by Guy N Smith
‘No feral cat could have done what this one did,’ Hughes grunted. ‘It chewed through wire mesh, crushed each bird to death with its jaws, then having got into the trap it had sufficient strength to pull its way out.’
‘Hmm,’ Rutter respected the other's knowledge of natural history. ‘Of course, it is possible but highly unlikely. However. I'd be interested to see the scene of the crime, so to speak.’
Hughes led the way, using a well-worn sheeptrack back down the hillside, and neither spoke until they reached the narrow winding river at the bottom, following its banks in the direction of Nether Skyborry. The gamekeeper carried his gun almost self-consciously, cradled beneath his arm close to his body as though trying to hide its presence from his companion.
‘I heard you fire a shot just after daylight,’ the zoologist seemed to read the gamekeeper's thoughts, sense his guilt.
‘Just a carrion crow. There are far too many in these hills, too much unkeepered ground.’
‘Nature maintains her own balance.’
Hughes fell silent. He had no wish to enter into another heated discussion on the merits of corvine control. They followed a path that led diagonally away from the river bank into a tall larch wood, the air fragrant with the scent of resin where some trees had been recently felled. The sunlight was shut out by the thick overhanging branches, the atmosphere of tranquillity and gloom reminding Rutter of a cathedral where one instinctively spoke in whispers.
A few hundred yards further on they emerged into a huge sunlit clearing, the entire perimeter encircled by a ten-foot-high fence of wire netting. Inside this enclosure pheasant poults scratched for insects, others sunned themselves in dust baths. Probably several hundred at a rough estimate. Rutter grimaced. This was the death cell, where the birds would be imprisoned until the commencement of the shooting season; then a brief reprieve, a few weeks in which they would be allowed freedom before being driven over a line of guns.
‘This is the place.’ The gamekeeper was kneeling down by a section of the fence which had been recently renewed, new wire covering a jagged hole in the old. Masses of feathers were scattered around and some mutilated pheasant remains had been raked into a pile. Flies buzzed, reluctant to desert their feast.
Colin Rutter stooped down, examining the ground. The recent heavy showers had softened the soil into black mud that was only just beginning to dry out. There were several footmarks: a jay that had alighted in search of spilled grain, a rabbit passing from one side of the clearing to the other and something else, partially obscured beneath the prints of a prowling fox … a cat!
‘No ordinary cat could …’ Hughes realised his companion wasn't listening.
‘It's a cat, all right,’ Rutter muttered, ‘but not a domestic cat … nor a wild cat … then what?’
The zoologist searched diligently. There were so many tracks of passing animals, and also the gamekeeper's clumsy tread when he repaired the damaged fencing. Just one partial print remained, wide claws that dug deeply into the ground and then petered out.
‘I can't be sure,’ he straightened up. ‘If only I'd seen them earlier! Roughly the same size as a wild cat but the spacing of the toes is wider. Almost like the print of a lynx!’
‘A lynx!’ Melvyn Hughes stared open mouthed. ‘You've got to be joking!’
‘No, just beginning the process of elimination. Once you've discarded the impossible you're left with the improbable.’
‘But there aren't any lynxes in Britain, except in zoos.’
‘Agreed. But let's not forget the escapes from wildlife parks in recent years. Two wolves in Argyllshire, three boar hunts, a beaver on Speyside and a wolverine by Loch Ness, not to mention the mythical Sussex puma.’
‘You don't think …’
‘No, too small for a puma and the wrong formation. Off hand, the only feline species I can liken that print to is the lynx. Even so, it isn't quite right.’
‘We can't have some wild creature loose in these woods.’
‘You're thinking of your damned pheasants again, Melvyn. You're not concerned with some creature of great interest which is only obeying its natural instincts. All you think about is the number of pheasants in the bag at the end of a Saturday's shooting.’
‘That's my job, and in any case without shooting there would be very few pheasants in this country,’ the gamekeeper's face became a deeper hue. ‘Nobody would rear them and vermin would soon clean up any wild hatches.’
