by Tim Heald
He could feel the exasperation in Parkinson’s voice when he replied.
‘I thought you might have realized what it might be. Haven’t you read this evening’s papers?’
‘Yes, but …’
‘He has rabies.’
‘Good God. But how?’
‘I’ve just come from the hospital. They let me talk to him briefly. He had been to the Duchess of Dorset’s and he was bitten by one of her bloody dogs.’
‘But surely he got an injection?’
‘Not even anti-tetanus. Let alone a rabies jab. It was only a little bite. It never occurred to him.’
‘But, good lord, he’s supposed to be an expert.’
‘Even experts are fallible. After all, if you were given a small nip by a terrier in the middle of Dorset you wouldn’t assume you were about to contract rabies. This was Piddlehampton, not Karachi.’
‘Is he going to be all right?’
‘The doctors say he has a few more hours. No more. He’s in intensive care now. There’s nothing they can do.’
Bognor was silent, remembering his unpleasant lunch. He hadn’t liked Mr Sparks in the least, and Mr Sparks clearly hadn’t liked him. Even so.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, unable to think of anything more appropriate. He was sorry too. Not quite as desolated as he might have been, but still sorry.
‘What do you want me to do?’
Parkinson was abrupt. ‘Get off your arse and get down to the Duchess’s. Fast.’
Bognor thought for a moment. ‘If it’s all the same to you … sir,’ he said, with a mixture of servility and insolence, ‘I’d prefer to go via Surblington.’
‘Where?’ Parkinson was irritated, but less so when Bognor had told him of the day’s events. ‘Get the corpse dug up,’ he said, ‘and we’ll have the bloody thing examined. If it was rabies the woman’s in trouble.’
They exchanged goodbyes and Bognor went to make more coffee.
It was ten minutes before Monica arrived. She had got a temporary job helping a friend in a new art gallery and there had been a problem with some sculptures which had been missing for days before finally being located at Didcot.
‘Dogs!’ she said in dismay, when Bognor told her. ‘Whatever next?’ She put down a bulging string bag, filled with extravagant goodies from Robert Jackson and the Berwick Street Market, took off her scarf and shook out her hair in front of the glass. Bognor made comparisons with Coriander Cordingley. Monica had lost weight recently but she was showing her age. There were lines on the face where last year there had been none. Still she was undoubtedly much, much nicer than Coriander Cordingley, even if she was five years older and, Bognor had to face it, a little on the plain side.
‘Aunt Flo used to breed borzois,’ she said, combing out her hair. ‘I got steak for tonight. Ghastly price. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Aunt Flo. Borzois? They’re the aristocratic looking ones with long noses, aren’t they?’
‘Yes.’
‘But Aunt Flo was common looking with a little snub nose.’
‘Well?’
‘I thought dogs were supposed to look like their owners.’
‘Don’t be silly. Anyway it’s the other way round. Can I have a drink?’
He mixed two gins and tonic, while telling her more.
‘Don’t you think you ought to have a rabies injection?’ she asked when he’d finished.
‘No one’s bitten me.’
‘You can get it from saliva, I think. Has anyone licked you?’
‘Dog or person?’
‘Dog, stupid. The worst you get from people is glandular fever.’
‘No. Try to be serious for a minute. If Sparks dies—and it sounds as if he’s going to—do you think they could charge the old Duchess with murder?’
Monica looked thoughtful.
‘Not murder, but I wouldn’t be surprised by manslaughter.’
‘That’s rather what I thought.’
They sat and stared into their drinks. They’d lived in the flat for eight years now—at least Bognor had. Monica had moved in by degrees and it was only in the last few months that she’d finally given up the pretence of a place of her own. It had grown shabby recently, but the shabbiness made it comfortable.
‘I wonder,’ said Bognor, ‘if the Duchess realized the dog was rabid when it bit Sparks.’
‘That would be murder,’ said Monica.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think it would.’
First thing next morning he dropped into the local surgery for an anti-typhoid and cholera injection. It was a routine jab—a six-monthly precaution against the exotic trip to typhoid-ridden tropics. A trip on which, incidentally, Parkinson steadfastly refused to send him.
