Death in the Coverts Read online

  Death in the Coverts

  Roderic Jeffries

  © Roderic Jeffries 1966

  Roderic Jeffries has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1966 by W. Collins Ltd.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter One

  Three cars arrived together as if in convoy. They turned off the road, came down the drive through the park and across the cattle-grid into the garden and halted half-way round the circular turning drive in front of the main entrance of Hurstley Place. Between the three of them, a Buick Riviera, a Ford Thunderbird, and a Dodge shooting-brake, they stretched a quarter of the way around the circular turning drive. The drivers climbed out and studied each other’s shooting-suits, stockings, and boots.

  ‘‘Morning, Joe,’ said Rafferty. ‘‘Morning, Phil.’

  ‘‘Morning, Bill,’ replied Abbotts. ‘Good day for the birds, eh?’

  They looked up at the sky which was temporarily almost free of clouds. There was a strong wind and as they watched a pigeon flew over them downwind. It flashed across the lawn and out of sight over the roof of the wing of the house.

  ‘They’ll be fast and furious today and no mistake,’ said Abbotts. He laughed, a booming sound that suggested pints of beer. ‘We’ll be dead lucky if we hit anything.’

  ‘And the birds will be unluckily dead?’ said Wade.

  Abbotts looked quickly at Wade to make out if this was meant to be funny.

  ‘They’ll hit ’em,’ said Rafferty. He jerked his head in the direction of the house, behind him. ‘This is just the kind of day they want because it lets ’em show us what brilliant shots they are.’

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing, I wouldn’t say no to being half as good as either of ’em.’ Abbotts put his hands in his pockets and jingled some coins.

  ‘You can’t help being good if you’ve shot all your life.’

  ‘I don’t know I agree,’ said Wade.

  Rafferty looked at the small, precise, thin-lipped man. ‘You make a habit of not agreeing,’ he retorted aggressively. ‘You’ll find that sometimes it doesn’t bloody well matter whether you do or don’t agree.’

  ‘And no doubt you’ll discover that sometimes people count their chickens before they’ve even collected the eggs.’

  Abbotts tried, in his usual blundering style, to damp down the expressed dislike of the two men for each other. ‘I reckon any man can reach a certain skill in shooting and then if he’s not a born shot he won’t get no further, no matter whether he practises every day for a year.’

  ‘Are you speaking from the standpoint of an expert?’ asked Wade, with heavy sarcasm.

  ‘He didn’t shoot so bad last time,’ snapped Rafferty.

  Wade smiled disdainfully. ‘By what standards? Yours or the Deckers’?’

  A Chevrolet Impala came round the circular lawn and parked behind the Dodge. Cranleigh climbed out. ‘A good morning to one and all,’ he said. He was a tall, thin man who dressed exactly as fashion dictated. He was often known as The Tailor’s Dummy. ‘How’s the missus, Bill?’

  ‘She’s all right,’ muttered Rafferty.

  ‘How very thoughtful of you to ask,’ said Wade. His cold, blue eyes looked from Cranleigh to Rafferty. ‘Our Charlie’s a very thoughtful sort, isn’t he?’

  ‘What’s it matter to you what he is?’ ‘Asking after your wife shows a nice spirit. When your wife’s so lovely a lady as Daphne it’s gentlemanly to ask after her health to show how concerned one is with it.’

  Abbotts sniggered and brushed his bushy moustache with his right forefinger. Cranleigh had a way with women and it was said that his way had extended as far as Daphne Rafferty. Abbotts didn’t really believe the story because Rafferty was a man who protected his possessions with every ounce of his cunning, but it was an amusing thought. It could mean that Rafferty wasn’t always successful.

  Cranleigh tried to look both flattered and indignant at the suggestion. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and carefully wiped his lips.

