Give a Dog a Name (Three Oaks Book 4)

by Gerald Hammond

  Over lunch, which was the usual snack taken amid a welter of discussion, paperwork, sudden disappearances to attend to remembered tasks and subsequent reheating of resumed meals in the microwave oven, I gave Isobel her packages and told the story of my morning.

  Beth tried very hard not to panic when I recounted my kerbside chat with Constable Peel. ‘Even if you were seen,’ she said, ‘surely anybody with any sense would know that you wouldn’t be asking questions about shot dogs and faked photographs in a public street, not after being threatened like that. I mean, you just wouldn’t.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’ I asked her.

  ‘Believe which? That you wouldn’t do it? Or that they wouldn’t believe it?’

  ‘The latter,’ I said.

  She pondered with wrinkled brow for a moment, working out which was the latter. ‘I want to believe it. Anyway, you seem to have put Dan Sievewright straight.’

  ‘If he’s the one or if he passes it on. And if he believed me.’

  Isobel was eating a toasted-cheese sandwich while checking over the contents of her packages. She looked up. ‘It could be assumed that you were making a gesture of defiance,’ she said with her mouth full. She saw the anxiety in Beth’s face and hurried to change the subject. ‘I hope you didn’t bring back any seeds of ragwort on your clothes. Pernicious stuff!’ she added, spraying crumbs.

  ‘I rather hope I did,’ I said. ‘It’s quite easy to deal with in a garden, but it wouldn’t move me to tears if Andrew Williamson found it coming up among his cereals – especially if it turns out that he’s behind all this harassment.’

  ‘Do you think he is?’ Beth asked me. She got up and began to wash dishes.

  ‘I’m damned if I know,’ I said. ‘His only quarrel with us is that Crail, who’s his landlord and holds the sporting rights, gave us permission to shoot over the farm as part of our dog-training and Williamson doesn’t make a penny off it. It isn’t a permission I’ve taken advantage of very often, because there’s damn-all on the ground. And none of our dogs has ever wandered; but God knows how much it rankled. I think I could believe it of him more easily than of any of the others we’ve come across. He’s the only one who’s been openly spiteful.’

  ‘He’s a grouchy old wretch,’ Isobel said absently, ‘but I doubt if he gives a genuine damn. He just enjoys the excuse for a good row with a neighbour.’

  ‘He might also enjoy making a neighbour squirm,’ I said. ‘Whether or not he shot Horace, if he suddenly found himself in a position to drop us in the clag he might be tempted. He has that malicious sort of humour.’

  ‘Do you think that Stardust might be in his outbuildings somewhere?’ Beth asked. ‘No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to be told again that she’s probably dead. She had . . . has the sweetest nature of any of our dogs.’ Beth had her back to me but I could hear the misery in her voice.

  I got up quickly and put an arm around her. ‘Not when there’s a stud-dog around.’

  When she turned, her cheeks were wet with tears. ‘It’s her privilege to be choosy. If she’s alive, I hope they’re being kind to her. And if . . . not . . . I hope it was done without fear or pain and I hope we can find them and make them suffer and suffer for it.’ I felt a sob shake her body but after a moment she said more calmly, ‘Do you really suppose that anybody who’s involved saw you this morning and jumped to the wrong conclusion?’

  ‘You keep asking me what I think,’ I said, ‘and I don’t know what to think. We’re playing Pin the Tail on nobody in particular, blindfold and in the dark. We’ll just have to wait and see.’

  We did not have to wait long. The phone rang in the late afternoon while we were preparing the daily feed. I was nearest to the kitchen extension so I answered it.

  The voice on the other end was distorted by an echo, as though somebody were speaking through a large tin can which had been opened at both ends, but there was no mistaking the anger and viciousness in the tone nor the meaning in the words. ‘You were warned,’ it said, ‘but you wouldn’t take a telling. Now you’re going to catch it. You may as well pack up and leave now. You’ll be out of business in a month anyway.’

  The caller hung up before I could say a word.

  I slumped into one of the fireside chairs before my knees could let me down. I must have looked shattered. Beth was staring at me, wide-eyed, and Isobel, who had just come in from one of her regular inspections of our stock for sheep ticks and other infestations, crossed the kitchen quickly and stooped to look into my face.

