‘You’re out of your mind,’ I said, laughing. ‘You’d better let me see you home before you end up inside the bottle. You’re just narked because I put you out of a trial when your dog ran in to shot. He took off after a rabbit—’

  ‘It’d been pricked, I swear it!’ For a moment his voice stilled the hubbub in the room. Dogs can arouse grander passions than love. ‘A retriever’s s’posed to retrieve what’s shot, yes? ’Sall right for you. Spaniels only have to rampage around the bushes, scaring out anything that’s stupid enough to pay any attention to them. They can’t retrieve worth a damn anyway.’

  I stopped laughing. This was fighting talk. ‘Tell you what I’ll do,’ I said. ‘I’ll put up one of my spaniels against either of your Labs in a straight retrieving test, for a hundred quid. Are you on?’ I looked around. ‘We’ll need witnesses . . .’

  He was far gone but not as far gone as that. He shook his head as if to clear it and let go of my arm.

  ‘Any time you change your mind,’ I said. I moved on, smiling. Laurie had handed me the perfect means of sending him on his way whenever he was in his obstreperous mood.

  I squeezed my way to the bar and tried to get the barmaid’s attention. A hand caught my elbow and a voice said ‘Pint of Guinness is it?’

  I nodded. It was easier than shouting. I had been thinking along the lines of a double brandy, but decided against it. At a time of ill-health it is all too easy to slip into a habit of heavy drinking.

  Henry Kitts caught the barmaid’s eye – which was more than I had managed to do, but he topped me by several inches and his hooked nose and high colour took nothing away from a commanding presence. ‘Don’t know how you manage to drink that stuff,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t either,’ I said. ‘I’m only now beginning to acquire the taste. It just makes all other beers taste like piss. Dr Harvey says it might help me to put some weight back on.’

  He looked at me critically. ‘It hasn’t done much for you so far,’ he said. The Guinness arrived. ‘Let’s find a quiet corner.’

  There were no seats to be had. We tucked ourselves into a nook at the extreme end of the bar. I still had to speak up but I had no problem in hearing. Henry, like many an older man whose hearing has begun to fail, had developed a loud voice. I expected him to talk about the murder but, as with Beth, first things came first. ‘I hear you got a second,’ he said. ‘Isobel phoned me. So now you can go for gold, try for the championship, eh?’

  ‘That’s the general idea. And if anybody can do it, Isobel can.’

  ‘I believe you, my boy. Look how she makes me jump through hoops.’ He beamed at me. Although he was twice my age, he had twice the vitality. ‘You heard about Laura Daiches?’

  ‘There was a police sergeant at me for half the day,’ I said. ‘I had to cut out most of my training schedule. Although, to be fair, he did help with feeding the pups. He took away my two-two rifle. I gather that Mrs Daiches was killed by something similar.’

  ‘An easy day now and again won’t do the dogs any harm.’ Henry had been a noted handler in his day and still kept an old spaniel. ‘But if your sergeant told you that Laura Daiches was shot to death, he lied.’

  ‘I don’t think he said quite that. Should we be talking like this in here?’ I added.

  He glanced around at the crowd, which was slowly thinning as those who had not yet eaten drifted home or into the dining room. ‘What the hell do you think they’re all talking about?’

  ‘True. The Sergeant told me that she seemed to have a bullet in her.’

  ‘Not quite the same thing. And also not quite true. She died from strangulation. Hugh Miller found her – the milkman, you know him?’

  ‘Only to shout at when he makes too much noise in the morning and sets the dogs barking.’ I took a pull at my Guinness and found that I was beginning to like it.

  ‘He didn’t tell me anything about a bullet,’ Henry said resentfully. He led a quiet life and hated to be left off the grapevine. ‘I only found out about it later. But Hugh said that her coat was powdered with frost when he found her, so maybe he didn’t see it. He usually leaves her milk at the front. But he got there before dawn, which is how he came to notice that the light over the back door was still on. And her dogs were kicking up a fuss, so he took a look. It must have given him a hell of a shock. He said that her silk scarf had been pulled very tightly round her neck and knotted. But even if he hadn’t seen the scarf, he said that he’d have known from the face.’

