Doghouse (Three Oaks Book 3)

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘But—’

  ‘Watch my lips,’ she snorted. ‘There is nothing useful you can do – except maybe help with the feed in about an hour’s time. I see that you let Beth bring us another mouth to feed.’

  ‘You know how it is,’ I said. ‘I can never resist Beth.’

  ‘You can never resist a dog,’ Isobel said.

  ‘Who always stops the car if she sees a mongrel with a limp?’ I retorted.

  Isobel humphed and turned away, but I knew that she was hiding a smile. I slung the gunbag over my shoulder, picked up the cases and followed her into the house.

  Life at Three Oaks tended to centre around the large room which, in addition to all the usual features of a kitchen, comfortably housed a dining table and chairs, two easy chairs, the only television set and the central heating boiler. Beth had chosen and together we had carefully hung a suitable and very expensive paper, but this was now next to invisible behind an accumulation of hung plates, dangling utensils and shelves of spices and cookery books. It was a cluttered, homely room. A door at one end led into the hall beyond which was a formal sitting room. At the other end of the kitchen was what we called, illogically, the back door although it was to the front of the house. Beyond that, an outhouse contained most of our stores plus the small room from which we sold books, baskets and training aids to the customers. It had never seemed sensible to send somebody away with a new puppy and not even a lead to go with it.

  Henry Kitts, Isobel’s husband, looked up from some papers scattered across the table. I gathered that he had been conscripted into helping Isobel with the accounts. Henry was elderly. His face had slipped with the years so that the pouches under his eyes continued as folds in his cheeks, ending up as dewlaps under his jaws. But his tall frame was still so spry that one tended to forget his age. He had long since retired from a business career. Although he had no direct connection with the kennels he took a keen interest in our affairs and was a ready source of help in times of difficulty – and interference on our better days.

  Henry had been a shooting man and was still happy to potter around with a gun. His eyes settled immediately on the gunbag. ‘Been spending your profits?’ he suggested.

  ‘Not very willingly,’ I said, ‘and not very much. A neighbour was trying to con the widow. He’d offered her a hundred quid for George Muir’s old gun, which was still in the hands of the local cops. She didn’t believe me when I told her that she ought to have it valued. So I offered her two hundred for it, sight unseen. She took me up on it.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be able to lose much, at two hundred,’ Henry said. ‘Or did you manage that extraordinary feat?’

  ‘Judge for yourself,’ I said.

  He unfolded his considerable length from the chair and undid the buckle on the bag. When he pulled out the gun, his eyes widened. ‘I’ll give you four,’ he said. ‘Come on, now. A hundred per cent mark-up in a few hours. That can’t be bad.’

  Isobel looked round from pouring tea. ‘Henry,’ she said, ‘are you sure you know what you’re doing?’

  ‘He knows,’ I said. ‘Nice try, Henry.’

  ‘No harm trying.’ He mounted the gun to his shoulder. ‘I’ve always thought the Round Action was the prettiest gun ever made. It’s heavier than I expected, or else I’m growing feeble.’

  ‘Three inch chambers,’ I said, ‘and proved for three and a half tons.’

  He knew what that meant all right. Such heavy loads are used for wildfowling. ‘God! You’re not going to take this beauty near salt water?’

  ‘We’ll see,’ I said. ‘If I don’t have the heart, the extra weight will suit clay pigeons.’

  He swung the gun, endangering the light fitting. ‘George Muir may have wanted it for wildfowling,’ he said. ‘But what they’ve built for him was their live pigeon, trapshooting gun. And very nice too.’

  I locked the gun away in my gun-safe behind the shop. When I came back, Beth was showing Isobel her ring. Henry was making a fuss of Jason, who was concerned to ensure that the time for his dinner did not pass unremembered.

  Over cups of tea and while Isobel put our dinner into the oven, we recounted the high spots of the weekend. I said nothing about my suspicions. I was already regretting my rash words to the local sergeant.

  Isobel, who began her working life as a vet, was examining Jason. As I had done, she felt his hips and looked deep into his eyes and she seemed satisfied. ‘Is this perisher going to be any good?’ she asked.

