The Curse of the Cockers

by Gerald Hammond

  She looked at me consideringly and then nodded again. ‘We’ll go on from there,’ she said. ‘I think you’ll come to believe me.’ She gave a small sigh. ‘I would have had to be stupid not to know that my husband had affairs. But he genuinely cared for his family and so I was prepared to ignore a certain amount of straying. But I also knew his character, perhaps better than he knew himself.

  ‘So I did have my suspicions. No,’ she said quickly, ‘perhaps suspicions is too strong a word. But the thought was there even though I refused to let it surface. When that woman was killed, and then the man at Hogmanay, there were enough indications to make me uneasy. Unexplained absences. Puppies that never arrived. But wondering was enough and there was always a credible explanation. I wasn’t prepared to put my marriage at risk by making an accusation that might have been quite unjustified. On the other hand, if I rocked the boat I might have been the next one to drown. You understand what I mean?’

  ‘I think we do,’ I said.

  ‘But last night, after dark, my husband came back to the house, changed his muddy clothes, and drove off. He was in his hyperactive state, a mood I recognized. Later, a car arrived and drove past the house in a hurry. I decided to walk in that direction and I saw that extraordinary young man pulling you out from under the tree. You made a convincing picture of somebody who had been caught under a falling tree.’

  ‘But it didn’t convince you?’ I asked her.

  ‘Not quite. I had walked the pup in that direction during the morning. That tree was already down. And I saw your companion look in that old shed, so when you had gone I fetched a torch and looked for myself.’

  Beth had been listening in silence, knowing that something big was coming but unsure what to expect. At these words I felt her grip my wrist. ‘Would you tell that to the police?’ she asked.

  Mrs de Forgan sat back and met our eyes. ‘There is no need for that,’ she said. ‘I do not wish my children to grow up with any stigma attached to them – the stigma of a father who was a murderer.

  ‘You asked what you could do for me. You never asked what I could do for you, but I’ll tell you anyway. I can assure you that you’re in no danger any more. You can tell the gentleman in the other front room that a bodyguard is no longer required. You see, my husband died last night in an accident. It was his habit, when having a bath, to take a radio into the bathroom with him, plugged into the mains on a long cord. He used to stand it on a tall stool beside the bath. Last night, it fell into the bath and he was electrocuted. Perhaps it’s as well. He would have hated prison.’

  Mrs de Forgan waited patiently, as a queen might wait, for comments. Conventional expressions of regret would have been out of place. When no comment was forthcoming she went on: ‘I have just visited the police. It was obvious that you had not yet made any statement. I told them that when my husband came home at Hogmanay he seemed very upset. Next morning I found him scrubbing his Land-Rover, a task which he usually left to one of his employers at the works. The front bumper had already been removed. When I challenged him, he broke down and admitted to me that he had been involved in the hit-and-run the night before. That should let your friend Angus Todd off the hook.’

  ‘Did they believe you?’ Beth asked.

  Mrs de Forgan shrugged. ‘Not entirely. No, of course not. But what does that signify? They know that the man they were looking for is dead, so they’re hardly likely to waste a lot of resources in looking for further proof. There may be some difficulty if the two procurators fiscal decide on enquiries before the respective sheriffs, but I am engaging a top QC to represent me.’

  She looked at her watch and got up. I helped her into the fur.

  ‘You understand, of course, that this discussion never happened. If you try to report it, I shall say that you dreamed it up between you, in an effort to pervert the course of justice.’

  I followed her to the front door. She glanced down at my slippers and smiled. ‘You needn’t come out,’ she said graciously. ‘We’ll be in touch. If you still want the shooting rights to Foleyknowe, you can have them. There will be no rental.’

  We watched from the sitting-room window as she drove competently away.

  ‘That last remark sounded remarkably like an attempted bribe,’ I said.

  ‘An unnecessary bribe,’ said Beth. She looked at me with eyes so wide that I could see white all round the irises. ‘She’s right. Things are best left as they are. You know what I think?’

  ‘You think that she killed her husband, once she was absolutely sure that he was a murderer.’

  ‘I’m sure of it. Somebody had to. Prison would have been too good for a man like that.’

  In accordance with his own philosophy, I thought that prison would have given de Forgan time for regret, but I decided not to say so. ‘We’d better work out what to say to Isobel and Henry.’

  ‘They’ll be bursting with curiosity.’

  ‘So am I,’ I said. I took another biscuit. ‘I can see the rest of it, but what was so special about the shed? I only looked into it to see if it would be suitable for storage. Why did that get de Forgan into a tizzy? What was in there apart from straw bales?’

  ‘He thought that you knew much more than you did.’ Beth shook her head sadly. ‘You remember the young motorcyclist who was crippled and left to die? About five years ago? Angus, who was the keeper, had a row with him. So did Mr Crae, who had the sporting rights. We forgot that Mr de Forgan, who was the owner of the land, was just as likely to have a grudge against him. Behind the bales,’ Beth said, ‘there was a motorbike. And now, you’re going back to bed. I must feed Sam.’

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