  I preferred to avoid speaking, or even thinking, about the face of someone who had died in that way. ‘It all sounds very hard to believe,’ I said. ‘Even when you’ve accepted the fact of a woman being deliberately killed in our peaceful corner – where the apex of drama is usually two dogs fighting over a bone – the idea that she was killed by two different methods is weird. Unless . . . from what the Sergeant told me, all they knew at the time was that she seemed to have a bullet-hole in her. Could somebody have strangled her and then, not being sure that she was dead, stabbed her with some sort of spike?’

  ‘Ingenious,’ Henry said, ‘but no. I must have been visited later than you. By an inspector and a constable,’ he added, as though that put him one up on me. ‘Somebody seems to have told them that I had a small-bore rifle but I haven’t. Gave it up years ago. I said that their informant, whom they refused to name – assuming, I suppose, that we would never guess who it was – must have seen me with the airgun I use on the starlings and not known the difference. Anyway, they were still waiting for the pathologist to do his stuff but they were quite definite. Hole clean through the body. And not in anything like a straight line. Got to have been a bullet.’

  ‘Then it doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘It could do.’ Henry was an avid reader of mysteries and claimed always to arrive at a solution before the fictional detective, if the writer had played fair. ‘I think you were looking at it the wrong way round. The killer is somebody who’d threatened her, or who she was scared of for some other reason. She’d have screamed her head off if he’d come any closer. So he . . . or she . . . let’s call it “they” . . . they shoot her from over the garden fence. A two-two bullet’s very small and doesn’t pack much of a punch but it could go right through if it didn’t hit a major bone. She goes down but she’s obviously far from dead. So he hops over the fence or goes round by that gate at the corner of the garden and finishes her off with her scarf.’

  ‘Why not another bullet?’ For the tenth time, I put the little radio to my ear. One of the dogs was snoring. I recognised Hector of Bravington’s snore, which had the high-pitched drone of a model aeroplane.

  ‘I can think of a dozen reasons,’ Henry said. ‘A two-two isn’t very loud. The neighbours might well put one shot down to somebody doing a little late training with a blank cartridge pistol. But it would have set her stupid beasts barking. Imagine her husband or a neighbour sticking their head out of the window and saying, “What’s all the row about?”’

  ‘I suppose it could have happened that way,’ I said.

  ‘That or about ten others.’

  ‘Were any shots heard?’

  ‘That, of course, is the question they’re all asking each other. Since nobody, not even the police, has much idea of the time of death yet, their answers don’t mean very much. From what I could learn before you came in, somebody was banging away up at your place just after dusk. And somebody else – probably Neill Cory – was flighting pigeon in the big wood. I haven’t heard of any other shots. Not yet. But there was some hammering going on.’

  ‘I was doing some pup-training in the barn, using blanks.’

  Henry looked at me with mild anxiety. ‘I hope you can prove it if you have to. Your regular shouting matches with the late lady must put you fairly high on the list of suspects. And while we’re on the subject of your activities,’ he added, ‘I knew there was something else I meant to ask you. Are you sleeping with my wife?’

  Was it imagination or had conversation in the bar faltered for a second? I forced myself to look around. Nobody seemed to be looking our way. Or were they avoiding my eye? There were no notebooks to be seen.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Henry said. ‘They’re talking murder. In fact, this is probably the first evening for months they’re not talking about you two. It’s all right,’ he repeated. ‘I don’t mind. Twenty years ago, ten even, I’d have minded like hell; but I’m getting past that sort of thing now. Sex, I mean. Frankly, when you come to my age you’ll find that it isn’t worth the effort. You begin to wonder what all the fuss was about.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Henry,’ I began.

  He rolled on without hearing me. ‘So what I wanted to say was that, if you are, for God’s sake be a man and make a proper job of it. An upstanding young fellow like you, even if you are a bit underweight, shouldn’t be sending her home to me still expecting attention I’m no longer fit to provide. And I don’t want her getting discontented again and wandering off in search of a bit of rough. I’d hate that.’ His voice seemed to rebound from the high ceiling. He was warming to his theme. ‘Getting an Argie bullet through you is no excuse. They didn’t shoot your balls off, did they?’

