‘I believe you. Uncle George didn’t much like the looks of Edgar’s bitch, but he liked the way she worked,’ Beth said slowly. She was half convinced and wanted to go the rest of the way. ‘He paid the stud fee for a dog that he fancied, in exchange for the choice of pup. Edgar must have sold the rest of the litter. This chap’s going to be a beauty.’ She stopped and sighed.
If I had harboured any thoughts of taking advantage of the dubiety to discourage Beth, her sigh would have changed my mind for me. ‘He is,’ I said.
‘Isn’t there any way we can be sure?’
‘Tests would take time,’ I said. ‘I’m sure enough now.’
‘But—’
I made an impatient movement and both dogs jumped back. ‘Your cousin’s a heavy-handed trainer,’ I said in explanation. ‘I’ve even seen him punish a dog in front of the judges. It was only a flick with the leash but I’m sure it cost him a place. Under the new rules he’d have been put out on the spot.’ I snapped my fingers gently and the dog I was sure was Jason came to me. I felt his joints and looked into his eyes. He stood patiently still for me, his tail moving slowly. ‘We’re taking this one with us,’ I told Jeannie McLaine, ‘before Mr Lawrence ruins him altogether.’
‘But I don’t know as I should let you—’
‘You have no authority to stop us. Please listen very carefully,’ I said. ‘I want you to give Edgar a message. We think that he nearly made an honest mistake. This one is Jason and we’re taking him with us. Edgar can keep the balance of the training fee. If he doesn’t like it he can take us to court, in which case we’ll have his genetic fingerprint taken.’
‘Would that be a blood test like?’ she asked, trying to understand.
‘Much more specific than a blood test. It can establish parentage without any doubt. But it’d cost, and a court would certainly expect the loser to pay for it. I wouldn’t recommend him to try it unless he’s absolutely certain. Have you got that?’
She nodded. She looked solemn, but my last doubts were swept away when I detected a glint of hidden amusement in her eye. She was not sorry that Edgar’s attempt to commit a fraud while hiding behind her skirts had misfired.
We returned the first dog to his kennel. Jason came with us, puzzled but trusting. He jumped into the back of the car of his own accord and settled down immediately, comforted by the scent of a hundred or so contented dogs who had been there before him.
Jeannie McLaine made a token protest, but her heart was not in it. She stood and watched us out of sight. At the last moment, she waved.
‘Your cousin was trying it on,’ I said as I drove. ‘He hoped you’d go off with the wrong one.’
‘I’m afraid so.’ Beth turned in her seat to fondle the dog’s head. I watched in the mirror. He was pretending to nibble her fingers. ‘When we were younger, Edgar always seemed to get his own way, by hook or by crook. And he usually managed to make it look as if it was somebody else’s fault. I think he left his girlfriend in charge so that he could blame it on her stupidity if we made any trouble.’
Whatever my own belief, I had no wish to drive a wedge between the cousins. ‘Perhaps he really was called back to work,’ I said charitably. ‘And I don’t think you’ve any grounds for suggesting that she’s his girlfriend? He could sue.’
Beth laughed happily. Her first doubts were giving way to elation. ‘Edgar was never fussy,’ she said. ‘And he’s an administrative officer with the GPO. I think he keeps the personnel records or something. What kind of emergency would need his attendance on a Saturday? Oh, never mind Edgar. Do you think this fellow’s going to turn out well?’
‘He’ll be a good-looking dog,’ I said. ‘Just how good he’ll be in competition depends on you now.’
‘I didn’t have a chance to try him.’ Beth leaned further over to take a good look at her new friend. A pink tongue flicked out, quick as an adder’s strike. ‘Ugh! I’m covered in dog-slobber. Back, back, you foul beast!’ She sighed deeply with happiness. ‘It’s turning out to be quite a weekend. A new dog and a ring and a picture and your gun. I keep wondering what’s going to go wrong.’
That brought her uncle’s death back into my mind and I felt a chill up my back.
‘You’re looking tired,’ Beth said suddenly. ‘Would you like me to drive?’