  ‘I haven’t had much of a chance to try him,’ Beth said. ‘He marks well and he’s very biddable but he’s not been gently trained.’

  ‘That I can believe,’ Isobel said. ‘I’ve seen your cousin competing. All voice and bluster. God alone knows how he made up a champion – he must have had a headache that day. And he argues with the judges, which is always a mistake. Never argue with idiots,’ she told Beth. ‘It’s their privilege to be wrong.’

  Beth looked at me shyly. ‘If I find that he works well for me, do you think that I could enter him for something soon? The local Association runs retrievers and spaniels in the same two-day event. I could have a trial run and still be Isobel’s chauffeur-gopher.’

  ‘Don’t try and run too soon,’ I said. ‘Remember, retrievers don’t hunt, so the judges expect much higher standards of steadiness and retrieving. If you’re ready, we’ll put him in for something after Christmas. I don’t think you could get him registered any sooner than that. Don’t fret. He’ll still be young enough for Puppy Stakes during the first part of next season.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Beth said.

  I hated to see her disappointment. An idea came to me. ‘There’s no better training than picking-up,’ I said. ‘I’m going to be the only picker-up on Lord Craill’s shoot next Saturday. If, and only if, Jason seems good enough, you can bring him along and work him.’

  Beth lit up. ‘I’d love to.’ Her face fell again. ‘But Isobel’s running Gargany that day.’

  ‘I can drive myself,’ Isobel said cheerfully.

  She could. But, as we all knew but as Isobel preferred to forget, she could get carried away in the post-trial junketing. When that happened, she could arrive home blotto or not at all. And Henry, who anyway had almost given up driving, was as easily led astray. For a couple who between them had more than a century on the clock, they could sometimes, when the mood took them, be as irresponsible as children.

  ‘It’s comparatively local,’ I said. ‘We can send you by taxi. Or drop you off and pick you up again.’

  ‘Dropping me three hours before the trial begins and then griping at me because you have to wait around for me afterwards,’ Isobel said. ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘We’ll work something out,’ I said.

  Beth and I went out into the darkness together, to feed the dogs by the light of the lamps over the runs. As Isobel had said, the dogs were in fine fettle. We fed Jason in one of the pens as a start to resettlement. Beth wanted to bring him back to the house.

  ‘I think you should leave him here,’ I said. ‘If we start having house pets, God knows where it will end.’

  ‘He’ll howl,’ Beth said.

  ‘Not for long. Put him in with whichever of the older bitches seems to take to him. She’ll remind him of his mother. Just be sure she isn’t coming into season.’

  ‘You’re a hard-hearted swine,’ Beth said.

  ‘If you say so.’

  She grabbed my arm, pulled me down and kissed the side of my nose. ‘Even if I say so, it isn’t true. Under that abrasive manner, you’re a soft touch. It’s turning cold. Do you think Jason will be warm enough?’

  ‘You wouldn’t even ask the question if it were any other dog,’ I said. ‘He has a fur coat and he’s used to a less luxurious kennel than that one.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Beth said. ‘But you don’t have a fur coat. Come back to the house before you get chilled and I’ll drink your health.’

  ‘And Jason’s I suppose?’

 
; ‘Of course,’ she said.

  Henry had already got out my bottles. I couldn’t grudge it to him after his weekend’s efforts. His car was outside the door, but the Kitts’ house was within a walkable distance. The meal was in front of us and the party was becoming quite jovial when I remembered something.

  ‘That chap Bruce Fullerton,’ I said. ‘The one who came for his dog’s portrait. Before her accident, his wife told him that she was going to have his dog put down. But I don’t believe that anyone could have a perfectly healthy red setter destroyed.’

  ‘That’s because you couldn’t do it,’ Isobel said. ‘There’s hundreds who could.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ I admitted. ‘But any vet would jib at destroying a perfectly healthy dog and I don’t see her doing the job herself. Anyway, she might well hesitate if she was still hoping for a reconciliation. She may have put the dog into kennels, intending to give hubby a fright. They lived not far from here. If you hear over the kennels grapevine of somebody leaving a red setter for boarding, you might let me know.’

