Fair Game

by Sheila Radley

  Kurr-kuk kurr-kuk.

  A pheasant got up with a shocking clatter somewhere in the wood behind her, making her jump. And another. It crossed her mind that someone must be moving about there or the birds wouldn’t have panicked. But she had no time to concern herself with who or why.

  Like the gunmen, she was concentrating on the wood on the other side of the ride. She waited, with bat-sized butterflies lurching about in her stomach, ready to fling herself forward as soon as the pheasants appeared and Will raised his gun.

  Martin didn’t know exactly where Alison was. When she had turned her back on him, he’d immediately stalked away in a huff. Certainly he cared where she was. He cared very much. But he was determined, when he saw her, not to let her know it.

  Impatient to get the shoot over, and Alison safely home, he collected his gun and cartridge bag from the Landrover and gave his mind to the afternoon’s procedure. He knew which peg he would be going to for the first drive, of course: number five. He’d be disgusted with himself if he couldn’t remember a simple instruction to move up two numbers at the start of each drive.

  But some members of the party seemed to have lunched too well to remember their numbers. Barclay Dodd, who had been shooting with deadly expertise all morning on Martin’s left and should now be making for number six, had already parked himself confidently on his shooting stick at the first peg, and no one had the heart to move him on.

  As for Tweedledum and Tweedledee, they were in an amiable state of confusion as they filled their cartridge bags. Martin knew that one of them ought to be at number four, on his immediate right. Instead, they were bickering over which of them was going to number two and which to number three.

  Unusually, Martin felt no urge to point out their mistake. Concerned as he was for Alison’s safety, he was relieved to think that the neighbouring peg wouldn’t be occupied by one of the gun-happy brothers.

  All the same, he resolved to keep an eye on them throughout the afternoon. If they showed any sign of mishandling their guns, he would take Alison straight home whether she wanted to leave or not – though he would of course make some good excuse to their host. Whatever his feelings about the Treadgolds, he didn’t want to be ruled out of any future men-only shoots at Chalcot.

  The only other member of the party who seemed anxious to get on with the shoot was Joanna Dodd. She’d driven up in a hurry, exchanged a quick word with Lewis Glaven, patted her father’s shoulder (‘Eh? What?’ the old man had said, waking from a doze and almost falling off his perch) and then crammed the pockets of her Barbour with cartridges before striding off up the ride.

  Though she passed close to the Treadgold brothers she ignored them, her head held high under her tweed cap, her horsily handsome face proudly set. Martin, watching, saw to his disgust that they nudged each other slyly as she stalked past, her shotgun under her arm.

  He couldn’t believe that they seriously imagined she might take vindictive aim at Will Glaven; they were just mocking her, he decided, probably out of jealousy because she was known to be an excellent shot. Disapproving of them as he did, he found himself regarding Joanna with considerable sympathy.

  Besides, her father’s land at Ashthorpe was reputed to provide one of the best shoots in Suffolk. Hoping for a future invitation, Martin hurried after her and caught her up.

  ‘How’s your horse?’ he asked.

  It was obvious that she had some other preoccupation. She frowned at him as if she wasn’t sure who he was. ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘The lame horse.’ He reminded her of her alibi: ‘The one you had to miss lunch for –?’

  ‘I know which one,’ she said irritably. Then she made an effort to be more civil. ‘Sorry – good of you to ask.’ She paused. ‘He’s very much on my mind.’

  ‘I hope he’ll soon mend.’

  ‘Oh, I expect he will.’

  It was only when they’d parted, and he was standing by his peg while she went on to number seven at the end of the line, that Martin realised she hadn’t actually answered his question.

  He watched with some misgiving as Will Glaven arrived at the peg left vacant by Barclay Dodd: number six, between himself and Joanna. Recalling her intense preoccupation, and the speculations of the Treadgold brothers, Martin wondered for a moment whether it really was her horse she’d been talking about.

  But his thoughts were abruptly diverted. With a shriek and a clatter, a pheasant took off from the bushes just behind him. He turned his head immediately, wondering who or what had startled it.

