Goosey Goosey Gander

by Frank Edwards

  “Take it, then, that you have one partner, in business” was Galina’s response, to yet more cluckings of happy, vicarious approval.

  “Now for the questions.”

  They came. The group knew its social duty if nothing else. Whoever the speaker, whatever the subject, polite questions had to be asked. And whatever the answer, accepted without criticism or probing. So it went.

  He was surprised that two questions were asked about alternative uses for the reed beds. The second questioner did mention something about having been given a talk at the WI. He didn’t deny the value of reed use, so long as great care was taken as to when such harvesting took place, but explained something of the, to him, more important work going on to assess the beds’ value as sea defences.

  “The more so”, he continued, “in the light of present research on global warming.” He went on to describe action on the east coast of England where rising sea levels were already lapping over salt marshes putting wild- fowl life at risk. “We must watch that we don’t make gaps unnecessarily in our own area.”

  Questions were, however, based largely on what he had told them in his address. Queries that allowed him to expand on what there was already in place and what he saw developing. This last point led him necessarily on to the subject of funding, and a second chance to thank his sister for her generosity. He gave, in outline, the possibilities, making the obvious point that investment came before any return. But didn’t labour it. Marcia was there. She neither greeted him when he arrived nor played any active part. Otherwise, he didn’t know many of his audience, and it seemed to him rude to go begging from strangers, even on behalf of his birds. He managed, however, to make the point that the much that was yet to be done needed considerable financial support to reach fruition, whilst making clear that the ultimate purpose was the protection and welfare of the wildfowl of the area.

  “Might not your plans arouse some other feeling? Some antipathy? Opposition even?”

  The change to the gentle tone of the previous voices caught Alan off balance. He looked down the table It was Councillor Mrs Antonia White. He knew her, of course. What was in her mind? He stonewalled.

  “I do hope not. Maybe you know something I don’t, from your wide range of contacts. So far I’ve had wonderful backing from all sorts of people. Galina here mentioned the volunteers from the RSPB branch. And they aren’t the only ones.”

  “I’m not out to alarm you. But there are long-established members of the community who are finding that part of their way of life is being put at risk. Through no fault of their own. One man’s meat, and all that, Mr Tewkes.”

  “I might counter that with what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, Mrs White! What success I and my birds achieve will, surely, spin off to the good of the whole community.”

  “Not to those who have, for generations, enjoyed wildfowling over the land that has now become yours. This is a serious restriction for, as you must know, in addition to losing shooting rights over your land, they can’t go as far up the estuary as they were once able to. And, I must add, whatever your – any of our – views about the care of birds, it’s a perfectly legal sport.” Mrs White felt that she had done her duty by DeLacey Thornley, and she would make sure that he got to know of her intervention. Alan hesitated on the niceties before replying, then decided to go for it.

  “I am only too pleased that the murdering of wild birds on our, the village’s, river and shore line has had to come to a halt. There! I may seem over blunt, but such shooting is as one, to me, with bear baiting and cock fighting. If they want to kill beautiful, living things, then let them go to managed grouse and pheasant moors. There, I can only concede without giving the tiniest glimmer of approval, that the game is bought and bred for the one purpose of financial gain. These wild things that are increasingly making their home with me are in a different league. They are free. They are not crop for profiteering,” and he spat out this last with as much venom as he could muster.

  Mrs White felt compelled to take note.

  “You make your feelings admirably clear. As an elected representative, people do press upon me that there are such things as tradition and long-accepted ways of life. You shouldn’t put such matters so inflexibly out of your mind.”

  After that, any further observations would have seemed tame. Sensing the atmosphere, Galina closed with warm thanks. The applause was long enough and solid enough – Mrs White was seen to join in – and the meeting ended. Alan felt that he had lost a chance of a final fund-raising rallying call. But he said nothing of that either to his sister or to those who came up to speak to him afterwards, even when one of them coquettishly asked how many more partners he thought he could cope with.

