Die Like a Dog

by Gwen Moffat

  ‘But isn’t it strange that no one’s sighted it, let alone reported finding any dead sheep?’ A new thought struck her. ‘And although he may have killed in a remote place, sheep would go mad with terror over a considerable distance. Wouldn’t you think someone would have seen sheep behaving strangely?’

  ‘Not on the mountain, not climbers; they wouldn’t think about it if they did see sheep running. They’re not countrymen. And the dog need only have killed once – possibly not at all in the daylight.’

  She nodded and sighed. ‘So we just wait for a sighting. What a curious situation. It’s done your trade no good, Mr Waring.’ She looked round the empty room with disapproval.

  ‘There are the other guests; five of you, all told, and no doubt the locals will be in later – those with transport, that is.’

  She felt his tension and would have dropped the subject, but he had one more comment to make, elaborately casual.

  ‘My wife chose the right moment to take the weekend off – although I did point out that, in the circumstances, we weren’t likely to be busy.’

  ‘Opportune,’ agreed Miss Pink. ‘Will you take a brandy with me, Mr Waring?’

  ‘That’s thoughtful of you, ma’am. A bit lonely, isn’t it, with the doors all shut: like being under siege.’

  And it goes on, she thought, waking next morning and identifying that thread of irritation which was so curiously associated with the sunshine. Because it was glorious she was the more annoyed. I shall leave, she decided, nothing easier – and then she thought of poor Waring. No doubt the other guests would follow her example, but they would stay if she stayed; really, the situation was insufferable. Then she remembered that there was someone else who must be suffering from more than the irritation of a spoiled holiday, someone who could be feeling rather desperate – -with a killer dog at large.

  After breakfast she drove up the glen to call on Gladys Judson. They sat in the drawing room at Parc, the windows opened wide to the sun and curlews and garden scents.

  ‘Yes,’ Gladys admitted, ‘it is worrying. How thoughtful of you to call. Richard just had to go away on business.’

  She was grey with exhaustion but her manner, if a trifle preoccupied, remained amiable and well-bred.

  ‘I didn’t know you’d lived in Wales,’ she went on, ‘but then we’ve only been here for fifteen years, since his cousin died and Richard inherited the estate.’

  ‘I’ve been in Cornwall for longer than that,’ Miss Pink said. ‘The climate’s better for my arthritis.’

  ‘Of course. All the houses in west Wales are damp. Richard’s books stink of mildew. It’s a continuous battle trying to keep things dry: clothes, linen; even our shoes grow a green mould in the wardrobes.’

  ‘Mine used to do that. You can’t believe what a relief it is to live in a dry atmosphere. Comparatively dry.’

  Gladys smiled. ‘But Richard won’t move house again, and I don’t think I’d want to. We’ve grown attached to this place. Richard’s main interest is horses. What he’d really like to do is breed. Arabs. But in these times –’ she shrugged, ‘– if we could afford the investment, who could afford to buy Arabs?’

  Miss Pink agreed that the times were hazardous and asked if her hostess was a horsewoman.

  ‘No. I like horses but I’m no good at riding. I never feel as if I have control.’ She looked out at her flowering shrubs. ‘The garden is my province, that and the house.’ She gave the flicker of a smile. ‘I wouldn’t want it any other way, I’m quite content. I’m afraid I’m rather old-fashioned.’

  ‘Oh, but so am I!’ Miss Pink was enthusiastic. ‘Values have changed, haven’t they?’

  ‘Everything seems to have slipped – got out of gear.’ Her voice dropped. ‘Richard says it’s the breakdown of law and order. Do you think that?’

  Miss Pink opened her mouth and closed it again. A dog was baying.

  ‘Could that be –?’

  ‘No.’ Gladys was suddenly haggard. ‘That’s Brindle, the other dog. He didn’t bark at you because you came in the front way. He’s chained at the back. He’ll be barking at our handyman.’ A sigh escaped her. ‘We keep searching –’ Her voice trailed away.

  ‘Your husband must be very worried.’

