Wolfie backed farther away, poised for flight. "Fox said he was a murderer," he muttered, staring at James, "and I ain't going down that end of the bus in case it's true. There ain't no way out."
There was an uncomfortable silence that was only broken when James laughed. "You're a wise lad," he said to the child. "In your shoes I wouldn't go down that end of the bus either. Is it Fox who taught you about traps?"
Wolfie had never seen so many creases around anyone's eyes. "I ain't saying I believe you'se a murderer," he told him. "I'se just saying I'se ready."
James nodded. "That shows you have good sense. My wife's dog walked into a trap not so long ago. There was no way out for him either."
"What happened to him?"
"He died… rather painfully as a matter of fact. His leg was broken by the trap and his muzzle was crushed with a hammer. I'm afraid the man who caught him wasn't a nice person."
Wolfie recoiled abruptly.
"How do you know it was a man?" asked Ivo.
"Because whoever killed him left him on my terrace," said James, turning to look at him, "and he was too big for a woman to carry-or so I've always thought." His eyes came to rest thoughtfully on Bella.
"Don't look at me," she said indignantly. "I don't hold with cruelty. What sort of dog was he, anyway?"
James didn't answer.
"A Great Dane," said Mark, wondering why James had told him the dog had died of old age. "Elderly… half blind… with the sweetest nature on God's earth. Everyone adored him. He was called Henry."
Bella gave a shrug of compassion. "That's pretty sad. We had a dog called Frisbee that got run over by some bastard in a Porsche… took us months to get over it. The guy thought he was Michael Schumacher."
A murmur of sympathy ran round the table. They all knew the pain of losing a pet. "You should get another one," said Zadie, who owned the Alsatians. "It's the only way to stop the heartache."
There were nods of approval.
"So who's Fox?" asked Nancy.
Their faces blanked immediately, all sympathy gone.
She glanced at Wolfie, recognizing the eyes and nose. "How about you, friend? Are you going to tell me who Fox is?"
The child wriggled his shoulders. He liked being called "friend," but he could feel the undercurrents that swirled about the bus. He didn't know what was causing them but he understood that it would be a great deal better if these people weren't here when Fox came back. "He's my dad, 'n' he's going to be right mad 'bout you being here. Reckon you ought to leave before he gets back. He don't-doesn't-like strangers."
James bent his head, searching Wolfie's eyes. "Will it worry you if we stay?"
Wolfie leaned forward in unconscious mimicry. "Reckon so. He's got a razor, see, and it won't be just you he gets mad with… it'll likely be Bella, too… and that ain't fair 'coz she's a nice lady."
"Mm." James straightened. "In that case I think we should go." He gave a small bow to Bella. "Thank you for allowing us to talk to you, madam. It's been a most instructive experience. May I offer some advice?"
Bella stared at him for a moment, then gave an abrupt nod. "Okay."
"Question why you're here. I fear you've been told only half the truth."
"What's the whole truth?"
"I'm not entirely sure," said James slowly, "but I suspect that Clausewitz's dictum, 'war is an extension of politics by other means,' may be at the root of it." He saw her puzzled frown. "If I'm wrong, then no matter… if not, my door is usually open." He gestured to Nancy and Mark to follow him.
Bella caught at Nancy's fleece. "What's he talking about?" she asked.
Nancy glanced down at her. "Clausewitz justified war by arguing that it had political direction… in other words, it's not just brutality or blood lust. These days, it's the favorite argument that terrorists put forward to validate what they do… politics by other means-i.e., terror-when legitimate politics fail."
