Maddy laid her sewing aside and came over to his chair, kneeling there on the rug before him. She studied her husband’s face and, with a quiet sadness, realized his full sixty-three years showed in his tired old eyes, the lines around them the figurations of the sorrows and laughter of his good, God-fearing life. This gentle, kind man, while hardened to nature’s cruel but pragmatic ways, cared too much for the birds and animals in his charge, and sometimes she had to coax him from a duty that took no account of age and decline.
‘Call me a silly old woman, but I don’t feel right about you being out there tonight, Jack. There’s a funny sort of chill in my bones.’
‘Don’t talk daft, Maddy. Tonight’s no different from las’ night and the night before that, an’ you can be sure there’ll be those about up to no good. Chill in your bones, indeed.’ He gave her cheek a tweak with thumb and finger. ‘Now you don’t expect me to be tucked up in bed when there’s those blamed dim-witted mouchers on the prowl, do you? S’more than me job’s worth, an’ well you know it.’
‘I know there’s no arguing with you, you stubborn old fool.’ She huffed at his dry chuckle and began lacing his boots for him. ‘You promise me you’ll be careful, that’s all I ask.’
His laughter faded and he stared at the top of Maddy’s head. So she felt it too. There was a queerness about the place lately and it was something bright days and balmy nights couldn’t shift. Even the birds and the animals in the woods had the jitters. Like … like all those years ago, when he was a mere stripling, when his father had shown him the poachers’ ways. Lord in Heaven, he hadn’t thought about those days in a long time and he didn’t want to think about them now. In Sleath every generation had known its own tragedy, some worse than others. Was it time again? He shivered and Maddy looked up anxiously.
‘Caught yer bloomin chill,’ he said jokily. ‘Temperature’s dropped, I think. I’ll need a coat.’
His wife stood, a breath escaping her with the effort. She smoothed the wrinkles in her skirt. ‘I’ll fetch your jacket,’ she said, disappearing into the hallway. ‘Your cap, too,’ he heard her call back. ‘Might rain again later, like it did this morning.’
Gaffer paced in small circles while the keeper joined his wife in the hallway, its short tail erect and shining eyes glancing from its master to the door.
‘Calm down, Gaffer,’ Buckler said in a gruff voice. ‘Don’t want you tearin through the bushes scarin off the villains, do we?’
The dog immediately settled, aware it was work they were up to, not play.
Maddy helped her husband on with his jacket and he took a long Mag-lite torch from the boot shelf and slipped it into one of the deep pockets. He reached up again for a black object that resembled a complicated stunted telescope and this he dropped into his other pocket. Maddy handed him his cap and he pulled it down firmly over his grey-white hair.
‘You get yerself off t’bed, girl,’ he said to his wife. ‘No sense in you waitin up half the night.’
‘Do you think I’d be witless enough to sit here waiting for you while you’re out playing cowboys and Indians? I’ll be nice and snug in our lovely soft bed, m’lad. You just be quiet when you get back and don’t be waking me up, d’you hear?’
She might be in bed, but she’d be lying there in the darkness, ears straining for his footsteps on the path. And she wouldn’t close her eyes until she heard the key in the door and his muffled tones settling Gaffer down for what was left of the night. She knew this, and so did the keeper.
They were too familiar with each other for parting kisses, and if he had bent down to brush her downy cheek with his dry old lips, she would know that he, too, shared her unease. Instead he touched the rim of his flat cap in mock salute before lifting the door latch.
As he opened the door, she said, ‘Do you want me to call anyone? Sergeant Pimlett might send someone over to give you a hand.’
The nearest police station was two villages and a town away, but sometimes the duty sergeant was willing to send a patrol car over if a catch was fairly certain. Poachers these days were not a priority for the hard-pressed county police force. ‘Don’t want to risk wastin their time, love. Be different if I knew for sure the mouchers will be out tonight, but I don’t want to lose the goodwill of the constabulary by bringin ’em over on a wild-goose chase.’
