Keith let him talk on. It was a pleasure to hear an expert enthusiast on his own subject. Winter knew wildlife as easily as Keith himself could read a proof-mark.
When the keeper fell silent, Keith said, ‘Are you sure that you saw Joe Merson after Mr Grass was shot?’
‘Just a shape in the distance.’
Keith hesitated. ‘Could it have been Mr Grass?’ he asked suddenly.
Winter seemed relieved that the question had been asked. ‘I did think about that,’ he said. ‘Even when I saw the body, with the face a’ smashed, I thought to mysel’ that I couldn’t have told it from Merson’s but for the claes. But no. The mannie I saw took wee steps like Joe Merson. Joe aye just shuffled along. Mr Grass took great strides.’
‘But you don’t know of anybody seeing Joe Merson for sure?’
‘No, I don’t. But why would I?’ Winter asked reasonably. ‘He wasn’t such a rarity that they’d talk about him as if they’d seen a marsh sandpiper.’
‘I suppose not. Did you hear a shot, or shots, the night Mr Grass was killed?’
‘No. But I wouldn’t, indoors. Those walls are thick.’
‘But a few nights later you heard shots down by the lake?’
‘I was out fetching clugs from the pile.’ Winter nodded at the log-pile by the cottage’s gable.
‘Ah.’ Keith thought that he had stretched Winter’s patience as far as was safe for the moment.
While they spoke, Keith had dropped the pigeon into the nylon foot and tied the end. He showed it to Brutus, who had returned from his meditations by the pheasant-pen, and then threw the bundle for him to retrieve. With the pigeon enclosed and now cold, Brutus performed perfectly.
‘That’ll likely do it,’ Winter said. ‘But you’d better keep the bittie stocking, just in case.’
‘Would you like the pigeon?’ Keith asked.
‘Aye, I’ll take it gladly. Mary makes a grand pie.’ Winter paused. There was a visible struggle between his natural reserve and his desire to make overtures to Keith, in whom he had found some kinship of the spirit. ‘You’ll be welcome to join us any evening. You’ll have another engagement the nicht, though.’
‘Will I? I suppose so,’ Keith said vaguely. He could hardly have guessed that the butcher, whose van had called earlier in the morning, had remarked that Penny Laing had bought two steaks instead of her usual chop. ‘One last thing,’ he said. ‘I noticed a wire snare on the way along. Yours?’
Winter shook his head emphatically. ‘My sons do the trapping, but we only allow Fenn traps. Unless . . . but they’d no’ dare. It’s a’ right, Mr Calder,’ he added. ‘I ken who it’ll be. Just you leave him to me.’
‘You’re being poached?’
‘Aye. I’ll tell my boys to keep an eye out. And you’d best keep an eye open for them, and make yoursel’ known if you meet them, or they’re likely to run you off as a poacher. You canna’ mistake them, twa muckle loons,’ Winter raised his hand to indicate a height of nearly eight feet, ‘wi’ backsides on them like a pair of elephants.’
*
Following Winter’s directions, Keith and Brutus set off for Whinkirk House by a path that threaded the fields from wood to wood. Keith was walking with what Winter would have called “great strides”. He tried a shuffling gait. It was easy to disguise his walk. Then he felt silly and looked round to be sure that nobody had seen him.
Soon their path began to climb an embankment topped by a fence. This, according to Winter, was where Mr Grass had died, but there was no sign of the tragedy. Ever-changing nature tolerates no memorials.
The embankment was heavily covered with brambles and all the growth that takes place in the bramble’s protection. It was an ideal place for wildlife, and indeed Keith could hear the rustling and scratching of many birds. Rabbits, too, had made paths through the grass and nettles. Perhaps there had once been the corpse of a rabbit which had crept in to die, Keith thought, a rabbit which had been the cause of Mr Grass’s haste and carelessness. But, if so, the sexton beetles would have disposed of it long since, if a fox had not found it first. Brutus penetrated a few yards along a rabbit run, and a great cock pheasant rocketed up with a whirr and an indignant squawk. Brutus retired against Keith’s leg.
