Country Lovers (22 page)

He asked both Mr. Jones and Megan if they could verify that.

Mr. Jones tapped his stick on the floor. “Richie, I don't quite know what you're getting at with that question, but I can tell you that Rhodri has never left the house, not for a second. If he had, he would have said so, when you asked him.”

The inspector smoothed his hands over his hair. “Do you own a gun, Rhodri?”

“No, never.”

“Mr. Jones?”

Megan's da shook his head. “I do not. I will not allow them in the house.”

“Megan?”

“Never, ever. I know nothing about guns.” The awful suspicion the inspector was inferring made her ask, “Tell us exactly what you mean when you ask us if we have guns and have we left the house?”

When the inspector answered he emphasized each word very deliberately. “Mr. Bridges says that if Gab had shot
himself
he would not have missed. He's very adamant about that. He would have done the job properly, he says, him being a crack shot.”

Mr. Jones was horrified. “It isn't an attempt at suicide, then? You're sure about that?”

“Not had time for forensics to come up with any firm evidence. Just making inquiries.”

“Where was he found?”

“Well, Mr. Jones, he was found in one of the Bridges's barns with the gun beside him. None of them had any idea he'd been in the house, that he'd got his gun out of their special reinforced gun cupboard, gone out to the barn, and used it. The first they knew was when they heard the shot. They went out and found him. Stunned, they are.”

Megan broke down in tears. She kept repeating, “All because of me.” Time and again.

Then her da spoke with more vigor and conviction than he had for a long time. “Get Megan a brandy, Rhodri, please. Megan, you're not to blame. He knew full well that you and Rhodri were…well, together and wanting to marry. It most certainly wasn't your fault, because you never gave him any encouragement. Now, pull yourself together and drink that brandy. Go on. I want to hear no more of you being to blame. You're not. Now inspector, we've told you all we can; may we be left to ourselves?”

It was a polite way of putting it, and the inspector could find no more reasons for staying so he'd agreed he would leave. “It may turn out that the evidence proves he tried to commit suicide, in which case I shall trouble you no more. Mr. Bridges was so certain, you see, that he wouldn't do any such thing. Not Gab. Don't fret yourself, Megan. All may turn out better than we think. I'll be in touch.” Then the inspector had left the house.

Later, Megan flung herself over in bed and tried to sleep, but all the time, racing through her head, were the events of the evening and they wouldn't go away. She'd had no idea that Gab was so intense about his feelings for her. No idea at all. Well, perhaps that was not strictly true, because she'd felt a response to his advances more than once, which she'd hurriedly squashed, knowing he wasn't right for her, but for this to happen…She went downstairs to make herself a drink, only to find the kitchen light on and her da boiling a kettle.

“Da! Why didn't you shout for me? I would have come down and made you a drink. You know that.”

Mr. Jones put an arm around her shoulders. “I'm not entirely useless, my dear, not quite anyway. You've been through enough tonight; I can't ask any more of you. I'm making the tea, is that all right?”

“Yes, but I can do it.” She tried to intervene, but he would have none of it, so they sat in the kitchen drinking the first cup of tea he'd made in years. “I shan't make a nuisance of myself when Rhodri comes to live here; I'm making plans.”

Megan reached across the table and touched his hand. “There's no need to make any plans. We'll be all right. Believe me.”

“But I am. You and Rhodri deserve me making plans. You don't need an old chap like me on the scene all the time. We all need privacy and I shall see that the two of you, and I, have it.”

“Thank you, Da, I do love him, really, really love him, you know, and he loves me. So very much. We're going to be very happy. Living here was his idea, not mine. He's always fancied us being together at his house, you see, but…anyway…”

“I appreciate him thinking of me, and in return I've to do my best for both of you because I want you to be happy.”

Megan had stood up, put an arm around his shoulders, and squeezed him tight. “Gab saying we'd never be happy—he's wrong, isn't he?”

“The man was out of his mind when he said that. Take no notice of him. I'm determined you'll be happy. Somehow I just needed Rhodri to take that one step forward to make me see daylight. I'm sorry I've been so unthoughtful, cruel almost—”

“No, Da, never cruel.”

