A Shocking Affair

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘I’m thinking it’s no good,’ Hamish said. ‘But I’ll carry on. You go and meet the ambulance. Follow the fence a hundred yards and you’ll come on a stile that takes you over the fence and down into an old railway cutting running in the direction o’ they plane trees. There’s a road just beyond and that’s where the ambulance will be coming.’

  I put my gun and cartridge bag carefully aside and hurried off in the opposite direction to the way we had gone earlier. Plane trees, I knew, were sycamores, but whether I would distinguish a clump of sycamores from all the others at a distance was another matter. The edge of the wood, at that point bursting with hawthorn in blossom, brought me to another stile in the corner of the field. A well-worn track led down into the railway cutting, a continuation of the line running through the wood. It led in the direction of trees on the skyline.

  It was not very far but the path was slightly uphill and, although the sleepers had been lifted long before, the way was still uneven with the stones which had formed the original ballast. The cutting was devoid of air, or else my heart was not pushing around enough oxygen for the effort I was making. I hurried and stumbled along as best I could. Above me on my right, pine trees gave way to sky and then suddenly the tops of the sycamores. I tackled the embankment, followed a path through some broken ground with scattered gorse bushes and arrived at the road just as an ambulance came to a halt nearby. I was desperately out of breath and could not have spoken to save my life, but I led the two ambulancemen to the lip of the cutting and managed to point out the two figures against the strip of woodland.

  ‘We see them,’ said one, ‘but we’ll know what to take wi’s if you can tell us whit’s adae.’

  I waited until my gasps became deep breaths. ‘Don’t know,’ I managed to say. ‘Didn’t see him go down. Could be heart. He’s on a pacemaker and he’s had bypasses.’

  ‘Right,’ said the other one. He looked at me hard. ‘What about you, Granddad? Will you be all right?’

  I was far from certain but I nodded violently. He led me to a tree and settled me with my back to its trunk. ‘You bide here,’ he said. ‘The doctor will be along in a wee minute. You can point the way. Then, if you’re no better, you can come in with us.’ His mate returned with a folded stretcher and a case and the two of them set off at a steady trot.

  I waited. My breathing slowed but my legs were still shaking. The doctor arrived. I pointed out the huddle around the prone figure. He too set off at a trot. I followed more slowly. When I caught up with him, Peter’s body was on the stretcher and a blanket was being laid around him. I saw that there was an oxygen mask over his face although I could see no sign of breathing.

  *

  Hamish and I watched the sad procession heading back towards the road.

  ‘You don’t look a whole lot better than Sir Peter,’ he said. ‘Will you wait here while I get the Land Rover?’

  ‘I’ll manage,’ I said. ‘It’s not far if I go back through the wood.’

  ‘M’hm.’ He looked at me doubtfully but decided that I might survive for a little longer. ‘Leave the guns. I’ll fetch them up to the house later. We’ll not see the laird again, I’m thinking. It’ll be for you to tell the staff. And Miss Elizabeth.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I said. That aspect had not occurred to me.

  ‘Well,’ Hamish said, ‘if that was the end of him, and I think it was –’

  ‘I agree,’ I said.

  ‘– at least he went out happy. I don’t mind when I last saw him so blithe. It was being sae well suited wi’ the wee dog, I’m thinking.’

  ‘Very likely,’ I said. I looked around. ‘Where is Spin?’

  We whistled and called but there was no sign of the spaniel.

  Chapter Four

  I made my way slowly back through the wood, uncertain and miserable. Perhaps I should have stayed to help search for the dog. It was a lonely journey without Peter’s company. The medics had been going through the motions but I was in no doubt that he was dead. Not long before, I had been wondering why such a fuss was made about the sanctity of life. Death was all around us. Man was the least of the predators. Millions of creatures were born every day only to be eaten by some other creature before another day had dawned. When death became inevitable, nature’s anaesthetics took over and it was accepted with resignation if not with grace. It had seemed to me to be a gross piece of impertinence to set a higher value on human life. People grew old and died. They fell ill and died. They were in accidents and died. And sometimes they were killed. It would come some day, the only question being when – which, it seemed to me, did not make an enormous difference. But now I knew that death mattered, not for the one who died but for those who were left to suffer the shock and to grieve.

