At the end of the day, the rules were relaxed, but hope sprang eternal in the breast of the local police sergeant, a man of much energy but no vision, that we would one day fall foul of the breathalyser laws. We made sure that anyone beyond the breathalyser limit was chauffeured to his home or hotel by one of us and that all legal requirements, even that of Game Licences, were strictly observed.
The company in the barn was cheerful and relaxed, savouring the morning and looking forward to the afternoon. Mr Larrowby, my friend of the first drive, had been so inspired by his success that he had shot in a manner which was, by his standard, brilliant. The group was more than halfway to its target bag. I had a word with Angus, who with the beaters was enjoying the same lunch but a less lavish bar in the adjoining cart-shed, to warn him against sending over too many easy birds.
Then I sought out Charlie Hopewell. The other Guns knew each other well and had coalesced into a tight group and, although they had not cold-shouldered Charlie, I found him sitting on a straw bale, enjoying the smoked salmon sandwiches and chatting to Beth. Charlie was a small but well-built man in his fifties, open of face and manner. He had straight sandy hair, thinning, over a face that seemed to have run rather to nose, leaving little room for his bushy moustache. He had operated a barely successful architectural practice in Glenrothes and organized very successfully the alterations at Three Oaks when I first bought it. Shortly thereafter he had sold the practice and taken early retirement. A few days after the deal was signed, a former client of Charlie’s had walked in with another and far larger commission and the practice had begun to boom at last. But Charlie was not bitter. He had achieved leisure at an earlier age than most men can manage and, unlike many another, he was enjoying it.
We had almost lost touch when Charlie moved to Foleyburn village, but we had picked up the threads again. He was a naturally happy man but with two regrets. One was that his wife had not lived to enjoy retirement with him. The other was that, in dying, she had left him to cope alone with a daughter. Perhaps the girl, Hannah, needed a mother. On the few occasions that I had met her she had seemed well behaved but, although Charlie was understandably reticent on the subject, she was said to be unruly. I knew that his son, older and now married, lived nearby and that the young couple tried to help with Hannah, but the responsibility was Charlie’s. All the same, he seemed contented enough, and although his income was now more limited it had made a partial recovery since Hannah had made herself unwelcome at the latest of a long series of boarding schools. Charlie showed a remarkable knack of finding cheap or free opportunities to shoot or fish.
‘Take it easy this afternoon,’ I told him. ‘I’ll keep you advised how many we’re still looking for and on the last drive I’ll be standing at your elbow. They’re paying for a hundred and fifty and that’s what they’ll get, give or take very few.’
He winked. ‘I’m with you,’ he said.
‘Enjoy your lunch,’ I told him.
‘And you eat yours up,’ Beth told me. ‘You’re still much too thin. Are you warm enough?’
‘I’m almost back to the weight I was when I joined the army,’ I retorted, ‘and I was just thinking of taking this coat off.’ Even to myself I sounded petulant.
Charlie looked from one to the other of us with amusement. Beth wiped the smile off his face. ‘Isn’t John too thin?’ she demanded.
‘Better that than too fat,’ Charlie replied, tactfully and poetically.
‘How true!’ Isobel materialized out of the small throng which was centred on the buffet table. She had a loaded plate in one hand and a glass of what appeared to be gin in the other. ‘I’ve just been ticking off one of the beaters because his dog’s getting as fat as a pig despite all the work it gets. He’ll have to harden his heart for the sake of the dog’s if he doesn’t want to lose it prematurely. And I was having a look at a tail.’
‘Bad?’ I asked.
‘Horrid. There’s a yellow Labrador in the line and each side of its chest was painted red. With blood,’ she explained when Charlie looked blank. ‘Instead of buggering about, stopping spaniels being docked, we should be recognizing that the day isn’t far off when Labs should be docked as well.’
I could well understand the heat behind her words. Isobel had started life as a vet. Recently, Parliament had made it illegal for anyone except a qualified veterinary surgeon to dock a tail, despite the fact that breeders had for centuries been docking puppies within the first few days of life with so little ill effect that I had known the pup resume suckling within seconds.