  ‘Not at all.’ She sounded utterly bewildered. ‘But when they put it out on the News – I never thought – I mean, we don’t think it’s that serious – of course, they’re thinking of the sheep ... He’d come back as soon as he realised how people were taking it but I haven’t been able to get hold of him.’ She looked out of the window, blinking nervously. ‘He’s in Liverpool but I don’t know where he’s staying. He’ll be home tonight ...’ Miss Pink waited politely. ‘Normally,’ Gladys continued, ‘he stays at the Adelphi but I rang there and he hadn’t booked a room. He forgot to tell me where he was staying.’ She licked her lips and said, with a pathetic attempt at gallantry: ‘The dogs aren’t dangerous; he’d never have gone away if there was any question of that.’

  Handel Evans came in, removing his beret with a sweep. He inclined his head towards the ladies.

  ‘I’ve had a thought, mum. I’m taking Brindle out and letting him range –’

  ‘Oh no, Evans!’

  ‘He won’t go off, mum. Brindle’s a good dog. It’s the best way of finding Satan: set a dog to find a dog.’

  Gladys hesitated and looked at Miss Pink who, seeing that her opinion was being solicited, if not her advice, asked where he would search first.

  He was grim. ‘First I’d comb the Reserve: do a sweep search like the police does when they’re looking for bodies. I’ve not told you this, mum, but you remember them shots Friday afternoon, when we was talking in the yard? There was shots from up the combe, west of here. I went out to see what there was to see. I had me suspicions. Our land, wasn’t it? Well, I got a mile or so from here, on foot I was, and I heard shots back the way: east, way down towards the village. All them shots was on our land, mum.’

  ‘Oh, Evans. Really!’

  ‘I’m taking Brindle. Can I take the master’s shotgun?’

  ‘No. Definitely not. Not without permission.’

  ‘He’d give me permission.’

  ‘He isn’t here. You know better than to ask me that, Evans.’

  ‘Then I’ll take the dog, mum.’

  It was couched as a statement but they knew it was a question. He wanted her to assume the responsibility. Gladys turned to Miss Pink again. The latter rose from her chair.

  ‘I’ll come with you, Mr Evans. I want to walk in the Reserve anyway, and this is a neat compromise: to do it under protection.’

  Gladys hesitated. ‘Would you like to return here for lunch?’ she asked.

  Miss Pink accepted with alacrity and went out to her car to change into walking boots.

  Evans emerged from the yard with the brindled Alsatian leashed and cringing. At sight of a stranger it snarled but shrank back at a word from the man. Once in the woods Miss Pink asked: ‘Who thrashed this dog?’

  Evans said with bare contempt: ‘You can’t train Alsatians without you beat them.’

  ‘So Satan was thrashed too?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘I would hope he isn’t alive.’

  ‘Why’s that, mum?’

  ‘He might feel free to get some of his own back.’

  A flicker of a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth but it was debatable whether it was contempt or sycophantic appreciation at what he took to be a joke.

  The dog strained at the lead. If it had ever been trained to walk to heel, training was forgotten. Once away from the road Evans slipped the lead, and it loped ahead but, when he shouted, checked and started to take a normal canine interest in the scents of the wood. Miss Pink found this comforting for she had anticipated a kind of monster with no interest in mundane things like rabbits and carrion.

  ‘He’ll stay with us,’ Evans assured her – or was he assuring himself? ‘He’s a nervous dog.’ But she detected
a note of relief in both statements.

  They climbed the slope behind his cottage and came out close to where she had encountered the pine marten. The dog started along the contouring path, nose down and heading east, towards the village and the main valley. Miss Pink thought about shotguns and wondered if an expert could identify different models by the sound of their discharge – and she watched the dog, which was no longer interested in rabbits but in the path itself.

  After a few hundred yards it forked and the Alsatian bore left, climbing on a gentle diagonal. It disappeared round a bend. The morning was very quiet and when Evans called to the dog his voice held a note of panic in that green silence. They hurried on in single file and a dog started to bark.

  ‘That’s him!’ Evans stopped, his eyes frenetic. The dog went on barking.

  ‘Which one?’ Miss Pink asked.

  ‘Brindle. Listen!’

  But Miss Pink was as accustomed to dogs as himself, considerably more so, and she knew that the Alsatian was stationary, that it was expressing urgency but not hostility.

  ‘He’s at the ruin,’ Evans said, with smug excitement. ‘I knew he was making for it soon as he forked left.’

