A Shocking Affair (Three Oaks Book 10) Read online

  Early in my retirement, Isobel and I had arrived at a simple understanding about my clothes. I buy anything that takes my fancy and she immediately impounds it and puts it away as being too good for wearing around the garden, the countryside or the kennels. As a result, I am usually clad in the old, tatty and comfortable. Although I have been known to point out that the only way to get old clothes is to wear new ones, the arrangement generally pleases me very well because I had more than enough of the black jacket, striped trousers and restrictive collar image during my time with the bank. Meanwhile, more respectable clothes accumulate, ready for a sedentary old age which, I sincerely hope, will never arrive, sometimes to be released grudgingly when the garments in ordinary use threaten to disintegrate altogether or when some occasion calls for best bib and tucker. In the Scottish countryside, where gorse and brambles soon make the toughest and smartest garments look second-hand, it is the dandy who is subject to scorn and derision – behind his back.

  Isobel, however, now decided that the moment had come for all this finery to be put to good use and I found, heaped on every flat surface and ready for packing, more clothes than would have gone into all our suitcases combined. As I told her, the baggage required would have left no room in the car for the dog or myself. I rejected three-quarters of the new clothes, also threw out my heavy tweed shooting suit and sneaked back in some comfortable slacks, corduroy breeks, a few sweaters and a kilt as old and tatty as any of Peter Hay’s.

  Thus equipped, but neat and tidy for the moment, I drove off on the Monday morning with a mere two cases on the seat behind me, several pairs of boots loose on the floor and Spin peering hopefully through the dog-guard and thrashing with his tail every time he caught my eye in the driving mirror. The weather was holding; the sun almost too bright for comfortable driving in a southerly direction. Without hurrying, using the motorways, I made Edinburgh in little over an hour, lunched with an old friend and did a minor errand, watered Spin and walked him and set off again. After we cleared the small satellite towns to the south of Edinburgh our route led for a while through moorland on top of the Lammermuirs. Then we descended again into the fertile farmland of the Eastern Borders.

  It was many years since I had passed that way but I remembered the route well. I turned off the main road, ran parallel to it for a few miles and came to the pleasant little town of Newton Lauder, nestling in its valley with the main road grinding past along the face of the hill above, where the heather began. I was nearly there. I climbed out of the town towards open country beyond and after a few false casts found a stone archway almost covered with creeper and swung in onto a driveway of gravel between spreading trees.

  In a sense it was like encountering an old friend and yet something was monstrously different, as though the friend had lost hair and teeth and all his limbs. I had been expecting the loom of a stone-built pile complete with turrets and battlements and all in the worst of Scottish Victorian Gothic taste. But instead there was sky at the end of the avenue where the pretentious structure had stood and, as I came nearer, I saw that on its site was a garden on many levels. The foundations of the old house had been kept to provide the retaining walls and over them dripped and tumbled a glorious mixture of alpines and rockery plants. At the centre of each bed was a specimen tree, usually a cherry in full blossom. It was the ideal season of the year for that display, but even so I could see by the shrubs and especially the rose bushes that it would still be a place of beauty when spring was only a memory.

  A hundred yards after emerging from the trees, the drive ended in a circle of gravel where the front door of the old house had been. Now, to one side stood a modern house, spacious but nowhere more than two storeys high, largely built, I was sure, of stone retrieved from the original house but with panels of cedar alternating with the picture windows. Beside and behind the house a broad lawn reached to a wood of mixed pines and silver birch, but the house itself fronted onto a view down to where, in the distance, the slated roofs of Newton Lauder shone purple-grey in the sunlight. Though modern, the house fitted into its surroundings as though it had been there first and the landscape then arranged thoughtfully around it. I can’t explain further except to say that it just looked right. Within a few seconds, the image of the old house was eradicated.

  Two figures rose from a half-hidden flowerbed and approached – Sir Peter, kilted as always, in the lead. I got out to meet them.

