A Shocking Affair

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘Here’s Mr Kitts,’ Mary Fiddler said as I walked to the door. She and Joanna seemed to be barring entry to a young man and woman, both of who were dressed in leathers. ‘He’ll know. Mr Kitts, is Sir Peter coming back?’

  ‘Not just for the moment,’ I said cautiously. ‘He went to see his solicitor.’

  There was a passing flicker of movement or hesitation, I could not be sure which. The girl, who was pretty enough in a soft but rather sulky way, asked the sky, ‘Who is this man?’ Her hair was on the borderline between blonde and brunette.

  ‘Yeah, who is he?’ echoed the youth.

  ‘Mr Kitts is staying here as Sir Peter’s guest,’ Mary said firmly.

  They weighed me up. ‘Well, I’m his granddaughter,’ said the girl as though trumping my ace. ‘This is my home but the servants won’t let me inside.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re very welcome to come in, Miss Elizabeth,’ Mary said. ‘But Sir Peter’s orders were clear. The young man stays outside.’

  ‘Did you ever hear anything so ridiculous?’ the girl asked me. Apparently I was now to be the mediator. ‘This is my fiancé and he can’t come into my home while I collect a few things.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but I can’t help. What your grandfather says goes around here.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Mary said approvingly. ‘Just ring when you want to come inside, Mr Kitts. You too, Miss, if it’s just you.’ And with that the two women withdrew inside and the door was closed and locked.

  ‘I guess they mean it,’ said the girl. ‘You’d better kick your heels out here for the moment, Dog-face.’ She rang the bell and after a moment was admitted. I heard an angry voice through the timber but the words were unintelligible. I could have entered the house with the girl, but I must confess that curiosity made me linger outside.

  ‘What does the old man have against me?’ the young man demanded. I looked at him for the first time. He was tall and well built, but his frame was topped by a face with inappropriately delicate, almost feminine, features. An attempt at a smile revealed prominent incisors. His eyes seemed ready to settle anywhere except on mine. He seemed to be sweating, but it was a warm afternoon for motorcycle leathers. On the basis of a first impression, gained in the first few seconds, I could understand Peter’s suspicions.

  But I could hardly say so. I temporized. ‘I don’t know you well enough to make a guess,’ I said. ‘From long experience, I can tell you that it can be a revealing mental exercise to compare the people who like you with those who don’t. You’re doing well if you’re liked by the people you like and vice versa.’

  He thought about that for a few seconds without seeming to derive any pleasure from his thoughts. ‘Well, I don’t care about that,’ he said at last. ‘I’m going to marry his granddaughter and the old man can like it or lump it.’

  ‘I think you’ll find that there’ll have to be a few changes before he’ll give his consent,’ I told him.

  I could almost see the wheels turning in his head. Really, he was a most unintelligent young man for a student, if that was what he was, and charmless with it. The girl, I supposed, must have seen something in him, but the mating instinct can foster more delusions than the DTs.

  ‘The granddad’ll come round,’ he said.

  ‘He might,’ I said. ‘Eventually. But if you’re thinking of speeding up the process by means of a touch of pregnancy, I think you should put it out of your mind. I’ve known him for about half a century and my bet would be that he’d hire a hitman to deal with you and then marry her off to some suitable young laird. He’s got the money, he’s got the contacts and from what I’ve seen of him in business he’s got more than enough ruthlessness when his blood’s up.’

  ‘He wouldn’t,’ the young man said, without any very great conviction.

  ‘I don’t think I’d advise you to bet your life on it. He hates to have his hand forced.’ I lowered my voice. ‘If I were in your shoes and I couldn’t restrain myself, I would practise the safest sex since family planning was invented. And I suggest that you take your own precautions. Girls have been known to omit taking the pill . . .’

  He opened his mouth several times without finding an answer so I rang the bell. When the door opened to let me in it also let out the girl Elizabeth. She passed me with a look of disdain and soon afterwards I heard the motorbike roar off down the drive.