  The following morning was misty but promising. Still worried about his lack of a predator-tight fence completely surrounding his centre – a point he had made play of when describing his need to fund future development – Alan set out in his small boat quietly to row to where the Mutes were nesting, to assure himself that all was well. They were reasonably safe from harm, he knew, but he felt a near-parental responsibility to these most welcome domestics who trusted him with this particularly early breeding. Following on the example of the Mallards. Their ducklings had hatched in late January. Such early spring behaviour had been recorded, Alan knew, in WWT Centres around the country. In some ways it was marvellous, but he feared for trouble should the natural balances of nature be upset.

  Whatever the case, he was glad to be up and about early. He was happy. While he had done much, and while a lot had still to be done, he was already satisfied that things were on the right track, and that he had made the right decision in life. And now, with Galina’s money, with the implication of more to come, things could only get better. He would have sung, uncertain-voiced or not, as his music teacher had dubbed him at school, were it not for fear of disturbing the swans. By the time he got back to the gate house and had some breakfast it would be time to set off for the bank. It would not be too soon to show the manager that his finances were on the up.

  As the morning mists lifted from the reed beds a single shot rang out, echoing along the estuary. The geese, frightened in their early flight from the ponds to their feeding grounds along the river, croaked their concern and rose higher, whirling and banking against the first red of the rising sun.

  The ducks worried and scurried about the other lakes until calming as no further report reverberated over the marshes to disturb their early swim. Slowly, with care and suspicion, the Bewick’s swans circled, necks outstretched until, by instinct as much as by sound, they swept their way, reassured, to their feet-forward landings on the quietly filling waters of the tidal reach.

  The marksman broke the gun and rested it across the crook of the arm. One shot was enough. No dog was called for to run and splash, tail wagging, into the water on the recovery mission. Not today. Not this day. The mark had been struck and, as intended, left to float. As the sun rose further from the early Spring horizon it, for the moment, matched the spreading red along the reed’s edge as Alan’s body, half hanging out as though in a last attempt to paddle for safety, drifted in the small undirected craft to the boundary of his last known world.

  The Mute swan, nesting, watched with head bowed, the floating pyre go slowly by.

  Mute Swan on Nest (Wanda, WWT Welney)

  Chapter Eight

  he funeral should have been in the Cathedral. Much more suitable, and it would have accommodated the mourners better.”

  Jeremy acknowledged that the number argument was true. The local church had been too full for safety, with yet a good gathering outside. Guessing such a possibility, if only because of the publicity that the murder had occasioned, the Vicar had managed to get a loudspeaker rigged up for the overflow. Marcia thought this to be even more infra dig, although it did allow for a suitably impressive avenue of people to walk between into the church as the solemnly observed bereaved family followed the coffin in through the West
door. The address was suitably short. No tributes were allowed; no sentimental readings or sugary songs. Just the right hymns and the proper section of the prayer book. The main splash of colour was the fine wreath from the RSPB members which Marcia thought garish, over-done and out of keeping with the proper restrained style. She carried herself with a sorrowing dignity suitable for the new lady of Wickton.

  The village had come to a stop. Annie Hole led representative pupils, having been assured that there would be seats reserved for them inside. Although it didn’t rain, she was pleased that she had insisted on the arrangement. It was still early enough in the year to chill, and she wanted them to see the service in detail. Educational and instructional – she saw a distinction – for them. Mrs Carmichael was there, having closed the shop for the morning as a mark of respect. Ted Goschen kept The Bell open all day for the same reason. There was some surprise that both Den Bracegirt and Ma Olive turned up. The poacher had made some gesture to cleanliness, but as both stayed outside there was no cause for concern. They did not line the pathway, standing behind the mourners along its edges, so that Marcia did not see them. Digger Hole did. He decided to add Den to his list of interviewees. Poachers were often up betimes, and saw and heard things others did not.