  ‘You’ve made it,’ Sir Peter informed me as though I might have been in some doubt. ‘And right on time.’ He showed me his hands. ‘I won’t shake until I’ve had a chance to wash but be assured that you’re very welcome. Of course, this looks a bit different from the last time you were here. We had a fire, you know.’

  ‘I heard,’ I said. ‘Should I commiserate?’

  He shook his grey head. ‘Best thing that ever happened. You’ve brought my new companion? Ronnie must meet him. You met Ronnie, or at least you saw him, when I visited in Fife. Ronnie,’ he explained, ‘used to be my ghillie and stalker. He still does a bit when it’s called for. But nowadays he’s mostly my chauffeur and butler and valet and general handyman and deputy gamekeeper. His wife’s the housekeeper. Ronnie and I keep the gardens between us, although we call in outside help when it gets too much for us or when either of us is too busy.’

  Ronnie had already taken my cases out of the car and was awaiting instructions through this lengthy introduction, standing loosely to attention. He was a large man. He had never been a beauty, but now, aged around sixty, he was gnarled like driftwood and had lost all his hair except for a silver fringe. He looked, frankly, a bit of a bruiser and not at all the type to be manservant to a nobleman. I wondered whether he was in fact a bodyguard but put the thought aside. Nobody could want to harm the amiable baronet.

  ‘Well, now,’ Sir Peter said happily, ‘let’s have a look at the little chap.’

  I opened the back of the car. Spin waited until I gave the word and then jumped down, relieved himself against one of my wheels and came to sit beside me.

  ‘I have his pedigree with me,’ I said, ‘and Kennel Club registration and certificates of vaccination.’

  Sir Peter had squatted down to fondle the spaniel, who rolled over on his back, grinning affably. ‘And I see that you brought his own basket and bowl.’

  ‘And the whistle that he was trained to. We always do that,’ I said. ‘It helps them to settle in if they have as much as possible of their own environment with them. It’s included.’ I found that I was speaking like a member of the firm.

  ‘He seems in fine fettle. What do you think, Ronnie?’

  ‘Braw wee beastie,’ Ronnie said. ‘But will he be good at the job?’

  Sir Peter grinned and looked at his watch. ‘We can find out,’ he said. ‘We’ve plenty of time to hunt down Long Strip for rabbits before dinner.’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ I said. I thought back to John’s last words to me. He had read me a serious lecture before allowing me to remove one of his ewe-lambs. ‘When he’s been through all his training exercises with you and got used to being handled by you, and most of all when he’s got used to the idea that you won’t let him play you up –’ the baronet looked doubtful and his henchman frankly amused ‘– then it’ll be time enough to reintroduce him to live quarry. Anything else would be to invite disaster.’

  ‘He’s no’ wrong,’ Ronnie put in.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Sir Peter said hopefully.

  I shook my head. ‘Maybe the next day if you get on well tomorrow. Believe me, I’m not trying to spin out my invitation—’

  ‘But, my dear chap,’ he broke in, his voice and his eyebrows rising together, ‘stay for as long as you can. I don’t see enough of old friends, especially to shoot with. And by “old friends”, I mean friends of about my own age, content to proceed at a gentlemanly plod and give the dogs time to work, not youngsters like Ronnie here who want to dash about all over the place. Ah,’ he added, ‘now’s the time for the new boy to meet the
rest of the menagerie.’

  Two black Labradors, both of them male, were approaching from the direction of the house. One, evidently the older, was white-jowled and walked with the stiffness of age. The opaque milkiness of cataract was beginning to dim his eyes. The other, not very much younger, showed traces of grey at the muzzle and I had the impression that he would have hurried to inspect the newcomer but held back for the sake of his aged companion. The two came on together. Spin, daunted, retired behind my legs and then rolled onto his back again, miming non-threat.

  ‘Meet the other residents,’ said Sir Peter. ‘The geriatric is Nick, now known as Old Nick – unfairly, because he’s long past any devilment. Old Nick’s twelve. Royston’s eight and a bit. I had a younger one coming along but he developed a cancer at the turn of the year. That’s when I began to think that I might have been offered my last chance to try myself out with a spaniel. I doubt if I’ll ever get another dog.’