Rather sharply Mr. Jones replied, “Don't tell me what I am. I know I've been cruel. Now drink up and then to bed, and we'll see about Gab in the morning. You and I, we'll go together and sort things out.”

         

T
HE
following morning Rhodri had a long string of appointments, and he couldn't let his clients down, so he arrived at the practice early and was waiting to start his day. After the night he'd had, he was in no mood for tender loving care for anyone but Megan.

He'd buried poor Harry when he'd got home from Megan's: in his garden, in the dark, with his sitting-room window open and his CD player blaring out Jeremiah Clarke's
Trumpet Voluntary.
It seemed appropriate for such a time. He'd stood for a moment, silent and introspective, brooding on the day he'd had, a day of unbelievable contrasts. The road-accident dog he couldn't save, Dan turning his mind around so completely about living at the farm, proposing to Megan and her absolute joy when she saw the ring he'd bought her. Then the pleasure of Mr. Jones's acceptance of him, though it was his due after all, and then the horror of Gab and the possibility in Richie Jamieson's mind that he, Rhodri Hughes, the epitomy of stern moral values, might have tried to
kill Gab.
It made him shudder when he thought about Gab's desperation. He felt he kind of owed Gab something; he'd be creative about that tomorrow, because Gab wouldn't actually die if it wasn't as serious as first thought. No, Gab was tough, he'd survive.

Rhodri looked down at the fresh mound of earth covering Harry. Poor Harry Ferret—no more walks, no more unraveling of the loo roll, no more finding him hidden fast asleep under a cushion. No more Harry burying his busy nose and whiskers in his sweater. Poor Harry. He'd miss him. The final flourish of the trumpet ended. Rhodri had cleaned off his spade, shaken his Wellingtons off on the back doormat, propped the spade against the wall, and gone in to bed and sleep.

So here he was about to begin another day, his first as a betrothed man, engaged to be married to the light of his life. For a moment he indulged himself by thinking about breakfast in the kitchen with Megan each morning before he left for work and how that would set him up for the day, and he smiled to himself.

Goliath Costello was the first client on his list. He opened his consulting room door and called out, “Good morning, everyone, Goliath Costello, please.”

Miranda leaped from her chair and dashed in with Goliath. “Have you heard about the eldest of the Bridges? Been shot he has, according to the police, in one of their own barns. Honestly, who'd do a thing like that? A lovely young chap like him?”

“I did hear. Booster for Goliath, is that right?”

“Yes. Can never remember which one is which of those boys, they're all so alike. Ben, Gab, Gideon, Simeon, Joe and…what's the other one, all out of the Bible, I know! Elijah, no, that's not right. I know: Joshua. Poor chap. Never done no harm to anyone, Gab hasn't, but to shoot him in his own barn! I ask you.”

“There, that's Goliath sorted for another year. How's his behavior—is he still messing all over the place?”

Miranda looked up at him, eyebrows raised. “What?”

“I said has he stopped messing all over the place?”

“Goliath? Oh yes. I realized you were quite right when you said he was top dog, so after that, when he did it, I started picking him up by his scruff and growling at him and shaking him, like his mother would have done, and chucking him out the door and completely ignoring him—and it worked. So they say the police are hot on the trail. I mean why would one of the Bridges boys want to kill
himself.
I've just had a thought. Was it over that Jones girl? You know her, don't you? From Beulah Bank Farm? Lovely looking girl. Have you heard any more news? Is he still holding his own?”

“I don't know.” Rhodri, completing the data on the computer for Goliath, wished she wouldn't go on about it. “That's it, then. Be seeing you, Miranda.”

“I reckon it's a
crime passionnel.
That's what. I reckon some boy got jealous of him, followed him home, and shot him. With his own gun, though; that's a bit much, isn't it? They could at least have used their own.” Miranda looked at Rhodri for some response, and realizing she wasn't going to get any, finally decided to go. “I'm off then. 'Bye!”

His next client, surprisingly, was Mr. Featherstonehough, and in his hand a brand-new cat basket. “'Spect you're surprised to see me?”

