Dead Weight (Three Oaks Book 11)

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘Because it’s when you don’t have all the facts that you can believe what you want to believe,’ Beth explained seriously. ‘When you’ve got all the facts, the explanation turns out to be about as interesting as a suet pudding.’ She was wrong this time, of course.

  I went to clean and lock up my gun. When I came back to the kitchen, Bruce had returned from Dundee with several bags of a special puppy-meal and some veterinary products for Isobel. Beth had told him what little we knew and was venturing again into speculation.

  Bruce sighed. ‘I’d better get over there,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Beth agreed. ‘See what you can find out.’

  ‘I’ll certainly do that’ Bruce told her. ‘But whatever I find out will probably be in confidence. I’m her solicitor.’

  I decided that he was deluding himself. Whatever he found out, Beth would have it out of him before he could hiccup.

  Bruce’s car was hardly outside the gate when the two boys returned. ‘There was an ambulance,’ Steven said breathlessly, ‘and the police tape is still there.’

  ‘And we could see a lot of men crawling around in the grass and flower beds,’ said Dennis.

  ‘They chased us away when we tried to look into the ambulance,’ said Steven, ‘but Dennis’s mum saw them putting somebody inside and she said that the person was covered up, head and all.’

  ‘And she said that means that they’re dead,’ Dennis said in a horrified whisper.

  *

  The four young helpers finished for the week and were paid off. Three scampered together along the path to the village, determined to plumb the new mystery to its very depths, while Sam, who had put up his usual argument for equal pay for almost equal work, set up another moan at being kept at home. We finished the last of the chores, visited all our stock, the temporary boarders and those in quarantine kennels and, once we were sure that all were well and as contented as could be hoped, we adjourned for our customary knocking-off drink and discussion. The two kennel-maids had come to consider the evening’s refreshment as part of their due wages, although to do them justice they seldom asked for anything more than a shandy or a spritzer. As evening approached the midges had become active. Rather than plaster ourselves with repellent mixtures which were only partially effective against what the entomology books refer to as the Scourge of Scotland, we adjourned to the sitting room.

  Isobel was in a hurry to get home and prepare for Henry’s return but it would not have been in her nature to refuse a sociable drink. She quickly downed a large gin and tonic while joining in a quick thrash over the day’s business activities and set off on foot, refusing the offer from Hannah of a lift home.

  Bruce returned a few minutes later and accepted a dilute whisky and a share of the settee. We waited. He seemed to be lost in thought.

  ‘Well?’ Beth said at last. ‘Well?’

  Bruce sighed. ‘I was wondering how much I could tell you. As I said before, I was Mrs Horner’s solicitor and I’m also her executor. But I don’t have anything to say that won’t be public knowledge by morning – if it isn’t already all round the village. I never knew such a gossip-factory.’

  For some reason, I had been assuming that Mrs Horner had killed somebody in a fit of her infamous temper, but now it seemed that she was the victim. His use of the tenses was confirmation enough. ‘How did it happen?’ Daffy asked.

  ‘That’s the big question. At the moment, the police are thinking of it as an accident but investigating on the assumption that there may have been foul play.

  ‘As it happened, the house was open and I was able to tell them where she kept her will, which was one of the things the investigating officer wanted to know, so I was able to prove my status as executor. The police are always relieved to find somebody to take over responsibility for valuables so, after that, he opened up a bit.

  ‘Most probably it was a freak accident. She drowned in her own water butt. He showed me the place. The butt stands at the corner of her big greenhouse which backs onto the rear lane, partly shaded by an enormous old pear tree. There was an empty watering can nearby which she may have been intending to fill and an overturned box that she may have stood on. When they pulled her out, it was noticed that one of her earrings was missing – garnets – not very valuable but expensive enough. Her ears had been pierced very near the edge of the lobes and one of her earrings had been torn out. Assuming a struggle, they started searching the garden, but the sergeant had a bright idea. He felt in the bottom of the water butt and found an earring which was an exact match to the other. He also found a pair of kitchen tongs which she might have been using to fish around on the bottom.