With that he slipped into the night, Gaffer already up the garden path way ahead of him. Maddy waited until the door had closed behind him before making a tiny, from-the-wrist, Sign of the Cross over her heart. Let him be all right, dear Lord, was her thought-prayer. Don’t let anything happen to my Jack. She went back into the sitting room and picked up her sewing once more. But the needle was motionless in her hand and her eyes were closed for a long time.
Gaffer bounded up to the Land-Rover parked outside the open garden gate and waited there for its master to catch up. Jack Buckler followed at a more leisurely pace, his countenance grim now that he was outside the gamekeeper’s cottage. Maddy really was worried for him: never in her life before had she suggested calling in the police to give him a hand. Certainly the night patrol enjoyed the game - it was a pleasant relief from driving around concrete estates and hauling in yobs and drunks. Some of them even liked acting as beaters on daytime shoots when they were off duty - wages were poor, but fresh air, lively action and a good toddy afterwards brought its own reward and besides, it gave them the opportunity to acquaint themselves with the more rural areas of their extensive patch. But no, as a rule Maddy always left that kind of decision to him; he knew his business and she knew her place. So what had got into her tonight? Come to that, what had got into him? He’d been fidgety all evening.
He passed through the gate and pulled open the Land-Rover’s door. Gaffer instantly sprung up and over onto the passenger seat, its short wiry coat brushing against his hand like a tough-bristled brush on the way. Buckler climbed in after it.
‘Right then, me beauty, let’s see what we can snare on this gloomy ol’ night, shall we?’
Gaffer gave one thump of its short tail against the seat in response, and the keeper started the engine and switched on his lights.
He drove down the long rutted lane, heading through the woods towards an area of coverts that he knew were likely to attract the poachers, his headlights on half-beam for the moment. The hefty Mag-lite in his pocket was reassuring, although there were other gamekeepers who carried pick-axe handles for protection; worse still, there were others who took .440 shotguns on night patrols. That wasn’t his way, and besides, he was only dealing with semi-professionals here, not an organized gang. Lenny Grover was a nasty piece of work, all right, but he was no hard man, not really. A good ‘boo!’ in the dark would send him scuttling for cover, as it would his drinking and poaching pal, Dennis Crick. The pair of them would be off like terrified rabbits once they knew a keeper was about. Nevertheless, no matter that neither man had any spunk, what they did have between them was garden guns - the 9mm Flobert, .360 shotgun, No 3 bore, to be precise - fitted with home-made silencers. Buckler knew this to be a fact because he, himself, had collected the empty cartridge cases from their previous night’s escapade that very morning (and he knew the silencers were home-made because Grover and Crick would never spend good money on such an accessory when it could so easily and cheaply be made in their own garden shed or garage). Oddly enough, it was the third member of this nasty little gang - and he was quite aware there were three of them - that angered him the most, for this one’s weapon, as well as being inefficient, was particularly vicious.
It was obvious he was an amateur, no doubt brought along by the other two for his usefulness as a carrier rather than his skill as a poacher. Young Mickey Dunn was the prime candidate, and his odious weapon was the crossbow. One of the worst situations in a gamekeeper’s book was to come upon a bird or animal that had been mortally wounded by a quarrel and had managed to escape the hunter by dragging itself off into cover where it would die a pitiful and lingering death. It was
at such moments that Jack Buckley would have cheerfully turned that nasty weapon on its sadistic owner. Or shot his kneecaps off with his own shotgun. Or bashed his head in with a pick-axe handle. Which was why he never carried such weapons on occasions like this. No, the Mag-lite was long and sturdy enough to use for threat or defence; no need for anything that might do permanent damage.
Thin branches whipped across the Land-Rover’s windscreen as the vehicle lumbered down the narrowing track. Gaffer rocked from side to side, enjoying the motion, loving the thrill of this midnight excursion. The keeper kept the speed down, the engine revs soft, his still keen eyes alert to everything around him, both side windows kept open for any alien sounds that might come his way. An assistant would have been useful on a night like this, someone who could approach from a different direction so that the mouchers could be caught between them, but the lord and master, the magazine magnate who now owned the majority of the Lockwood Estate, had dismissed the underkeeper as soon as he had arrived on the scene twenty-odd years ago. One man was enough to look after the game on his land, Beardsmore had decreed and he’d gone on to sack half the ground staff as well. Well, so be it. If he was willing to lose a large portion of his game to poachers, then it was his own damn fault. Except, of course, it would be the gamekeeper who copped the blame.