  They pushed on to where a ragged gable-end rose above a mass of briars. The ruin had been a two-roomed cottage but the roof had collapsed and the interior was a riot of nettles. The dog appeared to be round the back. It had stopped barking but they could hear it moving about on fallen slates.

  Behind the ruin was an ancient pigsty, its timbers rotting. The dog Brindle was nosing the rubble below the gaping roof. Evans nodded slowly.

  ‘I should have brought a spade.’

  ‘Don’t pigsties have concrete floors?’ Miss Pink asked.

  He ignored her and stooped to enter the sty where he started to scrape at the exposed floor with a slate. It was deep in sheep droppings but under those the slate grated on concrete. He emerged, his face red from exertion and frustration.

  ‘All right then –’ he was belligerent, ‘– what’s the dog after?’ It was snuffling excitedly about the heap of stone and slate and mouldy wood.

  Miss Pink ignored the tone but she found the question interesting. She looked at the tiny yard of the sty where the nettles were crushed flat as if by the passage of several animals, and noted that there were no fresh sheep droppings. She left the little ruin and started to walk about the clearing. Evans joined her.

  ‘Call the dog,’ she said.

  It refused to leave the sty. Evans went back, swearing, swinging the lead. Miss Pink continued to move through the thick grass that was still wet from the night’s dew. Evans emerged from the sty, the dog leashed. He started towards her but the dog hung back.

  ‘Make him come,’ Miss Pink ordered. ‘He’s been here already; there are his tracks in the dew.’

  Evans glared, but as he hauled the dog towards her he could see nothing unusual, only soaked grass and a couple of foxgloves bowed with the weight of their own long spires of bloom. Then Miss Pink reached forward and lifted a foxglove out of the ground whole, with broken roots. She clutched a handful of grass and it came up in a massive sod, and the next, and the next. Then the Alsatian started to dig.

  ‘You don’t need a spade,’ she observed.

  And he didn’t. Satan, the black Alsatian, was buried under about six inches of soil. In a short time they had the body out of the grave.

  ‘Shot at close range,’ she said, regarding the mess that the pellets had made of the head.

  ‘You know how it was done?’ Evans asked, but it was rhetorical and she said nothing. ‘A bitch,’ he went on. ‘A bitch were tied in that sty, then he waited for Satan and shot him soon as he showed. We’ll get along there now.’ He was smiling.

  ‘ “He”? Along where?’

  ‘Why –’ he feigned surprise, ‘– to Joss Lloyd’s, of course. You haven’t met the man –’ she didn’t enlighten him, ‘– but there’s no doubt, there’s never been no doubt in my mind; I just been looking for proof, see?’

  He clipped the lead to Brindle’s collar and started off, evidently unconcerned whether she followed. She did follow but she was puzzled. Perhaps she followed because she was puzzled. His theory, such as it was, held too many coincidences, and just when had he decided that Satan was no longer alive?

  The ruin was situated below the tree-line. Above it the slope ran into level moorland: a broad shelf that made a plinth for the mountain. Where the trees straggled along the fringe of the moor there was a path, but it was so effectively masked by bracken that to a stranger it would have been invisible. When they had followed it for some ten minutes the walls of Lloyd’s cottage showed ahead, and again there was that tantalising smell of bacon.

  Evans quickened his pace, hauled by the dog. Miss Pink called to him to stop. He turned but at that moment the Alsatian gave a bound and pulled him off balance. He staggered, fell and let go the lead. The animal went streaking over the little green alp towards the cottage. Miss Pink (who had been about to tell the man to keep a tight hold on the lead), stepped round him and rushed after the dog.

  She was too late to prevent violence. From inside the cottage there came a metallic but heavy thud, a choked squeal and one loud, foul epithet. The Alsatian appeared in the sunlit doorway, staggering, with half-closed eyes. Its back looked wet. Like a drunk it walked into the door jamb, reeled back, and its impetus brought it across the step where its legs buckled and it collapsed on its side. Seale had followed it to the door. In one hand she held a cast-iron frying pan. She looked past Miss Pink to Evans and her eyes narrowed. His were wide with disbelief.

  ‘You killed it!’

