‘Right,’ agreed Tait, hoping that rising tension hadn’t made his voice breathy. He would hate to sound like a beginner. He decided against putting on his ear muffs immediately, in case his host had anything more to say. Impatient to begin, he longed to load his gun, but it was against the safety rules to do so before the drive started.
Then everything began to happen. Lewis Glaven radioed ‘Ready? Start!’ to the keeper. Almost immediately they heard the blast of a whistle, coming from out of sight on the far side of the kale.
Tait snatched a couple of cartridges from his belt. Over-eagerness and cold fingers made him fumble. He heard a few distant shouts and then a steady outcry as the beaters began to move forward. Almost dropping the second cartridge in his haste, he swore under his breath.
‘Don’t rush it,’ murmured his host. ‘Plenty of time.’
Tait slid the cartridge home and cocked his gun. He looked towards the kale and saw two birds rising from it, encouraged by the beaters’flags. The pheasants were slower starters than clays because of their weight, but the wind under their widespread tails was helping to lift them.
His impulse was to bring the gun up to his shoulder immediately, but that would be a beginner’s reaction. The pheasants were much too far away for a shot. They might fly anywhere, and there was no point in mounting the gun until it was obvious that a bird was heading in his direction.
Holding the shotgun in a safety position, with the muzzle pointing down to the earth, he remained poised for action with his left foot advanced, balanced as though he were on the deck of a boat in a rough sea. Controlling his excitement he watched the pheasants’ whirring approach. They were still rising. As they saw the line of guns below them, they accelerated.
Relax, Tait told himself. Don’t hurry or you’ll miss.
Choosing a target, he put his weight forward on his left foot, raised the butt of the gun to his shoulder, tucked the stock against his right cheek and snicked off the safety catch. Concentrating on the triangle made by the side-by-side muzzles and the bead, he swung the gun across the sky, matching its movement to that of the bird. His finger hovered over the trigger. Yes, good, follow through the target –
‘Better leave it for your neighbour,’ said Lewis Glaven quietly. ‘It isn’t coming over us, d’you see? Doesn’t do to poach.’
Crestfallen, Tait lowered his gun. On either side of him, shots rang out. He watched enviously as his target, a hen, seemed to stumble in mid-air, a puff of feathers flying from its breast. Then it plummeted to the ground and lay still. The other bird, a cock, turned vivid cartwheels as it fell out of the sky.
Then someone shouted ‘Over,’ and Tait saw that a flurry of pheasants had got up from the kale. The leading birds were approaching high and fast. Wings whirred, shotguns cracked, and just in front of his expert neighbour a cock threw back its outstretched head and stopped, dead in the air. Another bird clattered earthwards somewhere on the right.
Now they were flocking over, a score of targets in the air at once. Maddeningly for Tait, though, most of them were curling left and right again, as though they were deliberately avoiding his peg. He could only stand watching while guns blazed on either side of him. Some birds managed to pass over unscathed, some were allowed to escape because they were unsporting targets, some planed down lightly wounded and ran for cover, but an enviable number hit the ground.
He was desperate to get in a shot of his own. And then, to his joy, a hen that had passed the peak of its flight came gliding straight towards him. He raised his gun.
‘A bit low, that one,’ said Lewis Glaven in his ear. ‘Too easy. I should leave it for another day.’
Tait’s frustration mounted. The first drive was almost over and he hadn’t yet squeezed a trigger. But a few late birds were rising from the kale, and he willed at least one of them to stay high and not to curl away.
The leading pheasant came strongly on. He watched it intently, found that it was doing exactly as he hoped, followed it through and fired his first barrel. To his delight the plump brown hen somersaulted out of the air, and bounced as it hit the ground.
Adrenalin pumping, oblivious to everything except the chance of achieving another kill with his second barrel, he swung his gun on to the last bird. It was flying to his right, past its peak and gliding, but still reasonably high. He fired. And, maddeningly, missed.