  Isobel sometimes examines me as though I were a sick puppy. ‘Are you going to feel my nose?’ I asked her. ‘Or shove a thermometer up my backside?’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, straightening up. ‘For a moment I thought you were going to black out again. What’s wrong?’

  ‘That was an anonymous caller,’ I said. ‘A man’s voice, but distorted. He said that we’d been warned and now we were going to catch it.’

  Beth spilled puppy meal all over the floor but Isobel kept her head. ‘You couldn’t recognise the voice? No, you wouldn’t if it was distorted. But did he have a strong accent?’

  ‘I thought not,’ I said. ‘Once I caught on to what he was saying, I listened. He may have been hiding his accent – “talking pan loaf”, as they say. His last word was certainly “anyway”, not “onywie”. But he said “take a telling”, which isn’t exactly Queen’s English.’

  ‘Well, whoever he is, he’s off his rocker or crazy with spite,’ Isobel said. ‘Once he’s fired his salvo, his weapon’s gone. What do you plan to do?’

  I shook my head. My mind had gone blank.

  Beth gave up trying to clean up the mess of meal. ‘I know what I plan to do,’ she said shakily. ‘And that’s to get our story in first. Whoever they make a stink with, the SSPCA will be consulted and I don’t want us to be caught on the defensive.’ She leaned past me and plucked the phone off the wall. ‘What’s Mr Hautry’s number?’

  I looked up the number for her. She dialled. Alex Hautry, it seemed, was in his office.

  ‘Oh, Mr Hautry,’ Beth said. ‘It’s Mrs Cunningham at Three Oaks . . . We’re fit and well, thank you, but we have a problem and we need to see you . . . Yes, it is urgent but’ – she looked at the window – ‘but I think we need daylight. Could you pay us a visit tomorrow morning? And, please, whatever comes to your attention concerning us before then, do nothing until we’ve spoken to you. We think that false allegations are being made against us . . . You promise? Bless you, that’s a relief! Oh, and be sure to wear your kilt. I’ll explain when I see you . . . Tomorrow, then.’ For some seconds she listened to what was, to me, only a faint quacking from the receiver. ‘I quite understand. Goodbye.’

  She hung up the phone and looked from one to the other of us. ‘How did I do?’

  ‘Admirably,’ Isobel said. ‘How did he respond?’

  Beth’s young face seemed to have aged with anxiety. ‘He said that he wouldn’t go off at half-cock, but I could tell that he has his reservations. If he decides that we’re guilty . . .’

  ‘He mustn’t,’ I said.

  ‘No, he mustn’t. But I think he feels he was stupid over that fox. He was trying to explain to me that he’d never seen a skinned fox before.’

  ‘I saved him from making an idiot of himself,’ I pointed out.

  ‘He may not see it that way. People aren’t always grateful for that sort of thing. You go and put your kilt on. Don’t look at me as though one of us is dottled,’ she said. ‘Isobel and I can manage to feed the dogs without your help. I’m going to bring Walnut indoors and you can spend your time fraternising with her. By the time Mr Hautry comes we want her—’

  ‘Eating out of my hand?’ I suggested.

  Beth made an impatient gesture. ‘She already does that. We want to be able to show him that she dotes on you. Just don’t let her get up on the furniture,’ she added sternly.

  Chapter Nine

  When Beth came to us first as our
kennel-maid and general dogsbody, she was in quite irrational awe of me – intimidated, perhaps, by the cruel edge that my tongue develops when illness has brought me low. But from the moment when she first saw my feet of clay, she developed an attitude as protective as that of a Doberman bitch over her litter. It is no use my protesting that I am very much better than I was; as long as the local quack shakes his head and tuts over me, as he does over every patient, Beth continues to protect me from stress, physical or mental. On almost every other subject she is deferential, sometimes excessively so when I am in need of advice or at least a joint decision; but when she thinks my health is at risk she becomes mother and nanny and wardress rolled into one intimidating package.