Brutus had something in his mouth. Just to be safe, Keith made him give it up. It was a piece of greaseproof paper, old and weathered, that smelled both sweet and vinous. Some time ago, an old poacher’s trick had been used here. A pheasant, shrouded and panicking, might well have been enough to make Mr Grass forget his cautious habits.
Keith unloaded carefully and climbed the fence.
Chapter Eight
Whinkirk House, when they reached it, turned out to be a small eighteenth century mansion set on a slight rise and seeming to grow out of a foundation of flowers, because the terraces that ringed it were edged with a cataract of rock-plants. The house, a mixture of white roughcast and the red local stone, stood up bravely in the sunlight. The surrounding trees with their accompanying underbrush, so typical of a shooting estate, were kept at bay by broad lawns.
They were received at the door by a small, elderly man who managed to combine great dignity with an air of bustle and an eye that held a twinkle of mischief. He relieved Keith of the gun and bag as if it were quite normal for a guest to arrive bearing arms, which in that house was probably the case. Dogs, he said, were no problem; but Mr Grass’s springer spaniel bitch, Champion Wortleberry of Whinkirk, was at present in season and confined to kennels.
‘We have of course been expecting you, sir,’ he added. ‘Mr Enterkin is here. He invited the staff to join you both for coffee as soon as you arrived.’
As he was led through the house, Keith did a little mental arithmetic. Champion Wortleberry of Whinkirk would have been out of season when Mr Grass died unless her metabolic clock were quite abnormally rapid.
The solicitor was waiting in what had been Mr Grass’s study, a large room with French windows opening onto a sunny terrace.
Brutus lay down under the desk, out of the way of trampling feet. His acute instincts, deriving mainly from inherited understanding of scents detected by a nose a thousand times as sensitive as a man’s, fed him messages about people and animals, past and present. Above all, he was sure that this had been a happy place, but now it was sad and filled with uncertainty. One person in it was frightened.
Keith, for his part, was looking around. Instead of pictures Mr Grass’s study was hung with examples from his collection of firearms. Almost immediately, Keith’s eye lit on the Roman Candle. He stood in front of it and Enterkin heaved himself up and came to stand beside Keith. ‘That’s it, is it?’ he asked.
‘That’s it.’
‘What’s so special about it? It’s just a four-barrelled pistol.’
Keith went to take it down, but the gun was securely attached to the wall. ‘It’s what the general called it, a contraption, an early attempt to get extra fire-power. One of the barrels –’ he checked the position of the flashpan ‘– the top one, fires normally. Two, or all three, of the others contain several loads superimposed, and an interconnecting series of touch-holes fires each load in turn. You hope. If it works like that, you’ve got a small machine-gun. If it doesn’t, you’ve got a bomb.’
‘Would you fire it?’ Enterkin asked anxiously.
‘Yes. But I’d tie it to a tree and use a long string. I think I’d better test-fire it that way before the general gets his hands on it. And if I’m at the service, I’ll be at the other end of the throng. Would it be acceptable if I loaded it with blank charges?’
The solicitor was tempted. But if Keith loaded the piece it should be safe enough. ‘The will is specific,’ he said reluctantly. ‘It says “Loaded with ball”.’
‘That’s that, then.’
A jingling trolley of coffee cups interrupted them.
The dignified servitor introduced himself a Roach, butler and valet to Mr Grass. His wife, as elderly as himself and on the verge of frailty,
was both cook and housekeeper. There was one maid, a blue-eyed blonde by the name of Bessie, who doubled as assistant cook. Bert Hayes, the chauffeur-gardener who had driven them from Newton Lauder, was a gnarled little man of uncertain age.
The other person present, and the only one with but a single job, was Miss Alice Wyper. She had been Mr Grass’s personal secretary. She was a tall brunette. Nature had been liberal to her with nose and bosom and, Keith decided, had not been ungenerous in the matter of backsides either. She looked thirty, but was probably five years older. She was elegantly but inexpensively dressed.
By the time that courtesies had been exchanged, coffee dispensed and he had them seated around him in an expectant semi-circle – rather like performing seals, Enterkin thought, waiting for their fish – the ice had been broken and there was a general but distrait conversation. The relationship between them seemed to be more like that of a family than the stiff hierarchy that usually develops in the service of large houses.