  *

  I settled in one of the comfortable wing-chairs in the sitting room and, as has been my habit over the last few years, promised myself a five-minute nap. When I awoke an hour later, much refreshed, Peter was resting in another chair. He stirred when I did and we yawned in unison. We gathered our wits in silence for a minute or two.

  ‘Mary tells me that Liza was here with that young lout of hers,’ he said disgustedly. ‘And she left you to deal with the pair of them. She shouldn’t have done that. You’re a guest.’

  ‘I didn’t mind,’ I said. ‘I only hope you approve of the line I took.’ I recounted the whole short confrontation.

  Peter chose to be very much amused. ‘You certainly struck a blow for family planning,’ he said. ‘Proper little Marie Stopes. But I’m glad you put a spoke in that particular wheel. My innocent mind would never have thought of insemination as a weapon of blackmail.’

  ‘Nor of a hitman to counter it?’

  ‘As to that, no comment. And this conversation never took place. If – what did she call him? – if Dog-face should happen to be found embedded in a Glasgow flyover, I wouldn’t want you remembering that we had discussed any such possibility as a solution to a thoroughly unsatisfactory liaison. Ho-hum! Why do the young always think that they invented sex?’

  ‘I was only guessing as to which way his little mind was working. I may have wronged him.’

  ‘I doubt it. Anyway, that type can do with a good wronging now and again. And now,’ he said more cheerfully, ‘one or two of my tenants have been complaining about pigeon damage to the young wheat.’

  ‘We should certainly do something about that,’ I said.

  ‘By the time we could get set up with decoys, they’ll be thinking about going to roost. So do you fancy a roost-shoot? Or would you say that Spin wasn’t ready for that yet?’

  A pigeon shoot, carefully handled, would not expose a young dog to a tenth of the temptations presented by a rabbit hunt. ‘I think it’s a good idea,’ I said. ‘If you can keep him sitting beside you, not on a lead, while you drop a few woodies, I’d say that he was ready to take the next step.’

  ‘Then let’s go! En avant, mon brave! School’s out!’ With these and similar cries he hustled me to my feet and out of the room. By the time I returned downstairs, in shooting breeks and boots and with cartridges in a game-bag over my shoulder, he had the guns out of the gun room. I had brought gloves and a peaked cap with me in my pockets – nothing spooks an approaching woodpigeon like the sudden movement of a white face or hands or a balding head.

  At my insistence, we paused on the lawn to put Spin through his paces yet again and as we walked I had the two Labradors on leads while Peter walked Spin at heel, leaving him sitting now and again and whistling him up after we had gone out of sight. It never does any harm to have the young dog freshly reminded of his subordinate status when setting out, or a new owner reminded of the need to maintain discipline. Peter had already provided himself with a pocket full of charcoal biscuits which he dispensed to all three dogs. Seeing the guns, the Labs roused themselves from their habitual placidity and even Old Nick had a semblance of a spring in his step.

  Our way diverged from the path to the trout-loch and led us through a long finger of woodland. We clattered through a short tunnel under what seemed to be an old railway embankment. As we emerged I heard a cock pheasant rocket up, clocking indignantly. Immediately, a figure appeared from the direction of what looked like a release pen. He was a tall man, slightly stooped. His head was almost entirely covered by a beard and whiskers with a mop of hair to match, so that a smal
l face seemed to peep out from the middle of a ball of brown knitting wool.

  ‘This is Hamish, my keeper,’ Peter said. ‘Hamish, this is Mr Kitts. He’s staying with me. We were . . . we’re going to wait for the cushies to come in to Langstane Wood. I take it that that’s all right?’ he asked anxiously.

  Hamish had a firm, strong handshake. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Fairly that. Until the young birds go out in July. Any of the old buggers around from last year will sit tight or come back later. But keep clear of the corner where the big oak stands. There’s two hens nesting in the hedge nearaboot.’

  ‘We’ll be careful,’ Peter promised. We walked on. ‘Sometimes I wonder who works for who,’ he said when we were out of earshot. ‘I don’t know why I stand for it, except that he’s a bloody good keeper. Single-handed, too, though Ronnie helps him out when he’s busy. As good as his father, who was another Hamish.’