  ‘Here, how about some booze to warm us up?’ asked Abbotts, breaking the silence. ‘There’s whisky, rum, or brandy to gladden the cockles of your hearts and make your barrels straight.’ He walked back to the Ford Thunderbird, opened the boot, and brought out a large pigskin case. Inside the case there were three silver flasks and half a dozen silver tumblers. ‘Come on, you lucky lads, it’s on the house. If you’re T.T you can add some water.’

  Cranleigh came across. ‘I’ll take a brandy, Joe, neat. It’s not all that warm standing around, even with my waistcoat on.’

  Abbotts had already noticed the waistcoat, but had deliberately not remarked on it. It was brightly coloured and did not seem to complement the suit, but if Cranleigh wore the combination it would only be because he had discovered it was ‘right’ to wear it. Abbotts decided to have a word with his London tailor on the subject.

  Rafferty and Wade joined them at the car and each man chose brandy. Abbotts raised his silver tumbler. ‘Here’s cheers, dears. I reckon you’ll find it’s not a bad vino. I told my wine merchant I wanted nothing but the best.’

  ‘A man of taste,’ said Wade.

  Abbotts shrugged his shoulders. Wade never missed the chance to make some dirty, snide remark. Anyway, he was hardly in any position to talk since the last trump would sound before he ever offered even cooking brandy. It hurt Wade to spend as much as a halfpenny.

  A Morris 1000 Traveller came round the drive and parked behind the Chevrolet. In comparison with the other four cars it looked almost like a toy. A heavily-built, but not fat, man stepped out. He was dressed in a shooting-suit that had seen a great deal of wear and both elbows of the coat were leather patched. ‘’Morning, everyone,’ he called out. ‘Good day for the high birds.’ He turned and climbed the three stone steps up to the porch, built with four pillars in the traditional English Renaissance style.

  The four men by the car watched the newcomer open the front door and go into the house.

  ‘They’ve not once asked us inside,’ said Cranleigh, rather plaintively.

  ‘You’re not saying you really expect an invitation?’ queried Wade.

  ‘Well, it’s our money that runs the shoot.’

  ‘You’d have to be stupid to think that’s a good reason to get you inside.’

  Rafferty spoke belligerently. ‘Well, isn’t it?’

  ‘If you don’t understand, no explanation of mine’ll help.’

  ‘Are you setting yourself up as an authority?’

  ‘I possess my native wits.’

  ‘So does everyone else.’

  ‘Then everyone else will know why they’re never going to be invited inside.’

  ‘Just have a think on this one, Mr Bloody Expert. It won’t be long before I’m in there.’

  ‘You flatter to deceive yourself.’

  ‘I’m telling you, me and the missus are going to be invited.’

  ‘Why get so het-up about the ridiculously impossible?’

  ‘Impossible nothing.
If you’re so certain, have a bet on it.’

  ‘I’m far too honest to bet on certainties.’

  ‘More likely scared of losing.’

  Rafferty and Wade stared at each other with a hatred neither man made any effort to hide.

  Cranleigh spoke again, more plaintively than before. ‘It’s not as though we don’t know how to behave.’

  Wade chuckled.

  Inside the house the newcomer, Henry Decker, crossed the hall to the left and went into the gun-room. His cousin, Julian Decker, was cleaning out any traces of oil from the barrels of two guns. ‘‘Morning, Julian. It’s just about perfect conditions, isn’t it?’

  ‘Hallo, Henry. I had a word with Adams earlier on and he promised the birds would come over King’s Beat like bullets.’

  ‘Has he managed to hold the birds this season? With all the fine weather in September and October, most estates have lost a hell of a lot from straying.’

  ‘He’s done damned well, but you wouldn’t think so to listen to him. Still, he’s a lot around and knows it because he’s gone as far as to suggest a bag of three hundred today.’

  ‘Has he, by God! I’m going to need all the cartridges I’ve brought along.’

  ‘There’ll be plenty in reserve. The four Mustavabeers always bring enough for the whole season.’ Julian smiled. ‘Maybe they’ve got shares in the cartridge manufacturers.’ He was a tall man and lean, with the hard leanness of someone who carried out a considerable amount of manual exercise. His face was the typical long narrow Decker face. ‘Are all four of them here yet?’