When Enterkin cleared his throat there was immediate silence. ‘We seem to be a very small party for this size of house,’ he said.
‘Mr Grass was here on in his own for much of the time,’ Miss Wyper said, ‘when he was here at all.’
‘He did not like to have more staff around him than were necessary for his own needs,’ said Roach.
‘There’s daily help comes in as needed,’ Bessie explained.
‘And caterers for special occasions,’ said Mrs Roach. ‘Under my direction,’ she added firmly.
That much being explained, Mr Enterkin went on to expound the future of the house and the estate, and to stress that they could all consider themselves secure in their jobs. ‘Mr and Mrs Roach will be expecting to retire shortly and this has been provided for, although I am hoping – I’m sure we all hope – that they will remain at least for some months until new arrangements have been both made and proven.’ There was an assenting murmur, and the Roaches bowed in dignified unison. ‘Bessie and Mr Hayes have already received letters notifying them of personal bequests, but I shall be pleased to see them individually if they so wish. I shall certainly want to speak to Mr and Mrs Roach shortly about the pension arrangements. And I think that it would be better if I saw Miss Wyper personally, to explain the conditions attaching to her legacy.’
The elegant Miss Wyper chose this moment to turn white and spill her coffee into her lap, and the discussion was disrupted for some minutes while damp cloths were fetched and applied.
When he had their full attention again, Mr Enterkin made a short speech. It seemed to be expected of him, he told himself. He thanked them for their loyalty in the past on behalf of the late Mr Grass, but asked them to accept the fact of his passing and to turn their minds and their loyalties to the future. Finding his audience with him, he ventured a small joke which was well received and then dismissed the company. ‘Perhaps,’ he added, ‘Mr and Mrs Roach would like to remain and discuss the pension arrangements?’
Roach smiled deprecatingly. ‘Mrs Roach deals with all matters of a financial nature,’ he said. ‘I’ll be getting about my business.’
Keith decided that the Roaches’ pension could hardly fall within his province. ‘Perhaps Mr Roach would show me the house,’ he suggested.
‘A good arrangement,’ said Enterkin. ‘Then we could see Miss Wyper together.’
Miss Wyper blanched again.
The tour of the house took some time. Keith, who was not a total stranger to luxury, was impressed by the quality and condition of every item that he saw, right down to the kitchen utensils. Mr Grass had not hesitated to spend his money, provided that there was a proper return in human comfort or happiness. He had not been such a saint as to count anyone else’s happiness higher than his own, but Keith noticed that the humblest staff bedroom would not have been out of place in a good hotel. He counted six excellent bathrooms, and the central heating ran throughout the house. In the outbuildings, he was shown the garage with Hayes’ quarters above and the cars gleaming inside.
He met the ailing spaniel, leaving Brutus sitting indignantly in the yard. He thought that the springer bitch looked narrow in the head for showing. ‘You called her a champion,’ he said. ‘Was that in field trials?’
Roach drew himself up an extra inch. ‘Certainly, sir. Mr Grass was not a devotee of the show-bench. Ruination of a good working breed, he called it.’
‘So do I. But I don’t remember seeing her. Who worked her in trials? Winter?’
‘Mr Grass always worked her himself.’
Roach led the way back into the yard. Brutus welcomed them with an ecstasy partly due to the scent of the confined lady.
‘Was she out with Mr Grass, the night he died?’ Keith asked.
‘No, sir.’ Roach hesitated. He looked at Keith out of the corner of his eye, and must have decided that he was not too sensitive to be exposed to the facts of life. ‘When Mr Grass was going visiting, some of his friends did not like a dog in the house. Of course, Wortles would lie at a front door and never move, but Mr Grass didn’t like to leave her on a doorstep.’
‘And was he going visiting that night?’
‘Mr Grass did not confide in us. But he said that nobody was to wait up, and that he would not want to be called in the morning.’
So Mr Grass had been on the way to, or from, a lady, Keith decided, drawing on his own experience.
‘Would you happen to know which of Mr Grass’s friends disliked having a dog in the house?’