  In the morning, that mood was on her and I knew that resistance would only strengthen it. To tell the truth, I was a little below par after a night during which bad dreams had alternated with sleepless worrying and I was happy to be fed and settled in a chair in the sitting-room in front of a log fire with some of the endless paperwork, usually attended to by Isobel, to keep me occupied while Isobel took over my training duties.

  Gentle persuasion was going to be the order of the day when Hautry arrived and Beth was far better than I was at wheedling. She did the chores in her habitual jeans and sweater, but as soon as they were finished she changed into one of her prettier dresses and I noticed that she had taken more trouble than usual over her hair and makeup. The man from the SSPCA was going to be wheedled as he had never been wheedled before.

  I heard Alex Hautry’s car arrive but, as ordered, I stayed put, checking through our account books to see who still owed us money. The total turned out to be less than I had hoped. It was an hour later and I was trying to make sense of our VAT returns before I heard voices in the hall. I stacked my papers and got up to dump them thankfully on a side table for Isobel’s attention and shake hands.

  Hautry was a man in his thirties with red hair and a thin face. His smooth skin made him look almost girlish until one noticed the square jaw and a strong mouth. He was kilted and I saw that he was carrying the photograph. He shook my hand guardedly and accepted a chair. Beth perched on the arm of mine.

  Isobel followed them into the room a few seconds later, accompanied by Walnut. The spaniel bitch was nervous. She looked round at the several figures. For a moment, it looked as though she would bolt for her life. Then, deciding that she recognised a friend, she came over and put her paws on my knee to nose my sporran. I gave her a biscuit and she settled on the hearthrug. I saw Hautry’s eyes follow her and felt Beth sigh with relief.

  ‘Yes,’ Hautry said. ‘Well. Your wife’s told me the whole unlikely story and I’ve made the acquaintance of the dog you call Walnut.’

  ‘And?’ I said.

  ‘It’s early days to be sure.’ Caught between an overdose of Beth at her most persuasive and an habitual suspicion of most animal owners, Hautry was trying hard to be impartial. And I guessed that the incident of the fox had caused him some loss of face and it still rankled.

  Beth stiffened. ‘She wouldn’t have come to John like that if he’d been in the habit of beating her.’

  ‘You never know, with dogs. She has certainly been abused, but the leader of the pack remains the leader, whatever. I’ve seen cases in which a dog which had been starved and beaten over a long period still fawned over its master. But,’ he said firmly before Beth could protest again, ‘I’ve studied the photograph and visited the scene. The photograph isn’t sharp and the trunk of one oak can look very like another, but, try as I may, I can’t find a viewpoint in which the outline of the tree and the skyline beyond both agree with the photograph. Mrs Cunningham assures me that there’s no other oak near by.’

  ‘There isn’t,’ I said.

  ‘That’s not conclusive. Of course, if the other photograph comes into my hands – the one that Mrs Cunningham says is genuine but innocuous – and if it was clearly taken here, that would go some way towards confirming your story. Also, I think that this’ – he flicked the photograph, which was becoming tatty and dog-eared with much handling – ‘was taken in autumn or winter. I don’t know why it gives me that impression, except that it has been focused short and it seems to show dead leaves on the grass.’

  ‘The genuine photograph showed the tree in full leaf,’ Beth said.

  ‘I may have the chance to see for myself. But it could be that the best evidence in your favour will be furnished by the dog herself.’

  ‘Her behaviour?’ Beth said.

  He shook his head impatiently. ‘Her hide. I’ve examined her with Mrs Kitts and there’s a difference in tone between some parts of her coat and others. The signs are very faint, but I’m inclined to agree with Mrs Kitts that it looks as though some of her markings have been extended, using a dye – which has also stained her skin. I’ve taken some clippings for examination. More to the point, as the hair grows back where I’ve clipped it, it may come in white at the roots. If Mrs Kitts is correct,’ he added firmly.

  ‘But we may not be able to wait that long,’ Beth said. ‘I’ve shown you photographs of the real Stardust.’

  ‘Not particularly good photographs and without any of the movement that gives a dog character. The visible differences are less than the difference a good brushing would make,’ Hautry said. ‘I’m sorry. And – please forgive me, Mrs Cunningham, but I have to look at the evidence without bias – I have only your word for it that your photographs are of the missing dog. I appreciate your problem. But, if I’m asked, the most I could say at the moment is that I don’t consider the evidence conclusive. And that’s assuming that no more conclusive evidence is offered along with any accusation that may be made.’