"What's that gotta do with us?" Nancy shrugged. "His wife's dead and someone killed her foxes and her dog," she said, "so I'm guessing he doesn't think you're here by accident." She released herself from Bella's grasp and followed the two men. As she joined them at the bottom of the steps, a car drew up in front of the barrier on the road and set the Alsatians barking. All three glanced at it briefly, but as none of them recognized the occupant, and the guardians and their leashed dogs moved to obscure the view, they turned toward the path through the Copse and headed back toward the Manor. Debbie Fowler, in the process of reaching for her camera, cursed herself roundly for being too late. She had recognized James immediately from her coverage of his wife's inquest. Now, that, alongside her shot of Julian Bartlett, would have been a picture worth having, she thought. Discord at the heart of village life: Colonel Lockyer-Fox, subject of a recent police investigation, drops in for a friendly chat with his new neighbors while Mr. Julian Bartlett, vermin-hater and player, threatens to put the hounds on them. She opened her door and climbed out, pulling the camera after her. "Local press," she told the two masked figures. "Do you want to tell me what's going on here?" "The dogs'll have you if you come any closer," warned a boy's voice. She laughed as she clicked the shutter. "Great quote," she said. "If I didn't know better, I'd think this whole script had been written in advance."
PREPARED COPY FOR WESSEX TIMES-27 DECEMBER 2001
DORSET DOG FIGHTING
West Dorset Hunt's Boxing Day meet was abandoned in chaos after well-organized saboteurs fooled the hounds into following false trails. "We've had a 10-month layoff and the dogs are out of practice," said huntsman Geoff Pemberton, as he tried to regain control of his pack. The fox, the alleged reason for this clash of ideologies, remained elusive.
Other hunt members accused saboteurs of deliberate attempts to unseat them. "I was within my rights to protect myself and my mount," said Julian Bartlett after striking Jason Porritt, 15, with his crop. Porritt, nursing a bruised arm, denied any wrongdoing despite an attempt to grab Mr. Bartlett's reins. "I was nowhere near him. He rode at me because he was angry."
As frustration mounted, so did the noise levels, with honors even in the obscenity department. Gentlemanly behavior on horseback and the moral high ground of campaigning for animal welfare were forgotten. This was turf warfare on the terraces during a lackluster Arsenal v. Spurs local derby, where sport was merely the excuse for a rumble.
Not that any of the huntsmen or their supporters defined what they were doing as sport. Most suggested it was a Health & Safety exercise, a quick and humane method of exterminating vermin. "Vermin is vermin," said farmer's wife Mrs. Granger, "you have to control it. Dogs kill cleanly."
Saboteur Jane Filey disagreed. "It's defined in the dictionary as sport," she said. "If it was just a question of exterminating a single verminous animal, why do they get so angry when the event is sabotaged? The chase and the kill are what it's all about. It's a cruel and uneven version of a dogfight with the riders getting a privileged view."
This wasn't the only dogfight on offer in Dorset yesterday. Travelers have moved onto woodland in Shenstead Village and are guarding the roped-off site with German shepherds. Visitors should beware. "Keep out" notices and warnings that "the dogs will have you" if you breach the barrier are a clear indication of intent. "We are claiming this land by adverse possession," said a masked spokesman, "and like all citizens we have a right to protect our boundary."
Julian Bartlett of Shenstead House disagreed. "They're thieves and vandals," he said. "We should set the pack on them."
Dogfighting, it seems, is alive and well in our beautiful county.
Debbie Fowler
17
Time was running out for Nancy. She had an hour to report to Bovington Camp, but when she tapped her watch and reminded Mark, he looked appalled. "You can't go now," he protested. "James is behaving as if he's had a blood transfusion. You'll kill him off."
They were in the kitchen, making tea, while James stoked the fire in the drawing room. James had been remarka
bly chatty since they left the campsite, but his conversation had been related to the wildlife that inhabited the Copse and not to the subject of the travelers or what had happened to Henry. He was as reticent about that as he had suddenly become about Ailsa's foxes before lunch, saying it wasn't a fit topic for Christmas.
Neither Mark nor Nancy had pressed him. Nancy didn't feel she knew him well enough, and Mark was reluctant to stray into any area that might raise more questions than it answered. Nevertheless, they were both curious, particularly about the name Fox.
"It's a bit of a coincidence, don't you think?" Nancy had murmured as they entered the kitchen. "Mutilated foxes and a man called Fox on the doorstep. What do you suppose is going on?"
"I don't know," said Mark truthfully, his mind obsessed with the coincidence of Fox and Lockyer-Fox.