The folly of that edict had been multiplied a thousand-fold when the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons, rightly setting its face against docking for purely cosmetic reasons, had forbidden its members to do any docking at all except under conditions only likely to be encountered when the dog had reached a mature age, at which time docking would have become major surgery. And this had not been an idle tablet of stone but had been backed with threats of serious disciplinary action.
I was the principal trainer in the partnership, but Isobel, producing an unexpected talent and a cool head, had become the main handler under competition conditions, so she knew, perhaps better than any of us, that a gundog with an undocked tail worked in prickly cover (such as the gorse that abounds in our home territory and much of the rest of Britain) can strip the tip of its tail of hair, skin and even flesh. Beth’s Labrador, Jason, was never worked on certain estates without a neat, leather sheath being taped onto his tail. So far from resenting or trying to remove this appendage, he seemed to appreciate its purpose and stood like a statue for its attachment. This had at first been a matter for humour, but the sense of it had got through even to the mockers and we had had several enquiries from Labrador owners – so many, in fact, that Mrs Todd was now making them from soft rabbit-skin, for sale. But working spaniels are traditionally docked and Isobel had continued the practice on our pups. She was quite prepared, she said, to certify that each operation had been necessitated by injury and to dare the Royal College to do anything about it.
Jason was stretched out at Beth’s feet, comfortably relaxing but ready to go again; but Clarence still stayed tight against Charlie’s leg and I noticed that he shivered from time to time.
‘Clarence isn’t his usual boisterous self,’ Isobel said to Charlie. ‘Not infectious, is he?’
‘Definitely not,’ Charlie said with a lopsided smile. ‘That I can guarantee.’
‘That’s good. I see,’ she said, ‘that you’ve had him docked. Who did it for you?’
‘I’ve been wondering what was different about him,’ I said. Looking more closely I saw that the white tip to what remained of Clarence’s tail was white sticking plaster.
Charlie looked embarrassed. ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’
‘I shan’t turn him in to the authorities,’ Isobel said. When her professional interest is aroused she is not receptive to hints. ‘I might ask him to join me in forming the Tail Dockers’ Union. From what I can see, he’s done a neat job, whoever he is. About a week ago?’
‘About that,’ Charlie agreed. ‘I’m only letting Clarence off the lead in the open, well away from any kind of cover, until the stitches are out.’
‘That’s best,’ Isobel said. ‘Although whoever did the job took off rather more than I’d have cared to, which makes further damage unlikely. But I’ve hardly ever seen you send him into prickly cover. Was it some other kind of injury? I’ve known tails get slammed in car doors.’
Isobel’s interest was in the general subject of docking rather than in Clarence but Charlie looked put out. ‘I . . . As I said, I’d rather not talk about it,’ he said gruffly.
We looked at each other in mild surprise. Dog-owners are usually as boring on the subject of their dogs’ injuries as mothers about children’s ailments. But Charlie was entitled to be reticent if he so wished. I made a guess that he had caused the injury by some piece of carelessness of which he was thoroughly ashamed and I changed the
subject, conferring quickly with Isobel over the afternoon rota for the dogs.
Angus soon swept Isobel away to join the beating line again for the afternoon’s drives, which would be down the other sides of the two valleys, and a few minutes later I marshalled the Guns and pickers-up.
The sun came out, brightening the scene. It also made life even more difficult for the Guns who were now facing it, but during the first two drives after lunch the shooting was almost good. As the looked-for total was neared, I placed the Guns closer to the foot of the slope where the birds would be highest and fastest. At the start of the eighth and final drive I placed myself, as promised, close behind Charlie Hopewell, making sure that he knew that I was there.
We still wanted seven birds. ‘Take two,’ I told Charlie. ‘Then hold your fire.’ He took his two. A dozen or more went over untouched but I saw three birds fall further along the line. The supply was running out. ‘Two more,’ I told Charlie. He scored a good right-and-left. They were almost the last birds to come over. Moments later the line of beaters punctuated the skyline. We ended the day with the exact hundred and fifty in the bag. Clarence, looking more confident than he had done all day, was allowed to help with the pick-up in the open.
