Fair Game

by Sheila Radley

  Half a mile out of the village, the road rose steeply enough for Laura to need first gear. The trees behind the wall had thinned out, and through the gaps she could see Belmont wood, up on the highest part of the estate. That was where the afternoon shoot was going to be held, and that was where she was heading.

  She remembered telling Darren the name of the wood, one amazing day in early summer when they’d biked up here to be alone together. It was before he’d taken his hateful gamekeeping job, of course. Laura found it difficult, now, to believe it, but at the time they were seriously in love.

  Even though the dull November light and the falling leaves made everything look different, she could still recognise their private place. They’d raced each other up the rise in brilliant sunshine, dropped their bikes anyhow, and flung themselves panting on buttercuppy grass. This was where it had been, beside this hawthorn bush – then in blossom – where the newly opened leaves of the oak tree overhanging the wall had dappled them with shade.

  This was where they’d proved their love, guiding each other’s hands where they had never gone before.

  Laura didn’t want to think about it. It was a long time ago, and she knew now that Darren wasn’t really the caring person she’d taken him for. All the same, she couldn’t help remembering how gentle he had tried to be, though his big hands were shaking and she could hear the violent hammering of his heart.

  She had trembled, too, with the newness and the shyness of it all. ‘Belmont,’ he had breathed as he touched her, and afterwards they had used the name as a private code word. For a long time she’d only had to hear it to shiver with secret pleasure.

  But that was over, just as summer was. She’d finished with Darren Jermyn. The incident helped her to identify the place where the wood was nearest to the road, that was all. She had come back here to stop the shoot, not to go wobbly about a relationship that meant nothing to her any more.

  There was no time to waste, either. Propping her bike hurriedly against the wall, she looked for a way to get into the Chalcot estate. She had no need to break in, of course. She could simply have left the house and followed the shooting party up the farm track to Belmont. But someone would have been sure to see her and that would have ruined her plan. For maximum effect, she had to take them all by surprise.

  The wall was about six feet high, and built of greyish bricks discoloured by years of weather. In some places it was covered with ivy, in others badly cracked. She hurried along beside it, making for a place where bricks lay tumbled on the grass. But when she reached the gap, she found that it had been blocked by barbed wire. A large noticeboard said: PRIVATE LAND – KEEP OUT.

  Within a few yards there was another gap, similarly blocked. Not wanting to tangle with barbed wire, Laura was about to try climbing up the ivy beside the gap. But then she noticed that the wire there had been cut and partially pushed back.

  Grateful to the unknown poacher who must have done it, she scrambled over the fallen bricks. In front of her was rough pasture, with occasional parkland trees and the odd wandering pheasant. Beyond the pasture – about a couple of hockey pitch lengths away – was the edge of Belmont wood.

  From a distance, Belmont always looked like a solid block of trees. But Laura had explored the estate when she first went there to live, and she knew that the wood was split in two by a wide grassy ride. She must have crossed the wall almost directly opposite one end of the ride, because in front of her were what looked like two separate woods.

  She hadn’t ever dared to go back to Belmont, after that first visit, because she’d been frightened by the vicious old gamekeeper. He had come raging at her out of the trees, grasping by its bushy tail – she could never forget the horror of it – the limp body of a beautiful russet fox, with a mangled hind leg and with blood all over its muzzle.

  Len Alger must have known who she was. He could see that she was doing no harm. But he’d sworn at her for being there, and swung the dead fox towards her, and told her that if she went in his woods again he’d set a trap for her as well.

  Laura hadn’t really believed that he’d set a trap for her. But he’d looked so cruel, and spoken so fiercely, that she had taken good care to keep away from the woods ever since.

  She remembered Belmont and its centre ride well enough for her purpose, though. The centre ride was where the shooting party always stood for the first drive of the afternoon. Laura had discovered this yesterday, wheedling the information out of old Horace, the tractor driver who towed the game cart for the shoots.