  ‘Have I?’ Seale addressed Miss Pink. ‘It’s a good thing I heard its claws scrabble on the step; I wouldn’t have stood much chance if he got the first blow in. First bite, rather.’ She glanced at Evans but continued to address Miss Pink. ‘What was this cretin doing with the dog?’

  ‘He’s not dead.’

  Evans had stooped over the body. Now he straightened. ‘Not dead yet. But I reckon his head’s damaged. And what’s this on his coat?’ His voice climbed hysterically. ‘It’s fat! You poured boiling fat on him! That’s cruelty. I’ll have the law on you. Mr Judson will take you to court – you’ll be up before the Bench –’

  ‘That’s enough!’ Miss Pink was firm. He stopped shouting but his eyes were shocked, uncomprehending. She studied him for a moment then went on: ‘You had no control over the dog and it was in the mood to attack anyone. It may have been just the smell of food attracted it, but when it rushed into this cottage the best thing to do was to hit first and ask questions afterwards. You were fortunate that Miss Seale had a frying pan in her hand.’

  ‘Me? I’m fortunate?’

  ‘You were nominally in charge of the dog.’

  ‘I was – I am in charge of this dog.’

  Seale sighed, and a look of demonic cunning replaced Evans’s bewilderment.

  ‘You killed the other one too,’ he said.

  Miss Pink looked at him sharply, then at Seale.

  ‘What other one?’ the girl asked.

  ‘We found the black dog,’ he said.

  Seale nodded. ‘We knew something was going on. We heard the barking. So where is the black one?’ She blinked then and turned to Miss Pink. ‘Someone shot him? Is that true?’

  ‘It’s true,’ Evans said.

  Seale continued to stare at Miss Pink. Neither woman said anything.

  ‘Someone’s got a lot to answer for,’ Evans said. ‘And I’m coming in that house for water.’

  Seale stood aside for him. ‘Why are you with him?’ she asked Miss Pink.

  ‘I was calling on Mrs Judson and while I was there he proposed using this dog to try to find the missing one. Surprisingly –’ she paused and considered that word, ‘– surprisingly, it worked.’

  ‘Where is the dead one?’

  ‘East of here.’ She gestured vaguely. ‘On the same contour.’

  ‘Was a rifle used
, or a shotgun?’

  ‘How would we know?’

  ‘If it were a shotgun, the dog could only have been killed at close range: while the pellets were still bunched. Even so, they make a much bigger wound than a bullet.’

  ‘Doesn’t a bullet make a large exit wound?’

  Seale looked at her suspiciously. Evans emerged from the cottage with a bowl, knelt and splashed water on the dog’s mouth.

  There was no reaction. Only the moving flank showed that it was still alive.

  ‘You’d better get it to a vet,’ Miss Pink said.

  Evans glanced up, then past her. He stiffened. Joss Lloyd was coming over the grass, carrying a shotgun. He looked from one to the other and then stared at the dog.

  ‘I hit it with the frying pan,’ Seale told him. ‘The barking we heard was this one. It found the black dog; someone shot that one.’

  They stared at each other. Evans said: ‘Someone with a shotgun, Lloyd. They buried him and planted sods over the top.’

  ‘Go on!’ The tone was amused but there was a look in his eyes that belied amusement.

  ‘Will you stay here, mum, while I go and get me car to take this dog to the vet?’

  Lloyd handed the gun to Seale. ‘I’ll run you down,’ he said.

  Evans gaped. ‘I’m not going down in your truck!’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Miss Pink said. ‘The dog needs attention –’

  ‘He killed the other –’

  Lloyd said, grinning: ‘I’m leaving the gun here.’

  ‘I’ll come down with you,’ Miss Pink said. ‘Have you got some sacks to put under the dog’s head?’

  ‘It was all my fault,’ Gladys Judson said. ‘Richard bought those dogs because I was nervous about being alone. We have nothing really valuable here but it’s what people think you have, isn’t it? A big house implies wealthy owners. And Richard’s often late home, with all his work. I’d have been quite content with a Labrador but they’re no good as guard dogs. That’s what he says.’ She sighed. ‘Oh dear, one shouldn’t have Alsatians in sheep country, but he would buy them. Honestly –’ she spread her hands helplessly, ‘– I almost hope Brindle doesn’t recover consciousness. That’s cruel, I know, but –’ She trailed off.