  Nothing else moved. Martin faced front again, and waited.

  It seemed a long time since he’d had that argument with Alison, and he wished he knew where she was. Perhaps she and Hope had decided not to come to the shoot after all? He would have liked to ask Will, but he couldn’t catch his eye. Besides, he knew better than to make loud conversation from one peg to another; it was important not to alarm the pheasants by giving away the presence of the Guns.

  Anyway, Will Glaven seemed to be unapproachably deep in thought. His black labrador was gazing with interest at a bush behind them, probably having seen a rabbit, but it was too well trained to do anything that would distract its master.

  Kurr-kuk kurr-kuk. That was another pheasant getting up, this time from somewhere in the wood at their backs. And another. Martin turned with a sharp intake of breath. He hoped to God that Alison hadn’t taken it into her head to do something utterly stupid on behalf of the pheasants, like lurking in the bushes with intent …

  And then, with a rush of relief, he saw her. She and Hope – their body-language unmistakably reluctant – were being escorted up the track by Lewis Glaven and his dogs. Their host, one arm cradling his gun, was using the other to make enthusiastic gestures up and down the ride and towards the woodland. Evidently he was explaining the plan of the shoot before delivering them to the care of their respective partners.

  Watching the girls’approach, Martin was glad that they would at least be safely out of range of Tweedledum and Tweedledee. In fact the brothers were so far away at the other end of the line that they were out of sight. The first four pegs, on Martin’s right, were hidden from him by a thicket that narrowed the ride.

  A pity, he thought – he wouldn’t be able to check whether the brothers were shooting soberly. On the other hand, he remembered, their sister would be somewhere behind them with her dogs, waiting to do the picking-up. That was all right, then. He knew he could rely on Dorothy Wilson-Brown to keep the juveniles in order.

  As for the girls, they would at least be on adjoining pegs now that Will had replaced Barclay Dodd on number six. That was another relief for Martin. Alison would be able to give Hope the moral support she needed; and having the younger girl to consider would, he hoped, curb Alison’s impulse to do something about the shoot.

  He breathed more easily. With luck, they might yet get away without any physical or even social damage.

  ‘Hallo there,’ he said as she joined him. Until he knew what her mood was, he intended to be friendly rather than fond. ‘Nice chap, Lewis Glaven, isn’t he?’

  Alison was, if anything, more contemptuous than when they’d last spoken. ‘If you think it’s “nice” to enjoy killing wild creatures for sport … But then you do, don’t you?’

  It would be a waste of breath to argue.

  Martin had always heard that girls mature to resemble their mothers, and that had bothered him at first because he thought Molly Quantrill a silly, fussy little woman. But Alison resembled her father; not only in colouring and features, but also in sheer obstinacy.

  ‘The whistle’s just gone,’ he said, ignoring her protest. ‘That means the drive’s about to start. If you want to support Hope, the best thing you can do is to show her how to behave. You don’t have to watch what’s happening – just stand behind me where you’ll be safe, keep quiet, and think of something else.’

  He changed his grip on his gun, faced towards the wood and listened for the sound of appro
aching beaters. At his back, Alison’s indignation simmered on: ‘That’s typical of you! All you care about is “behaving properly” –’

  Kurr-kukkukkuk.

  That was another pheasant taking off with a screech and a clatter from somewhere behind them. Frowning, Martin turned his head.

  ‘What is going on in those trees?’ he demanded.

  ‘How do I know?’ Alison snapped. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes brilliant with on-going fury.

  Martin shrugged. However annoyed with him she might be, temporarily, at least she should be safe for the duration of the drive. Reassured about that, he could now concentrate on his shooting.

  The disturbances behind them still puzzled him, though. He gave a final glance in that direction but could see nothing moving. All that caught his eye, apart from Alison, were the golden-yellow leaves of a field maple at the woodland edge, blazing with colour before they died.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The clarity of the morning sky had dimmed. Rainclouds had begun to gather, shortening the already short November afternoon and darkening the wood. The air smelled earthy, a compound of decaying leaves, sodden hedgerow fruits and fleshy toadstools.