  The Guns always faced towards Ashthorpe, Horace had said. From where she was standing, Ashthorpe was somewhere over to the left. That was the direction the pheasants would be driven from, then – through the left-hand wood towards the guns in the centre ride. And judging by the number of kurr-kuk calls she could hear, that wood was full of victims.

  She could also hear a vehicle, behind her, coming up the road from Chalcot village. It slowed to a stop not far from where she had left her bike and bag, and she hoped that the driver hadn’t seen them and stopped to pick them up. It didn’t really bother her, though. She was too concerned for the pheasants to worry about a little thing like losing her possessions.

  Her plan was the simple one she’d first thought of. She would make for the wood they were going to shoot, and hide herself somewhere between the pheasants and the line of guns. That would be on the left-hand edge of the ride.

  There she’d stay hidden while the beaters were driving the poor birds forward. Then, just as the so-called ‘sportsmen’were getting ready to fire, she would burst out in front of them shouting ‘Stop the killing!’ And she’d spread her arms wide to show them her SHOOTING PHEASANTS IS WRONG slogan.

  It wouldn’t be all that dangerous. She knew the guns would be aimed high. But it would certainly look risky, from the point of view of the shooting party, and that was what she wanted. If she showed them that she was prepared to defend the pheasants regardless of her own safety, they couldn’t fail to respect her beliefs.

  As soon as they saw her, they would lower their shotguns and give up the rest of the shoot. She felt sure of it.

  Well, almost sure.

  She didn’t know whether she was frightened or excited by what lay ahead, but her breath seemed to be coming as fast as it had on that far-off day with Darren. This time, though, her feelings were completely different. There was no silly emotion now, and no self-interest.

  Saving these pheasants was going to be her contribution to preserving the wildlife of planet earth. And if she could shame Mr Glaven into giving up shooting for good, then her life would really have been worthwhile.

  She would be only just in time to do it. Already she could hear the shooting party’s vehicles, over on the far side of the wood, drawing up at the opposite end of the centre ride.

  Heart thumping, hardly noticing the weight of her Doc Marten’s, Laura ran as fast as she could towards Belmont.

  Martin watched as their host escorted Hope and Alison to the Range Rover. He took some pride in the fact that Alison was dressed appropriately, in boots and a waxed jacket she’d borrowed from a friend.

  Hope, though, had emerged from the house looking delightful but conspicuously wrong, in a softly coloured town coat. Evidently she hadn’t yet acquired a country wardrobe. But Lewis Glaven was a considerate host. Having complimented her on her appearance, he had sent his housekeeper to find her ‘something that wouldn’t take any harm from a bit of mud’, and she was now wrappped in an old Barbour that was much too large for her.

  Nothing could quench her loveliness, though. Martin’s eyes were still drawn irresistibly towards her – as any man’s would be, he told himself. Delicate beauty such as hers is too rare not to be gazed at. But he knew better, now, than to expect any recognition from Hope Meynell.

  He no longer felt sorry for her, either. No doubt she would hate the shoot as much as Alison was going to hate it, but Will was too much in love with her to insist on her staying. She
would be too shy to make any public protest, but if she said she wanted to leave he would simply take her away – and no one would think any worse of her for it.

  As for Alison … Martin could only hope that being taken under Lewis Glaven’s wing would make her realise her social responsibilities. Surely she’d understand that a guest had no business to object to her host’s chosen sport?

  Martin sighed. Knowing his partner as well as he did, he doubted it.

  He was travelling again with the Treadgolds, knee-deep in dogs in the back of the Landrover. The brothers were gleefully discussing Joanna Dodd.

  ‘Why wasn’t she with us at lunch, eh?’ said Tweedledum. ‘Lame horse at home – ha!’

  ‘Couldn’t face the humiliation of seein’ Will with his new girlfriend,’ said Tweedledee, ‘that’s what.’

  ‘But will she turn up for the afternoon shoot? That’s the real question.’