Later, on his way to Surblington, he called at the Kennel Club. Just inside the entrance, on the left, there was a window marked ‘Enquiries’. He showed his card to the man behind it and as usual it produced the desired effect. The man became almost obsequious.
‘I’m afraid I have a curious request and it may take up a lot of your time,’ said Bognor. ‘But I assure you it is important. I know how busy you must be.’
The minion smiled and nodded. ‘Anything I can do, sir. I’m only too happy to oblige.’
‘Good,’ said Bognor, taking a deep breath and asking, ‘I simply want to know if any Dandie Dinmont has won a prize in a foreign dog show in the last few weeks. And if you find one, could you establish as many details about it as possible—the name of the owner, the name of the judge, the organizing committee, anything at all.’
The Kennel Club man betrayed no reaction whatever. ‘Dandie Dinmont,’ he said slowly. ‘I presume it would have to be quite a big prize. Best of Show, I mean. And a big show at that?’
‘I should think so, yes.’
‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said. ‘We have thirty-five foreign associates. I’ll check through their latest reports and let you know.’
It was mid-morning before he reached Three Corners. The traffic was heavy and he had a lot on his mind. He wondered if Sparks had died in the night and what sort of welcome awaited him at the Duchess of Dorset’s. Occasionally he remembered Coriander Cordingley. There was something slightly strange about her. He parked the car on the verge again and on getting out was immediately assailed by the smell of meat, cooking. From the kennels came a yelping which he judged to be the pre-prandial cries of hungry dogs. He accordingly walked straight to the kennels and was rewarded by the sight of Mrs Potts supervising the catering. Her three kennelmaids were dispensing dried biscuit and steaming meat. The biscuit came from a sack, the meat from a black, gravy-stained vat.
‘Morning, Mrs Potts,’ he said with a cheerfulness he did not feel. The stench was horrid. The voluminous dog breeder turned slowly and peered at him with mild hostility.
‘Good morning, young man. It’s feeding time.’
‘So I see. What are they having?’
‘Meat and biscuit. And seaweed.’
‘Seaweed?’
‘Seaweed. I’ll be with you in a minute or two. Do you want to buy a poodle this time?’
He shook his head and watched as she waddled down the path between the kennels and runs. There was little consistency about the buildings which had obviously been erected at different times. Some were of wood, some of corrugated iron and some of concrete blocks. The size of the runs varied too. After studying them Bognor decided that this was due to the different size or number of dogs in each compartment. In some there was only one dog. When this was so it was usually a scrupulously groomed poodle, presumably the pride and property of Mrs Potts herself. In some runs, however, up to a dozen were closeted together but when this happened the dogs were an assortment of breeds, many of which Bognor did not recognize. These were presumably outside dogs whose owners had left them at Three Corners while they went on holiday.
All the animals were voraciously hungry, gulping down the smelly meat and anaemic biscuit as if it were steak and chips. Bognor su
spected it was horsemeat from the knacker’s yard.
Eventually, when she’d finished dishing up, Mrs Potts was able to give Bognor her undivided attention. She seemed to have all the self-confidence her bulk suggested but beneath it Bognor was not so certain.
‘Not more of this smuggling nonsense, I hope,’ she said, a little too brightly.
‘You’ve seen what’s happened at the Duchess of Dorset’s?’
‘I’ve read the newspapers. You don’t expect me to believe that, do you? How could one of Dora’s Dandies get rabies?’ Her face folded into an apology of a smile which vanished as quickly as it had arrived. ‘And how am I connected with that anyway?’
Bognor shrugged. ‘I can’t be sure, but in the circumstances we can’t take risks. Therefore I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to have your corpse dug up. We want to do a post mortem.’
‘And what do you expect to find?’
‘What caused its death.’
They were still standing in the middle of the kennel area, Mrs Potts’ feet wide apart, a heavy pail on one elbow and her other hand resting where, on a conventionally proportioned person, one might have found a hip. Bognor glanced round at the dogs, still chewing over the last of their feed.
‘The rest of your animals look quite healthy,’ he said. ‘Funny that none of them have contracted poor Fred’s virus.’
‘Fred was in a place of his own. Isolated.’