  There was a glum silence which I felt I had to break. ‘That’s better than nothing,’ I said. ‘I’m glad we asked you to come over. At least now, if there’s a sudden accusation, you’ll take a very hard look at any evidence.’

  He drew himself up indignantly – not an easy posture to adopt while sitting. ‘We always do. On the other hand, if the accusation is made directly to us, that will suggest that it’s valid.’

  ‘Why on earth?’ Isobel demanded.

  ‘Because our inquiries are as confidential as we can reasonably make them. If, as you suggest, somebody is out to ruin you, he wouldn’t go to the police or to us. On the evidence so far, a prosecution would be very unlikely to succeed. No, he’d go straight to the gutter press. Then you would really have a problem. Anything about cruelty to animals is hot news at the moment. So is anything that shows shooting in a discreditable light. And when the tabloids think they’re on to a story they blandly ignore any denials or contrary evidence. And there might not be a lot you could do about it. Muck tends to stick.’

  He looked around our faces. He was only confirming what we had already told each other, but Beth, for one, was near to tears. ‘I didn’t want to distress you,’ Hautry said, ‘but it’s better that you think about it now.’

  ‘We haven’t thought about much else for days. What would you advise?’ I asked him.

  He looked at me consideringly for a few seconds and then he shrugged. ‘It’s hardly my place to advise you,’ he said. ‘You may not have much time, but if I were in the position you tell me you’re in, I’d consider striking first. If, for instance, you could name the man who had the dog and give me proof that he did the beating . . . Well, consider the effect of a prior charge against somebody else. Do you have a name to give me?’

  I looked at Isobel and Beth and could read the same thought in both their faces. We had no more now than the SSPCA had had when they had decided that there was not enough evidence to proceed against William Randall. I shook my head.

  ‘I suggest that you try to get one. If you do, call me again. I may be able to help.’

  ‘He doesn’t have the dog any more,’ I said. ‘He’s offloaded her onto us. How on earth could we offer proof?’

  ‘When you know all the facts, proof usually follows.’ He nodded in satisfaction, evident
ly feeling that he had offered us the solution to all our problems. He took one last look at Walnut and made his departure.

  *

  Just when we had most need of time to think and discuss, the business hit one of its most demanding streaks. An American, who had purchased a trained dog during the summer, now wanted him sent over by air, immediately if not sooner. Another owner, who had flagrantly ignored all the advice that I had given him at the time of purchase, arrived on the doorstep, insisting that the dog’s faults must be hereditary and demanding his money back. A young couple turned up in search of a puppy; Beth mistook them for reporters and nearly drove them off the premises.

  Beth then went to the aid of Isobel and a bitch that was whelping early. I divided my time between telephoning the transport agents, assuring the aggrieved purchaser that he had more chance of coming to the throne than of getting his money back and then, despite my own urgent need to bite somebody’s head off, administering soothing words to the ruffled young couple. They chose my favourite from among the youngest generation; and they seemed to be taking in my words of counsel, although only time would tell. After endless consultation and mind-changing they left at last, taking with them a dog bed, feeding bowl, lead, collar, the full spectrum of training aids and a supply of dogfood sufficient to see the puppy into adolescence, and leaving behind a most satisfactory cheque. We could have done with more such clients, but preferably some other day.

  Henry, summoned by Isobel, had walked over to join us, but any discussion that we managed before late afternoon was fragmentary – and was then made superfluous by a phone-call that came just as we were settling around the kitchen table to thrash things out over a belated afternoon tea.

  Beth took the call. She switched on the cheap little amplifier that is permanently attached to the kitchen phone so that the partners can hear both sides of any discussion. As soon as I heard the name of one of the most blatant of the Sunday tabloids, I jumped up and reached for the phone.

  Beth pushed me into one of the basket chairs, anchored me firmly by sitting down on my lap and held onto the phone with a vice-like grip. ‘We do know about those photographs,’ she said clearly. ‘They are fakes and we can prove it.’