‘I suppose you're going to try to trap this animal?’
‘I'll have to do something about it.’
‘Surely a man of your ingenuity could make a cage trap of some kind, using reinforced steel mesh?’
‘Hell, I haven't the time to make cages. I don't have the welding equipment either.’
‘I see,’ Rutter sighed deeply. ‘So the death sentence is already passed?’
‘Like I said, it's my job,’ Melvyn Hughes' belligerence had merged into acute embarrassment. ‘If I don't show the birds this autumn they'll look for another man to start next season. It's as simple as that.’
‘Then do me a favour, will you?’
‘What's that?’
‘Keep this business to yourself for the moment. I want to do some watching, see if I can get a sighting at least. The last thing we want is sightseers trampling through the whole countryside disturbing every living thing for miles around, as they surely will if word gets out. And if you do kill the creature, let me have first look at it?’
‘All right, I'll do that, I promise.’
‘Thanks,’ Rutter glanced at his wristwatch. ‘I have to be getting back, I've a lot of work to do. And I won't wish you the best of luck with your trapping.’
Melvyn Hughes stood watching the zoologist until he was lost to sight amidst the tall larches, then picked up his gun and loaded it. He felt decidedly uneasy now that he was alone. Scottish wild cats were within his capabilities, but anything larger sent little shivers up and down his spine. From now on, whenever he went in these hills he would carry a gun. And the sooner he intensified his trapping, the better.
Bilal remained at Pentre in spite of Lester Hoyle's frequent reminders that alternative accommodation would be arranged shortly. Clearly none of the communes in the area welcomed the prospect of an illegal immigrant in their midst.
He spent most of his time working in the garden. Already the rows of vegetables were growing fast now that he had cleared the obstructing weeds.
The caracal, too, had grown and no longer bore any resemblance to a massive kitten. Now almost the size of a fox, it had become more of a recluse, spending the daylight hours inside its sleeping quarters. The broken leg had set perfectly and it did not even limp.
Bilal had attempted to repair the mesh again but his efforts had proved futile. The wire was torn apart by next morning and half the section destroyed. The creature had been out hunting and returned as though it realised that safety lay within the poultry house. Yet its tameness, its affection for him was waning, he could see. The heavy purr was more of a warning now than a greeting when he approached it
‘How's the cat?’ Wendy had strolled into the garden, idly picking wild raspberries from some hedgerow canes.
‘He is well,’ Bilal stuck his fork into the soil and leaned on the broken handle. ‘But he won't let me touch him now. I nearly got a scratch yesterday when I was putting some fresh water into his bowl Not really … vicious, just wanting to be left alone.’
‘Lester was on about it again yesterday,’ she smiled. ‘He had to agree that nobody in the commune ever sees the caracal, unless they go down the garden and peer into its hutch, I also told him that since you'd been here the amount of garden produce had virtually doubled. He knows I'm right, so I think he'll let you stay on. Just keep out of his way and you'll be OK.’
‘You are very kind,’ Bilal felt embarrassed, as though he owed a debt to this girl, which he could never repay. ‘I think Lester will do what you want?’
‘Only
because he fancies me,’ she sat down on the remains of an old garden seat as though she needed to talk to somebody. ‘He's a swine really. Sometimes I could punch him in the face, but it wouldn't do any good because Wes and I have nowhere else to go. He tried to get me to go to bed with him one day last week when Wes had gone into Knighton. It might keep him happy, but the very thought makes me squirm. I put him off, told him I'd just started a period. Wes would kill him if ever he found out. Wes is away today, too, hitch-hiking to Shrewsbury to do some research in the library. I wish I'd gone with him. That's one of the reasons I'm out here in the garden now, because I don't want to be alone in the house with Lester, I can't put him off with the same excuse again.’
‘He doesn't come into the garden much,’ Bilal glanced around nervously.
