‘I don’t remember my late mother making such a fuss when I was four years old,’ Honey said as they pulled away.
Dodson was silent until they were halted at traffic lights. Then he said, ‘You’re lucky. I wish I had somebody to make that kind of fuss over me.’ Honey nearly said that being fussed over was not all that it was cracked up to be. She would cheerfully have considered giving Allan Dodson one of her nursemaids. But no. When she came to think about it, June was indispensable. Sandy, on the other hand . . . she did not know what to make of Sandy but he was essential to her life’s happiness. She could put up with a little fussing.
Allan Dodson, as was to be expected, proved to be a more than competent driver. He filtered through the clutter of Sunday drivers without making a ripple or exceeding the speed limit, or even straying onto the bus lanes. Honey who, like most drivers, hated to be driven in her own car, soon relaxed and stopped treading on imaginary brakes. She discovered afresh that the passenger can see and enjoy much more of the view than the driver. Just as she made this discovery a morning cloud drifted aside and the gentle winter sun warmed the land and brought out the pale, harmonious colours of winter. With the trees bare of leaves, the distant prospects were more open to view. She took a deep breath and let an almost forgotten delight in the countryside of central Scotland take over.
She let Dodson choose his route and he took to the motorways. He took a chance on the remaining bottleneck before South Queensferry and was lucky with the eternal tailback. Then they were over the suspension bridge and back on the motorway. Dodson said that he had no preferences in music, just as long as it wasn’t loud enough to distract him. Honey had a stack of discs in the back of the car, loaded into a rack that could deliver whatever was selected into the player. She decided that she needed cheering up. They cruised to Perth through cold sunshine and to the sound of Gilbert and Sullivan operettas. Comic opera was a novelty to Dodson and he slowed slightly so as to hear every word. Gilbert’s commentary on A Policeman’s Lot had him nodding agreement. Honey began to direct the route, north and west from Perth. They were in surprisingly lush countryside, considering the season and the locale.
‘What are we after here?’ Dodson asked suddenly.
‘Good question,’ Honey said. ‘Damned if I know. Perhaps it’s a hangover from my childhood when I was quite sure that my dad knew everything. Anyway, I can trust his discretion and he’s always a source of sound advice. Go left here. What’s more, if he doesn’t know the answer to a question he knows a man who does.’
‘Now that,’ said Dodson, ‘is useful. And you’re the person who knows a man who knows a man who does.’
‘I hope so. Go right here.’
Dodson turned right and went back to his listening.
From a well-maintained B-road that undulated between woods and fields, they turned into a broad drive that ran between giant beeches, clumps of rhododendron and well-mown grass. The trees were bare so that they could see, between the rhododendrons, a comparatively small but undeniably stately home as it became ever closer. It revealed itself eventually as combining the best of Palladian style with the worst of Scottish baronial, yet managing to combine them in a manner that was dignified, charming and slightly humorous. Whether the humour had been deliberate or not had long been a matter for debate within the family. The gravel sweep supported some half-dozen cars ranging from a new Bentley to a rusting Mini. The house looked very well kept and, though it was a bad time of year for gaining a first impression of a garden, the lawns were clear of fallen leaves and tidily edged, the box hedges were well clipped and the cotoneaster bushes were a blaze of berries.
‘Well,’ Dodson said, ‘I’d heard that your Dad was well off, but I’d no idea.’
Honey was inclined to forget the impact that evidence of her father’s wealth could have on visitors. ‘I don’t make a noise about it,’ she said, ‘and I’ll be grateful if you play it down. Sandy and I don’t let my father subsidise me by more than just a little. We prefer to make our own way in the world. I’ll tell you something funny,’ she added. ‘When I finished at university, my father told me that he would stop my allowance unless I got a job. He nearly had a stroke when I joined the Met. He’s got over it now and I think he’s quite proud of me.’
‘So I should think,’ Dodson said stoutly.
