I thought back to my few previous encounters with Clarence. ‘I think so,’ I said. ‘He’s soft and trusting. If he’d been hurt or frightened he might go to the nearest human being for comfort and reassurance, especially if that person called to him in the right tone of voice.’
‘But there’s been no murder or assault around here,’ Isobel said.
I felt a momentary shiver run up my back.
‘Not that we know of as yet,’ Henry said with relish. ‘Perhaps somebody has good reason not to want the occurrence revealed. And what better way would there be of covering up blood splashes on a dog? Our hypothetical assailant could hardly give Clarence a forcible bath. If it makes you feel better, Beth, consider that it would be better than killing the dog and burying him quietly in the corner of a field.’
‘Well, I still think that only a psychopath could do a thing like that,’ Beth said defiantly.
‘And Charlie’s daughter isn’t one of those,’ I said. ‘She may be wild but there’s never been any suggestion that she was evil.’
‘Psychopaths are very clever about not showing it,’ Beth said.
‘Whoever did it, psychopath or not,’ I said, ‘I’ll be happier in my mind when we know who and why.’
‘Time we were going,’ Henry said without moving. ‘We’ve thought before now that somebody might be developing a spite against working spaniels. It always turned out to be a one-off.’
‘There was that old lady who was trying to make a bob or two breeding Pekes,’ Beth said sleepily. ‘She went berserk when Samson put her prize bitch in the family way.’
‘The worst that she ever did was to swipe at spaniels with her handbag,’ Isobel reminded her. ‘The truth will probably emerge of its own accord. But if it’ll set our minds at rest, John may as well ask a few questions. Come on, Henry. We’re walking home.’
*
We gave ourselves our usual easy Sunday, or as easy as a day can be with so many runs to be kept clean and so many hungry mouths ready to object loudly if their normal feeding time should be delayed by even a minute. The rest of the day was nominally free time, which meant that Beth spent it gardening with Sam nearby while I was eradicating any faults which had shown up among dogs in training, especially the impetuous Phinny (short for Delphinium). Isobel came over and updated her comprehensive records of gundog bloodlines.
On Monday, it was back to work with a vengeance. Angus Todd phoned. ‘You want to meet me over at Foleyknowe?’ It was a statement rather than a question. ‘I’m putting out a line of snares. If you gi’e me a hand you’ll ken where they are.’
I could well have done without the distraction, but Angus was perfectly right to remind me that we were obliged to free him to pursue his other careers as goose guide and small-scale game-farmer when required. If a fox was making inroads into our pheasants, a line of snares was only sensible, but the law required that they be visited at least once a day; and a party of Guns planning a winter’s break had booked Angus’s services in pursuit of the Tay geese from the Tuesday to the Friday prior to Foleyknowe’s driven pheasants on the Saturday. They would have been happy enough to come to Foleyknowe a day earlier, which would have suited us very well, but we knew that, while we could easily obtain promises, assembling a team of reliable beaters during the week was almost impossible.
I looked at the clock. ‘Would eleven-thirty be time enough?’ I asked Angus.
‘Just about. If I’ve already set off, I’ll have left the ATV for you and I’ll be on the northern march.’
‘I’ll catch up with you,’ I told him.
We broke the connection and I went to tell Beth that I would be out to lunch.
Beth had only one concern, far above foxes, dog-training or help with the chores. ‘You will eat properly?’ she asked anxiously.
‘I’ll have a pub lunch,’ I said. ‘I’ll take a couple of dogs with me and stay on to give some extra training. I’ll be back around dusk.’
Two dogs would be as much as I could manage if I had to ride Angus’s ATV, which was one of those go-anywhere four-wheel motorbikes so popular with keepers and farmers. Phinny would need another session in the rabbit pen before she could be trusted again on the loose; even one more misdeed might serve to ingrain the bad habit. We settled that I would take Fern, a young bitch getting a final polish for a client, and Conker, a slightly older dog destined to graduate to stud if he made a good enough showing at the forthcoming Spaniel Championship, for which he had already qualified. He was a brilliant performer but given to occasional lapses. It was a pity, I thought, that there was no way of making him understand the delights in store for him if he would only concentrate and remember all that he had been taught . . .