‘He's destroying Wes,’ she spoke bitterly. ‘Tears every book he starts to bits. Now Wes intends to completely rewrite his latest manuscript, and I know he'll never finish it which is just what Lester wants - ruin his confidence and make him a failure like the rest of us. I can tell Wes is back on drugs. Now I'll have to try and get him off them again. Each time it's harder, and sometimes I think I'll just walk out but that would be the end of Wes.’
‘Is there not another commune?’
‘Maybe, but Wes wouldn't leave Pentre unless he could get back into society and be accepted. I really don't have to be here at all. My people are quite well off and always wanting me to go back home. But they think writers are unstable and have no time for anybody without a regular job. My only chance is for Wes to make good.’
‘I was happy at home, too, but I didn't realise until it was too late,’ Bilal felt the tears welling up in his eyes and tried to fight them back. ‘This man told me that Britain was the promised land and I gave him all my money to get here. I thought it was all legal. Now I cannot go back.’
‘You could go to the police. You'd be deported and get sent home then.’
‘No,’ Bilal turned away so that she would not see the tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘I could not face the shame. And my parents would not have me back now that I have run away.’
‘So we're both trapped,’ she smiled ruefully. ‘We've got to stick it out whether we like it or not.’
‘I'm worried about the caracal,’ he glanced at the dilapidated wire run. ‘I am happy that he is free, but each morning I dread that he will not be returning. If he went off to the hills it would not be so bad, but I am frightened of the traps and this man called Hughes.’
‘Me too,’ she said. ‘But it seems the caracal's learnt to avoid traps. It isn't likely that he'll be caught again. By the way, have you ever thought of giving him a name?’
‘It would be nice, but I cannot think of a name.’
‘Let me see,’ she pursed her lips and closed her eyes. ‘What about … what about “King”? King Caracal. I think it sounds impressive, kind of regal.’
‘ “King” ’, he repeated the name slowly. ‘It is a good name.’
‘I'll help you with some of that weeding,’ she stood up. Anything to keep away from the house. She wondered how Wes was getting on. All the research in the world wouldn't help him while Lester Hoyle was around.
Reg Gwillam was very much aware of the responsibility which had descended upon him since his father's death in May. Throughout his life he had relied upon the old man. Reg knew what his duties were, but it was always nice to be instructed. ‘Go'n look over them ewes, boy. And we might be able to start cutting next week if the weather holds. Check the baler.’ Now he had to think it all out for himself, and carry out the tasks unaided. As well as cooking and cleaning in the house, not that he did more than the minimum to keep going. He could just about remember his mother, a bulky woman, grey at thirty-five, who always wore a full-length apron. He never knew what she had worn beneath it. She had died when he was three although he hadn't realised the truth for ages afterwards. Dad had told him that she'd gone to stay with Auntie Ethel at Presteigne for a long holiday. The holiday had gone on and on, and when he finally learned she was dead it didn't really seem to matter because he'd got so used to being without a mother.
It was a long climb up to the ‘Footy’, the top field which bordered the forestry plantation. The air was cold and damp, a thick mist hanging over the upper half of the steep slope. A typical September morning, warning you that autumn was not far off. And then it would be winter, maybe an early snowfall that caught you unawares with the sheep still on the top fields and not enough fodder in the tumbledown barns down below.
At thirty-four he shouldn't have been out of breath by the time he reached the hurdle which was a makeshift gate to the upper grazing field. Binder twine served as both hinges and fastener, enough to stop the stock from breaking out but too flimsy to climb over.
The mist was thicker now, like the low cloud which sometimes lasted for several days in the depths of winter. Reg shivered and set off along the straggling hedge. By following that he would walk in a complete circle and come back where he'd started. The sheep would probably be huddled up against the forestry boundary.
Moving silhouettes, bleating, so there couldn't be much wrong with them. Soon they'd be brought down to the fields around the house, which would make life much easier.