She was remarkably truculent. Bognor wondered if he’d made a mistake. At the moment she didn’t give the impression of someone harbouring a guilty secret.
‘Would you mind?’
‘What?’
‘Having the body exhumed.’
‘You’re wasting your time.’
‘We’ll see about that.’
‘Do you have the authority? You’re not Ministry of Agriculture. Or police.’
Bognor thought of bluffing but instead said, ‘No. But I can get it if you force me.’
She shrugged and her whole body wobbled in the gesture of resignation.
‘Carry on,’ she said. ‘Do you want to take him away with you?’
‘Yes, please.’
Again she shrugged, then began to waddle up the path towards the house, calling out at regular intervals: ‘Andrews … Andrews … Andrews.’ After thirty seconds of this shouting, the elderly agriculturalist who Bognor had seen at yesterday’s funeral emerged from behind a potting shed, doing up his flies.
‘Morning, M’m,’ he said, embarrassed. ‘Morning, sir.’
‘Mr Bognor here,’ said Mrs Potts, gesturing at Bognor dismissively, ‘wants to take Whately Wonderful away for an examination. Would you please dig him up again.’
Andrews made a gesture of salute, returned to the potting shed, entered and re-emerged a minute later with a spade. The three of them set off in the direction of the cemetery.
‘Do you always bury your dogs in such style?’ asked Bognor as they passed through the gate with its gilt doggerel about God’s heart and the garden.
‘How would you put your friends to rest, Mr Bognor?’ asked Mrs Potts.
They advanced on the cherry tree.
‘How long has the cemetery been here?’ he asked.
‘Nineteen-thirty,’ she said. ‘I inherited it from Mavis Briggs-Percival, the missionary. She kept Pekes. She’s buried there—over by the willow.’
Bognor wandered over to the willow which wept lushly over a simple granite tombstone with Miss Briggs-Percival’s name chiselled on it and the three letters RIP underneath. All around it were much smaller stones inscribed to Wan-Tu, Mao, Ping, Wang and other similarly Pekinese names. Bognor wondered why he found it peculiar.
Fred had not been buried very deeply and when he returned to the cherry he found that Andrews was already kneeling over a small hole and trying to extricate the coffin with his hands. After much grunting and sweat he emerged triumphant, clutching a battered cake tin decorated with a bundle of roses.
‘I thought …’ Bognor felt a mounting sensation of desperation. He concentrated very hard indeed and managed to conjure up a precise image of an orange box lying on the turf with the motto ‘Outspan Oranges—with care’ stencilled on it. There was no question of it. When Fred had been buried yesterday he had been in an orange box and now he was reduced to the size of a cake tin.
‘Yes, Mr Bognor, you thought what?’
Bognor stared at her, trying to work out whether beneath the blubber there was a sinister Machiavellian mind or a silly frightened old woman. He was unable to decide.
‘I thought Whately Wonderful was buried in an orange box.’
‘What can have given you that idea?’
‘I saw it.’
‘You are mistaken.’
‘But I saw it. Yesterday. I was here. Remember?’
‘I’m afraid you are quite mistaken. Ask Andrews.’
Andrews was dusting earth from the cake tin, and wiping its lid with the tail of his shirt, which protruded from his waist.
‘Excuse me, Mr Andrews,’ said Bognor, with the growing diffidence of the hopelessly conned, ‘but yesterday I quite definitely saw Whately Wonderful being laid to rest in an orange box.’
The old man regarded him with blank brown eyes, then suddenly focused them and said, ‘’Fraid not, sir. We buried un in a cake tin. This cake tin here.’ And he tapped the top of the tin with his forefinger. Bognor turned back to the dog breeder.
‘How in God’s name do you fit a full-size poodle into a cake tin?’ he asked, his voice rising.
‘Mr Bognor, you are being indelicate. I hardly feel you would want to discuss the details of cremation if you were referring to one of your own loved ones.’
‘Cremation?’
‘Cremation.’
‘But when? How? Why?’
‘It is usual.’ Mrs Potts seemed to gain self-possession as Bognor lost his own. ‘It’s more hygienic and it takes up less space. There is a very useful local firm which is prepared to accommodate us when their incinerator is not otherwise occupied.’