  The first thing to do, I decided, was to share or shed as much responsibility as possible. I sat down on a log, took out my mobile phone and after a short wrestle with Directory Enquiries called Mr Enterkin’s office.

  The female voice that answered his phone was unco-operative. Yes, he was in, but who would she say was speaking and what was it about? I asked her to pass on a message. Would he meet me at Sir Peter’s house as soon as possible? With mounting impatience, I stressed that it was urgent but the voice refused to promise anything without knowing a good reason.

  I lost patience. ‘Tell him that Sir Peter Hay is dead,’ I snapped.

  When I emerged from the trees, I found that the massive and rough-hewn Ronnie was orbiting the lawns on an equally large and rugged motor mower. I signalled to him to follow me into the house. The absence of his employer must have struck him as significant because he stopped the mower where it was and was almost on my heels as I entered, ringing the doorbell as I went through.

  The maid, Joanna, came out of the kitchen. ‘Bring Mary to the sitting room, please,’ I told her.

  They joined me in the sitting room and I invited them to sit down. Mary Fiddler was wearing a bright floral apron which jarred on me. For the occasion, it seemed skittish to the point of irreverence. There was no easy way to break the news. When I had the three of them sitting in an anxious row on the big settee, I told them simply that their employer had been removed to hospital, presumably dead. ‘If it’s any comfort to you,’ I added, remembering Hamish’s words, ‘his last hours were supremely happy.’ Then, because they seemed to expect it, I described the events of the morning. There was silence when I had finished. They immediately accepted the fact of his death. They must have been half expecting it for years. It occurred to me that I would look the world’s biggest idiot if some miracle of medicine were performed and Peter came home again.

  ‘He was a guid man,’ Mary said at last through her handkerchief and the others made murmurs of agreement. It seemed to be as fine an obituary as anyone could ask for. ‘What’ll we do now?’ she asked.

  ‘For the moment, just carry on as before,’ was all I could find to say.

  There was another silence. Ronnie felt the need to break it. ‘The wee dog was good?’ he asked.

  ‘Very,’ I said. ‘But that reminds me. When I found Sir Peter, there was no sign of the spaniel. He hasn’t come back here?’ They shook their heads. ‘He probably will,’ I said. ‘Dogs can be sensible that way. Many a person has spent hours searching for a lost dog in strange territory and then found it sitting beside the car. Anyway, Hamish is out looking for him.’

  Ronnie nodded and then got to his feet. ‘I’d best go and collect those rabbits,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll help Hamish to look. You’ll let us know if he’s found?’

  I gave him my mobile phone. ‘If he comes back here, I’ll phone you,’ I promised.

  The ladies went back to the kitchen, probably to enjoy a refreshing weep while secretly beginning to relish their position at the forefront of pathos and drama. Ronnie strode off. For some reason it seemed desirable that everything should be as little changed as possible, as if that would delay Peter’s final departure. I was alone and too restless to sit still but my hips
ached too much for walking. I wandered out to the mowing machine. The controls seemed simple. A minute later I was in the saddle and paralleling Ronnie’s neat lines while burying some of my grief under the sweet smell of newly mown grass.

  It was some little time before Ralph Enterkin’s old but highly polished car arrived. I assumed that he had been with a client who had delayed him, but I learned later that he had spent the whole time en route. The law moves very slowly and the solicitor drove at a similar pace. I stopped the mower and walked to meet him.

  He was looking very grave. ‘This is terrible news,’ he said.

  ‘I may have been precipitate. He collapsed. I’m assuming that he was dead.’

  ‘You may have been precipitate but he did indeed die. I phoned the hospital before I left the office. He had been pronounced and certified as dead.’

  My last, faint hope faded away. ‘I see. I’ve told the staff, nobody else.’