  Our path joined a track which brought us uphill to the edge of the trees and a metal gate in the surrounding fence. I found that we were looking across fields roughly bowl shaped to farm buildings on the further rise.

  ‘Home Farm,’ Peter said. ‘The others are all tenanted. I used to farm this one myself but now I leave it to a manager.’

  The two Labradors moved in close to me. When Spin strayed a yard from Peter’s heel, the baronet called him back sharply. ‘You be careful too,’ he added in my direction. ‘Most electric fences around these parts are fed from a battery, and if the battery isn’t freshly charged you could sit on one of them without feeling more than a tingle. But Geordie Jennings, my farm manager, doesn’t waste time with batteries.’ Peter pointed to the group of farm buildings on the far slope. ‘The tractor shed’s close to the boundary, so he uses a transformer off the mains to power a fence that goes right round the fields he uses for stock. It can give you a jolt, I can tell you. I let my gun barrels touch the fence once while I was opening the gate and I thought for a moment that I’d been shot. There’s a damn sight more than twelve volts going through the fence. How he hasn’t killed any cattle yet I do not know, but when I tell him about it he blinds me with science about volts and joules and ergs and things. The ground’s always damp here, too.’

  I nodded my understanding. Cattle are very vulnerable to electrocution. A faulty milking machine has been known to decimate a herd. An electrified cattle fence is rather more sophisticated than Peter was implying, but this was not the time to set him right. Peter opened the gate and we passed through carefully. The top strand was insulated from the timber fence posts by black rubber insulators and the wire crossed the gateway in an underground sleeve. The field before us was given to young oilseed rape which showed signs of serious rabbit damage, but beyond was a large pasture.

  We headed left, following the edge of the wood, climbed a stile and crossed another grass field. Cattle watched us from the far end, wondered whether to panic or to come in search of food and decided not to bother. We passed through a wooden gate in a plain wire fence into a wood of tall deciduous trees, all of a hundred years old, in bright young leaf. The trees had either been thinned or they were planted well apart, because enough sunlight reached the ground to have encouraged an undergrowth, bramble and nettles predominating.

  ‘You take that end,’ Peter said, nodding to our left. ‘Anchor those beggars or they’ll run in, sure as anything. I’ll go the other way.’

  I led my two charges towards the corner of the wood. And there I encountered a familiar dilemma. If I retreated to a position where I would be hidden from incoming birds, they would be hidden from me. If I gave myself a good field of fire, they would see me from far off. In the end, as usual, I was forced to compromise. An alder which had taken root in one of the glades offered me a degree of concealment and I had only to sway aside to get a fair view of the sky. I attached the two dogs to the base of the tree and prepared for action. I did not have long to wait. Pigeon are the first birds to head for their night-time roost just as mallard are usually the last.

  I have experienced some tricky shooting in my day – red grouse on the moor, ptarmigan on the high tops, driven partridges bursting over a hedge, or geese a long gunshot overhead – but I believe that woodpigeon coming in above the treetops are among the most difficult of quarries. High, deceptively fast birds, they must be swung through and led, but the human tendency is to check the swing of the gun as it passes every trunk and branch. I have seen a champion clay-pigeon shot reduced to tears of frustration until he learned to adjust his mental approach.

  The streamlined shapes might have come in a single flock and clattered out at the first shot, but in fact they came in their twos and threes, in a trickle rather than a flood, but a slow trickle which lasted for nearly two hours. To make it more difficult, they were coming out of the sun and I suspected my crafty friend of knowing it and giving himself an advantage. I wasted my first few shots and then began to connect.

  The light was beginning to fade when Peter came out of the trees, carrying a heavy game-bag and with Spin at heel. I broke open my gun.

  ‘All’s well,’ he said. ‘Steady as a rock. And between us we’ve picked up twenty-six.’

  ‘I think I’ve nineteen down,’ I said. ‘It’s difficult to be sure.’