  ‘It’s a long shot,’ Isobel said. ‘The dog’s probably been turned into atmospheric pollution by now. But I may be able to help. Mrs Whatshername at the boarding kennels rang up one evening, several weeks ago—’

  ‘Mrs Spring,’ Beth said.

  ‘That’s the woman. I can’t imagine anyone being less vernal – which, I suppose, is why her name won’t stay in my head. She wanted advice about a Jack Russell bitch infested with sheep ticks. They could have done the job themselves, but they’re softhearted. I don’t think that they can bring themselves to dab another living being with spirit and see it shrivel. I was delayed getting there – it was the Saturday Moonbeam went down with mastitis – and the Springs were in a hurry to go and meet their married daughter for a family celebration. The little bitch had ticks all over, including one on her eyelid – it wasn’t a ten-minute job – so I promised to lock up when I’d finished and away they went. A little later, a very peculiar woman with one of those deep, sexy voices came to the door, wanting to board a red setter. She paid three months board in advance, showed a vaccination certificate and shot off. I don’t suppose it’s the same dog.’

  ‘No more do I,’ I said. ‘But it could be. What name did she give?’

  Isobel laid down her fork and stared into space for a minute. ‘I don’t remember,’ she said. ‘The dog’s name was given as Rufus on the vaccination certificate.’

  ‘I think that that’s the name Fullerton mentioned,’ I said. ‘Of course, two male red setters out of three are named Rufus. But I’ll give Fullerton a ring in the morning.’

  Chapter Five

  Monday morning, launchpad for another week.

  With a whole regiment of spaniels, and now a Labrador, to claim my attention I still remembered one red setter separated from a caring owner. There were two B. Fullertons in the Fife and Kinross phonebook, but one of them lived a long way south in Burntisland. I phoned the other one early, to catch him before he left home. He recognised my voice immediately.

  He took my news calmly and, I supposed, with a pinch of salt. I had my own doubts. That the missing dog should be found so easily seemed too good to be true. And yet, luck seemed to be running high. Perhaps it was time for some of it to rub off on somebody else.

  We put in a hard morning’s work but after lunch Isobel, who had lowered the level in the gin bottle the night before, suddenly jibbed at any more whistle-blowing or bangs from the dummy-launcher. Just as my remedy for the blues was to pick up a gun, hers was to do some gardening. The Kitts’ garden was small and kept immaculate by Henry, so when the gardening urge came over Isobel she would usually launch an assault on the Three Oaks garden, much to Beth’s disgust. As I set off towards The Moss with Gargany and Brockleton at heel and the Dickson over my arm, she had run out the electric cable and was reducing the hedge which separated the front garden from the next field to a shadow of its usual, shaggy self.

  The big BMW met me at the gate, slowed and halted nearby. I left the two spaniels sitting and walked over.

  The darkened, nearside window slid down, apparently of its own accord, and Fullerton leaned across. ‘I came round to thank you,’ he said. ‘Your sources are good.’ A red setter was curled on a blanket on a corner of the rear seat, watching us out of the corner of its eye and giving an occasional shiver.

  ‘I’m glad,’ I told him.

  ‘I’m glad, too. You can’t know what it means to have the old chap back. The house won’t seem so empty now. He’s still very nervous, but he’ll get over it. If there’s ever anything I can do in return—’

  It seemed unlikely. But I was visited by a sudden curiosity. ‘You could tell me what you were hiding when we met at Tarbet.’

  ‘The reason I was surprised when I met Mrs Muir?’ He thought it over for a few seconds. ‘Well, why not. Get into the car.’

  I glanced at the two spaniels. They were sitting tight, but a public roadside was not a good place to test their patience. ‘Walk with me,’ I suggested.

  ‘Fine. Is it all right if I bring Rufus along?’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ I said. The fewer distractions to dogs in training, the better; and the setter’s nervous state might be communicated. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘No problem. After the favour you did me, your word is law. I’ll pull forward to where I can park safely.’