  ‘The most likely scenario so far is that she was preparing to take water for her greenhouse plants but came too close to a branch of the pear tree and snagged her earring which fell into the water butt. It was about half empty. She fetched the tongs, stood on the box and leaned over to reach down into the water butt with the tongs, but the box moved and she slipped and went head down into the butt. It was of comparatively narrow diameter but quite as tall as the usual run. The water level, of course, rose as she went into it. She wouldn’t have had room to get her hands back and pull herself up by the rim and the water was too deep for her to push herself clear of it against the bottom.’

  Bruce’s voice tailed off. My mind was picturing the scene. It was not the pleasantest of pictures. Some sudden deaths may be merciful. Nature produces its own anaesthesia. When oxygen is cut off to the brain, unconsciousness comes soon and painlessly; but, in a drowning, I have always believed that there must be a period of struggling and breath-holding, of fear and desperation.

  ‘You don’t sound convinced,’ Beth told Bruce.

  ‘It’s not my business to be convinced,’ Bruce said seriously. ‘There will have to be at the very least a fatal accident inquiry in front of the sheriff. Whatever the due process of law decides, that will be the truth so far as I am concerned.’

  ‘Unless, of course, you’re representing somebody who’s adversely affected,’ I said.

  He brushed that aside. ‘Of course. Well, it could have happened that way. On the other hand, somebody might have been at hand when she lost her earring and took the opportunity to give her a helping shove. It could even be that they snatched off the earring. Well, we’ll just have to wait and see what the investigation produces – the pathologist’s report in particular.’

  ‘I thought you said that it wasn’t your business,’ Beth said.

  Bruce had a dry sense of humour, but it rarely showed when his profession was concerned. ‘As executor, it’s my business to ensure that I don’t deliver a legacy to an heir until I can be certain – legally certain – that he or she was not implicated in the death.’

  We had had rather more than our fair share of sudden deaths in recent years and I had come to know some of the criminal investigation officers. ‘Who’s the investigating officer?’ I asked. ‘Burrard?’

  Once again, Daffy had all the facts. ‘Inspector Burrard retired,’ she said. ‘He’s up in Aberdeen now, doing something in security for BP.’ She looked up at the clock. ‘I’ll have to leave in a minute. Rex will be home in a couple of days and the cottage is a mess, so don’t let me take root.’

  ‘It’s an Inspector Blosson,’ Bruce said. ‘I gather that he’s had a recent promotion and is trying to make a name for himself. I don’t think that you’d like him very much. A self-righteous man. Rather too self-assured for my comfort, though he was almost obsequious today. I think he could be a bully if he had the advantage over somebody.’

  ‘They won’t leave a newly promoted inspector in charge of a suspicious death for long,’ I said.

  Bruce nodded. ‘That’s what concerns me. He may be in a hurry to assume foul play, make an arrest and close the file before he finds somebody put in over his head.’

  ‘And then,’ said Daffy, ‘in about twenty years somebody will decide that the conviction was unsafe and there’ll be an apology a
nd compensation and a witch-hunt for the real culprit. And the original accused will have been guilty all the time. We’ve seen it all before.’ She finished her shandy and made her departure, stepping out like a man but swinging her hips under a very short skirt like a woman.

  ‘She’s becoming very cynical,’ Bruce said disapprovingly. Any criticism of the machinery of the law he considered to be his own prerogative.

  ‘She always was cynical,’ Beth said. She grinned suddenly ‘Believe it or not, her views are becoming more tolerant. You didn’t know her five years ago. She was weird. Now she’s a respectable married lady, more or less. Who found Mrs Horner’s body?’

  ‘A youth,’ Bruce said. ‘He doesn’t seem to be involved. He was passing by and he heard the cat sounding distressed. He ventured inside the gate, very cautiously in case the lady leaped out at him, but after only a step or two the water butt came in sight – I can vouch for the geography – and he saw a foot.’

  ‘But who was the boy?’ Beth asked.