I let the car slow. ‘Do you want to?’
‘Not really. I don’t want to take my eyes off Jason, in case he disappears.’
*
I would cheerfully have headed for home, taking our treasures with us. Once they were home, they would really be ours. But Hattie was expecting us for another night, while Isobel and Henry would have suspected a lack of trust if we had hurried back to the kennels. So we returned, through Drymen and Balloch, to the house above Tarbet.
The house was locked and empty, but the key was above the door and an appetising smell of roasting meat met us in the hall. Old Mona was missing from her place in front of the hearth, so we guessed that the two of them were out walking. Dusk was on the way, but there was still adequate light. Beth took a pair of canvas dummies out of the car and led Jason onto Hattie’s lawn. I left them to get on with it. Instead, I carried the Dickson up to my bedroom, spent a minute or two admiring the Celtic engraving and then practised mounting it to my shoulder. The balance was good and it seemed to fit me perfectly. When I opened and closed it, the action was tight, firm as a safe door and yet sweet and gentle as silk pants.
The sudden knock at my door had to be Hattie; Beth and I had both stopped bothering to knock since our intimacy became established. I had a mad impulse to hide the gun, but laid it carefully across a chair and opened the door.
Hattie came in, still in her winter tweed coat. She glanced at the gun without more than casual interest. ‘Beth says that you’re unhappy about your bargain.’
Not knowing what to say I held my tongue.
‘You’ve no need to fash yourself,’ she said firmly. ‘A deal’s still a deal, at least in Scotland.’ She smiled at me for the first time and I was suddenly reminded of a George Muir portrait which I had seen in an exhibition, a painting of a younger woman with the same dark hair and sturdy grace. ‘We don’t go in for that gazumping business here. And I’ve got more than I was expecting for it. If you’re happy then I’m contented. Come down when you’re ready.’ She nodded and left the room.
I breathed again. I had been sure that she was going to ask me to pay the full value or to give the gun back. I was in no position to do the first and could not have brought myself to do the second. ‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ I said to her departing back. It crossed my mind to wonder whether George Muir had not had any other luxury items which his widow wanted to dispose of on similarly favourable terms.
The front doorbell rang as I reached the bottom of the stairs. Hattie and Beth were in the kitchen. I could hear Beth chattering on about her dog. Her tone soared in a way which only happened when she was ecstatic, so I gathered that Jason had performed to her satisfaction. I called out that I would answer the door.
There was a large and very expensive looking BMW standing empty nearby, making my car look old and shabby. The man on the doorstep was small, fortyish and dapper. His cheekbones made his thin face look oddly triangular. When he removed a dark hat, not one greying hair was out of place.
‘Is Mr Muir at home?’ he asked. When I gaped at him, he said, ‘I’m sorry to call without an appointment.’
‘Mr Muir died about three weeks ago,’ I said. ‘Didn’t you know?’
‘I’ve been abroad.’ He fell silent, understandably unsure how to go on.
He had my sympathy. I would have been lost for words after a facer like that. ‘Can I help you at all?’ I asked.
‘He was painting my dog, from sketches and photographs. A red setter. My name’s Fullerton, by the way. Bruce Fullerton. Do you know whether he finished it?’
‘You’d better come inside and speak to Mrs Muir,’ I said. As I led him towards the living room, Beth’s
head popped out of the kitchen door. ‘Tell Hattie that there’s a visitor. I think she should come through.’
In the living room, the two Labradors were curled up together. Mona looked disgusted at the familiarity but too stiff or lazy to move. Jason got up and, recognising a familiar scent, came to me, wagging his tail with such violence that his whole body snaked. I gave Mr Fullerton a chair and sat down opposite him. ‘We’ve met before,’ I said.
‘I was beginning to think that there was something familiar about you,’ he said.
Recollection came to me. ‘And I can tell you where. I was picking up on Lord Craill’s estate about a year ago. You were a guest on the shoot. But you didn’t have a red setter with you.’
Fullerton smiled grimly. ‘He’s decorative rather than functional, but I’ve a soft spot for him all the same. And you’re the spaniel man. Captain . . . Cunningham, right?’