  With the pecking order established, the two Labradors sniffed and then backed away. Spin righted himself, made a couple of play pounces, took his turn for a sniff and then raced in a circle around the other dogs. Old Nick, beyond such capers, settled down with a grunt at Sir Peter’s feet, but the younger Royston accepted the invitation and gave chase for a few seconds. But he was no match for a young spaniel and he soon returned to his master, with an air of having been amusing the younger generation but not wanting to show off. Disappointed, Spin raced once around the lawn and then came back, sniffed again and lay down beside the others.

  ‘That’s a relief,’ said Sir Peter. ‘It looks as though they’ll get along.’

  ‘As long as jealousies aren’t allowed to develop,’ I suggested.

  ‘Good heavens, yes! And I wouldn’t want to hurt the old boys’ feelings. We’ve had too much fun together over the years. Tact called for. But I mustn’t keep you standing here. Ronnie will show you your room. Would you like tea? Or a rest before dinner?’

  I realized that I was tired after my long drive and I had missed my customary afternoon nap. But Peter, I could see, was champing at the bit and only restrained by good manners. ‘I’ll take a rest shortly,’ I said. ‘First, don’t you want to start the – um – induction process?’

  His face lit up, crinkling with pleasure lines. ‘If you’re sure,’ he said.

  ‘You can’t begin impressing your leadership too soon.’

  So the two Labradors were put into the house and we spent a happy half-hour on the lawn, putting Spin through the basic exercises while I coached Sir Peter in the different language and attitudes of the springer spaniel as compared to those of the Labrador. Spin sat and heeled and stayed and came and retrieved a variety of dummies and even seemed to be enjoying himself. But little and often is the motto. When I suggested a halt, Peter seemed well satisfied and I gathered that even the dour-looking Ronnie was impressed.

  Sir Peter turned back into the perfect host. ‘Let Ronnie show you your room,’ he said. ‘Have your rest. I might have a snooze myself. You’ll be called in plenty of time for dinner. I have guests coming, by the way, but we don’t dress up any more, or only a little bit. Had enough of that in her La’ship’s time.’

  Ronnie carried my cases while I tagged along with my gun and my trout-rod. I kept Spin with me. Ronnie dumped my luggage on the floor in a bright and comfortable double room and immediately relieved me of the gun-case. ‘This goes in the gun-safe,’ he said gruffly. ‘Rule of the house.’

  ‘Of course.’ I wondered whether to tip him but he seemed not to expect it and I decided that the time of my departure would be soon enough.

  The house, I judged, had about six or eight bedrooms, each with its own bathroom and the whole place was finished to a very high standard. I showered and lay down for what should have been a brief rest, but the bed was soft and I was tired and I fell deeply asleep until roused by a knock on the door and a cheerful female voice warning me that dinner would be served in an hour.

  As I descended the stair with Spin sticking close to my heel Peter Hay met me in the hall, standing in a slightly newer kilt with well-worn evening appurtenances.

  ‘We feed the dogs about now,’ he said. ‘But first . . .?’

  I knew what he wanted. At his suggestion I bestowed my car between the battered four-by-four and an even more battered Land Rover in a garage which still had space for several more cars, and then we spent another ten minutes on the lawn in a fading light while again Spin happily sat and heeled and came and went, retrieved a dummy or two and resisted several carefully plotted temptations. Then, in the kitchen, while the three dogs ate from their separate dishes in relative amity, I was introduced to Ronnie’s wife Mary, Sir Peter’s cook-housekeeper. She was about ages with her husband but either she had worn better or, more probably, she had been prettier to start with. She was helped by Joanna, a cheerful girl with beautiful skin and a roguish eye, who was maid of all work.