  There had not been a long delay in arranging the funeral. The cause of death was obvious and now the task of finding the ‘person or persons unknown’ had fallen, possibly as his last individual assignment, to the locally based Detective Inspector. Some considered that to be a most sensible arrangement. His boss included.

  “The Bradshaw affair is to all intents and purposes sewn up”, he said, “and you know the area and the people. Much more chance that you can get a lead quickly than for a complete outsider. I’m giving you Maitland. Good man, Maitland. And,” and here the great man had paused, “I’m leaving your resignation letter in my desk drawer until this one’s cleared up. Nasty business. Better sort it soon.” Thus Gerald Hole seemed likely to end his career working from home. He was pleased that it was Maitland. He agreed with the Chief Super. A good sergeant. Young enough to be keen, still, but with a few years under his belt. A useful combination.

  Annie was not so sure about her husband’s new task.

  “Mightn’t you be too close to things. To locals?” she had suggested. “I mean, you don’t want to risk getting people’s backs up. Our neighbours after all. We’ve got to go on living here, and it’s a small place. I may as well tell you that on my last visit to the centre, the thought struck me that when you retired, and supposing Alan Tewkes was by then well established, you could go into business with him.”

  This idea was news to the DI, but he let it pass without comment. Annie was good at fixing things and, come to think of it, it wasn’t half a bad idea. Ah well! There you are. The best laid plans! Though, maybe, the wetland centre might continue and might need a manager of some sort. His hobby had prepared him for such a role almost as much as Alan’s experience had. But stop! All that was not only unlikely but out of order. He had followed his wife’s drift. He had a job – to catch the killer. If the boss was to be believed, extra fast. If Annie was right, that meant making haste while avoiding toes.

  more immediate matter exercised Jeremy as he and Marcia unwound having come to the end of their exhausting day. They had invited none to stay with them. The far-flung members of the family could make their own ways. In the days since the killing of Alan they had been in the forefront of all the really important aspects of the thing. The entertaining plans alone had been something of a nightmare, whilst trying to sort out whom to inform and in what order had been quite a headache. Marcia felt that she had risen nobly to the demands of the occasion. Jeremy was more concerned that the bird area was still cordoned off as a crime scene. He had been in touch with the solicitor Macintosh to find out how soon he could sell it on. This, it seemed, raised some problems.

  “But why?” had been his plaintive reply when the lawyer had first phoned him. “Why, for heaven’s sake? The man’s dead and, you tell me, he left no Will. So?”

  “Dying intestate is always an unfortunate thing to do. Legally. In this case there are other matters. Some complications. Ones I’ll have to go into with some care. I’ll brief you just as soon as I am sure of my ground.”

  Jeremy had also been surprised to learn that his sister, Galina, had undertaken responsibility, in an arrangement with the RSPB, and with police approval – that Inspector Hole was biased that way, in his opinion, – for the feeding and care of the birds which remained. Mrs Munday and Mrs Donlevy in particular had been, were being, most helpful. If they could be allowed onto his ground, then why couldn’t he? Macintosh was getting past it, maybe. He might seek Thornley’s view. He could find out most things when he wanted to.

  “I’m not at all confident in this fellow Hole,” he had moaned to Marcia. “Just a local. He maybe a Detective Inspector, but I would have thought that a high profile case like this would have warranted a higher ranking officer. From Scotland Yard why not?”

  Marcia had agreed. Now the funeral was over, there were other developments that would need her anxious attention. She didn’t feel that DI Hole, or his schoolmistress wife come to that, had quite the right appreciation of her standing.

  Socially unaware or not, DI Hole knew the requirements of his job. The body had been found by that same George Farmer who regularly visited the shop of the all-knowing Mrs Carmichael. Following his gruesome discovery, his visits had tended to be a little longer, and Mrs Carmichael’s book of knowledge that much more comprehensive.

