Doghouse (Three Oaks Book 3)

by Gerald Hammond

  ‘True. Or there could have been an electrical timer. There was plenty of time for somebody to remove it before anybody else arrived. But that brings us back to the wife again. Who else could get into the house, set up a timer, perhaps knock Mr Muir on the head and remove the evidence after the explosion without Mrs Muir at least being aware of their presence?’

  Beth was looking stunned at this dispassionate discussion of her uncle’s death. ‘But that’s not how you’d do such a thing,’ she protested.

  ‘If that’s how it was done,’ I said, ‘I share your doubts. But the objective may have been something quite different. It could be that George Muir was unlucky. Perhaps what was intended was an act of vandalism or spite resulting in the destruction of the paintings. Or a fire to wipe out all the contents of the studio. An explosion doesn’t often result in a fire, but whoever rigged it might not know that. It may have been the purest bad luck that George Muir arrived at his bench as it went off.’

  The Sergeant had closed her notebook. She drummed her fingernails on the cover, making a sound like hoofbeats. ‘We’re getting away from facts into the wildest speculation,’ she said, ‘but I can’t see any reason for somebody to want to burn out a studio, except possibly for the insurance. And guess who that would bring us back to!’

  ‘I don’t suppose that the paintings were insured for more than a tenth of their sale value,’ I said. ‘Many of the pictures were of shooting scenes. Muir portrayed shooting in its real colours, as an honest and legitimate outdoor recreation, not as the sadistic and bloodthirsty activity its opponents would have you believe in. He showed gundogs at work as being happy and fulfilled. You could say that he was a very credible publicist for fieldsports. People like the League Against Cruel Sports and the Hunt Saboteurs might well resent his work.’

  Beth had got up to put another log on the fire. She turned and faced us. ‘There could have been a reason why somebody wanted the studio to burn,’ she said. ‘I don’t say that there was, but it’s possible. And I’m not saying what it might have been, so don’t ask me. Please.’

  ‘I won’t,’ I said. ‘Come back here before you set your bum on fire.’

  She moved away from the flames and patted her backside absently. She managed to look simultaneously both angry and reluctantly amused. ‘I’ll set yours alight if you’ve started something awful,’ she said gloomily. ‘That was Hattie on the phone. She sounded miserable. She’s coming over here to stay with us for a few days.’

  The Sergeant got to her feet. ‘Call her back quickly,’ she snapped. ‘Ask her to leave her key with the local police. Say that the procurator fiscal has asked for a few more details about the damage before he closes the file.’

  Beth looked sullen. I was not the only one to resent the Sergeant’s authoritative manner. ‘You call her,’ she said. ‘I’m not telling her any lies. If I call her, I’ll tell her the truth.’ She looked at me. The hurt in her eyes was still there but now she was asking for support. ‘Juliet Bravo here can’t make me tell lies for her, can she?’

  ‘I think that it would be kindest to leave Hattie in the dark until we’re sure, one way or the other,’ I said. ‘If this is upsetting for you, imagine how it would be for her.’

  Beth considered. My reasoning overcame her desire to be stubborn. ‘All right, then!’ She slammed out of the room.

  ‘You do seem to be headed for the doghouse,’ the Sergeant said cheerfully. ‘No pun intended. How certain are you that the hole wasn’t drilled in the pot after the explosion?’ When I stared at her stupidly, she went on, ‘There is one other possibility to consider. George Muir blew himself up accidentally and now somebody is trying to make it look like murder.’

  ‘Do you mean me?’ I asked.

  She smiled at me, but there was no warmth in it. ‘Does the cap fit? If Mr Muir was murdered by his wife, the law would debar her from inheriting his estate. Who do you suppose would be next in line?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ I said. ‘I know that George Muir left a will. Ask the lawyers.’

  Beth came back into the room. ‘And just what am I supposed to say to Hattie if she asks how I know what the procurator fiscal wants?’ she asked.

  The Sergeant laughed without looking abashed and went out with her.

  *

  While the Sergeant made her phone call, I decided to keep my head down and to stay out of the way. I loaded various bags and the feeding dishes onto a shopping trolley and trundled out to the kennels.