Nancy didn't believe him but nor did she feel she had a right to demand explanations. Her grandfather both intrigued and intimidated her. She told herself it was the natural order of the army: captains looked up to colonels. It was also the natural order of society: youth looked up to age. But there was something else. A repressed aggression in James-despite his age and frailty-that broadcast "keep out" as effectively as the travelers' notices. Even Mark trod carefully, she noticed, despite a relationship with his client that spoke of mutual respect.
"It would take more than my departure to kill him off," she said now. "You don't become a colonel by accident, Mark. Apart from anything else, he fought in the jungles of Korea… spent a year in a POW camp undergoing Chinese brainwashing… and was decorated for heroism. He's tougher than you or I will ever be."
Mark stared at her. "Is that true?"
"Yup."
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
"I didn't realize I had to. You're his solicitor. I assumed you knew."
"I didn't."
She shrugged. "You do now. He's quite something, your client. A bit of a legend in his regiment."
"Where did you find out all this?"
She started to clear the lunch plates from the table. "I told you… I looked him up. He's mentioned in several books. He was a major at the time and took over as senior officer of the British group in the POW compound when the previous SCO died. He was confined to solitary for three months because he refused to order a ban on religious gatherings. The roof over his cell was corrugated iron and when he came out he was so baked and dehydrated his skin had turned to leather. The first thing he did on release was conduct a lay service… his sermon was entitled 'Freedom of Thought.' After the service was over, he accepted a drink of water."
"Jesus!"
Nancy laughed as she filled the sink. "Some might say so. I'd say sheer bloody guts and bolshiness, myself. You shouldn't underestimate him. He's not the type to give in to propaganda. He wouldn't be quoting Clausewitz if he were. It was Clausewitz who coined the phrase 'fog of war' when he saw how the clouds of smoke from the enemy's guns during the Napoleonic Wars deceived the eye into thinking the opposing army was larger than it actually was."
Mark was busy opening cupboard doors. It was she who was the romantic, he thought, jealousy of the old man's heroism gnawing away at his heart. "Yes, well, I just wish he'd be a bit more forthcoming. How am I supposed to help him if he doesn't tell me what's going on? I had no idea Henry had been killed. James said he died of old age."
She watched his fruitless search. "There's a caddy on the worktop," she said, nodding toward a tin box with the logo "tea" on it. "The teapot's beside it."
"Actually, I was looking for mugs. James is too good a host. The only thing he's let me do since I arrived was today's lunch… and then only because he wanted to talk to you." Too bloody afraid Mark would plug in the telephone jack and intercept a Darth Vader phone call, he thought.
She pointed a finger over his head. "Hanging on hooks above the Aga," she told him.
He raised his eyes. "Oh, yes. Sorry about this." He cast around the worktops for electric sockets. "You can't see the kettle as well, can you?"
Nancy suppressed a laugh. "I think you'll find it's that big round thing on the Aga. You don't plug it in, though. It's the old-fashioned method of heating water. Assuming the kettle's full, you just lift the chrome lid on the left and bring the water back up to the boil by putting the kettle on the hotplate."
He did as instructed. "I suppose your mother has one of these?"
"Mm. She leaves the back door open so that everyone can help themselves whenever they want." She rolled up her sleeves and started on the washing-up.
"Even strangers?"
"Dad and his workers usually, but the odd passerby comes in from time to time. She found a tramp in the kitchen once, swigging tea like there was no tomorrow."
Mark spooned tea leaves into the teapot. "What did she do?"
"Made up a bed and let him stay for two weeks. When he left he took half her silver with him, but she still refers to him as 'that funny old man with the tea addiction.'" She broke off as he reached for the kettle. "I wouldn't do that, if I were you. Those handles get very hot. Try using the oven glove to your right."
He shifted his hand to the glove and pulled it on. "I only know about machines that work off electricity," he said. "Give me a microwave and a processed meal and I'm in seventh heaven. This is all a bit serious for me."