He slowed the Land-Rover to walking pace and switched to sidelights only, trusting his own knowledge of the way ahead - plus his keeper’s eyes, which were keener at night than the average person’s - to get him to his destination. Soon he switched off even the sidelights.
Now the vehicle lurched along at snail’s pace and eventually it stopped altogether. Buckler turned off the engine and quietly opened the door. Gaffer moved over to the driver’s seat the moment its master climbed out and it waited there until the command came.
Buckler looked in every direction, sniffing the air as if for alien smells; he was absorbing everything around him, listening for sounds, watching for the slightest movement, and testing the breeze for the smell of cordite. On certain nights, when the wind was gentle and from the right direction, he might even detect the coppery odour of animals’ blood. Tonight there appeared to be nothing unusual: no tiny snap of twigs as someone crept through the undergrowth, no sharp cry of a pheasant disturbed from its roost, no human murmurings as careless mouchers searched for prey. Even so, he sensed something was amiss: something was not right about the very night itself and every bone in his body and every instinct he’d acquired told him the truth of it. What was more, the quiet, dragging whine from deep inside Gaffer’s throat told him the dog felt it too.
‘All right, boy, jus’ keep it down,’ he ordered in a hushed voice. ‘We don’t want to be warnin ’em off, do we? Oh no, this time we’ll ketch the buggers, jus’ see if we don’t. Can’t have ’em slaughterin our friends willy-nilly, can we, boy?’ His whispers were to reassure the dog, the soft tones to keep it calm. His voice still low, he instructed Gaffer to leave the vehicle and it immediately jumped down onto the track. It waited by its master’s side for further instructions.
Buckler slipped the Land-Rover’s keys into his pocket, making sure they did not clink together - such sounds would be amplified in the still night air. It was unlikely, but the intruders might just have been stupid enough to park their own vehicle further up the track and if so, the Land-Rover would block their way. More probably their pick-up would be left somewhere in one of the lanes that crossed the estate, the poachers travelling by foot to the covert they had in mind for that night’s business.
Buckler used the Mag-lite to find a suitable path through the woods, always taking care to keep the beam low to the ground. The path he found would have been missed by anyone else, but it was clear enough to him.
‘Come on then, Gaffer old boy, let’s find ’em before they do too much damage.’
The dog obediently trotted ahead, quickly disappearing into the overgrown path its master’s torch had found for them, but keeping well within whispering distance, alert for any further instructions. It sniffed earth and air as it went.
Buckler followed as noiselessly as the dog itself, using the swift-moving animal as a guide. Many keepers preferred Alsatians, Dobermans, or even Rottweilers - in the old days, Mastiffs were favourite - but he preferred the Airedale above all others. Gaffer was both powerful and intelligent, and most of all it was reliable. It was a good ‘sniffer’ too, and would seek out injured game without harming a hair or feather on its head. Nor would it ever back down: on more than one occasion a poacher had threatened Gaffer with gun or club, but the dog had never retreated, stalking its man until the villain had either run for his life or handed his weapon over to Buckler. Such an animal would be hard to replace and he dreaded the day when Gaffer would be too old for the job. Oh, a young dog could be trained right enough, but it took time and a great deal of patience and somehow the new always seemed a little less than the old. Still, when that time came Gaffer would live out the rest of its days lolling about the house and going on short runs that wouldn’t tire its creaky old bones too much. But that was a long stretch off, wasn’t it, boy? Plenny of life left in you.
As if sensing its master’s thoughts, Gaffer looked over its shoulder and waited for the keeper to catch up.
Buckler knelt beside the dog and laid a hand against its thick neck. ‘Can you smell ’em yet, Gaffer?’ he whispered. ‘We on the right patch? There’s one or two spinneys we can try later if we’re wrong, but I’ve a hunch we’re on the right track. What say you, boy?’