Beth went through the usual rigmarole of checking that I was warmly wrapped and that I had money, my pills and towels for the dogs. Her solicitude used to annoy me but I had come to recognize it as stemming from anxiety mixed with love and to realize that I would be desperately hurt if it should ever cease. I bore it patiently, got away almost on time and arrived at Foleyknowe on the dot of eleven-thirty.
Between the big house and the stubble where we had parked the cars was a woodland strip of mature, mixed conifers. We had the use of a brick shed almost hidden by rhododendrons among the trees, and here Angus stored feed for the pheasants, along with any traps, pen sections, feeders and tools not in immediate use. Angus was loading bags of grain into his Land Rover. The ATV was still in the shed. I parked nearby. ‘With a bit of luck we can take this beast all the way,’ Angus said, patting his elderly Land Rover affectionately. ‘Chuck your dogs in the back. There’s still room.’
I accepted lifts to the top of the first hill for myself and the two dogs and brought my bagged gun out of the car. Even in four-wheel drive the Land Rover slithered on the muddy tracks and damp grass. The cattle had been taken under cover by now but there were sheep in the fields and I had to climb in and out on gate duty. The still-unploughed stubbles were easier going, but Angus was sweating under his waxproofed coat by the time he had wrestled the heavy vehicle onto the crest. It occurred to me that he might have put out less effort to walk up, grain and all. I watched him set six snares along an obvious fox route where there were signs of recent droppings.
The drinking points had refilled automatically during the recent rain with water from the roofs of the low shelters. Angus topped up the feeding hoppers with grain while I hunted the dogs among the gorse. The pheasants were still too precious an asset to be squandered in training, although the cocks would become expendable in a month or so; but there were rabbits in plenty and it was easy to miss the birds with a shot or two but give a few retrieves on the bunnies. It was all valuable steadiness training and the two dogs came out of it well, hunting close, dropping to flush or to shot and retrieving to hand in fine style. Without counting any chickens I had hopes of a successful January to start another year.
A keen wind was slicing across the hilltop. Back in the Land Rover, Angus produced a flask of hot coffee and we sat for a minute warming our hands on the mugs, looking down over our territory and comparing notes. A different pattern of drives would be needed if the ground was to be driven again only a week after the previous shoot, but before the coffee was gone we had made our tentative plans, subject to the weather on the day.
While we crossed a saddle to the next crest, Angus could relax and listen for a moment, so I told him about Clarence’s misadventure. Angus had been my sergeant in the Falklands and I knew him for a tough and unsentimental character, but even so he managed to surprise me. ‘Maybe that’ll learn the bugger,’ he said.
‘Teach him what?’ I said, trying not to sound as though I was correcting Angus’s syntax.
‘To stay at home instead of stravaiging all over the countryside. A confirmed wanderer is that dog. Many’s the time I’ve seen him in our cover here after the rabbits, though he never caught one to my knowledge. I’ve never seen him chase a pheasant either,’ Angus admitted handsomely, ‘although
that’s not to say he never does it.’ He glanced sideways and saw me looking at him. ‘I didn’t trim his tail for him – never got close enough – so don’t put it down to me.’
‘Who do you think I should put it down to?’
Angus had to give his full attention to wrestling the Land Rover through a gate in a dip and round the end of an old stone wall. A small flock of pheasants were sunning themselves in the middle of the track, sheltered by a broom-covered mound; they were less tame than they would have been a month or two earlier but even so they scurried out of the way at their own pace and Angus had to slow down just where he would have liked to keep going. As one, the birds suddenly took oft I thought that they must have heard what Angus was calling them under his breath. All four wheels span before he could nurse us up and round.
Then we were at the next feeding area. I gave the dogs another workout while Angus filled the feeders and a large storage bin and checked on the water supply. Any old fox-tracks were indistinct. Angus produced a brush-cutter from the back of his Land Rover, fired up the two-stroke motor and cut back the cover by which a fox could have crept up on the feeding birds. When I rejoined him he was setting snares in a pathway which he had cut for the purpose.