  He was safe where he was, but he drove forward and pulled off the road onto a section of hard verge beyond a clump of holly. He got out, turned to speak a few words to the setter and then locked up the car. A careful man, Bruce Fullerton, but not careful enough in his matrimonial life. When I caught up with him, we started walking. I had to adjust my stride to his shorter pace. The sun was shining halfheartedly but a mist lay low over the land so that trees grew out of nothing and familiar walls and hedges appeared out of context.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘What was so surprising about Harriet Muir?’

  ‘I knew George Muir by sight,’ he said, ‘although I’d never met him. Then, several months ago, my wife and I went out to dinner at a small, country hotel – not a pretentious place, but they do you well and the wines aren’t over-priced. I had a final brandy at the bar while she powdered her nose – my wife was doing the driving.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll miss her as a driver on boozy evenings, if for not very much else. Anyway, I saw Muir registering at the hotel reception, with a plump, blonde woman. Naturally, I supposed that she was Mrs Muir. She went upstairs and Muir came into the bar so, on impulse, I spoke to him about a portrait of Rufus.

  ‘Muir said that he’d need photographs to work from, but he’d also want the dog in his studio for an hour or two while he made preliminary sketches. I said that that would be easy enough, as I travel all over Scotland, but that I’d like to make it soon because I was going off to the States for some weeks. He looked in his diary and said to come two days later in the afternoon, which I did.

  ‘His wife was out when I went there. In hindsight, I suppose he’d guessed that I’d seen his companion and had chosen the day and time with that in mind. Yesterday, of course, I was expecting a chubby blonde. Meeting a dark and statuesque woman threw me for a moment, until I remembered hearing a whisper, some time ago, that he was a man for the ladies. Naturally, I didn’t want to say anything while I was under her roof.’

  ‘Naturally,’ I said, wondering why not. ‘Where was the hotel?’ I asked.

  He looked at me sharply. ‘Why do you want to know that?’

  ‘You just recommended it for a meal out,’ I reminded him.

  ‘That’s true.’ He told me the hotel’s name. I already knew it and had found it disappointing.

  He turned back shortly after that and I took the two spaniels on to The Moss. Gargany would need to be at the peak of training by the Saturday while, if Brockleton was bored with dummy work, some carrying and a few retrieves of the Real Thing would remind him of what it was all about.

  So Beth’s u
ncle had been a bit of a lad, and at his age! I remembered his face in the photograph. What I had taken to be a humorous twinkle in his eye might very well have been a lecherous gleam. When I thought about it, I had to admit to a sneaking sense of admiration. He had lived a life of infidelity until he was well past the age at which many men forget about sex altogether. And this he had contrived without ever being found out, as far as I knew, by his wife.

  The mist was thinning to a faint haze. Brockleton pushed a rabbit out of a clump of reeds and I forgot all about George Muir.

  *

  Tuesday came in bright but cold, the best sort of winter’s day. Frost had taken the moisture out of the air, hanging it instead as jewels on the branches. The sudden hills which are dotted around north-east Fife like the spots on a Dalmatian were so sharp that every blade of grass seemed to show, while the bare trees, usually a fuzz in the misty air, were sculptures of individual twigs.

  Isobel arrived as I finished breakfast and we spent the morning putting the younger dogs through their paces on the grass. The dogs were skittish in the keen air so we kept it firm and simple. Beth finished the morning chores and came to help us. She was too proud to ask favours, but there was an expectant air about her, like a keen young dog waiting to be sent for a retrieve. I told her to go and get on with Jason’s training. She grinned and we could soon see her at the far end of the grass, directing him with hand signals onto blind retrieves. Even Isobel seemed impressed.

  After lunch, Isobel planned to take Gargany to The Moss. I intended to follow them up with the Dickson and give the two of them some practice in working to the gun, in preparation for Saturday’s trial.

  Isobel paused at the front door. ‘I really must finish that hedge when I have a minute,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Beth said quickly.

  ‘Would you?’ Isobel said. ‘It’s an eyesore.’

  Beth refrained from pointing out that the hedge was an eyesore not so much because of its half-trimmed state but because Isobel did not have a very straight eye. Its top had a sinuous line, like a grass snake or the parapet on one of Gaudi’s buildings. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said.