  I decided that Isobel must never see that kitchen or she would never be content with her old one. It seemed to have been built, furnished and equipped regardless of cost. Sir Peter seemed quite at home in it and would have been happy to have lingered over a chat with his staff, but we were interrupted by the gentle sound of a doorbell. Joanna brushed crumbs off her apron and went to answer the door while Sir Peter, hurrying almost guiltily, led me through into a sitting room which seemed to be all polished parquet and sweet-pea colours and as generously designed as the rest of the house. It was a strangely old-fashioned room for a modern house, furnished with chintzy wing-chairs and a few good antiques, but it took me back immediately to my youth in my parents’ house and I found it comforting. The dogs remained in the kitchen and Spin, now that he had been reassured that this was a proper house where good and timely meals were provided, made no objection to being left with his new companions.

  The other dinner guests, ushered in by Joanna, proved to be a foursome – parents, daughter and son-in-law. The father, Keith Calder, must have been nearly sixty but carried himself very well. He was a fine-looking man but outshone by his ladies. Mother and daughter resembled each other in being dark, softly rounded and devastatingly attractive with good complexions and eyes that a man could happily drown in. Over drinks, I learned that Keith was proprietor of the local gun shop, a dealer in antique weaponry and an occasional dog trainer. The son-in-law, Ian Fellowes, was a typical Border Scot of the sandy-haired style, and was, I was told with a mixture of pride and apology, a policeman – the local detective inspector. There was yet another generation, because Sir Peter asked who was looking after his godson.

  A good meal was served – again by Joanna. I began to think that Ronnie must be more chauffeur and gardener and ghillie and stalker than butler or valet. With the meal we had two respectable but not pretentious wines. The company was enjoyable – and amusing in more senses than one. I guessed, from his questions, that Keith Calder had been invited or had invited himself in order to satisfy himself that I really did know what I was talking about when it came to dogs. He was very knowledgeable but, having owned and handled gun dogs for most of my life and after dancing attendance at Three Oaks kennels for the past seven or eight years, I was well able to keep my end up. The discussion even provided me with material with which I intended to amaze John and his household on my return.

  I had been wondering why an extra place had been set at table. Halfway through the meal our forks paused in mid-air at the beat of what sounded to me like a motorbike engine in the drive, followed by feet on the gravel. Sir Peter got up quickly and excused himself. The others resumed conversation hastily. Keith Calder asked me a question to do with the removal of sheep-ticks to which I was sure he knew the answer perfectly well. I managed to elaborate on the theme, quoting liberally from Isobel, but the voices in the hall were not quite drowned.

  I heard a girl’s voice, subdued. Then Sir Peter spoke. ‘Yes, this is your home. But it is my home first of all. You are very welcome in it, but I have told you before that that young man d
oes not come in here.’

  The girl’s voice spoke again. Then I heard Peter clearly. ‘That decision is your own, my dear.’

  The front door slammed. A minute later my host returned to the room, rather red and white about the face. He was followed by Joanna who removed the extra place setting.

  When the guests had left, I expected Peter to hint that we were not as young as we had been and that perhaps it was time for bed. But he led me back into the sitting room and we settled before the fire with another brandy apiece. The three dogs were admitted and curled up companionably together on the hearthrug. My host produced a brace of cigars, medium sized but of first quality.

  ‘Should you?’ I asked doubtfully, mindful of my hardened arteries and the pacemaker which, he had admitted, had kept him ticking over for the last few years.

  He grinned at me. ‘No, of course I shouldn’t. Nor should you. That’s why I waited until now. Molly Calder would have read me a lecture if she had even smelled smoke. But I’ve sent Joanna to bed and Ronnie and Mary have gone home for the night, otherwise they would have looked at me disapprovingly and dropped hints about heart disease and lack of willpower. Which only makes a good smoke all the more enjoyable, placing it among the forbidden delights which are so much better than any other kind.’

  ‘Stolen fruit being sweetest?’ I suggested.

  He blew a perfect smoke ring. ‘Of course. It takes me back to sneaking out of school for a smoke in the Head’s potting shed. Anyway, I’d rather have a few good years than rather more but austere ones. “One crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name”, and all that. Don’t join me if you don’t want to. Are you ready for bed?’