But what did that matter? He’d brought down a pheasant with his first shot! Dazed but exultant, in the sudden silence that followed the end of the drive, he glanced at Lewis Glaven expecting him to be impressed.
Instead, his host was bristling with disapproval.
‘You realise what you’ve just done?’
‘I’ve … er …’
Martin hesitated. His high spirits made a bumpy landing as he realised exactly where he’d gone wrong. In shooting at the second bird, he had swung to the right in a 45-degree arc and had fired above the heads of his neighbours. The falling pellets from his shot might well have hit one of them.
‘Oh no …’ He felt the blood drain from his face. ‘I’ve shot across the line, haven’t I? Is anyone hurt?’
‘Seems not, thank God. Damn dangerous manoeuvre, though. An acquaintance of mine in Norfolk lost an eye last season, just because some new Gun wasn’t shooting safely. Hoped I could rely on you to follow the rules.’
Martin was shaken. ‘I really am sorry, sir. ‘I’m afraid I got carried away in the heat of the moment. I do apologise.’
He fully expected to be told that he was no longer a welcome guest at Chalcot. But having calmed down, Lewis Glaven seemed prepared to give him another chance.
‘Well … no harm done, so I’ll overlook it on this occasion. Fact is, most of us have lost our heads at some time or other on a driven shoot. Damn difficult to remember the rules when your blood’s up, eh?’
‘A lot more difficult than I’d realised,’ Martin admitted.
‘Useful lesson to learn. No bad thing to have a chastening experience on your first time out. Should make you more careful in future.’
‘It certainly will!’
‘Glad to hear it. Oh, by the way – that first pheasant of yours. Good shot. Very good shot.’
His host’s praise was welcome, of course. But as Tait followed the other Guns round to the eastern side of Long Spinney for the second drive, he still felt shaken.
He had always prided himself on his coolness in action. He had been absolutely confident that he would prove to be safe with a gun, and it appalled him to recall how easily he had lost control.
It wouldn’t happen again, though! For the remainder of the shoot he was going to stick rigidly to the rules.
At least, that was what he intended. But he was uneasily aware that he couldn’t guarantee it.
Chapter Nine
There were no pheasants calling from Long Spinney now. Those that had survived the flight from the kale must have warned the woodlanders to keep their heads down. All Martin could hear, as he rounded the end of the spinney on the way to his next peg, was an agitated rustling in the undergrowth.
Walking just ahead of him was Will Glaven – unfairly tall, cap tipped well forward in cavalry officer style, gun under arm, black labrador at heel. They had had time to do little more than exchange greetings up at the house. Now, glancing back and seeing Martin, Will waited for him to catch up.
‘Any joy on the first drive?’
‘Just one hen,’ said Martin modestly. ‘With my first shot.’ Then, since his host’s son was bound to hear what had happened, he felt obliged to add: ‘But I’m afraid I put my second shot across the line. Criminally careless thing to do. No one’s hurt, thank God, but your father isn’t too pleased with me.’
Will grimaced. ‘I can imagine … You should’ve heard what he said to me at a shoot last season, when I broke the “no ground game” rule.’
Martin’s spirits rose. ‘I’m not the only culprit, then?’
‘God no. I was so cold and bored, waiting for
the bloody birds to rise out of some sugar beet, that I shot at a bolting rabbit. Didn’t stop to think – just fired instinctively. Trouble was, it was running along between me and the beaters. The old man bawled me out because this soil is so flinty that pellets ricochet off it. I might well have potted one of the beaters instead of the bunny.’
Will Glaven’s admission made Martin even more determined not to offend his host again if he could possibly help it. But he liked Will’s frankness, and immediately forgave the man his height advantage. He was almost prepared to forgive him for having misappropriated such a shyly beautiful girlfriend … But not quite.
The other members of the party were sauntering to their places. Lewis Glaven had said at his briefing that the Guns would as usual move up two numbers at the start of each drive. This gave most of them an excuse to indulge in convivial chat as they discussed which pegs they were supposed to be on, and to take warming nips from the hip flasks they all seemed to carry. But Joanna Dodd stood aloof, already at her peg with her gun under her arm, impatient to get on with the shoot.