  Silence had fallen all along the ride. Everyone there – Guns, dogs, pickers-up, reluctant spectators, would-be protestors – stood listening to the distant sounds of tapping that marked the beaters’ progress towards them. There were occasional shouts, and eerie whistlings from somewhere deep in the gloom.

  Minutes passed. The tapping sounds neared, and the wood seemed to rustle and stir. Agitated blackbirds scattered through the bushes. A disturbance of rooks got up from the treetops, wheeling and cawing. A jay screamed, and slipped out of cover and in again with a flash of its blue wing.

  Then the pheasants began to call in alarm.

  The first one got up high above the trees. It curled and went gliding off to the side, its long tail streaming out behind. Another rose and headed back, gliding down over the invisible line of beaters towards the safety of the far side of the wood. But then it staggered in mid-air and dropped, just a second before the watchers in the ride heard the echoing crack of the shot that had killed it.

  ‘Bloody keeper, sneaking along behind the beaters,’ muttered Will Glaven. ‘He’ll shoot more birds than I do.’

  Martin Tait stood poised, ready to load, his mouth dry and his heart pumping with anticipation. But he controlled his excitement. This time he was going to prove that he was an asset to any shooting party. On this drive, with the Glavens on either side of him, Will on his left and Lewis somewhere on his right, he was going to shoot not only safely but brilliantly as well.

  The tapping noises from the wood were louder now. The beaters were coming closer. Martin saw a movement on the ground at the woodland edge, and caught a glimpse of some of the pheasants that had been driven forward. Bunched together, their heads up, they were running about in bewilderment as they tried to decide which way to go.

  He loaded his gun.

  A flush of birds had got up on the right and were flying high over that end of the line. The guns on the first four pegs began to fire.

  At Martin’s end of the line, the beaters were making their final push. He could hear them trampling through the dead leaves and whacking the undergrowth with their sticks. The pheasants he’d been watching could hear them too.

  Finding themselves trapped between the beaters and the guns, the birds took the only way out. Calling in alarm and powering their wings to gain height, they exploded out of the bushes, their long tails quivering with exertion.

  Martin clapped on his ear muffs and raised his gun. With total concentration he swung on to the track of a fine cock pheasant, determined to get it at the peak of its flight. The bird rose high above him, gold against the darkening sky.

  His gun almost vertical, he squeezed the trigger. The cock jerked and threw back its brilliant head. Got it! he thought exultantly.

  Without pausing to watch its fall he swung his gun on to another high bird. Don’t shoot across the line, he reminded himself, just in time. Watching the hen as it flew over, he turned with it, gun and arm and head moving as one, and dropped the pheasant into the bushes behind him.

  A left and a right – excellent shooting! And he’d remembered the safety rules. High on success he reloaded, swung round again and took a snap shot at another bird that had just flown over him. Missing it, he gave it his second barrel. To his chagrin it flew on unharmed, gliding down into the wood behind.

  But perhaps that was just as well, he thought, feeling slightly guilty. The bird was arguably low by the time it had crossed the line, and he was annoyed with himself for forgetting good sportsmanship in the heat of the moment.

  He glanced to his left, hoping that Will Glaven hadn’t seen him. But Will, his dog still at his peg, was already running towards him, carrying his broken gun and frowning heavily.

  Martin pulled off his ear muffs and prepared his defence. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked.

  The shoot was going on all round them, with birds flocking over and the rest of the party banging away, the hidden four on the right, and Joanna Dodd on the far left. The air was filled with the noise of guns, with pheasants’cries and whirring wings, with the headachey smell of nitro-powder and the pattering of fallen shot.

  ‘Young Laura – the housekeeper’s daughter,’ panted Will. He pointed towards the bushes in front. ‘She suddenly appeared, waving her arms to disrupt the shoot. Now she’s dived into cover to avoid being captured. Stupid kid – I’m afraid she’ll be hurt. I’m going to warn Dad and the others to hold their fire. Can you go and fetch her out?’