  ‘They’re outside, swigging liquor. Damned if I couldn’t have done with something strong, but never an offer from them. I must say that instead of parking my battered car behind their posh ones I thought I ought to go round to the tradesmen’s entrance.’

  The door opened and a man in a wheelchair came into the gun-room.

  ‘’Morning, Fawcett,’ said Henry Decker. ‘How’s life?’

  ‘Not so bad, Henry, all things considered. At least I can still shoot.’ Fawcett, the elder son, had been physically normal until he was five years old and then he had contracted Mail’s Disease, a progressive atrophying of muscles in the back and thighs. By seven he was permanently confined to a wheel-chair and the doctors said he could not live to be twenty. When he was twenty, the doctors said there was no hope of his living to be twenty-five. When he was thirty, the doctors finally admitted that they could offer no prognosis.

  Julian lifted up the gun, broken, so that he could look down the barrels. ‘Not a speck of oil left. It’s all ready for you, Fawcett.’ He went round the table and handed the gun to his brother.

  Fawcett closed the gun and then raised it to his shoulder several times, taking the far light as his point of aim. He had very broad shoulders and large hands, as if to compensate for the pitiful weakness of the lower half of his body. ‘How many cartridges are we going to need, Julian?’

  ‘I’ll shove a hundred in the bag for you. You won’t need more than that for the first three beats unless Adams has been lying more than usual about the number of birds.’

  ‘Adams is a first-class keeper with the sense to realise that the boss always expects more than he’s told to.’ Fawcett slid his gun into the leather case strapped to the side of the wheel-chair. ‘We’d better be moving. You know what a martinet Adams is for starting on time.’ He led the way out of the room, manoeuvring the chair with skilful ease. Henry Decker followed and Julian brought up the rear, two empty cartridge bags over his left shoulder, a case of 400 cartridges under his arm, his gun, broken, over the crook of his other arm, and a cartridge belt round his waist.

  Two women entered the hall. Lydia Decker, the mother of Fawcett and Julian, was a woman of sixty-five. With her was Barbara Harmsworth, Julian’s fiancée, dressed in sweater and slacks.

  ‘Good morning, Henry,’ said Lydia. ‘It’s so nice to see you as I wasn’t expecting to. It was only at breakfast this morning that I asked Julian how you were.’

  Fawcett spoke impatiently. ‘We told you half a dozen times that Henry was coming out today.’

  ‘Did you, dear? Never mind, it’s very nice to see him. Henry, you’ve put on weight and need to take more exercise. During most of my marriage, we went riding every day for at least half an hour before breakfast and I’m sure that’s why neither of us ever put on fat. I was reading in a magazine only yesterday…’

  ‘You’ll have to tell him some other time, Mother,’ interrupted Julian. ‘We’re due to get moving. I promised Adams we’d be at the duck-stand by a quarter to ten at the very latest.’

  ‘Are you staying to supper, Henry?’ she asked.

  ‘Thanks very much, but I must get home. Clara isn’t too well just at the moment.’

  ‘She must stop fussing about her health, Henry. Almost all illness comes from fussing. Bring her to dinner and I’ll ask the Bellfonts and…’

  ‘Some other time, Mother,’ said Julian and led the way out of the house.

  Barbara smiled at Lydia. ‘You’ll never get any sense out of them if they think they’re holding up Adams. Are you coming out today?’

  ‘I don’t think I will. With everyone out of the way, I’ll have a chance to get on with some work.’

  Barbara was about to suggest she should forget all the work for once, but stopped herself. If Lydia Decker slaved in the house it was because she wanted to. True to the Decker traditions, the house had become a monument for her, perhaps even an idol that needed constant idolising. Hurstley Place was the Deckers: it was difficult, even impossible, to imagine one without the other.

  Barbara put on thornproof coat and leggings and went round to the kennels to collect Toby, her G.S.P dog which she used for picking-up.