  ‘Francis something.’

  ‘Francis Earl?’ I suggested.

  ‘That’s the one.’

  An ancillary mystery was explained. Francis had been one of our first junior helpers. He was older now and becoming preoccupied with girls and exam results, but girls are expensive and we had been expecting him to come and help with the elementary dog-training. It had been unlike him to let us down without explanation.

  ‘Another thing,’ Bruce said. ‘Would you like Mrs Horner’s estate for a client? I have her cat in my car. I could hardly leave her to starve. She’s a placid old thing. Can you board her until I can find her another home? I don’t think she’ll be any trouble as long as she can eat and sleep and has somewhere to defecate.’

  We had one house cat. Over the years we had suffered pressure from good clients to board their cats as well as their dogs, so that we had been forced to create a small cattery in a shed beside the barn. It was, I thought, empty now.

  I glanced at Hannah. She shrugged and got up. ‘She won’t have been fed. Is your car locked?’

  Bruce looked appreciatively at her departing back. ‘That’s more my idea of what a kennel-maid should be,’ he said. He paused and pursed his lips. ‘I don’t know whether I should tell you about this but you may be able to tell me what it means, if anything. Mrs Horner had left two letters on her hall table, ready to take to the post. The Inspector, with my agreement, opened them, hoping, I suppose, that she might have mentioned that ‘So-and-so just arrived and is going to look at my water butt with me.’ But no such luck. He decided that they were of no interest and handed them over to me as executor.

  ‘Each was addressed to one of the local papers and each was complaining about the misbehaviour of dogs. But what the Inspector failed to notice was that they weren’t on her own notepaper and didn’t even bear her own address. One was ostensibly from a Miss Langley of Newburgh and the other from a Henry McNab in Cupar. But each seemed to have been typed on the old Corona on her desk.

  ‘As her executor, it’s my duty to carry out the wishes of the deceased, but she never actually said that she wanted them posted. If she’s taking somebody else’s name in vain . . .’

  ‘I doubt that very much,’ I said. ‘I think those are fictitious people. There have been a lot of letters in the local rags recently stirring up anti-dog feelings about noise, smell, droppings in the street, danger of attack, you name it. And each complaint seemed to bring a fresh spate of letters in support. They may all have come from the same pen – or typewriter.’

  ‘The old bitch!’ Beth said.

  Chapter Two

  The Sunday which followed showed every sign of passing peacefully. There was still police activity at Mrs Horner’s house, though at a reduced level – or so we were told. Sunday was always a day of less activity at the kennels, a day for hurrying through the essential tasks, perhaps tackling any projects deferred due to lack of time but in general giving the dogs and ourselves a respite. Our junior helpers, who worked as much for the fun of it and the love of young dogs as for the money, would cheerfully have come in, but on the day of rest they were firmly excluded in the interests of family life and to avoid alienating the devout.

  Daffy had taken the day off in order to prepare her cottage and her delectable person for the return of her husband Rex from his job offshore. Hannah, who would carry an extra load while the usually workaholic Daffy was on short hours for Rex’s benefit, had a date with her latest boyfriend and dashed off as soon as the morning chores were finished. Bruce went off to collect his fiancée and take her to watch him compete in a clay pigeon meeting near Perth and on the way he dropped Sam off in the village. Sam had an invitation to spend the day at his friend Audrey’s house. Audrey was nearly ten as against Sam’s seven years, but the two were becoming devoted friends. Beth was inclined to worry in case they got themselves talked about.

  Isobel had gone to Edinburgh with Henry to visit an old friend from Henry’s merchant banking days, so for once Beth and I had the place to ourselves. We gave the dogs the minimum of essential human contact and then spent a delightfully lazy afternoon, dozing at first in deckchairs and then pottering in the garden. Bruce had intended to be back in good time to help with the dogs’ meals, so there was no urgency. The earlier we started the work, the more we would have to do unaided. We looked at each other and no words were needed.