  ‘I did not stop a bullet in the . . . the Falklands,’ I said firmly. It felt strange to be apologising to a husband for not being fit enough to service his wife more thoroughly but I felt that I had to make the effort. ‘I came through without a scratch and then picked up a bug in Central America—’

  ‘Lower your voice,’ he said sternly. ‘Here they come.’

  Beth seemed to arrive first bounce. She was in her early twenties but I still had to make the effort to remember that she was not a schoolgirl – she seemed the very personification of youth with her long-legged walk, short skirts, anoraks and sensible shoes. Her face, too, showed off a perfect complexion and big, bright eyes. Her dark hair was pulled back into a pony-tail. I was not alone in my difficulty. Policemen were always checking her driving licence in the belief that she must be under-age.

  ‘We thought you’d be here. Isn’t it great?’ she said. ‘Can we still get an entry for the Spaniel Championship Stake? Could I have a shandy, please?’

  Taking her questions in order I said that it was, that there were places reserved for late qualifiers and that she certainly could. ‘What’s Isobel drinking?’ I asked.

  ‘Brandy and soda. Have you been all right?’

  I sighed. Brandy always seemed to inflame the passionate side of Isobel’s nature. ‘I’ve been fine. You’ll have the other half?’ I asked Henry.

  ‘Pint of Eighty Shilling,’ he said after careful deliberation, although he rarely drank anything else except when he was heading for a real binge. Only a weak bladder and a great deal of walking saved him from developing a beer-belly.

  The order was waiting on the bar long before Isobel reached us. She had paused for a word with Mr McCready, our local vet. Their relationship had never been of the best. Mr McCready was an elderly man, ostensibly in semi-retirement, but he still expected to do all the veterinary work in the neighbourhood. Isobel, who wanted no more than to concentrate on Three Oaks Kennels and to exercise her skills on the minor ailments of our residents and the relentless tracking of congenital ailments through pedigrees, would have been happy to leave the rest to him. Unfortunately his manner was so unpleasant, and his reputation so much damaged by persistent rumours, that animal owners preferred to call on her for help. Isobel tried hard to remain within the bounds of professional etiquette, but not always to the satisfaction of Mr McCready.

  Their voices were rising above the hubbub in the bar.

  ‘I certainly did try to contact you,’ Isobel was saying. ‘Either you were out or you were asleep.’

  ‘It could have waited,’ McCready retorted. He had a penetrating, nasal voice which dominated the room. The plaintive note was unmistakable.

  ‘No way could it have waited. It was an emergency. And the owner had already made up his mind to drive the poor creature into St Andrews if I wouldn’t act.’

  (She was letting him down lightly. I had overheard the distraught owner’s words. ‘I wouldn’t go back to that fool McCready for a flea-powder,’ had been the kindest of them.)

  Beth was speaking to me. ‘Who on earth could have done such a thing to Mrs Daiches?’ she asked.

  ‘Henry can tell you all about it,’ I said.

  I had missed the first part of McCready’s retort. ‘. . . after that flagrant piece of poaching you come to me for help?’

  Isobel’s voice was slightly slurred but she spoke slowly and lucidly. She was never an aggressive drunk. ‘I’m not equipped for major surgery and I prefer never to operate on my husband’s bitch. Liza’s hormones are playing up and it’s time she was spayed.’

  Firmly bypassing the point, McCready said, ‘Somebody’s been spreading rumours about me.’ (This was true. Mrs Cory had been damning him from here to breakfast time.)

  ‘Not me,’ Isobel said. ‘And as far as I’m concerned, you’re competent until you prove yourself otherwise. Do the job or turn it down, it’s all the same to me.’

  They spoke, in calmer tones, for another minute or two before Isobel broke away and joined us. She was walking with care but otherwise you would never have known that her bloodstream was ninety proof.

  ‘Silly man!’ she said. ‘He couldn’t see that I was only trying to do him a favour. Asking him, in the middle of a crowd, if he’d operate on poor old Liza seemed the best way of countering the poison that Mrs Cory’s been spreading about him. He’s competent enough; it’s his manner that makes him enemies. And he’s trying to pretend that he’s broken-hearted over Mrs Daiches. Only a week ago he was calling her a fool and a crook for backing up Olive Cory over a valuation. As the Americans say, he can dish it out but he can’t take it.’