  The evening feed was a complex business. One dog needed building up, the next tended to put on weight, while yet another had had jaundice as a pup and was kept off fats. A diet, agreed jointly by the three of us, was written in Magic Marker on a piece of white plastic at the gate to each run. But dogs were sometimes shifted around and it took concentration, in the teeth of canine impatience which was soon mounting to frenzy, to be sure that each dog was getting the right diet.

  After ten minutes, the Sergeant came out of the house, gave me an impersonal wave and drove away. Beth brought out a basin of warm mush for the young puppies.

  She was thoughtful and in no mood for chatter, which suited me. I felt that I had said more than enough already. But when the dishes had been carried back to the house and washed, she jerked her head at me. ‘You’ve lit the fire,’ she said. ‘It seems a pity to waste it. So we may as well talk in the sitting room.’

  I followed her through. I could tell from her walk that she was winding herself up for an explosion. But when she had built up the fire again she seated herself, well away from me, and said, almost mildly, ‘You’d better tell me all about it.’

  ‘All right,’ I said.

  ‘And don’t take too long. I’ll have to go and prepare the spare room. Hattie can move in with me.’

  If I was being banished to the small spare room, things were really bad between us. Least said, soonest mended, I told myself and then remembered that it was that philosophy that had laid the foundation for our present troubles. If I had taken Beth into my confidence from the first she would not be so hurt and angry now. With a little luck she might even have talked me out of my suspicions.

  I had hardly begun my explanation when there was a knock. The door partly opened and Henry’s colourful features appeared, as always surprisingly high up. One tended to forget how tall Henry was.

  ‘Thought I might find somebody in here,’ he said amiably. ‘I walked over to see whether Isobel was ready to come home. Stopped at the hotel for a beer or two on the way,’ he added superfluously. Henry’s capacity for beer was phenomenal. He seemed to sense tension in the air. ‘If this is a private fight, I’ll go away.’

  ‘You’d better come in, Henry,’ Beth said tiredly. ‘The world and his wife will know all about it soon enough, since John decided to shoot his mouth off.’

  ‘Only to the police.’ I said. ‘You’re the one who’s broadcasting it.’

  She ignored me. ‘You may even be able to make a useful comment,’ she added. ‘It’s time that somebody made one.’

  Henry raised his shaggy eyebrows and came all the way in. ‘At least I can hold your coats,’ he said. He folded himself down onto the settee.

  They listened intently while I told the story. In deference to Beth’s feelings, I left out any mention of her uncle’s womanising, but I covered the rest in detail. Henry asked a few technical questions, but Beth was more interested in the theories which the Sergeant and I had offered to each other.

  When I came to a lame halt, Beth looked at Henry. ‘What do you think?’

  Henry took his time answering. ‘I don’t know whether your uncle met his end by fair means or foul,’ he said, ‘but there does seem to be cause for a more positive investigation. In John’s place, I think I’d have done exactly as he did – if I’d been astute enough to see the flaws in the accident theory. Be fair, young Beth. He couldn’t just leave things alone, as long as there was the possibility that a murderer was walking free. And there was no point in
creating tension between yourselves and Mrs Muir. The whole thing might have been discounted or have blown over.’

  That took the wind out of Beth’s sails. ‘Oh,’ she said.

  ‘Seems to me,’ Henry said, ‘that John’s held his tongue remarkably well, until you made him let go of it.’

  Beth was not going to let me off without having the last word. ‘He’d better go on guarding his tongue while Hattie’s here,’ she said. ‘She’s coming to visit.’

  ‘You both had,’ Henry said. ‘God knows what reaction a careless word might provoke. I don’t want to put wrong ideas into your minds, but doesn’t it occur to you that you may, just possibly, be welcoming a murderess into your home?’

  ‘Oh,’ Beth said again. For a moment, she looked almost her real age. ‘No, I don’t believe it. I can’t. What do we say if she mentions her phone-call from that sergeant woman?’

  ‘As little as possible,’ I said.

  The room went quiet except for the crackle of the dying fire.

  ‘I’ve got work to do,’ Beth said suddenly. She got to her feet and marched out of the room.