She giggled. "You really are a prime candidate for a survival course. You'd have a whole new perspective on life if you were marooned in the middle of a jungle during a tropical storm with a fire that won't light."
"What do you do?"
"Eat your worms raw… or go without. It depends how hungry you are and how strong your stomach is."
"What do they taste like?"
"Disgusting," she said, putting a plate in the rack. "Rat's all right… except you don't get much on the bone."
He wondered if she was teasing him because his life was so normal. "I'd rather stick with the microwave," he said mutinously.
She flicked him an amused glance. "It's hardly living dangerously, though, is it? How will you know what you're capable of if you never test yourself?"
"Do I need to? Why can't I just face the problem when it comes?"
"Because you wouldn't advise a client to do that," she said. "At least I hope you wouldn't. Your advice would be the opposite… find out all the information you can in order to defend yourself against whatever's thrown at you. That way, you're less likely to underestimate the opposition."
"What about overestimating the opposition?" he said tetchily. "Isn't that just as dangerous?"
"I don't see how. The warier you are, the safer you are."
She was back on the black and white answers, he thought. "What if it's your own side? How do you know you're not overestimating James? You're assuming he's tough because of what he went through fifty years ago, but he's an old man now. Yesterday, his hands were shaking so much he couldn't lift a glass."
"I'm not talking about his physical toughness, I'm talking about his mental toughness." She placed the last pieces of cutlery in the rack and pulled out the plug. "No one's character changes just because they get old." She reached for a towel. "If anything, it becomes more exaggerated. My mother's mother was a virago all her life… and when she hit eighty she became a mega-virago. She couldn't walk because of rheumatoid arthritis but her tongue kept wagging. Old age is about rage and resentment, not about going tamely into oblivion… it's Dylan Thomas's cry to 'burn and rave at close of day.' Why should James be the exception? He's a fighter… that's his nature."
Mark took the towel from her and hung it on the Aga rail to dry. "Yours, too."
She smiled. "Perhaps it goes with the job." He opened his mouth to say something, and she raised a finger to stop him. "Don't quote my genes at me again," she told him firmly. "My entire individuality is in danger of being swamped by your obsessive need to explain me. I am the complex product of my circumstances… not the predictable, linear result of an accidental coupling twenty-eight years ago."
; They both knew they were too close. She saw it in the flash of awareness that sparked in his eyes. He saw it in the way her finger hovered within inches of his mouth. She dropped her hand. "Don't even think about it," she said, baring her teeth in a fox-like smile. "I've enough trouble with my bloody sergeant without adding the family lawyer to my list of difficulties. You weren't supposed to be here, Mr. Ankerton. I came to speak to James."
Mark raised his palms in a gesture of surrender, jealousy spent. "It's your fault, Smith. You shouldn't wear such provocative clothes."
She gave a splutter of laughter. "I specifically dressed butch."
"I know," he murmured, putting the mugs on a tray, "and my imagination's in overdrive. I keep wondering about all the softness that's underneath the armor plating."
Wolfie wondered why adults were so stupid. He tried to warn Bella that Fox would know they'd had visitors-Fox knew everything-but she hushed him and swore him to silence along with the rest. "Let's just keep it to ourselves," she said. "There's no point getting him worked up over nothing. We'll tell him about the reporter… that's fair enough… we all knew the press would stick their noses in sooner or later."
Wolfie shook his head at her naivety but didn't argue.
"It's not that I want you to lie to your dad," she told him, crouching down and giving him a hug, "just don't tell him, eh? He'll be mad as a hatter if he finds out we let strangers into the camp. Can't do that, see, not if we want to build houses here."
He touched a comforting hand to her cheek. "Okay." She was like his mother, always hoping for the best even though the best never happened. She must know she would never have a house here, but she needed to dream, he thought. Just as he needed to dream about running away. "Don't forget to tie the rope again," he reminded her.
Jesus Christ! She had forgotten. But what kind of life had this little boy led that made him mindful of every little detail? She searched his face, saw wisdom and intelligence well beyond his physical immaturity and wondered how she'd missed them before. "Is there anything else I should remember?"
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