‘Thank you. Anyway, I don’t want to be isolated from my colleagues, so don’t go telling tales.’ She touched the switch on the door. The window slid down, letting in a waft of cold air and a smell of winter countryside. ‘Good afternoon, McMey,’ she added to a figure, unmistakably that of a butler, that had hurried over the gravel.
‘Good afternoon, Madam. They’re shooting today.’ He paused and listened to a faint popping in the distance. ‘That seems to be coming from Hangar Wood. The next drive and the last will be Daunt Valley. I suggest that you join your father there. Will you be staying for dinner?’
‘You’d better assume that we will. This is Allan Dodson, by the way. A colleague.’
McMey bowed. ‘Mr Sandy was unable to come?’
‘Mr Sandy had an important meeting on the golf course. He wasn’t invited to shoot, probably because I’d have been as jealous as hell. I daren’t shoot until after the baby’s born, not after the fright that we had.’
The butler smiled understandingly. ‘Of course, Madam.’
‘I’ll see you later and you can give me all the scandal. Drive on, Dodson. Follow the drive round the house and then go left.’
Their way took them through a maze of farm roads. They passed a group of vehicles parked on a triangle of waste ground behind a barn. Their track dropped into a valley, crossed a broad stream by a hump-backed bridge and turned along beside the water. Dodson parked where Honey directed, on another small area of apparently waste ground. She seemed very particular about it. ‘The other vehicles have to squeeze in here too,’ she explained. ‘And they can’t go too far upstream or they’ll be seriously in the way. You shoot, don’t you? But not game or wildfowl.’
‘How did you know that, Ma’am?’
Honey paused in the act of pulling on the boots that lived in the back of the Range Rover. ‘I saw a cartridge box when you stowed your leathers in the panniers. The shot was small. Clay pigeons?’
‘Yes. I’ve never shot anything live, except rats. I’ve nothing against it except the cost. A friend tried to interest me in golf, but it seems a lot of walking for no return. After so much walking, I’d feel entitled to bring home something to eat, but I could never afford to shoot pheasants.’
‘Not everybody can. Would you mind lacing up my boots? I have difficulty getting down so far. But clay pigeon shooting doesn’t come cheap by the time you’ve paid for your entry and your cartridges. There are DIY syndicates, you know; the members share the work and take turnabout beating. Or you could try decoying for wood pigeon, or go to the foreshore after duck. Maybe you’re perfectly content as you are, but nothing beats the thrill of eating meat that you gathered for yourself.’
Dodson looked up from tying Honey’s laces. ‘I know you’re right,’ said. ‘This stream produces trout, doesn’t it? I fish when I can and I could see that most of the trees had been kept back from the bank, to give room for casting.’
‘We’ll make a detective of you yet.’
‘You can’t beat the flavour of a fish you caught yourself.’
They left the car and walked beside the stream. Honey leaned on Dodson’s arm for security over the uneven ground. But their interlude of rural peace was ending. The sound of shots had died some minutes earlier. It was now replaced by the grind of vehicles. Two Range Rovers and a long-chassis Shogun came rocking along the track, followed by the Toyota pickup that always acted as game cart. They parked in line with Honey’s car.
Mr Potterton-Phipps was the first to emerge from the leading vehicle. He was a tall man of around sixty, still lean and stringy but fit. His silver hair was thin but this was compensated for by a moustache of vaguely m
ilitary shape. His tweed suit and boots had been of very good quality but were well worn. Honey’s heart seemed to slip when she realised that he was looking older than when she had last seen him, but she kissed her father’s cheek and told him that he looked well.
‘Delighted to see you, my dear,’ he said. ‘To what do we owe?’
‘I want to pick your brains. Sandy’s golfing so I let Allan Dodson drive me through. I’m rather off driving while the bump gets in the way.’
‘Your mother was the same. Good afternoon.’ The two men shook hands. ‘Always happy to meet any of Honeypot’s friends.’
‘Don’t use that name or I shan’t come again,’ Honey said; all the same, it gave her a moment of nostalgic pleasure to hear it used and on her home turf.
‘Sorry, my dear. Keep forgetting that you’re grown up now. I take it you’re not shooting these days?’ (Honey shook her head.) ‘Does your friend shoot?’