‘I wouldn’t know about that at all,’ Roach said. He pondered for a moment, and there was a mischievous gleam in his eye. ‘The information should not be difficult to obtain. Mr Grass’s will should give a clear indication of his circle of acquaintances. And you do have a dog.’
Keith looked at him sharply. ‘Roach, you’re pulling my leg.’
‘Just a little bit, sir.’ Roach wheezed with ancient laughter and led the way back into the house.
Keith supposed that the process of natural selection would result in the house of an amorous bachelor being staffed by persons with a certain breadth of mind.
‘Did he have only the one dog?’ he asked.
‘He was thinking of starting another in training. Mr Grass’s younger dog was shot during the winter. Sheep-chasing. Very unfortunate. It was after that incident that Mr Grass stopped leaving Wortles outside.’
‘You’re trying to pull my leg again, aren’t you?’ Keith asked. ‘No lady would let the male Lothario leave his dog on her doorstep at night. It’d be as bad as a bicycle.’
Roach twinkled again. ‘Were we talking about ladies, sir? I didn’t realise. I thought we were talking about dogs.’ He paused outside the study door. ‘But doorsteps hereabouts can be a long way from the road. We’ve plenty of room here, as you can see. It would be no trouble to have you stay here.’
The sudden change of subject disconcerted Keith or he might have seen its implications. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said. ‘But I’m very comfortable at the inn.’
‘I never doubted it. But young ladies have never presented any problem in this house. And it is perhaps more discreet than the inn.’
‘I’ll go along with what Mr Enterkin wants,’ Keith said. It seemed that feudalism was far from dead at Whinkirk House. He wondered if he would be expected to take seigneural rights of Bessie, as he supposed Mr Grass had done.
Miss Wyper received them in a large office, severely but very well equipped and furnished. Brutus sniffed the air and decided, this is the frightened one.
Keith had a sharp ear for accents, and Miss Wyper’s was of good class, possibly Cheltenham followed by Girton – if genuine, he thought. She bore a general resemblance to a rather jolly hockey mistress, but at the moment a rather subdued games mistress watching the match of the year being thrown away. She was too nervous to sit down, so the two men had to stand.
In a vain attempt to put her at ease, Enterkin complimented her on the orderliness of the office and of Mr Grass’s papers gener
ally, and expressed a hope that she would stay to keep order for many years to come.
‘I hope so too,’ she said quickly, almost gabbling. ‘I hope so very much. I know about the trust, of course, I typed all Mr Grass’s notes. I can’t sympathise with the objectives, can’t approve the spilling of blood, but as long as I’m not expected to handle dead things –’ she gave a ladylike shiver ‘– I’ll be happy to look after the office. I’m hoping to get married quite soon, but my fiance works on a whaling factory-ship so that I’ll be free most of the time and the money will come in useful. Now,’ she slowed down and took a deep breath, ‘Mr Enterkin, you seemed to be implying that my legacy wasn’t quite as straightforward as the rest. I hope I didn’t quite understand you?’
‘There is a condition attached to it,’ said Enterkin.
Miss Wyper stole a frightened glance at Keith, whose presence seemed to perturb her. ‘But there can’t be. I typed all his codicils. Mr Grass wrote them all out in longhand. Sometimes his writing was all over the place because he couldn’t help laughing. I had to smile myself, sometimes. But I typed them all up in proper form, and we got them witnessed and sent to you, and once a year they were embodied in a new will. He left me two thousand pounds without any conditions at all.’
‘This reached me last autumn, as a codicil. It was in holograph form, and I’m afraid the writing was all over the place. But it was properly signed and, being holograph, did not need to be witnessed.’
She twisted her hands together, almost wringing them. ‘But we need the money, to get married,’ she said, as if that argument would surely be conclusive. ‘We must have a home. And we’ve hardly a bean between us.’
‘The new codicil,’ Enterkin said quickly, ‘allows you ten thousand pounds, or alternatively the cottage known as Elmlea.’
Her mouth fell open. Her teeth, Keith noticed, had also been provided by the Almighty in lavish mood. ‘Oh,’ she said.
‘There is, as I said, a condition.’
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