  *

  Adams, head keeper, shouted at the line of beaters to halt and cursed them for a shower of ignorant pikies. ‘Keep in a straight line and keep them sticks tapping or the birds’ll go back.’

  ‘There ain’t no birds to go anywhere,’ said the beater next to Adams. ‘They’ve all been poached.’

  Adams cursed the beater. On shooting days, he worried himself almost into his grave. The old hands knew this and took great delight in adding to his worries. He cursed again. It was all right for them to laugh and not worry if only a handful of birds went over the guns, but the entire responsibility for the success of the shoot was his. ‘Get moving,’ he shouted. ‘And keep them sticks tapping.’

  The line of thirty-five beaters moved forward. Adams called his Labrador back as it tried to work too far forward. He slashed a patch of brambles with his stick and a hen pheasant erupted out of them, struck the branches of a tree with beating wings, cleared the trees and then swung left. Adams violently waved his hands to try to turn the bird back, but without any success. He swore. If all the birds turned too soon with the wind, none would cross the guns. Yet this should be the best beat of the day.

  One of the grammar school boys went forward, out of line, to chase a squirrel which had scurried along the ground and into a rabbit hole. Adams roughly ordered him back into the line. It wasn’t like the old days, he angrily told himself as he slowly moved forward in a zig-zag, beating the undergrowth and tapping the trees. In the old days, men were only too glad to be beaters and they worked at the job, without talking or smoking, or jeering at the head keeper: nowadays, twenty-five shillings and a pint of beer weren’t enough to bring in the men and numbers had to be made up from schoolkids who didn’t, or wouldn’t, understand and learn the skills of beating. Put a boy out as a stop and in five minutes he became so bored that he moved on and all the birds escaped.

  There was a flurry of gunfire which quickly died away. Adams looked as far along the line of beaters as he could see. What had caused that flush of birds? Was Jim, the under-keeper, doing his job at the other end of the line? Jim was always looking for an excuse to down-tools and have a smoke, saying these were the days of less work for more cash and what the hell was the use of killing onesel
f for the wealthy bastards who went shooting. It wasn’t any good being a keeper if one thought like that. Keepers worked all day and all night, if necessary, because that was the only way of doing a good job.

  Adams ploughed through a thick patch of brambles which scraped along his thorn-proof leggings and caught at the feet of his boots. A melanistic cock pheasant, with a glorious green sheen, ran out of the far side of the brambles and away towards the rhododendrons, which was in the right direction. The Labrador looked eagerly at the running bird, but did not chase.

  The beaters reached the rhododendron bushes. Soon, the main flushes of birds would begin as the vanguard came up against the flushing fence: soon, Adams would be able to judge from the intensity of gunfire how many birds were going over the guns. There should be a good showing, but at the back of every honest keeper’s mind was always the fear that the night before a shoot the commercial poachers had been into the coverts or that a plague of foxes had suddenly materialised.

  He pushed his way between two rhododendron bushes. Ahead of him were several pheasants, undecided what to do. He tapped one of the bushes and they ran ahead. His Labrador put up a rabbit, but again did not chase.

  The gunfire started, but his trained ears immediately picked out the fact that only the guns on the left were firing. He looked up at the sky to confirm what he already knew; the high wind was coming from the west and would be taking the birds with it. Numbers 4, 5, 6 and 7 guns would be getting almost all the shooting. Mr Julian had been number 5 at the last beat so he would be number 7 at this one. That was good. He’d bring the birds down. Mr Julian wasn’t the best shot in the country, but he was very, very useful. He could really take the high, curling birds. Today, he’d get all the high, curling birds he could want.

  There was a flush of birds from just ahead and Adams called the line to hold. The beaters came to a stop, tapping their sticks as they waited for the flush to finish. A woodcock side-slid between the trees, like some restless phantom. Some of the boys shouted, ‘’Cock, ’Cock right.’ Their excited shouts caused a second and premature flush of pheasants. Adams swore. Was nothing going to go right?