‘I suppose Clarence didn’t back into your brush-cutter?’ I suggested.
Angus looked at me, wondering whether to take offence and indulge in one of his occasional, calculated flare-ups. But he knew that I can give as good as I get in that department; and years of habit, NCO to officer, may have tipped the balance.
‘I don’t have accidents,’ he said, quite mildly for him. ‘I’m too bloody careful. And any bits I chop off that bugger on purpose will be off the other end.’ He looked at me again, more searchingly. ‘Here, you’re getting cold. Your lady’ll take the brush-cutter and chop lumps off me if I let you freeze. Get back in the Land Rover. I’ve finished here and that’s as many snares as you’ll want to visit in a day. The birds’ll be disturbing them and half of them’ll have to be reset.’ He spoke gruffly and I thought that his concern was genuine and that he would set twice as many snares as soon as he was doing the visiting himself.
I was glad to get in out of the cold. Angus dropped his brush-cutter beside the dogs in the now almost empty back of the mud-plastered Land Rover and joined me.
‘You never answered my question,’ I said as we rolled down another track.
‘What question was that?’
‘I asked you who you thought I should put Clarence’s docking down to.’
Angus shrugged and then caught the resulting swerve. ‘I don’t know many of the beggars around here. Just the two farmers, and either one of them could have got sick of wandering dogs coming around. I’m not saying that Clarence would have worried sheep, spaniels aren’t bad that way, but dogs are pack animals and there’d always be the risk that he’d bring a companion with him, a terrier maybe or a collie. That was my fear with the pheasants. Then there’s the owners of any bitches in season. He’s a devil for wandering, that Clarence – looking to get his leg over, most often. And he’d steal food quick as look at it.
‘A good worker when his mind’s on the job, I’ll say that for him,’ Angus added fairly. As keeper, Angus had mostly seen Clarence in the beating line where little more would be asked of him than to crash through the bushes to push the birds out. ‘And I’ve time for Mr Hopewell, he’s a gent, but there it is. I’ve no difficulty picturing in my mind almost anybody taking a hasty scliff at Clarence with a knife, say, or a pruning hook, not meaning any great harm but lashing out in irritation and forgetting for the moment what it is that he has in his hand. You see what I mean?’
I said that I could see exactly what Angus meant. ‘You don’t suppose that Charlie could have made up the story to explain an illicit tail-docking when the SSPCA came after him?’
‘Doubt it,’ Angus said. ‘If he kept him undocked to – what? – about four years old, why for would he suddenly dock him now? He doesn’t do enough hunting to skin his tail in the gorse, the way yours would. If you’re looking that near to home – which I’m no’ suggesting you should – it’s no’ Mr Hopewell you should be looking at.’
I did not want to hear any more. Changing a subject with Angus was like trying to divert a runaway train, but I managed it somehow.
We had covered the salient parts of the northern boundary – which adjoined the forestry and the source of any wandering foxes – from east to west and we were descending close to the other branch of the local road, which formed our eastern boundary. From the village, it was signposted to Kirkton of Littleknapp, wherever that might be, but it seemed to be heading in a general direction between Perth and Coupar Angus.
A broad dam screened by trees winked in sudden sunshine. At a cost of little more than a few days of a bulldozer, we had dammed the burn and flooded some waste ground. The duck, both released and wild, formed a useful addition to a shooting day.
‘Do you want to give the dogs some water-work?’ Angus asked. ‘I could let you out here.’
‘Not today,’ I said. ‘These two are good in water and I don’t want them wet for the rest of the day.’
‘A pity.’ We turned into the track along the bottom of the valley, scattering ahead of us more pheasants which had come out to enjoy the sun. ‘Those duck get too damn tame. If you get the chance later in the week, have the dogs chase them around a bit.’
‘I’ll remember. Are you coming for lunch at the pub?’