‘He does,’ Honey said before Dodson could deny it.
‘Good.’ Mr Potterton-Phipps had a surprisingly youthful smile. ‘This will be the last drive. Got to give the birds time to calm down and go up to roost. I’ve just had a message. There’s a meeting going on in Montreal, rather an important one, and they want some figures in a hurry. I’ll have to go back to the house and fax them off. Allan can take my place. Use my gun, you’re about my build. I was going to be at Number Three peg. It’s quite informal. No loaders or anything like that. Honey will look after you. See you up at the house, my dear, and then I’ll help you any way I can.’
He handed Allan Dodson a side-by-side shotgun, hung a heavy cartridge bag around the surprised young man’s neck and slid into one of the vehicles. Within seconds he was battering one of the Range Rovers back over the bumps in the track.
Honey brought Pippa out of the back of the car. Pippa was too excited to dance; she panted and stuck to heel. This was her life and nothing else other than food held any real significance for her.
Dodson found his voice. ‘For God’s sake!’ he said. ‘Your father knows nothing about me.’
‘He knows I’ll look after you.’
Dodson was not sure whether he resented being nursemaided by a woman, but he recalled that Honey was his superior officer. He had developed such a respect for her that he would not have been surprised to find that she could heal the sick. He decided that her word would be law.
The underkeeper was in charge of the line of Guns. Honey explained the change of Guns to him, promised to oversee Allan Dodson and then introduced Dodson to his immediate neighbours. She explained that Peg Three was in a favoured gap where birds sometimes channelled through.
‘I’ve never done this before,’ he muttered.
‘Well, you’re doing it now,’ she retorted softly. ‘At least you don’t have the sun in your eyes. Just remember that a side-by-side may shoot lower for you than your own over-under. And pheasants are damn quick. Not as fast as clays, but pheasants look slow because they’re big; then, when they’re coming into range, you suddenly realise that they’re going like rockets. Imagine that there’s a clay pigeon just in front of their beaks, swing through from behind and shoot at that. Just remember that a bird that’s going to pass nearer to somebody else is his bird unless you know that he’s fired both barrels and missed it. And don’t shoot at all unless you can see clear sky all round it.’
There was a pause while Allan Dodson assimilated Honey’s words of advice. ‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘But I’m not happy.’
‘Happiness is not a prerequisite,’ Honey told him. ‘But you will be, I promise. The birds will be high, coming over the trees, but they’ll look even higher. I’ll try to warn you if something’s really out of range. Now load and watch your front.’
They stood and waited. Pippa sat tight, quivering. In the distance could be heard, faintly, the tapping of sticks and occasional voices. Nothing else happened.
Dodson enjoyed stroking the fine walnut and feeling the perfect balance of the gun. He turned to look at Honey. ‘Is it always as exciting as this?’ he asked.
At that moment the first bird of the drive, a large hen pheasant, came with the wind behind it and downhill. It flicked over in silence and was gone. ‘Not always,’ Honey said. ‘That was in range. Stay alert and focus your eyes on the distance.’
Birds began to flush, coming downhill at speed and the cocks blazing with colour against the dark blue sky. Dodson missed several, below and behind. Only reluctance to admit defeat to a superior officer whom he respected stopped him from handing her the gun and going back to the car. But Honey had the knack of seeing the shot string in the air, a grey shadow that flicked on its way and was gone. She told him where he was missing and, while he was still making up his mind, gave him instant advice as to whether or not the bird was safe, his and in range. He made the adjustment between clay pigeons and the larger, slower birds and he began to connect. He finished the drive with a spectacular left-and-right, high, fast and almost overhead.
The horn went. Honey was well known to the nearer picker-up, who more usually drove a tractor on the home farm. They exchanged signals and it was understood that Honey and Pippa would look after Dodson’s birds. Pippa, in seventh heaven, did the job at a gallop and saw off a spaniel that tried to take over. The last bird was a runner and had to be hunted through deep cover. They saw the birds hung on the rack in the back of the game-cart pickup to cool. Honey judged that the bag was around a sensible hundred and fifty – not greedy but not to be despised. The beaters were emerging from the trees. Some of them had known Honey since she was old enough to join the beating line and there were greetings and enquiries. Pippa assumed that other drives were to follow and had to be put on a lead. Every line of her body language expressed disgust.
