examined.
Maybe, she thought, it was the
dog. Maybe they recognize the late Henry Kettle's dog. Or maybe they'd never
before see a dog on the end of a thin, red, plastic-covered clothes-line that the
person on the other end was now wishing she hadn't adapted because, every time
the dog tugged at the makeshift lead, her right hand received what could turn
out to be third-degree burns.
'Arnold, for Christ's sake . .
.'
With Henry Kettle he'd appeared
ultra-docile, really laid back. Now he was like some loony puppy, pulling in
all directions, wanting to go nowhere, needing to go anywhere. And fast.
You had to make allowances. He
was disoriented. He'd had a bereavement. In fact, the worst thing that could
happen to a one-man dog had happened to Arnold. So allowances definitely were
called for. And one of the people who was going to have to make them was Canon
Alex Peters. In Fay's experience all this cat-and-dog incompatibility business
was grossly exaggerated. Even Rasputin would, in time, come around.
But another animal was another
root in Crybbe. And you don't want that,
Fay, you don't want any roots in Crybbe.
Bill Davies, the butcher, walked
past with fresh blood on his apron, and he stared at them.
Fay was fed up with this. She
stared back. Bill Davies looked away.
Maybe they were all afflicted
with this obsession about dogs fouling pavements. She'd have to buy one of
those poop-scoop things. On the other hand, did that kind of obsession really
seem like Crybbe, where apathy ruled?
'For God's sake, Arnie, make up
your mind.' They'd come to the square and he seemed to want to turn back. He
circled miserably around, dragging the clothes-line and winding it round the
legs of a woman bending over the tailgate of a Range Rover, shoving something
in the back.
'Oh hell, I'm really sorry. Look,
if you can stand still, I'll disentangle you. I'm very sorry.'
'No problem,' the woman said,
looking quite amused. She was the first person who hadn't stared at them, which
meant she must be from Off.
Of course she was - she was Max
Goff's PA, Ms Coolly Efficient.
'We're not used to each other,'
Fay explained, it's Henry Kettle's sheepdog, the poor chap who . . . I'm
looking after him.'
'Oh, yes.' Rachel Wade stepped
out of the loop of clothesline. 'You're from the radio.'
'We all have a living to make,'
Fay said and then, making the most of the encounter, 'Look, can I talk to you
some time? I'm being hassled by my boss to find out what's happening to the
Court.' That hurt, referring to Gavin Ashpole as a boss, which he wasn't and
was never going to be.
'Sure,' Rachel said, surprising
her.
'When?'
'Now if you like. We could go
over to the Court, Max is out seeing people.'
'Great.'
'Hop in then,' Rachel said. But
Arnold didn't want to. In the end Fay had to pick him up and dump him on the
back seat, where he flattened himself into the leather and panted and
trembled.
'Sorry about this.' Fay climbed
into the passenger seat. 'He's - not surprisingly - more than a bit paranoid.
He was in Henry's car when it . . . you know.'
'Oh dear, poor dog. I didn't
know about that.' Rachel started the engine, 'it's rather a mystery, isn't it.
About Mr Kettle. Do you think he'd been drinking?'
'I didn't know him very well. I
think a heart attack or stroke or something seems more likely, don't you?'
'He was a nice old man.' Rachel
swung the Range Rover off the square into the street that wriggled down past the
church, the graveyard on the right, a few cottages on the left. The street
narrowed and entered a wood, where the late afternoon sun was filtered away and
the colours faded almost to grey, 'I don't believe all that dowsing stuff. But
he was a nice old man.'
'Don't you? I thought . . .'
'Oh, Max does. Max believes it. Good God, yes. However, I don't get
Maybe, she thought, it was the
dog. Maybe they recognize the late Henry Kettle's dog. Or maybe they'd never
before see a dog on the end of a thin, red, plastic-covered clothes-line that the
person on the other end was now wishing she hadn't adapted because, every time
the dog tugged at the makeshift lead, her right hand received what could turn
out to be third-degree burns.
'Arnold, for Christ's sake . .
.'
With Henry Kettle he'd appeared
ultra-docile, really laid back. Now he was like some loony puppy, pulling in
all directions, wanting to go nowhere, needing to go anywhere. And fast.
You had to make allowances. He
was disoriented. He'd had a bereavement. In fact, the worst thing that could
happen to a one-man dog had happened to Arnold. So allowances definitely were
called for. And one of the people who was going to have to make them was Canon
Alex Peters. In Fay's experience all this cat-and-dog incompatibility business
was grossly exaggerated. Even Rasputin would, in time, come around.
But another animal was another
root in Crybbe. And you don't want that,
Fay, you don't want any roots in Crybbe.
Bill Davies, the butcher, walked
past with fresh blood on his apron, and he stared at them.
Fay was fed up with this. She
stared back. Bill Davies looked away.
Maybe they were all afflicted
with this obsession about dogs fouling pavements. She'd have to buy one of
those poop-scoop things. On the other hand, did that kind of obsession really
seem like Crybbe, where apathy ruled?
'For God's sake, Arnie, make up
your mind.' They'd come to the square and he seemed to want to turn back. He
circled miserably around, dragging the clothes-line and winding it round the
legs of a woman bending over the tailgate of a Range Rover, shoving something
in the back.
'Oh hell, I'm really sorry. Look,
if you can stand still, I'll disentangle you. I'm very sorry.'
'No problem,' the woman said,
looking quite amused. She was the first person who hadn't stared at them, which
meant she must be from Off.
Of course she was - she was Max
Goff's PA, Ms Coolly Efficient.
'We're not used to each other,'
Fay explained, it's Henry Kettle's sheepdog, the poor chap who . . . I'm
looking after him.'
'Oh, yes.' Rachel Wade stepped
out of the loop of clothesline. 'You're from the radio.'
'We all have a living to make,'
Fay said and then, making the most of the encounter, 'Look, can I talk to you
some time? I'm being hassled by my boss to find out what's happening to the
Court.' That hurt, referring to Gavin Ashpole as a boss, which he wasn't and
was never going to be.
'Sure,' Rachel said, surprising
her.
'When?'
'Now if you like. We could go
over to the Court, Max is out seeing people.'
'Great.'
'Hop in then,' Rachel said. But
Arnold didn't want to. In the end Fay had to pick him up and dump him on the
back seat, where he flattened himself into the leather and panted and
trembled.
'Sorry about this.' Fay climbed
into the passenger seat. 'He's - not surprisingly - more than a bit paranoid.
He was in Henry's car when it . . . you know.'
'Oh dear, poor dog. I didn't
know about that.' Rachel started the engine, 'it's rather a mystery, isn't it.
About Mr Kettle. Do you think he'd been drinking?'
'I didn't know him very well. I
think a heart attack or stroke or something seems more likely, don't you?'
'He was a nice old man.' Rachel
swung the Range Rover off the square into the street that wriggled down past the
church, the graveyard on the right, a few cottages on the left. The street
narrowed and entered a wood, where the late afternoon sun was filtered away and
the colours faded almost to grey, 'I don't believe all that dowsing stuff. But
he was a nice old man.'
'Don't you? I thought . . .'
'Oh, Max does. Max believes it. Good God, yes. However, I don't get
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