“I am. But it's very pleasant. Who's this?”

“This is Cleo. About six months old she is, I think, and I've come to have her checked over and to see about having her spayed—that's if she needs it. I don't know, you see.” He lifted her out of the basket and placed her on the table. “Now, isn't she beautiful? My late wife's name was Cleo, so I've called her after her, seeing as she'd always wanted a cat and couldn't have one.”

Rhodri admired Cleo. She had the most unusual deep amber, slightly slanted eyes set in a pointy, elegant face, and her fur was the color of milky coffee. She pranced about the examination table in a most delightfully giddy manner. “My word, but she's a very pretty cat. A bit of the oriental about her in her face. Where did she come from?”

“Found her under a bush in my garden, sheltering from the rain, lost and alone; I fed her a couple of days, advertised I'd found her, but no one came forward so I took her in. She's a bundle of love she is.” He kissed the top of her head and looked at Rhodri slightly shamefaced and embarrassed.

“Can't see any sign that she's been spayed, but she does seem very young to me. I shouldn't guess her to be more than eight months.”

“I don't want no toms after her and all that business.” Mr. Featherstonehough placed Cleo back in her basket. “I miss him, you know. Adolf, I mean, the great beast of a dog that he was. I can't quite forget him, you know. Still listen for his claws on the kitchen floor, or I think I can hear him scratching the door to come in. It's hard, but she's beginning to fill the gap.” He patted the basket.

“It's bound to be hard. I mean, you had him for almost twelve years; that's a long time in anyone's life.”

Mr. Featherstonehough rapidly changed the subject. “Talking of life, have you heard about Gab Bridges? Terrible, isn't it? They say he's blown half his face away. Have you heard that?”

“I understand things are not quite as bad as first thought. They say he's been very lucky, and they've every hope—”

“Can't understand why he did it.”

Rhodri answered as noncommitedly as he could. “Love life gone to pieces, I understand.”

“Ah! Well, poor chap. See you Tuesday.”

And so it went on, client after client, all with their own theories as to what might have happened, the stories increasing in intensity and wild supposition as the day progressed. Even Alan Tucker, newcomer though he was, had theories to air when he came in for Bingo to have his foot looked at.

“Thought we'd come to the country for a quiet life and what do we find? A near murder within weeks. Are they clients of yours? I expect they must be, them being farmers. 'Course that's the trouble, isn't it, farmers with guns all too easily available. It's his front left foot; it's swelling up and he's limping. They say the Bridges boy's close to death. Poor chap, at his age. What an ending. I did hear they thought he'd interrupted some poachers and they'd shot him. They say he shot at them first but missed. Blood! Never seen the like—you could have taken a bath in it, they say. It's a what?”

“A thorn or a needle gone right into his foot between the pads here. Look, it's gone in slanting and very deep. He's very sensitive about it. Must be painful.” Rhodri crouched on the floor and held Bingo's foot so Mr. Tucker could see. “See, I think I can get it out with tweezers. Will he be all right, do you think?”

Mr. Tucker, uncomfortably reminded of the incident in the waiting room with the cat Muffin, agreed he would. “He's settled down now in the new house. No problem. That cat! God that was embarrassing.”

“Hold him tight with his head well away from me. That's it.” Rhodri gripped hold of the end of whatever it was and pulled. Bingo stood for him as though carved from stone.

It was a sewing-machine needle Rhodri finally extracted from his pad. “There we are. You're a good patient, Bingo. Very good. Don't walk him on muddy ground for a day or two—help prevent infection, see. If he's still limping badly two days from now, bring him in and I'll take another look. It should be OK, though, but you never know.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hughes. Thank you. You don't know anything about this Bridges boy then?”

“I know he isn't going to die, that's a fact, and you can tell anyone you meet the bullet didn't go into his brain. Skimmed it by a millimeter. Good morning, Mr. Tucker.” Rhodri patted Bingo on the head. “You're a good dog, Bingo, nice to know.” Bingo looked up at him, his fine dark eyes viewing Rhodri benignly. “I'll give him an antibiotic to fight any infection. Right? Bit of Rhodesian Ridgeback in him, is there?”