‘Just Mister,’ I said. ‘I’m out of the army now, and Captain makes me feel as if I’m pretending to be nautical, or to pilot an aircraft.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll remember, if we meet again. We well might. I live less than ten miles from you.’
Jason, finding that he had lost my attention, gave Fullerton a disinterested sniff and rejoined Mona.
I had heard Hattie’s voice giving Beth instructions for the final touches to the meal. She came in then and we both rose. ‘This is Mr Fullerton,’ I said. ‘Another Fifer.’
They shook hands and we sat. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your husband,’ he said. He was looking at Hattie as though something about her had surprised him. ‘He’ll be a loss, and not just to yourself. And I’m sorrier to be bothering you at such a time. But he was to do a portrait of Rufus, my red setter. It should have been finished weeks ago, but I’ve been abroad and this was my first chance to come for it.’
‘Oh dear,’ Hattie said. ‘This is awful!’ She sat very still.
‘I went through the paintings yesterday,’ I explained. ‘Most of them are damaged. Mr Muir died in an explosion.’
‘If it isn’t too badly damaged—’ Fullerton began.
‘You don’t understand,’ I said. ‘There was no red setter among them.’
Hattie stirred. ‘What I was going to say was that there is a portrait. A woman came for it several weeks ago. She said that it was her dog and that the portrait had been paid for. I told her to go and take it and she came back with a painting of a red setter.’
‘You didn’t get a name?’ I asked her.
‘No. There was no need,’ she said. ‘George had said that there’d be somebody coming for it.’
‘A name wouldn’t help,’ Fullerton said. ‘I can guess who took it.’
For some unfathomable reason, he looked uncomfortable. I decided to get him out of there before he upset Hattie. ‘There are some sketches on a table in the studio,’ I said. ‘There might be something in there.’
Some of his gloom lifted. ‘Do you think so? And there should be the photographs Mr Muir was working from.’
‘Come through,’ I said.
I looked at Hattie and she nodded.
I led the way to the studio. It took an effort to push the door open.
Bruce Fullerton was sharp. He sniffed the air, in which the smell of smoke still lingered, and stooped to pick up one of the scattered cartridges. ‘Mr Muir was reloading cartridges?’ he asked.
‘It seems so.’
‘I suppose the police took away his loading machine.’
‘He was hand-loading.’
Fullerton nodded. ‘Not a good time to have accidents.’
It seemed unlikely that George Muir had ever thrown away a sketch. A card table in the corner of the room had escaped the flying fragments although some pellets were rolling around on top of the paper. The table was heaped with pencil drawings, photographs and simple water-colours, many of them with scribbled reminders about shades and tones and movement in a firm, neat hand. Some of the wildlife drawings were annotated with geometrical sketches intended to remind the artist of the anatomical proportions of his subject. A tea-chest under the table was almost filled with similar material. I guessed that when the heap on the table neared collapsing point he transferred much of it to the box.
Fullerton began to sort through the upper layers, but my attention was on something else. ‘When you met Mrs Muir,’ I said, ‘you seemed surprised.’
He looked round at me. He had a disconcerting habit of turning his head sharply but only following with the eyes a second or two later. ‘She isn’t what I thought the wife of a successful painter would be. I was expecting flamboyant clothes – large beads and teeth to match – rather than a big-boned Highlander with domesticity written all over her. Ah, here we are!’ he said suddenly. He had unearthed two photographs of a very nice-looking red setter. They were clipped to a small bunch of pencil sketches which showed the same dog in motion and again twining itself around a disembodied leg. Animation and zest came through the pencil lines more surely than through the photographs. The economy and precision of the pencil lines were still an amazement to me.
‘I’m glad to have these,’ Fullerton said. ‘My favourite sister chose him for herself when he was a pup. When she knew that she was dying, she asked me to take him. He came to mean a lot to me. He had one of the nicest natures . . .’
It seemed curious to me that he used the past tense. ‘You could take more photographs,’ I said.