  ‘And if she does – will it be with or without intent to do him a mischief? Eh? Eh?’

  They embarked on some ribald fantasies, and Martin’s lip curled as he listened. The brothers were alleged to be old friends of the Glavens and the Dodds, and he didn’t think much of the quality of their friendship. Nor of Tweedledum and Tweedledee themselves, come to that. They weren’t half the man their sister Dorothy was.

  What he found, though, was that their conversation wasn’t so much distasteful as disturbing. He was appalled by their juvenile amusement at the idea of Joanna Dodd revenging herself on Will Glaven by taking a shot at him.

  They were joking, of course. But Martin had investigated too many shotgun woundings and deaths to think it was funny. Once again – as with their alcohol intake – he deplored the cheerful insouciance with which they treated lethal weapons.

  Didn’t they know the sportsman’s rules? he thought angrily. Didn’t they know how easy it was for someone to be shot by accident? Even to be killed?

  He went suddenly cold. He sucked in his breath as sharply as though an ice pack had been slapped against the back of his neck.

  Alison, he thought.

  Oh God – if Alison were to be so upset by the shoot that she rushed out and did something crazy, like trying to rescue a wounded pheasant, she could be accidentally shot!

  The realisation came as such a shock that it cleared his head of all today’s nonsense. Alison was the girl he loved, the one he intended to marry, and he regretted having eyed Hope Meynell in front of her. What’s more, he regretted his trivial social aspirations. Alison meant far more to him (always excepting his career) than anyone or anything else in the world. Whether or not it offended their host, he was not going to have her put at risk.

  He shoved the dogs aside and jumped out as soon as the Landrover stopped. The other vehicles had already arrived, at the end of a woodland ride that cut a wide, grassy, bush-grown swath through the middle of Belmont. Alison was standing beside the Range Rover, talking to Hope. Neither of them seemed entirely happy.

  Martin went straight up to them, made an abrupt excuse, took Alison by the arm and drew her away.

  ‘Look, darling,’ he said. ‘You’re not going to enjoy this shoot, you know. Most of it’s wretchedly boring – just standing about in the cold. I’ve had enough of it, I can tell you. Let’s make our apologies and go home.’

  Alison gave him a level look. ‘I know I’m not going to enjoy it,’ she said. ‘Neither is Hope. We were discussing it before lunch. She has to watch the shoot because the Glavens expect it of her. And I’ve come to give her a bit of moral support.’

  Martin tried to argue her out of it, but she refused to budge.

  ‘Well, at least promise me this,’ he insisted. ‘However much you may hate the shoot, for God’s sake don’t do anything unsafe. I mean, don’t run about or try to disrupt it. Just stay behind me the whole time – promise?’

  Alison’s lovely green eyes had become unaccustomedly cool. ‘I see,’ she said slowly. ‘So that’s what’s worrying you? You’re afraid I’ll do something that will let you down in front of your county friends.’

  ‘That’s not true!’ he protested. ‘I’m concerned about your safety, that’s all. Of course you won’t “let me down …”’

  Alison turned scornfully away.

  ‘Don’t bet on it,’ she said.

  Chapter Twelve

  Laura’s plans were all going wrong.

  She had reached Belmont, but not the part where she wanted to be. When she was half-way towards the wood on the left of the grassy ride, she had seen someone moving among the trees. Fearful that it might be her old enemy the gamekeeper, she had veered off to the wood on the right.

  Panting after her run, she had reached the cover of the bushes that grew along the edge of the ride, between the grass and the tall trees. But this was the right-hand side of the ride – a useless place for stopping the shoot. Instead of being between the pheasants and the guns, she was going to be behind the shooting party.

  She was about to run across the open grass to the other side when she heard distant voices. Peering round a bush, she could see a few members of the shooting party moving towards her up the single-vehicle mud track that ran along the middle of the ride. Guns under their arms, they were making for some conspicuous blobs of white, spaced out along the track.

