

  Her laughter vanished, to be replaced by the sulky look which he remembered. She tried to pull down her short, brown skirt to retrieve some of her modesty.

  Keith stepped forward. He reached out one foot and planted his boot on the pink pants, treading them into the damp grass and trapping her ankles. She glared up at him speechlessly. Her tweed hat fell off and he saw that her hair, pinned up to go under the hat, had reverted to its original honey colour.

  She came out of her first shock and pursed her lips to whistle.

  ‘You call that dog,’ Keith said, ‘and I’ll shoot it for sheep-worrying.’

  She had been crouched, leaning back and supporting herself behind with one hand on the ground. She tried to lever herself forward, to get her balance for standing up. Keith advanced the barrels of his gun so that the tip of her nose entered one of the muzzles. He pushed gently. She subsided into her uncomfortable crouch but with both hands behind her. The sulky expression was submerged under indignant fury. ‘You bastard!’ she said. ‘You proper bastard! Do you usually hold a gun on women?’

  ‘I don’t usually have to. Just at the moment you’re probably stronger and faster than I am and I blame you for it. And I haven’t used the gun yet. When I do, you won’t feel a thing. You’re sitting carelessly again,’ he added.

  She took one hand out from behind her and dragged at her skirt. The tension in the muscles of her other arm made her breasts quiver. ‘I can make trouble,’ she growled. ‘I’ll have you up for indecent assault.’

  With his free hand Keith patted the camera which hung on his chest and he managed a sickly grin. ‘I’ve got a good shot of you in here,’ he said. He wondered whether Molly had loaded the camera. ‘Squatting for a pee and smiling into the camera. How far do you think you could get in the face of that?’

  ‘This is a hell of a way for a gentleman to treat a lady.’ She tossed her head back to free her nose.

  Keith waited until she was still again and then replaced the muzzle. ‘I never pretended to be a gentleman,’ he said. The anger mounting in him made it difficult to speak steadily. Her posture and the tantalizing glimpses which were being offered him would usually have roused his manhood to frenzy, but he felt nothing. If she and her friends had put paid to his sex-life, somebody was going to get hurt. He rotated the gun-barrels from left to right and back again, pressing harder. ‘And you’re a hell of a long way from being a lady,’ he went on. ‘If you hadn’t tempted me up to Foleyhill with just the kind of lure you knew I couldn’t resist, I wouldn’t have a hole in my shoulder and I’d be able to handle you without a gun. And, by God, I’d give you the spanking you deserve. I just hope you’re proud of yourself.’

  She flushed and turned her head away. Keith rested the muzzles against her cheekbone. ‘You were never meant to get hurt,’ she said. ‘That wasn’t us. Somebody else must hate you as much as I do.’

  ‘I worked that out for myself,’ Keith said. ‘You wanted to get a photograph of me skinning a poached deer in your sanctuary and use it to blackmail me.’

  ‘Not for money!’

  ‘I worked that out too. And you weren’t going to force me to spare the lives of a few game birds and eat battery chickens instead, although that’s the kind of warped logic I’d expect from you. I can guess what you were after. What I can’t figure out is why you wanted it. Are you going to tell me?’

  The strain of her squatting position, leaning back on one hand with the other clutching at her skirt, was increasing. It showed in the dew of sweat on her forehead. She turned her head to glare at Keith and he trapped her nose in the muzzle again. ‘You’re so bloody clever,’ she gasped, ‘you find out.’

  ‘I will,’ Keith said. ‘I certainly will. But you could save me time and effort. Or which would you rather be prosecuted for? Conspiracy to attempted murder? Attempted blackmail? Or inciting a dog to worry sheep? You name it. Perm any two from three.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ she ground out. ‘You don’t know who I am.’

  Keith grinned to himself. ‘No, I don’t, do I?’ With his left hand he drew out an envelope, one of several, from his inner pocket and held it up. ‘I’ve been writing out the story as I discover it. There are copies at my bank and with my solicitor and I’m handing out copies to anyone who might still be under any delusion that knocking me off would suppress the story. Pass it on wherever you think fit.’ He stepped back. ‘You can go now.’

  The girl pushed herself stiffly to her feet. Her moist and muddled panties clung to her ankles. She stepped out of them with a dignity that would have been a credit to a duchess, except that she had to shake one foot to dislodge the damp lace. She snatched the envelope from Keith’s hand and walked away, surreptitiously, so she thought, easing her cramped muscles. Keith thought that she had the second finest bum in southern Scotland. She stopped and turned suddenly. ‘You bastard!’ she said again, but with deeper venom. ‘I’m glad you got hurt. You’ve caused enough suffering!’