Will took an audibly deep breath as he and Martin walked past her on their way to their own pegs.
‘Better have a word with Joanna,’ he said reluctantly. ‘Excuse me …’
‘Of course,’ said Martin, watching as he moved towards her.
Will Glaven and Joanna Dodd were almost the same height and age, unmistakably from the same background and equally accustomed to muddy dogs and shotguns. They seemed ideally matched. Remembering what the Treadgold brothers had said about her and Will, though, Tait would have liked to overhear their conversation.
But here at Chalcot he was on his best behaviour. With regret, he walked out of earshot.
‘Brilliant shooting at the first drive, Joanna – as always!’
Will had decided on a conciliatory approach. He didn’t want to overdo it, but her haughty silence meant that he had to work hard to get a response out of her. ‘Drink?’ he offered, producing a flask from a pocket of his Barbour. ‘It’s sloe gin, your favourite.’
‘I’ve brought my own, thank you.’
Joanna’s voice was straight out of the freezer, and her long face was stiff with displeasure. Will couldn’t decide whether she was hurt, or angry, or contemptuous. Possibly, he conceded, he’d given her cause over the years to be any or all of the three; but there was no sense in her holding a permanent grudge against him.
‘Look,’ he said, though he avoided making eye contact with her: ‘why don’t you get it out of your system and tell everyone what a bastard I am?’
‘I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction.’
‘No … I s’pose not.’ He nodded ruefully, then sighed. It was so bloody difficult to know how to deal with women. Besides, there was a far more pressing concern than Joanna on his mind. He’d done his best to appease her, and that was that. He could wrap up the conversation with a clear conscience.
‘Glad you could join us today, anyway.’
She hitched the shotgun under her arm. ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’
‘Good shooting, then. See you at lunch.’
‘I shan’t be with you for lunch. I have to go home to look at a lame horse.’
‘But you’ll be back this afternoon?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll be up at Belmont for the afternoon shoot, never fear.’
Darren Jermyn had found that being a beater was even worse than he’d imagined.
At first, as he went through the motions of his job, he thought only of Laura. But he soon realised that the other beaters were enjoying themselves, hollering and whacking the kale with their sticks, and he became aware of the pheasants’agitation as they scuttled ahead, bewildered by what was happening.
Some of the birds froze, as Arthur had said they would. Darren almost trod on one little brown hen that was crouched against the earth among the stalks of kale, hoping not to be seen. Cowering, she turned her head and looked up at him with one dark fearful eye.
He fancied that she recognised and was reproaching him. He willed her to stay put, pretending he hadn’t noticed, but one of the rotten dogs came nosing along and pointed at her.
‘Dog’s found one for you!’ called Arthur. ‘Poke it out, boy.’
Darren made reluctant pushing motions with his stick. ‘Don’t move,’ he hissed. ‘Stay where you are!’ But she was already up and scurrying forward with the others.
And then, as the leading birds emerged from the far edge of the kale and saw the Guns waiting for them, all hell broke loose.
‘There they go!’ shouted Arthur excitedly as the pheasants began to rise, screeching in alarm. A cock went up like a multicoloured rocket, its tail spread wide to give it lift, its heavy body carried up on valiant wings. ‘D’y’see him, boy? He’s a real Gabriel!’
The first shotguns cracked.
Darren had prepared himself for the sight of his birds being cleanly killed. What he hadn’t taken into account was their being brought down injured. He was sickened to see the resplendent cock, mortally wounded, threshing in agony as it tumbled out of the sky.
‘Keep in line, you bloody young idler!’ bellowed the keeper from behind him.
Incensed, Darren turned to swear a reply. At that moment a hen bird tried to reach safety by flying back over the beaters. She was not much more than head high, a shamefully low target, but Len Alger didn’t give her a chance. He swung his gun on to her as she passed to his left, and Darren saw the evil bastard grinning as his shot transformed her to an outburst of bloodied feathers.