‘I’m afraid not.’ He continued scanning down through the pile of sketches while he spoke, never looking up. ‘I may as well explain. My wife and I had a fight just before I went abroad. I’m the UK sales manager for an American concern. We have a depot in Glenrothes, so Fife suits me down to the ground. I only wish my private life had worked out as neatly.
‘I had to spend several weeks in the States to learn about a new line of products. While I was over there, the quarrel continued by phone. She lost her temper completely and told me that she was going to have the dog put down. I hoped that it was no more than an empty threat . . .
‘The next that I heard was that she’d been killed in an accident. Falling downstairs, of all the silly ways to go. I hurried back as soon as I could. There was no trace of the dog. Whether she carried out her threat or just gave him away, I don’t know. Perhaps he’s in a dogs home somewhere, waiting to be put down if nobody claims or adopts him. I haven’t been able to find a trace of him, so it’s probably too late.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, more in apology rather than condolence. It was inadequate, but what could I say? I had never been married. I suspected that one could go off a wife. But I knew the lasting affection that one could develop for a dog, which has fewer ways of getting on one’s nerves and can always be shut away in times of crisis.
Fullerton left shortly after that and I went with Beth to attend to the feeding of Jason. He wolfed down the meal borrowed from old Mona. The change of scene and owner did not seem to have affected his appetite, but Labradors are notorious gluttons.
Later that night, after I had shaken off the depression induced by the perfidy of Edgar Lawrence and of Bruce Fullerton’s wife, Beth and I were both wrapped in the glow which comes with rich and undeserved gifts. This time, we abused Hattie’s hospitality to good effect. For each of us it was a giving rather than a taking and it was the most tender experience in the world. Life, I knew suddenly, had turned the corner. It was going to be good again.
*
We left for home the next morning. Hattie was preparing herself for church and invited us to stay and attend the service with her. I would have liked to oblige her, either in thanks for her kindnesses or in apology for my suspicions. But my belief in a divine being was too precarious to withstand the rigours of organised religion, simplistic concepts, solemn faces, discordant singing and the smell of peppermints. We gave thanks instead to Hattie, from whom all blessings seemed to have flowed, and headed for home. A weight lifted off me as we left behind all suspicions of murder and double dealing.
> We lunched at a wayside hotel. There was to be a clay pigeon meeting at New Gilston and I was sorely tempted to call in and try out the Dickson. But Beth wanted to get home and not even the argument that it would be a good chance to test Jason’s response to gunfire would change her mind. She might have a dog of her own now, but it was not in Beth’s nature to rest easy until she had satisfied herself as to the safety and wellbeing of her usual charges.
About half a mile beyond our village, we swung left into the drive at Three Oaks. It was only mid-afternoon but the sun, already low, had been swallowed by advancing clouds and the lights of the old house stood out against the dark hill behind, welcoming us home. With the recollection of Edgar Lawrence’s cramped and scruffy sheds in my mind I had sweated under a silly fear that our own facilities were no better, that somehow I had been remembering them in the rosy light of proprietary pride. The clean lines of the kennels and runs, away to our left in the shelter of the oaks which gave the place its name, were a reassurance.
Beth was out of the car and away towards the kennels, with Jason at heel and curious, before Isobel emerged to greet us.
‘All well?’ I asked Isobel.
‘No more than the usual minor traumas. Poplar trod on some glass. It didn’t need stitches, but she’ll be out of training for about ten days. And Brockleton’s started dropping the dummy on the way back. Otherwise no problems.’
I sighed. The light was too far gone to start a training session. ‘I’ll sort Brockleton out tomorrow.’
‘You’d better. His owner expects to collect him next week. Now come inside, relax and tell us all about it.’ When I glanced towards the kennels, she humphed at me. ‘I’ve told you. They’re all fighting fit. There’s tea in the pot and I’m making dinner for all of us.’
‘The puppies—’ I began.
‘Have been fed. The dogs’ main meal is prepared. The runs were clean up to half an hour ago.’
Doghouse (Three Oaks Book 3) Page 6