  Keith regarded her with amusement. The tip of her nose was ringed with dark gun oil. ‘Bastards don’t die in their beds, you know,’ he said mildly. ‘Tell me, was that your brother with you?’

  ‘You’re so bloody clever –’

  ‘I know. “Find out”. The other one, was that Creepy Jesus?’

  She almost smiled. ‘If you ever meet Creepy, you’ll know it.’ She paused. ‘How did you get that name?’

  ‘You’re so bloody clever,’ Keith said, ‘you find out. Keep your nose clean.’ He grinned inwardly. His Parthian shot would only strike home when she reached a mirror.

  As soon as she was out of sight he gingerly collected the abandoned pants and dropped them into his game bag.

  *

  Keith sat with his gun, loaded, across his knees until assured by the radio that Ronnie was on his way. Then he went gently on down, to find the quarry deserted. His exhaustion was now total. He was home, fed and in bed by mid-afternoon, and by the time that Molly returned, flushed with fresh air and good company, he was deep in sleep.

  He awoke at dawn from a pleasing dream. He was never able to recapture the dream, although he thought that the fair girl had figured in it. He was suddenly aware that there was, at last, a great need in him. He turned to the warm body beside him.

  Molly was adept at reading Keith’s moods and responding to them. She pretended to struggle but was overborne.

  *

  Keith’s outing, misguided as it was and flat against common sense and medical advice, should have set him back. But in fact it marked the beginning of his real recovery. He announced the imminent improvement – after being served his breakfast in bed – to Molly and Deborah.

  ‘You’d better take it easy today,’ Molly said briskly. ‘But I can’t wait on you. Janet and Wallace want to be relieved at the shop this afternoon.’

  ‘Sit down,’ Keith said. ‘I’ve something to tell you which won’t take a moment.’ While Molly sat on the foot of the bed and Deborah crawled up the quilt and tried to pull his hair, he filled in the details of the day before, omitting very little. ‘I suppose you think I was a bit hard on her,’ he finished anxiously.

  Molly would have been less pleased if Keith had treated Miss Duguidson with gentleness. ‘If I’d been there I’d have taken the skin off her backside,’ she said without hesitation. ‘You wouldn’t have been half-killed but for her. What you did was all right.’

  Keith was reassured and encouraged. ‘I’ll be sending her an invitation to come for a chat as soon as the guns are here. It might just ram the message home if I sent her pants back to her at the same time.’

  ‘It might,’ Molly said. ‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’

  ‘It’s the least any gentleman could do. They’re in my game bag. Could you give them a launder?’

  Molly lifted Deborah off
him. ‘You’ve got a bloody nerve!’ she said. But she was too relieved at the return of Keith’s vitality to speak with any real heat.

  Keith made no direct answer. He knew what kind of nerve he had. ‘It’s a pity we don’t have a pair of Sir Henry’s long-johns,’ he said.

  *

  Keith cleared his tray of every crumb and bounced downstairs an hour later feeling on top of the world. ‘I’ll keep the shop this afternoon,’ he announced.

  ‘You’re not fit,’ Molly said reluctantly.

  ‘Fit for anything.’

  ‘That’s what you said yesterday.’

  ‘Yesterday I hoped it, but today I feel it.’

  Molly sighed. ‘We’ll see if you can still keep your eyes open at lunchtime,’ she said.

  The weather outside was not tempting. Keith shut himself in the study. He sat down first at the word processor, intending to finalize the catalogue of antique guns. But he stared at the blank screen for a full minute. Instead of the catalogue, he called up his resumé and added conclusions drawn from the events of the previous day. He spent a few more seconds looking at the words which glinted from the screen.

  He moved to the desk, opened the Yellow Pages and began to dial his way around the sporting goods shops. He was not optimistic. The crossbow could have been purchased by anybody, perhaps in the sports section of some superstore where memories would soon be trodden under the feet of a thousand customers. But it was worth a try.

  So he started with the small shops. He varied his approach according to whatever he knew or could sense about the shop or its staff, but the burden of it remained the same. A crossbow had been left with him for repair. The defect was one of materials and he was trying to trace the original seller in order to invoke the guarantee.

  To his astonishment, his eleventh call produced some positive responses. Yes, they stocked Barnett crossbows. Yes, they had sold at least one Commando recently. But no, it had been a cash sale and the proprietor had no recollection of the name or appearance of the purchaser.