  Isobel was, as I have said, well preserved. Even seen beside Beth she could have passed for thirty. Her Wellingtons had been changed for court shoes and she had disposed of the old waterproof which she would have worn at the Field Trial. Her soft tweeds were definitely for the country but, with her hair plainly but skilfully dressed, she looked as if she had dressed for a party. She was plump but in a firm, bouncy style that promised – and provided – greater delights than any fashionable slimness.

  ‘Many congratulations,’ I said. ‘Here’s a drink in celebration. If you’d got another first, he’d have been a Field Trial Champion and it would have been champagne.’

  She accepted the brandy. ‘Remind me to get a first next time,’ she said. ‘We were unlucky.’

  ‘Luck always comes into it, no matter how hard the judges try to be fair,’ I said. ‘Just be luckier at the Spaniel Championship Stake. A good placing there brings more kudos, and opens more purse-strings, than a title gained over two lesser events. But you’ll make it. You’re the best handler in the business.’

  ‘Dear boy!’ she said, smiling. ‘Never stop telling me that.’

  All Beth’s attention had seemed to be on the details of the murder which Henry was shouting into her ear, but she had heard our exchange. ‘You don’t think that Mr Cunningham’s training might have had something to do with it?’ she asked. It was as near as I ever heard her come to being catty.

  Isobel’s lip twitched. I thought that she was going to snap out a tart reply. Then she relaxed visibly. ‘It had everything to do with it,’ she said. She stretched to kiss me on the cheek and whispered in my ear. ‘I think you deserve a little tender, loving care.’

  So Beth had been right. Isobel was feeling amorous. I tried, unsuccessfully, to think of a polite evasion. I was saved by what I thought at the time to be a happy coincidence. The small radio which I was still holding began to bark its head off. Henry spluttered into his beer and Beth jumped like a startled faun.

  ‘I’ll go,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s probably only the police sniffing around. But I heard something about dog-poisoning. The car’s at the front?’

  ‘Yes,’ Beth said. ‘But I’ll come—’

  ‘I’ll be back,’ I said. ‘Stay and enjoy your drinks. It may only be a fox.’

  I got out into the chill, fresh air.

  In good health, I could have run the distance to the kennels in a few minutes, but not in my debilitated state. The large estate car was parked a few yards along the kerb. I dug out my own key. Samson snuffled as I got in. He was a wise and experienced little dog and he knew from the reactions of Isobel and Beth that he had done well. He expected a few moments of petting but he had to make do with a quick word of greeting. I was in a hurry.

  The moon was up and I knew the road well. I could manage without lights. Rather than arrive noisily, I spurted up to forty, switched off and coasted the slight upward gradient. The car came to a halt near the gates.

  I got out quietly, easing the car door shut, and hurried over the grass. My warm coat was still hanging in the bar and I felt the cold biting even through my thickest sweater and the scarf which was tucked into it. I had left the lights on over the kennels and runs and there was nobody to be seen there. At my approach the last of the barking stopped.

  The house looked normal but I headed for the back door to make a quick check. I had the house keys in my hand as I stepped into the dark recess.

  Something hard hit me in the stomach. It was a blow which should not have bothered me but I went down as if I had stopped the bullet with which my friends were determined to credit me.

  Feet gritted on the gravel and somebody stooped over me. Hands took hold of my scarf, pulled the knot round to the back and jerked it tight.

  I blacked out. It was just like falling asleep.

  Chapter Eight

  I came round as suddenly and as completely as I had blacked out. This, I was told later, was typical of unconsciousness produced by cutting off the blood supply to the brain for a short period. Apart from a soreness around the solar plexus, I felt quite up to my usual, not very high, standard. Even my brain, which too often felt as if it were coated in treacle, was clear. The bright light which was bothering my eyes turned out to be the lamp over the back door which somebody had switched on. The face of Henry, dramatically side-lit, was looking anxiously down on me. My head was in a comfortable lap which turned out to be Beth’s.

 

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