  ‘I owe you a drink,’ I told Henry. I was in dire need of one myself. ‘Then I’d better go to The Moss and tell Isobel I’m not coming.’

  Henry waited until he had a drink safely in his hand before he spoke again. ‘Don’t celebrate too soon,’ he said. ‘At the moment, Beth’s wondering whether she’s been the victim of a male conspiracy.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ I said. ‘She’s wondering whether she’d rather share a bedroom with a possible murderess or a definite trouble-maker.’

  Chapter Six

  It was late evening before Hattie arrived, in George Muir’s large estate car. ‘It will have to go,’ were her first words. ‘George needed the size of it to carry his paints and canvases in the back, but it fairly gobbles up the petrol. That may not have mattered to George when he was making money out of it and running it before tax, but I’m a widow woman now.’

  ‘Before you offer it to Alistair Young,’ I said, ‘give me a chance to top his offer.’ I was joking, but my old estate car had seen a lot of miles in its time.

  Hattie gave a snort of laughter. She had had a meal, she said, but yes, she would be glad of tea . . . coffee . . . chocolate . . . anything warm and wet.

  I looked at the big car and wondered what other uses George Muir might have had for the back of it.

  Old Mona descended stiffly from the car and looked at her new surroundings without any great interest. She also had been fed, Hattie told us, and her inoculation certificates were up to date. I took her out to the kennels and left her to share a run and kennel with Jason, the only one of our dogs she had met before. After a little preliminary sniffing they settled down cheerfully together.

  Beth and Hattie were sipping hot chocolate at the table in the kitchen. Hattie looked at home in the cluttered, all-purpose room. ‘Where are your cases?’ I asked her.

  ‘Beth fetched them upstairs.’ She took a look at me in the light and turned to Beth. ‘He’s looking washed out. Are you letting him overwork? Or is he worried about something?’

  ‘He’s a born worrier,’ Beth said lightly, but she stole an anxious glance at me.

  ‘You don’t mind me foisting myself on you like this?’ Hattie asked me. ‘After all, it’s your house and I’m not even a blood relative to Beth.’

  I laid my hand on her shoulder and sensed nothing but goodwill through the contact. Surely if she had had murder on her conscience I would have felt it? ‘After all your generosity?’ I said. ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘It was nothing. If I made you happy, I’m glad. And to arrive so late in the night,’ she added. ‘I was almost ready to leave when I had a call from the police, asking me to leave the key at the local police station.’

  Beth jumped and opened her mouth, preparatory to putting her foot in it. ‘Just as well,’ I said quickly. ‘Are you always so trusting with keys, leaving them on the ledge above the door?’

  Hattie shrugged. ‘Why not? We’ve never been burgled. It’s so that Grant Nolan and my daily woman can let themselves in.’

  The name rang a distant bell in my mind. ‘Do you trust Grant Nolan?’ I asked.

  ‘I trust him to keep the garden and to do odd jobs around the place. I’d not want to let him away with a key, likely he’d drop it in the first pub he came to.’

  ‘But Hattie,’ I said, ‘he could just as easily tell everybody in the pub that the key’s over the door.’

  ‘When he’s been drinking,’ Hattie said firmly, ‘he wouldn’t remember that there was a door, let alone a key to it. But he’s a good worker when he’s sober or near it. I had him give me a hand this afternoon. The police want to take one last look at the place before the fiscal closes the file. Well, I couldn’t have them seeing it the way it was so we spent a whilie in clearing up.’

  I tried not to look horrified. ‘In the studio?’ I said.

  ‘Aye. The rest of the house was tidy. Yon mannie from Glasgow whose card you gave me, the picture mender with the funny name . . .’

  ‘Mr Grogan.’

  ‘Aye, him. He’d been there earlier in the day and he’d uplifted all of the pictures and sketches to sort through. He’s going to give me a price for mending them and another for frames. It’ll cost a fine penny to sort them, so he said, but worth it in the end because otherwise I’d be paying the agent’s commission on top. He says that most of the sketches are worth putting on the market, in dribs and drabs.’

  ‘But the studio—’ Beth said in a choked voice.