  With the room next door occupied by Bruce and the partition walls being not very thick, we had felt inhibited. Since my illness sex had not been very high on my list of priorities, but I was beginning to feel that nostalgic pang that says desire is on the way.

  We came in out of the brightness and heat into cool dimness and climbed the stairs.

  ‘Bruce will come back before we’re done,’ Beth said.

  ‘Then he can get on with the dogs’ dinners,’ I told her. She grinned at me wickedly.

  We undressed, cleaned ourselves up and settled down. We were very slow and gentle and loving. Recent abstinence made the newly recovered joy all the sweeter. We were both nearing climax when we heard a car on the gravel.

  ‘That’ll be Bruce,’ Beth whispered. ‘Don’t stop now.’

  Another car arrived. There were angry voices, none of them sounding in the least like Bruce. I found that desire had escaped me.

  Beth knew it as soon as I did. ‘Come back as soon as you can,’ she whispered and gave me one of her special kisses.

  I dressed quickly and went downstairs on slightly shaky knees. Alistair Branch was in the hall, glaring defiantly at two strangers. He saw me on the stairs and he was speaking before I had descended two more steps.

  ‘John, is Bruce Hastie here?’

  ‘I’m expecting him back at any moment.’

  ‘Damn. Can I wait?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said – reluctantly, because I had somebody special waiting for me upstairs. The larger of the other two men I suddenly recognized as the sergeant from the village – a new posting whom I did not know well. He was in civilian garb, jacketless but very neat in a white shirt and a tie. The last thing I wanted was to become embroiled in Alistair’s problems at that or any other moment, but he was Henry’s friend and he was in trouble. ‘Can I help?’ I asked.

  The smaller man broke in before Alistair could speak. He may have seemed small next to the sergeant but as I came down the last few steps I saw that he was as tall as me and undoubtedly heavier. At first glance, despite a prominent nose and bushy eyebrows, he looked inoffensive but looking again I saw that there was a twist to his mouth and a slant to his cheekbones which somehow, in the intuitive way that one guesses character from casts of features, made me think that I would neither buy a car from him nor sell him a puppy. ‘Really,’ he said in the voice of one more hurt than angry, ‘there’s no need for this. Mr Branch may be an important witness and we have one or two questions . . . I’m Detective Inspector Blosson and this is Sergeant Morrison.’

  Alistair was shaking, but whether from fe
ar or temper I could only guess – I thought possibly both. ‘They have a dozen questions and most of them seem to be suggesting that I’m guilty of something and they won’t say what and I’m not answering any more until I have my solicitor with me.’

  ‘Mr Branch,’ said the Detective Inspector, ‘we made no such suggestions.’ His accent, I decided, was definitely Glasgow, faint but not from one of the better areas.

  Alistair continued to address me. He was visibly distraught, his colour high and his face looking pinched. ‘They keep asking me to explain things I know nothing about,’ he said. ‘They say there was another dog-turd in Mrs Horner’s gateway. I’ve told them and told them that I picked up the one June dropped that caused the row with Mrs Horner and I haven’t walked along the pavement in front of her house since. And there’s something about a cigar. But I’m not going to be badgered. And they were trying to get me to go along to the District HQ at Cupar but I’m damned if I’m going to walk into their parlour unless Hastie says that I should.’

  Sergeant Morrison was holding his book against the wall and was writing laboriously. ‘Would you speak more slowly, please,’ he said.

  Alistair threw the sergeant a hunted look. ‘I’m going home now,’ he said. ‘Betty’s very upset. When Hastie gets back, tell him what I’ve said and that I’m not saying another damn thing until I’ve heard from him.’ He pushed past the Detective Inspector and left the house. The two policemen left without another word and I heard both cars drive off.

  I turned and went up the stairs, two at a time.

  *

  Bruce returned about twenty minutes later, which just gave Beth and myself time to recover the mood and bring matters to an unhurried and satisfactory conclusion. I dressed quickly once again and descended to meet him. He was bearing a very small medal and seemed highly pleased with himself. I probably appeared equally complacent, because he looked at me curiously.