‘Better not,’ he said reluctantly. ‘I’ve the rest of the feeders to fill, and then I’d best be off home and get everything ready. Somehow getting up and about before dawn isn’t quite the fun it used to be. When we were in the Regiment, I swore that once I was out I’d never get up early again, and here I am doing it off my own bat without even a bugler to wake me.’ He yawned at the thought.
‘You know you love it,’ I said to encourage him. The present arrangement was too well-balanced for me to risk allowing him to throw it up in a fit of despondency. The combination of a day at the driven pheasants with several days wildfowling or rough-shooting was proving to be a popular winter break for busy, middle-income men and provided an invaluable shop-window for the dogs. ‘Have you found anything for your visitors to do on the spare day?’ I asked.
‘I offered them another day on the foreshore, but they wanted to take it easy before the pheasants,’ he said disgustedly. It was all right, apparently, for Angus to feel his age; sedentary office workers, it seemed, should be made of sterner stuff. ‘If I can spot any kale being vandalized, I’ll see if I can’t settle them down for a day in pigeon hides, shooting over decoys. Then I’ll go back to my bed.’
‘Will you be going anywhere off-road during the week?’ I asked him.
‘Nowhere your car couldn’t manage. You want the Land Rover? Daft question,’ he said quickly, laughing at himself. ‘Of course you do. I’ll meet you back here and we’ll swap. Two-thirtyish?’
‘Fine,’ I said.
He pulled up beside my car. I transferred my gun and the dogs into it and a few minutes later I parked on the tarmac forecourt of the local hotel. The hotel was small, having grown from being a modest village pub by dint of several extensions, but it was one of the new generation of smaller Scottish hotels, aspiring to a standard of comfort, décor and cuisine that a few years earlier would have been exclusive to the largest of city hotels. The original building had been gloomy and now was only relieved by pale paint and bright lights; but the main bar was in an extension with wide windows and a view to the Sidlaw Hills. The hotel garden, spread outside the windows, had been intelligently landscaped and even now, outside the flowering season, it was cheerful with variegated foliage and the bright stems of dogwood.
On previous visits I had made do with the soup and crusty bread; but fresh air and exercise had roused my sluggish appetite and I ordered Guinness and the scampi. The latter arrived in quantity, complete with generous portions of chips and salad. Slightly daunted, I set to wor
k on it, and had reduced the mountain to a mere hillock of chips when a stocky male figure loomed over me.
I looked up. Charlie Hopewell was regarding me from behind his generous nose. He was dressed comfortably but was much too smart for a shooting day, which was how I had always seen him in recent years. ‘Join you for a moment?’ he asked.
‘Of course. For lunch?’
He dropped into a chair. ‘I’ve eaten.’
‘But you don’t have a drink,’ I said. I turned to try and catch the eye of a waitress.
‘Nothing for me,’ Charlie said hastily. ‘There’ll be plenty where I’m going. I tried to phone you at home but they said that you’d either be on the shoot or lunching here. John, I’m in a pickle.’
I pushed my plate away. ‘Tell me about it.’
Charlie looked distressed. ‘Don’t let me spoil your lunch.’
‘I’ve already eaten twice my usual,’ I assured him. ‘I feel pregnant.’ I began work on the remains of my Guinness.
‘I hope it’s a pretty one. That’s all right, then. Listen, will you keep Clarence for me for a few days?’
The last thing that we would want about the place would be a traumatized, non-breeding resident, not bringing in training fees and subject to aberrations of wandering and lust. ‘We don’t usually take boarders,’ I said carefully.
Charlie looked horrified. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to leave within the hour if I’m to catch my plane. Hannah can go to my neighbour – not the sexy one, the one the other side – but I don’t know what to do about Clarence. The nearest kennels had him once before and he came back with fleas and kennel cough. There’s another place he’s been at, but they said they wouldn’t have him again at any price. He got out of his run, last time, pinched the family’s Sunday dinner and – oh – raped the cat or something, I don’t know what, they wouldn’t even talk about it.’
‘Can’t he stay where he is? Hannah could feed him and walk him.’
Sting in the Tail (Three Oaks Book 6) Page 4