A low rumble in its throat was the Airedale’s answer. Buckler felt Gaffer stiffen, and its head locked as if it were listening to something far off.
‘Okay, Gaffer, let’s get on. I think their luck’s run out tonight.’
The dog sprung forward and Buckler lumbered to his feet, although only to a crouch. He kept the torch beam even lower and aimed no more than two feet ahead of him. At the slightest sound the Mag-lite would instantly be switched off.
He trod through the dark woodland at a steady speed, his dog just ahead of him, it, too, moving silently and easily.
Lenny Grover took a back-handed swipe at Mickey Dunn, his fingers making hard enough contact with the younger man’s shoulders to draw a sharp yelp.
‘Jus’ keep off me bloody arse with that stupid thing,’ Grover hissed.
‘Weren’t nowhere near you,’ Mickey protested, almost tripping over a hidden tree root in his effort to keep clear of Grover’s reach. He held the crossbow behind him as if afraid it would be snatched away.
‘Keep it quiet, you two,’ the third man whispered fiercely from the front. ‘If Buckler’s around we’ll be forrit.’
Grover pulled down the peak of his baseball cap in agitation. ‘That bloody old fool ‘asn’t got a clue. He’ll be somewhere on the other side of the estate tonight.’
‘Whadya mean?’ said Dennis Crick. ‘He’s bound to know we was ’ere las’ night.’
‘’Xactly so,’ agreed Grover, grinning in the darkness. ‘An’ he’ll think we won’t come back to the same place twice.’ His voice became scornful. ‘But thanks to that prat behind us there’s plenny more to be bagged ’ereabouts.’
Mickey Dunn opened his mouth to protest again, but thought better of it when the other two moved off once more. Weren’t his fault he couldn’t afford one of them guns and besides, he was a crack shot with the crossbow. Well, in daylight. When the target kept still. Best to say nothing though - Grover got twitchy on night raids and a bit too bloody free with his fists.
Realizing he was alone, Mickey hurried after his companions, bent almost double and holding his weapon before him as if he were on wargames.
Even though he was poacher-apprentice to the other two, he’d managed to strike a fair number of roosting pheasants the night before as Crick had frozen the birds in the wide beam of his powerful flashlight. The only problem was, most of them had thrashed off into the undergrowth with arrows embedded in them, shrieking like banshees. All thr
ee men had chased after them, Grover and Crick ignoring for the moment the ones they managed to shoot, and Mickey Dunn had felt like puking when he saw Grover catch a wounded bird and bite it by the side of its mouth to crush its skull. He had puked after Grover made him do the same thing to another pheasant they’d caught. And then he’d been in more trouble when they discovered he’d brought along hessian sacks to put the dead birds in instead of carrying strings, because they said the sacks were too clumsy to lug through the woods and the carcasses would be too bloody and horrible by the time they got home - the local butchers and restaurateurs (or restraunters, as he called them) preferred their game clean and appetizing.
Something snagged on his cheap leather jacket, pulling him back so that he was almost thrown off balance. At first, and with immense dread, he thought the gamekeeper had reached out from behind a tree to grab him, but he quickly realized - and just as he was about to scream for help - that Grover had whipped back a low tree branch, no doubt with the intention of striking the man behind. He heard Grover chuckle and he cursed him under his breath. He also raised a clenched fist towards his companion’s back, although he made sure he didn’t make contact. You’ll get yours one day, Lenny Grover, he told the other man without voicing the opinion, an’ when you do I’ll be there to spit in your eye. In a mood, he stomped after the two in front.
‘Must be gettin near to the spinney,’ said Crick after a while. He stopped, waiting for Grover to come up beside him.
‘Nan, we’re a long way off yet,’ Grover replied.
‘You sure? We’ve come a long way from the truck.’
Grover lifted his baseball cap and swept back his lank black hair. ‘We should come to a dip first, climb up a bit, go round a pond, then we’re there - get off me, will ya, Mickey!’
The Ghosts of Sleath Page 14