  ‘You’ve told the whole world,’ he retorted. ‘My amanuensis may be a treasure who can take dictation at a thousand words a minute and knows as much law as I do, but she is the world’s worst gossip. The word will have gone round Newton Lauder by now and will reach Edinburgh within the hour.’

  ‘She wouldn’t put me through or give you a message without good reason,’ I explained.

  ‘You should have invented something. But never mind that,’ he said testily, as though I had been trying to evade the subject. ‘You’d better tell me what happened. Shall we go inside?’

  I led him indoors. It seemed appropriate to use Peter’s study rather than the sitting room. When we were established in two of the deep, leather chairs I told the story again, much as I had told it to the staff.

  ‘I’m not happy about this,’ he said when I had ground to a halt. ‘I don’t mean about the loss of an old friend and favourite client. Of course I’m saddened by that. But let me ask one or two questions. How did he look?’

  I thought back. It seemed a strange question. ‘He looked dead,’ I told him.

  ‘He was dead,’ Enterkin said testily. ‘I’d expect him to look it. But how was his colour?’

  ‘Not noticeably different.’

  ‘I was with him when he had his first heart attack. He was chalk white and his lips were purple.’

  ‘Nothing like that,’ I assured him.

  ‘H’m.’ His scanty eyebrows began a long climb up his forehead. ‘Tell me, did he have a visit from a woman, small, dark, about forty, with sharp features and a penetrating voice?’

  ‘He had a visit from a dark-haired woman. I didn’t see her face or hear her voice. He told her to see you. How did you know?’

  The solicitor ignored my question. ‘You and I are going to have trouble with that one.’

  ‘Me?’ I said, throwing grammar to the winds.

  ‘Of course. You’re my fellow executor.’

  ‘But he only asked me after lunch yesterday whether I was willing.’

  ‘And signed the fresh trust disposition and settlement an hour later. He was very anxious to get the change formalized, in case some sudden accident should put the previous will into effect. I take it that you would not go against the wishes of a dead friend?’

  Hypnotized, I said that I would not.

  Enterkin learned back in his chair and put his fingertips together. ‘You see, that woman –’ again the solicitor made the two words sound like a curse ‘– that woman is Dorothy Spigatt of the firm of Weimms and Spigatt . . . Solicitors, I’m ashamed to say. Head office in Edinburgh but branches throughout the Borders. Sir Peter trusted them utterly. Indeed, until very recently I would have done the same. Nothing was known against them. They handled his major business affairs – with my full agreement because, as Sir Peter no doubt told you, although I have a grounding in Company Law I have no head for the subtler ramifications and machinations of big business. And Ms Spigatt had charge of the local office and did some factoring of the farms, although she has had to take over the Edinburgh office now, for reasons which you will soon understand.

  ‘Recently it emerged, partly due to some questions of my own,’ Mr Enterkin said modestly, ‘that Henry Weimms had been dipping into Sir Peter’s money to play the stock market on his own account. Unfortunately, he was not very good at it and was deep in the red. Even more unfortunately, those questions of mine that brought the matter out into the light of day also gave him warning that the – um – mess was about to hit the fan. He helped himself to a further sum which brought the total deficit to nearly three hundred thousand and then headed for pastures new.’

  ‘Surely,’ I said, ‘the firm’s insurers would have to make good.’

  ‘Professional indemnity assurance covers negligence,’ Enterkin said sternly, ‘but not dishonesty. The Scottish Solicitors Guarantee Fund may make good the loss in the end, but the innocent partners are thereafter liable for making good the losses to the Fund. What’s more, the Law Society has power to insist that the wronged client pursues a civil claim or initiates criminal or disciplinary proceedings.’

  I began to feel rather sorry for Ms Spigatt. ‘So the lady’s head is on the block,’ I commented.

  ‘She is not a lady,’ Mr Enterkin snapped. ‘She is trying every legal and semi-legal dodge to evade her responsibilities. I suspect that she even offered Sir Peter the doubtful pleasures of her flesh to forget the matter, although fortunately they were both beyond the age at which such a bargain might have been attractive to either party, and particularly at such a price.