Most of the beaters set off on foot to return to their trailer. There was a gathering around the cars. The mood was sociable and one of fulfilment. Plastic glasses were used for drinks, which were served from a hamper in the back of the Shogun. Honey introduced Allan Dodson to the other guests. Most of the other Guns were accompanied by their ladies, who would have been conscripted, in most cases, for the drive home after the hospitality that followed the shoot. Some of the ladies had stood with the Guns, others had walked with the beaters. One lady had been shooting, very competently, while her husband walked. That couple had been unknown to Honey.
‘You can have one beer,’ Honey told Dodson. ‘After that, you’re on the wagon for as long as you’re driving both of me. Did you enjoy it?’
Dodson sighed. ‘Clay pigeons will never be quite the same again. And if I owned a gun of this quality I wouldn’t let anyone else lay a finger on it.’
‘Dad knew that I wouldn’t let you dent it or scratch the stock.’
Mr Potterton-Phipps had still not brought back the other Range Rover. It seemed to be expected that Honey’s car would make up the deficiency. The woman who had been shooting and her husband took occupation and a boy of about ten who had been among the beaters got into the tail with Pippa rather than be squeezed into the middle. The man had taken over their gun; he showed Honey that it was empty and then bagged it. They introduced themselves as Steven and Mary Fallow and their son Eric. One couple elected to walk. The others fitted themselves into the other vehicles. Heavily laden, the convoy travelled slowly back towards the house. Mr Fallow and Eric, who had walked with the beating line, had been able to observe Dodson’s final shots and were ragging Mrs Fallow, whose last shot had found only empty air.
The other Range Rover was waiting outside the front door. Honey’s father came out to welcome his guests and to recover his Holland and Holland twelve-bore. Dodson had recovered the shotgun from Honey who had nursed it while he drove and he handed it over reluctantly. ‘How did you get on?’ Mr Potterton-Phipps asked Dodson.
‘Six for sixteen,’ Honey said.
‘Not bad with a strange gun,’ said Mr Potterton-Phipps. ‘I’ve seen well established Guns go to pieces at that peg. We’ll have to invi
te you again.’ He looked at Honey. ‘Remind me, next time you’re coming. What did you want to discuss?’
‘Can you spare a few minutes in private?’ Honey asked.
Her father looked at his watch. ‘Now is probably the best time. We have at least an hour before dinner and the staff is perfectly capable of serving drinks and directing people to the loos. Help yourself to drinks, carry them through to the study and I’ll join you shortly.’
Chapter Fourteen
The large entrance hall contained tables set with drinks and ‘nibbles’ sufficient to keep the guests contented until an acceptable time for an early dinner. Honey remembered the hall when it had been very dark and gloomy, but her father had caused the dark oak panelling to be painted cream and a new carpet patterned in buff and yellow laid, on a soft underlay, over tiles that had always reminded her of a public lavatory. Hideous Victorian stained-glass had been replaced by clear, and between the windows hung curtains of bright material which, added to the carpet, had the extra benefit of deadening the echoes that had previously reminded visitors of a church or the same public toilet. The overall result was the transformation of a gloomy cavern, well suited for setting a gothic film abounding in vampires and werewolves, into a bright and cheerful reception room.
Allan Dodson had been presentably dressed under his leathers. His motorcycling boots had been quite appropriate in the shooting field but would clearly have been out of place amid such fresh opulence. ‘Shall I leave my boots outside?’ he asked.
‘If you like. Dad will probably appreciate the courtesy. I’ll find you some slippers in a minute. And there’s a cloakroom behind that door in the panelling. I’ll feed Pippa and then I’ll be back with you.’
A Dead Question (Honey Laird Book 2) Page 12