  Martin was concerned for the child, of course. But having had time to glance round, after the concentrated excitement of the last few minutes, he was far more worried about his girlfriend.

  ‘Alison’s disappeared! Have you seen her?’

  Will answered over his shoulder. ‘Hope couldn’t face the shoot. She ran to hide in the wood behind us and Alison went after her. They’re all right, it’s young Laura who needs rescuing!’

  He sprinted off along the track. Martin, still holding his unloaded gun, plunged into the bushes.

  What he felt was an overwhelming surge of relief that it wasn’t Alison who had put herself at risk. This wasn’t a safe place to be, between the pheasants and the guns. Quite apart from the spent pellets, some of which came zinging down with a force that shredded twigs from trees, there was also the possibility of being hit by one of the falling birds. And four pounds deadweight of meat and feathers, coming straight down at speed, would certainly break bones.

  ‘Laura!’ he shouted, uneasy for his own neck as well as hers. He forced his way through the cover, using the butt of his gun to bash the brambles that reached out to snatch at him. There was no sign of the girl at first. Then he caught a glimpse of her, running from one clump of bushes to another, parallel with the ride.

  ‘Laura! Stay where you are!’ he shouted.

  She ignored him and disappeared again, just as another flush of pheasants came over.

  But fewer guns were firing now, thank God. Will Glaven was evidently doing a good job, because they fell silent one by one all along the right of the line.

  Martin sighed with relief and returned to the open ride. The girl was no longer in danger, and Will would no doubt deal with her when she decided to show her face.

  The firing hadn’t stopped completely, though. Over on the extreme left of the line, isolated by her ear muffs and oblivious of what was happening elsewhere, Joanna Dodd was still bringing down birds with deadly accuracy.

  Martin decided to tell her that the shoot had been stopped, at least temporarily. But as he approached her, he saw that they were about to be joined by unwelcome visitors.

  Running towards the wood from the direction of the minor road came a scruffy, placard-carrying rabble. As they neared the ride, Martin could read their placards. BIG GUNS – TINY MINDS was one scornful message. MURDERERS! bawled another,
unequivocally.

  He groaned. It wasn’t only the shooting season that had just begun, it was the anti-shooting season as well.

  Martin had hoped that none of the antis would appear while he was at Chalcot. Shooting on private land is a lawful activity; so is peaceful protest. It would be his duty as a police officer to be impartial, and that was bound to cause difficulty between him and his host.

  He anticipated no trouble from most of the protesters, genuine lovers of wildlife who minded terribly about birds being shot for pleasure. Like young Laura, they would make a nuisance of themselves – though hopefully they would be less foolhardy than she was. But their sole objective would be to end the shooting.

  Regular saboteurs would be different. Just stopping the shoot wouldn’t be enough for them, because they objected not only to the killing but to the people who did it. They knew their rights, and they enjoyed the exercise of power. What they came looking for was confrontation, during which they hoped to provoke at least some of the sportsmen into breaking the law.

  They were not themselves breaking the law by trespassing on the Glavens’land. It was a provocative act, but as the law stood it was not a criminal offence.

  Martin doubted the Glavens would see it like that, though. They would imagine the law was on their side because the land was theirs. Having a senior police officer as a guest, they would naturally expect him to get rid of the trespassers.

  But no police officer had the power to do it. All Martin could offer his host was the standard advice for defusing a potential confrontation with saboteurs: Don’t argue with them – don’t threaten them – don’t try to force them to leave. Just call off the shoot, pack up and go home.

  Few members of this or any other shooting party were likely to accept such tame advice. Chances were that some of them would lose their temper and take the law into their own hands, and that was an alarming prospect. At best, they would thump a few saboteurs and end up being sued for common assault. At worst –

  Bearing in mind that all members of the shooting party had a strong commitment to private property, that most of them had been drinking, and that they were armed with shotguns, the worst eventuality didn’t bear thinking about.