  He nodded. ‘They’re out of sight a millisecond after you’ve pulled the trigger,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to pack up now or Mary will get worried and send Ronnie to find us and then he’ll be aggrieved that his supper’s been spoiled. Let’s go and make her day. She does a pigeon pilaff that you’ll have to taste to believe.’

  I had picked up those birds that had fallen nearby and in the open as we went along. I unleashed the Labradors. Spin and Royston worked with a will, but when they came back and lay down, as if to say that that was all that there was, I was sure that I was still one short.

  Peter looked at his watch. ‘You probably missed it,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to be going.’

  ‘You could be right,’ I told him. ‘But I saw one fold up and fall over there and I haven’t seen one brought from that direction. As you say, I could be wrong, but I’d hate to risk leaving a runner to suffer.’

  As I spoke, I pointed into the trees.

  That was enough. Old Nick, who had been reclining under the alder, watching his juniors perform with rather the air of an emperor overlooking his slaves, sighed and struggled to his feet. He walked stiffly through the weeds for some fifty yards. I heard him grunt as his head went down and came up again with a pigeon, dead, in his jaws. He came back as slowly, handed me the pigeon and then sat. He looked disinterested but I thought that there was about him a touch of smug triumph. There was life in the old dog yet.

  Peter patted him and then stooped to fondle Spin. ‘Never you mind,’ he said. ‘You did your best. Oh Lord!’ He looked up at me. ‘His coat’s full of burrs.’

  ‘That’s what you get when you take on a spaniel. I hate to break it to you but you’ll spend the rest of your days picking them out. And ticks don’t show up as they do on a Labrador, you have to search for them.’

  ‘Any more bad news?’

  ‘John always says that God made spaniels and sponges on the same day. A Lab sheds the water but a wet spaniel is a wet, wet pet.’

  ‘A soggy doggy?’ Peter straightened his back. ‘I didn’t know that you could get burrs so early in the year,’ he said glumly. ‘Well, you’re never too old to learn.’

  Chapter Three

  I was woken next morning by the sound of whistling and occasional words of command. Peter Hay was putting Spin through his paces on the lawn below my window. I would have liked to take it as a sign that he could be trusted to maintain discipline after I had left him to his own devices, but I suspected that, rather than zeal as a trainer, his noisy activity was due to his eagerness to have me up and about. I knew exactly what was in his mind and so I put on the oldest clothes that I had with me. Spin was to be tested on the rabbits. Peter had already taken all three dogs for their morning exercise.

  I th
ought that in some ways Peter, despite his years, had retained a schoolboyish zest for the fun things in life. But in matters of business he was still the crisp and methodical man I remembered from long ago. There had been no guests the night before and after dinner he had taken me into his study, a room where the latest office electronics contrasted strangely with the comfortable chairs and book-lined walls, and there, with the dogs around our feet and another brace of cigars tainting the air, he had insisted on demonstrating how to explore the ramifications of his business interests. I had begun to wonder what my rash agreement to be named as co-executor had let me in for. Not only were those interests wide and apparently handsome, but Peter’s insistence that I should know how to access every scrap of information made the whole exercise seem real instead of a mere token courtesy to a friend. It was lucky, I thought, that the assistance I had given to Isobel in connection with her computer programs had kept me at least partially in touch if not absolutely familiar with business technology.

  However, the evening had not been all gloom and foreboding. Peter remained a charming and witty host. Moreover, there had been only one more sudden smell, and that of a relatively minor potency, barely detectable in the haze of cigar smoke. I had suggested that those of the previous evening might perhaps have been due to no more than a passing upset or a change of diet, but Peter swore by the efficacy of the charcoal biscuits and continued to dispense them to the dogs as he might have given sweets to a child.

  Peter curbed his impatience and worked alone in the study until I had finished my breakfast, by which time the guns and gear were waiting in the hall. To be frank, I was almost as anxious as Peter to see whether the ingrained discipline had been properly transferred along with what one can only consider to be ‘leadership of the pack’ but, mischievously, I dallied until I thought that he was probably ready to burst. Then I put my head in at the study door, catching him with a ferocious frown on his face and, ‘Come along,’ I said. ‘I thought you wanted to shoot.’