Seven or eight sheep were lying down and struggled up, almost reluctantly, at Reg's approach. But one lay some distance behind the others in an unnatural posture, silent and still. As Reg stared the mist thickened, obscured the animal for a few seconds and then thinned again. Now he saw it more plainly. God, not only was it dead but there was definitely something odd about it. He broke into a run, and then the truth dawned on him. The sheep was naked, its fleece gone, and all that was left was a heap of crushed bloody bones!
Reg Gwillam stared in disbelief. The animal had been flayed! At first he thought of sheep rustlers from the city, but realised that they would hardly take the trouble to climb all the way up here just to get one beast when there were forty for the taking. And why just take the fleece? Usually the animals disappeared completely. But neither ravens nor foxes could reduce the carcass to that state in so short a time.
He turned away in disgust and fear. This was awful, worse than the loneliness up here in the mist. His father would have known what to do. Reg could see him now, a small wizened man in his late sixties, a shock of unruly grey hair.
Toothless, gums hardened so that they were capable of supporting a pipe, puckered mouth with lisping speech. ‘Boy, sommat's been at that sheep, and I reckon I knows what it is …’
But what, for Christ's sake, what?
His thoughts in a whirl, Reg headed for lower ground, pausing every few yards to glance back. He was trembling by the time he reached the house and hastened inside, slamming the door behind him. He needed time to think. If it was rustlers then the police ought to be informed. Not that it would make much difference because Calvin Jones was hardly likely to spend the night there on the Footy.
Then a sudden awful thought hit him with the force of a power-driven piston. It must be the work of humans - he'd read in one of the few newspapers that came his way about a goat being found skinned and mutilated in an Essex churchyard. Devil-worshippers!
Reg sweated, his stomach fluttering and pulses pounding. Some vile cult had come here because it was remote, made their blood sacrifice and indulged in revolting rituals. Ugh! He was almost sick at the thought.
But - and this was even more terrifying - they might return! He thought about bringing the sheep down straight away, but that might bring the devil-worshippers nearer to the farm buildings. And what if he got in their way? They might seek a more powerful sacrifice - human blood!
He sat there shaking. The worst thing he could do was to inform the police, which was sure to bring the wrath of these people upon him. Calvin Jones would be no match for them, anyway. The only solution was to bolt the doors once darkness fell and not open them again until daylight. He would take a loaded shotgun up to bed with him too.
Such
were the primitive fears of a man who knew nothing but the simple ways of country life.
Reg stepped out into the yard, shading his eyes and looking up towards the distant peaks. The sun was shining with full autumnal warmth, and had dispersed the last traces of mist on the hilltops. Two specks, hovering, circling, with ragged wings outspread. Buzzards. He heard their sharp mewing call, saw them going down beyond the brow of the Footy. There was something sinister about their sudden appearance. Some instinct had drawn them to feast on the grisly remains of that sheep, clean up the bones so that they whitened in the sun.
Reg began to fork hay into the cattle shed. In spite of the increasing warmth of the day he could not stop shivering, and kept glancing furtively around. The atmosphere seemed charged with evil; he would not be spared by the forces of darkness simply because he had no wish to become involved with them - the future was too terrible to contemplate.
Chapter 3
Les Powell had farmed seven hundred acres along Offa's Dyke since 1964 when he and his brother had gone into partnership. ‘Kip’ Powell had been killed the following year when his tractor went out of control while he was attempting to plough a steep hillside above Llanwen Hill.
Les carried on alone afterwards. The temptation had been to sell up, which his bank manager advised, but that advice had gone unheeded. Land was going to boom, Les forecast, and in ten years' time his would be the biggest and cheapest farm this side of the border, particularly if modern ideas and machinery were coordinated to produce the best out of a neglected tract of land. Besides, fifty was too early to retire.
It was a struggle at times but Les Powell made it. Sheer determination paid off, and by 1975 the bank overdraft had been cleared. Five years later his sheep had earned a reputation on both sides of the border, fetching top prices at auctions and winning first prize at Builth Show.