‘But, Mrs Potts …’ Bognor made one final appeal. ‘You know perfectly well that when I was here yesterday you were burying your dog in a large orange box. So you must have had him cremated after I’d gone away. Now why did you do that?’
For a moment he thought she was going to capitulate and tell him something, but it passed in an instant; however, it was enough to confirm that she was lying. He wasn’t insane after all.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Bognor, I’m very busy. Will you please take Fred and go.’
Andrews held out the cake tin and Bognor took it ungraciously.
‘Goodbye,’ he said, ‘we’ll be in touch.’ Then he stamped tetchily back to his car, put the earthly remains of Champion Whately Wonderful into the boot and accelerated towards Dorset. He knew the Board’s analysts were clever but he doubted whether they would be able to detect rabies in a cake tin of dust. They would just have to try.
Piddlehampton Manor was in the Piddle Valley, less humorously but no more correctly known as the Trent Valley, that pastoral area of central Dorset which gave birth to the Tolpuddle Martyrs. It took Bognor over three hours to drive to Blandford, modestly announced on its own signposts as ‘an interesting Georgian town’. Then he took the Dorchester road and saw signs to Bryantspuddle, Affpuddle, Puddletown, Piddlehinton and Piddletrenthide. Dorset, he reflected, had the finest place names in the world.
Unhappily he had more on his mind than place names. Two miles beyond Blandford he finally succumbed to macabre curiosity and pulled in by a phone box. It was three o’clock and Parkinson would be back from lunch.
When he’d eventually succeeded in reversing the charges—a process which took longer than it should because the operator persisted in thinking he wanted a number in Bognor and refused to believe that that was his name, he found Parkinson gloomy and censorious.
‘He died this morning,’ he said, ‘in great pain.’
‘Did he say anything?’
>
‘Nothing coherent. Anyway no one was allowed to see him except the staff. It’s not pretty, rabies. He was raving.’
Bognor felt ill. He wondered if he should have had an injection against rabies as well as cholera and typhoid.
‘There was just one thing.’ Parkinson’s voice was very crackly. ‘The doctor says he kept on about being eager to do something. He couldn’t work out what it was but this word “eager” kept cropping up. The doctor couldn’t work it out. I don’t suppose it’s important but I pass it on in the slender hope that you might be able to make something of it.’
Bognor caught sight of himself in the cracked glass of the phone booth’s mirror. He saw a face on the verge of decay. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to start a career as a schoolmaster.
‘Doesn’t make any sense to me,’ he said.
‘That’s doesn’t mean it isn’t important.’ Parkinson’s voice had taken on its usual note of irritation. Bognor derived comfort from it.
‘I’m afraid I had a rather abortive experience at Three Corners.’
‘Can’t hear. It’s a bad line. Three what?’
‘Three Corners. That dog. They’ve cremated it.’
‘Do you have the ashes?’
‘In a cake tin, in the boot.’
‘When are you coming back?’
‘Tonight, I hope.’
‘Bring them back with you then. They can manage ashes all right. Why did they cremate him?’
‘Don’t know.’
There was a long pause. When he did speak again Parkinson sounded almost solicitous. ‘For once in your life, Bognor, try to be careful. I have a nasty feeling this business is not as banal as it may seem.’
‘Thanks for the thought.’ Bognor hung up.
He reached Piddlehampton after another half hour of dreamy driving. Two dead dogs and now a dead man, he kept repeating to himself. Each one could be quite accidental, and yet …
The village was almost a parody. Its main, indeed its only, street wound gently up the hillside through two lines of thatched cottages set back behind well-mown grass verges. Roses burgeoned round tiny porches, climbed hungrily up to the roofs and clambered over garden walls. Half-way up the street a small Victorian almshouse stood opposite a neat Jacobean church which adjoined a perfect Georgian Rectory. All three periods blended happily in yellow stone. Only the twee anachronism of the Gothic script above Piddlehampton Post Office and General Stores jarred. The village seemed empty. The only sound was of pigeons cooing persistently and a hand-driven lawn mower clattering behind one of the cottages. Otherwise it might have been siesta time.