  The blobs, Laura realised, were labels, fixed to the top of tall sticks that marked where the shooting party would stand. She drew back, panicking for a moment. It was too late to change sides. The gunmen were almost in position for the shoot.

  She took a gulp of cold damp air to steady herself. All right – she’d change her plan instead.

  The important thing was to take the gunmen by surprise. She would have to stay deep in cover, and work her way along towards them without being seen or heard. When she was level with the gun positions, she could sneak up to the edge of the grass. Then, just before the firing started, she would have to run out through the line of gunmen, and turn to face them.

  She took another gulp. She was afraid, of course … But she wasn’t going to let that stop her.

  Using a tall silver birch as a marker, she plunged into the autumn tangle of shrubs and bushes. Brambles clawed at her clothes and her hair and her hands, but she tore herself free and pushed on.

  She’d quite forgotten that there would be pheasants on this side of the ride too, until she heard a rustling among the fallen leaves and saw birds scuttling away at her approach. These were the intended victims of the second drive of the afternoon. If all her plans went well they would have nothing to fear.

  But though she was their friend, one of the pheasants took fright. Kurr-kuk! Kurr-kuk! it shrieked, blundering up through the bare branches of the silver birch.

  Laura froze. Through a gap in the bushes to her left she could glimpse one of the gunmen. He seemed to be already in position facing the other way, but he turned his head immediately, obviously wondering what had disturbed the bird. She was sure he would see her.

  But he faced front again. Praying that she wouldn’t put up any more pheasants Laura moved as quietly as possible towards the open ride. She found a hiding place behind an evergreen privet and crouched down, scratched and sore. Cautiously parting the wood stems, she peered out through the dark green oval leaves.

  She found that she was roughly half-way between two gunmen, both standing with their backs towards her. All the shooting party were similarly dressed, but she’d know Will Glaven’s long legs, and the amazing way his thick hair curled at the back of his neck, anywhere. Her heart gave its familiar lurch in his presence, but she soon put a stop to that.

  Will didn’t care about her any more. Besides, he was every bit as bloodthirsty as the other gunmen. She was glad that she’d be making her protest right in front of him. That would just show him that the pheasants were a lot more important to her than he was!

  She thought she was safely hidden, but suddenly she realised she’d been heard. Will’s black labrador, Boris, sitting beside his master, had turned his hea
d and was looking at her enquiringly. She held her breath.

  She and Boris were old friends. Normally, the dog would run to greet her. But now, on gun duty, he merely gave his tail a token thump of recognition and looked to the front again. Like the rest of the shooting party, he was waiting to get at the pheasants.

  And here was another problem for Laura.

  Never having been at a shoot, she’d had no idea how the guns were spaced out. She’d imagined the gunmen would stand quite close together, and that as soon as she appeared in front of them they would all see her at the same time.

  Now she realised they were much further apart than she’d thought. There were seven of them, she knew that, but even though she peered out as far as she dared she couldn’t see more than three. The grassy centre of the ride was unevenly narrowed by bushes, some of which were so overgrown that they blocked the view along the track.

  She had no way of telling whereabouts along the line of gunmen Will was standing. She was too far from the pegs to see the numbers on the labels. What was dismayingly clear to her, though, was that the men at one end of the line couldn’t possibly know what was happening at the other.

  Even if she could stop Will and the two on either side of him from firing, the rest of the party would carry on with the shoot. They wouldn’t even know she was there. However hard she tried, a lot of pheasants were going to be killed.

  A prickling sensation rose up behind Laura’s eyes, but she swallowed it away. It wasn’t defeat that had brought on the tears, it was frustration and anger. She was the only person who cared enough to help the birds, and she was determined to stop the gunmen somehow. One by one, if necessary.

  But that was another problem. She sucked a bleeding scratch below her thumb, almost gnawing it in her perplexity. The men at the other end of the line would already be firing when she ran up to stop them. They’d be concentrating on high-flying birds, and probably wearing ear muffs. How was she going to make them see and hear her?