I gathered the Guns together. ‘You shot well, gentlemen,’ I said. It was an exaggeration, but the clients appreciate an occasional compliment.
Back at the barn, Henry presided at the bar while I joined Angus, who was noting sexes and wing-tags for his records and setting aside braces of birds for the Guns – and for the beating team. (The beaters appreciated a brace of birds apiece, and in view of the low prices paid by the game-dealer our generosity cost us very little.)
Angus should have been happy at the end of a day which had been a triumph for him, but his moment had been spoiled. ‘We’ve got at least one fox coming over the boundary again,’ he said. ‘The beaters found a little pile of wings and feathers. We’ve only lost a bird or two so far, but if it’s a vixen and she sets up a den nearby we’ll have a real problem in the spring.’
I could only agree. A vixen rearing cubs in the spring could wreak havoc among our nesting birds, and if she managed to dig her way into a release pen she could be counted on to slaughter every bird she could catch. I never blamed the fox, whose nature it was to grab an easy meal just as it was mine to defend my precious birds. The fox was part of nature’s precarious balance, but so also were we. The neighbouring land was owned by an absentee landlord who would neither control foxes nor allow anybody else to do so on his land. An expensive battle might or might not have forced him to face up to his legal responsibilities. The only alternative lay in tactics of defence.
‘What do you suggest?’ I asked.
‘I’ll start a line of snares if you can take turns visiting them.’
I let out a sigh of relief. If Angus had asked for my help at lamping for the fox, as well he might, it would have meant nights of little or no sleep. But snares are at work while the keeper slumbers.
‘We’ll talk about it.’ I picked out the largest and most magnificently coloured of the cocks. ‘Include that in Mr Larrowby’s brace. The man in the deerstalker hat. Tell him it’s the one he shot on the first drive.’
‘And is it?’
‘Damned if I know. I lost track of his bird. But you’ll make him happy and that’ll be included in your tip.’ Angus grinned and winked at me.
The yellow Labrador with the damaged tail had been withdrawn from the beating line early in the afternoon. Isobel was handing out free advice to its owner amid an interested group of Guns and beaters, most of whom had their own favourite remedies.
Charlie Hopewell, holding what looked like a large glass of whisky, stood slightly apart, Clarence staying close. I stopped beside them. ‘That yellow bastard’s lucky to have a tail to get skinned,’ Charlie said thickly.
‘No further damage to Clarence?’ I asked.
Charlie shook his head. ‘Maybe I should tell you what happened,’ he said. ‘But not here.’ He led me away from the throng, pausing to have his now empty glass refilled on the way. We found seats in the barn. Clarence wedged himself between our legs. I could feel a tremor from his body. ‘I didn’t want to talk about it in front of strangers, but you’ve a right to know. I didn’t have his tail docked. Some bastard just plain did it.’
‘Did it?’ I repeated stupidly.
‘Chopped his tail off.’ Charlie’s voice, which had become shrill, returned to husky. ‘You know what a wanderer he is?’
I said that I knew. A wanderer is usually incurable and by reputation Clarence was one of the worst. For days or weeks he would be faultless and then he would vanish. From heel, from home, out of his kennel or from the middle of a shoot, it made no difference.
‘He’s always been a wandering beggar,’ Charlie said, not without a trace of quiet pride, ‘and he makes enemies, no doubt about that. He’s totally gut-oriented.’
‘So are most dogs,’ I pointed out.
‘But with him it’s an obsession. And he has the knack of making a quick raid on somebody’s kitchen. He seems to believe that if he can get away he won’t be identified. It’s a belief that hasn’t been shaken by the dozens of times an irate housewife has followed him home and I’ve had to punish him.’
‘Clarence probably—’
Clarence made a small sound of distress and got to his feet. ‘Try not to use his name,’ Charlie said. ‘He’s still as friendly as ever and he can’t help wagging his tail when he hears it, and if he does that while he’s sitting down he hurts himself.’
I gave Clarence an apologetic pat. ‘He probably thought that he was being punished for coming home.’
‘I always take him back to where the crime was committed and punish him there. It never made any difference.’