  “Shocking it was! Well, it would be, wouldn’t it. Mean! Poor George Farmer was quite overcome. I told him, I said, look, I said, sit you down there and I’ll make a cup of tea. You look all in.” It wasn’t too surprising that he was ‘all in’. It would have been less surprising had he headed direct for The Bell rather than the shop, but force of habit and the shopping needs of Mrs Farmer for that day held sway over even the graphic and dramatic discovery of that morning. There was also the matter of opening hours.

  Farmer had grazing rights over a stretch of land on the other side of the estuary. Grassier than the Tewkes acres, the fields there suited him well. About eight o’clock that morning he had arrived to check on the welfare of his sheep. They were as much of a hobby, in a way, as were Alan’s birds. He cared for them, and regretted when the time came to send them to market. Whilst with them he felt, as did Alan with his birds, that they knew him as an individual. Certainly his appearance was a signal for their gathering around him. To be fed, for sure, but not a thing they would do for anyone, like some geese would. He had looked out over the water. He often saw Alan on the far side, pottering about in that small boat of his, probing along the water’s edge checking on his precious wild fowl. He saw him that day. That is, the boat, as he explained to the police when he burst in on the local, just-opened-for-the-day station. Luckily for him, Bert Carter was there. And in uniform. Too often these days it was some retired civilian who could man the phone and take messages, but who could do little else. Fortunately, Bert was there. Not one to panic, Bert, unlike George nearly had when it had dawned on him what it was he was looking at. At the first, he had taken it that Alan was using his hand to guide the boat, or possibly propel it, out into the main river. The tide was coming in, and the effect was to push the boat up stream and over towards his side of the water. Alan’s efforts at propulsion were clearly not enough. The way the boat was moving, George Farmer could see that it would very soon be almost onto the bankside where he was standing. He moved towards the likely landing spot, ready to hail his neighbour and see if he wanted any help. He saw soon enough that the man was beyond any help. He didn’t need binoculars. As the craft neared him, it was clear that its occupant was draped, flopped, lifeless across the thwart. The boat bumped into the land. He forced himself to go down to look. He saw what he saw. He waded into the river – no matter what Mrs Farmer may say about the damage to shoes and to clothes – and tried to put t
he collapsed Alan Tewkes ashore. His face was bloody. The bullet hole clear enough not to need a forensic expert to describe. He pulled the corpse, for such it was beyond doubt, out of the water. Then, resourcefully, grabbed the boat by its painter and tied it round a sturdy boulder. Remembering many a television play’s police instructions never to touch anything at a murder scene – ‘and what else could this be? Couldn’t be anything like suicide in a boat that flimsy. ‘Like as not the gun would fall overboard before he’d had a chance to pull the trigger, poor bugger’ as he told Carter – he headed off at all speed to the station. There finding the Force in person, he was more than happy to let him proceed with the necessary chain of events.

  It was still a police house. Mrs Carter provided his first post-shock cup of tea. It was also a way of keeping him there while her husband set the wheels in motion. By the time the poor man reached Mrs Carmichael’s, he had given his first statement, twice, and was ready for a second cup. In the days that followed, the supply of cups of tea dried up, but the flow of reminiscent detail flowed ever freer. It could have spared Hole some time had he sat in with Mrs Carmichael behind the counter and used that as his follow-up interview.

  DI Hole had to begin with Farmer. He had read over all that had been gathered from earlier submissions, but now began the grind of routine. The job of getting all that you could, and more than they wanted only too often, from all the parties involved. There seemed to be quite a few of them.

  “Thank goodness he wasn’t shot in the middle of Talbot in the middle of the day”, he exclaimed to Sergeant Maitland when that worthy officer joined up with him. “We’d have to interview the whole damned population.” An early-morning assassination reduced the field. Nevertheless, there was still the task of questioning and, hopefully, getting something useful, before eliminating as many as possible from enquiries.