The rest of the beaters had pushed on towards the edge of the kale, and a flurry of pheasants took to the air. Darren was dismayed by their cries of alarm, the frantic whirring of their wings, their evident terror as the shotguns clattered.
‘Keep going!’ he shouted, willing them to outfly the deadly pellets. He took no comfort from the fact that some of the birds, flinching and then planing down, were only lightly wounded. Even if they were able to drag themselves to cover when they landed, and evade the searching dogs, they would die a lingering death.
What he hated most of all, though, was to see pheasants badly injured. He recalled only too well the guilt and shame he’d felt when he picked up the jay that he had mangled with shot – and that was a predator, a bird that ate the eggs and chicks of others.
These pheasants were harmless. They trusted him. He’d fed them and cared for them, and he couldn’t bear to watch them being slaughtered. OK, some of them escaped. Some of them were allowed to escape because they were flying low. But others were staggering in mid-flight and coming down in slow motion, sometimes somersaulting as they fell, sometimes beating the air in useless frenzy, still alive and suffering …
Laura was right. Killing creatures for sport was disgusting. This shoot would have to be stopped.
But he wasn’t going to make another offer to help Laura stop it, not after the way she’d treated him. Somehow or other he was going to find a way of doing the job himself. And he’d do it this afternoon, when she was up at Belmont, just to show her that she wasn’t the only one who cared about wildlife. Just to show her.
Darren flung down his stick. Ignoring the keeper’s shouted threats, he set off on the long run back to the stable yard where he had left his mountain bike. Stopping the shoot wasn’t going to be easy, but he’d already had an idea.
Chapter Ten
Martin Tait was travelling soberly to lunch. And that was more than he could say of the Treadgold brothers, with whom he was once again sharing the back of a Landrover.
‘Good shootin’?’ Tweedledum asked him, without waiting for an answer. They were discussing their own successes in tedious detail, while their muddy, panting dogs competed to lean against Martin’s knees.
Tweedledee opened a vacuum flask and offered him a swig of their own concoction, a savoury drink with alcohol coming off it in steaming-hot wafts. Martin refused. He’d enjoyed the initial slug of whisky in his coffee, but that wa
s all the drinking he intended to do while the shooting party lasted.
Privately, he had found it wretchedly cold standing about all morning waiting for the birds to be driven over. A drink would certainly have helped. But he’d had no hesitation in refusing Will Glaven’s offer of a nip of sloe gin at the end of the second drive.
He had discovered that being a Gun at a driven shoot has several parallels with detective work. Both involve patient waiting, the identification of targets, observation, concentration – and then the tension and excitement of the final flurry of activity, which may or may not bring success.
But detective work doesn’t involve the carrying of a gun. As a senior police officer he deplored any mixing of guns and alcohol, and he was astonished to find how casually it was done at Chalcot.
He wasn’t going to be officious about it, of course, but he suspected that both Tweedledum and Tweedledee were well on the way to being drunk in charge of their shotguns. Barclay Dodd, too. Tait had noticed him taking frequent nips from his flask, though it seemed not to have affected the precision of the old boy’s shooting – not so far, anyway.
Martin himself hadn’t had much luck during the rest of the morning. He’d found Long Spinney unrewarding because the tall trees demanded a different technique.
Lewis Glaven had stood with him again, for the first five minutes. They’d heard the distant tapping of sticks against tree trunks as the beaters approached, pushing their way through the undergrowth, and then one or two pheasants had come flying out from among the trees.
‘Don’t shoot at a bird unless you can see sky all round it,’ his host had warned. ‘Never shoot into trees. The pellets’ll ricochet off the branches, d’you see. Can’t risk injuring anyone.’
Inhibited by so many rules, Martin had had no joy at all at the spinney. He’d done a little better at the final drive of the morning, a field of sugar beet, where he had clipped at least two pheasants and brought down a high-flying cock for a crash landing. But on the whole he was dissatisfied with his performance.
Fair Game Page 9