‘It probably wouldn’t. Punishment has to follow close on the heels of the crime if it’s to do any real good and not just relieve the victim’s feelings.’
Charlie nodded and swallowed half his drink. ‘It happened on the Friday, a week ago yesterday. He was in the house with me and he must have got out through a window. I didn’t even know that he’d gone adrift until late morning when I heard him coming back, squealing. He was coming through the field, from this general direction as near as I could judge. There was blood all over and it took me a second or two to see what was wrong. Then I saw that a good half of his tail was missing and blood was dribbling from the severed end.’
Charlie gulped the last of his drink and pretended to blow his nose as a cover for wiping his eyes. ‘God, it was awful! Hannah was weeping buckets, poor kid. She dotes on him, and I couldn’t explain to her what I didn’t understand myself.’ He must have seen and misinterpreted some flicker of expression on my face because he flushed. ‘I know term isn’t finished yet,’ he said. ‘The fact is, she was . . . sent home. She’s past school-leaving age, so home’s where I’m keeping her for the moment.
‘Clarence didn’t want to let me near the damage but I had to do something. I knew that I was hurting him although he behaved better than I probably would have done in the same circumstances. I got a tourniquet on it, bundled him into the car. Hannah kept her head and held onto the tourniquet for me while I drove to the vet’s surgery. They had to put him under and remove a little more in order to get enough skin to stitch over the bone. And of course they had to shave some of what was left. He still yelps if he bumps it against anything. And it looks terrible under the plaster.’ Charlie looked as though he could weep at any moment.
‘That’s because you’re used to seeing him with his tail complete. You hardly notice it, with the white sticking-plaster on it,’ I said comfortingly, ‘and it won’t be noticeable at all when the hair grows in. Did you ever find out what had happened?’
‘No. They said, at the vet’s, that it had been something sharp and clean. That’s all they could tell me.’
‘He probably got caught up in some agricultural machinery.’
Charlie shook his head
violently. ‘There’d have been traces of rust or grease. Anyway, what machinery would have been working that day? It was pissing wet, remember?’
When I thought about it, the season was long past when cutting machinery would have been in use in the fields. ‘Do any of the local farmers have a machine to chop up turnips for the cattle?’ I asked.
‘Don’t think so. Anyway, if he’d strayed into a barn and got his tail caught, I think they’d have told me. Damn it, I’ve been shooting pigeon and rabbit over their land for years with their full permission, not to say encouragement.’
I recognized the sensation in my lower stomach as apprehension. Or perhaps I was granted some foreknowledge of events to come. Whatever the reason, I did not at all like the way the conversation was heading. A working spaniel may be out of its owner’s sight for minutes at a time. ‘Who’d do such a thing?’ I asked rhetorically.
Charlie shrugged. ‘There are some bad buggers in the world,’ he said. ‘I’m wondering if it wasn’t some anti-field-sports fanatic. Anyone who’ll spray Antimate into the eyes of a hound wouldn’t stop there.’ He sighed deeply.
He was putting my worst fears into words. ‘You need another drink,’ I said. I fetched one from Henry’s stock and collected a small one for myself. I had been teetotal for long enough and Beth could probably be persuaded to drive.
Charlie accepted the drink gratefully. ‘When I was a young man,’ he said, ‘I thought of myself as an intellectual. I listened to music and looked at paintings and sculpture and I read all the great works. I studied architecture and I made a living and stuck it for a thirty-year career. It soon stopped meaning very much to me but at least it furnished the wherewithal for an early retirement.
‘And that’s when I realized what I should have known all along – that I’m a creature of primitive instincts, like most of the human race. What I really enjoy, as opposed to what gives me mild amusement, is pursuit of my meat. After all, to our remote ancestors – animal and human – the hunt and the subsequent celebration in the form of a feast were the high points of life. So I shoot, I fish, I work in harmony with my dog, and if I can’t do the same in heaven I don’t want to go there. Am I so wicked?’ He looked at me owlishly. He was becoming slightly drunk.
Sting in the Tail (Three Oaks Book 6) Page 2