  ‘The studio was already more than half empty, with the pictures gone. It only needed a clear-out and a good clean.’ Beth and I were both dumbstruck. Hattie misinterpreted our silence. ‘That was the first time I’d been in there since the night George died. It didn’t bother me the way I’d thought it would. It was just another room.’

  Beth met my eye for a moment. Was Hattie being innocent or brazen? I was damned if I could tell. Beth had something else on her mind.

  ‘Excuse me a moment,’ she said. ‘I’ll be right back.’ She scuttled out and I could hear her banging around upstairs.

  ‘There’s a carton in your hall,’ Hattie said to me. ‘I thought that since you have George’s gun you may as well have the rest of his shooting gear. It’s only an old belt and some cartridges and his loading things. I’m letting his clothes go to charity and Grant Nolan can have his tools. I’ll not be taking up woodwork at my time of life.’

  ‘But Hattie,’ I said, ‘those loading tools are antiques. I’m sure they’re valuable.’

  As Beth came back and slumped into her chair, Hattie leaned across and patted my hand. ‘Don’t fash yourself,’ she said. ‘You did me a good turn when you told me that Alistair Young was trying to – what was it you said? – to “rip me off”. I asked around, and I found that the surveyor he wanted us to get to price the difference between our houses is an old, old crony of his. I got a man of my own to come by yesterday and the figures are very different. Alistair’s dancing mad,’ she added with satisfaction.

  ‘You’re still going through with the exchange?’ Beth asked.

  ‘Oh aye. I’ll like their wee house fine if I have that wee bittie extra to spend on it. But the Youngs will have to come up with a bigger mortgage than they were planning on. Alistair’s been on at me all day. And Edgar came by just before the Grogan mannie, to choose his picture. He went off with a big painting of the view across the loch to Ben Lomond.’

  I could have bet on it. Edgar had chosen the largest and least damaged painting, the one most likely to turn a profit.

  ‘He was calling you all the names under the sun,’ Hattie said. ‘Told me you’d gone off with the wrong dog. He says he’ll sue you.’

  ‘He won’t, will he?’ Beth said anxiously.

  ‘Not a chance,’ I said. ‘You’ll note that he hasn’t phoned us here. Isobel’s prepared to swear that Jason – our Jason – is a direct descendant of
Farthingale Bonus, while nobody could mistake that other beast for one of that line. Add my threat to have them genetically fingerprinted and to leave him stuck with the cost . . . No, he won’t sue.’

  ‘Likely not,’ Hattie said. ‘But with them all coming at me, I was just scunnered. I decided I’d best up sticks and get away for a few days. I’m no great hand with dogs, but I can make myself useful.’

  ‘You just take it easy and rest up,’ I told her.

  ‘They say that a change is as good as a rest,’ Hattie said. ‘I feel the need of a change, but I couldn’t be doing with idleness. Is that the time? And you two will be early risers with all those dogs to look after. It’s high time I was away to my bed and let you get to yours.’

  ‘You’re in the small room on the left at the head of the stairs,’ Beth said. ‘The bathroom’s next door to you.’

  I tried not to look pleased and surprised. It seemed that I was back in favour. When Hattie’s footsteps had climbed the stairs I said, ‘Have you decided that you couldn’t live without me?’

  Beth came round the table and perched on my knee. It could not have been a very comfortable knee, with so little flesh over the bones, but she was very light. ‘When she said that you looked tired and worried, I realised that what you’d done hadn’t been easy.’ Beth lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘And there was another thing.’

  ‘What?’ I whispered back.

  ‘She’s made quite a job of scattering all the evidence. It could have been innocently done. But I remembered what Henry said. I don’t know that I believe it, but I’m not sure that I don’t. It’s something like not walking under a ladder, or under a tree when there’s a gale blowing. I just didn’t fancy sharing a room with somebody who might be a murderess.’

  ‘Henry doesn’t miss much,’ I said.

  *

  When we were in bed and I was on the point of dropping off, I was jerked into wakefulness by a sudden recollection. Beth was still reading. I rolled over and looked at her – never anything but a pleasure even when she had cream all over her face and reading glasses on her small nose.