  ‘But you are quite correct. Unfortunately for her, instead of being left as sole proprietress of a thriving firm, she will have to strip the firm of a large part of its assets if she wishes to remain in practice. Her house will also have to go, but it comprises only a pair of converted cottages in this vicinity and is unlikely to fetch more than a fraction of the missing sum. And if she endeavours to meet her obligations by further borrowings from clients’ accounts, it will be the accounts of other clients. I have seen to that. Sir Peter had already made it clear that the matter was in my hands. She had no business approaching him direct – no doubt in an attempt to influence him against my advice.’

  ‘He said something of the sort.’ It was already clear that, in hastily accepting a duty that I had supposed to be so far off as to be discounted, I had bitten off as much as I could chew. ‘So what do we do?’ I asked.

  Mr Enterkin noticed the ‘we’ but acknowledged it only with a lift of an eyebrow. ‘Leave that with me for the moment,’ he said. ‘The matter will roll along a prescribed course.’

  He would have said more, but his earlier words had only just rung a warning bell in my mind. ‘Did you refer to the will as a trust?’ I asked.

  ‘Trust Disposition and Settlement. Yes. In addition to being executors, we are his granddaughter’s trustees.’

  The mouthful was becoming ever less digestible.

  ‘So,’ Enterkin said with emphasis. ‘The death comes just a little too pat. Coincidence it may be, but rather too many people are better off, or had reason to think that they might be better off, with Sir Peter out of the way. No doubt the death was perfectly natural but, just in case of questions in the future, we had best take all reasonable steps. Which doctor attended the scene?’

  ‘I didn’t get his name, but he was tall, with black hair and glasses.’

  The solicitor did not seemed to be cheered by the information. ‘I must see what I can discover by telephone,’ he said slowly. ‘The phone in the sitting room is on a separate line. While I make use of it, perhaps you would advise Miss Hay of her grandfather’s death.’

  That seemed to be well within my capabilities. There were two phones on the desk in the study but a small light on one of them indicated that there was an extension in use. I discovered Elizabeth’s number in a leather-backed address book and found myself speaking to a hall of residence at the university. I left a message asking her to call or come, as a matter of urgency.

  If the little light was to be belie
ved, Enterkin was still on the other phone. I keyed in the number for Three Oaks. Isobel’s voice came on the line. She sounded surprised to hear from me. I had been calling her at home in the evenings.

  ‘Does this call mean that you’re coming home?’ she asked.

  ‘The reverse. I had rashly agreed to be one of Peter’s executors—’

  ‘You told me that,’ she said sharply. I guessed that I had caught her with a patient on the table. ‘So what’s changed?’

  ‘Everything,’ I told her. ‘He’s just died.’

  ‘Oh dear! What of?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. He went down quite suddenly. Heart perhaps.’

  There was silence until I began to wonder whether we had been cut off. ‘That’s a shame,’ she said at last. ‘He wasn’t what you’d call a charmer and yet I remember him as one of the most charming men I ever met. He seemed eternally youthful. I can’t imagine him ever dying. Say all the proper things from me to anyone who could possibly give a damn. Is there anything we can do from this end?’

  ‘Not just now, except to manage without me. I may want advice later – it seems that I am also joint trustee of a young girl, God help me! I only called to break the news and to explain that I may have to put in a lot of time on this. My movements may be unpredictable.’

  ‘Understood. Mind you don’t knock yourself up, trying to do too much too quickly. Try to visit home soon for clean laundry and some proper clothes,’ said my ever practical wife. ‘And let me know when the funeral will be. I’d like to come to it.’

  Her words had reminded me that I was still dressed for informal rabbiting. Enterkin still seemed to be on the phone, so when our call was finished I slipped upstairs for a quick wash and change. I helped myself to a black tie from Peter Hay’s wardrobe, telling myself that he would have understood and approved. His bedroom was large and very masculine. I supposed that his granddaughter would be sleeping there some day and no doubt there would be changes, though I could not imagine what they would be.