Let's Kill Uncle Read online

  ‘The Duke of Wellington, but everyone calls him the Iron Duke.’

  ‘He’s big, isn’t he?’

  Agnes Duncan nodded and smiled, then turned to look at the bull. The smile faded from her face. With the possible exception of her father, she hated the bull more than anything in the world.

  ‘Would he hurt somebody if he got off that chain?’ asked Christie.

  Agnes looked over her shoulder, to her father, who was still painting the barn. She turned and leaned toward the children.

  ‘Mark my words,’ she whispered, ‘mark my words, that bull will turn on him someday. He’s vicious!’

  ‘Agnes!’ roared her father from the barn, ‘get back to your plowing.’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ she called meekly. She nodded to the children and returned to the Clydesdales and the plow. Following the furrow, she looked longingly over her shoulder at the two children.

  If he had not driven her only suitor, Per Nielsen, away, she might have two flaxen-haired children like that.

  The big easygoing farm horses suddenly snorted and tossed their heads. Agnes spoke to them and they plodded on obediently, but their eyes rolled and their nostrils quivered.

  Unlike Agnes, they were aware that a pair of eyes, the colour of grass under ice, were watching from a clump of bushes only ten feet away.

  One-ear, the outlaw, was crouching in the undergrowth. He slavered and licked his chops as he looked past Agnes to the bull. He had killed a cow once and he very much preferred beef to venison, but he knew that unless he killed in his first spring, the bull would put up a savage fight. And furthermore, the crosseted Iron Duke was watched over as if he were a visiting diplomat.

  One-ear sighed. There was already a price on his head; they had an unwritten law that cougars, hungry or otherwise, guilty or not, were fair game.

  He lay like a huge house cat, his cool green eyes resting balefully on the quiet rural scene before him. Two children. He hadn’t seen any on the Island before.

  The Clydesdales began to tremble in real alarm, so, slinking on his belly, One-ear crawled deeper into the bushes until he came to a game path that led to the forest.

  He flung himself down in his shady nook, a sob-like cough escaping him, and self-pity dimmed his frosted mint eyes as he brooded on his terrible history.

  Wherever he went, persecuted. He placed his big head on his outstretched paws and blinked.

  An old scar, as large as a man’s fist, was just above the joint of his massive shoulder. People. They had done that. Next to dogs, he hated people more than anything in the world. Rotten to the core, all of them! Did cougars go after men with guns and dogs? Did forty cougars tree a man, wound him, and tear him to bits if they could?

  He had committed the unpardonable crime and they had hunted him for four days, no food, no water and on the run. They trapped him up a tree on the edge of a ravine, and the dogs were waiting at the foot of the tree, barking, barking, barking.

  His eyes became stony as he mused. After they had shot him, he fell a hundred feet into the ravine, on branches and rocks. Over and over he tumbled. The ravine was so steep that even the dogs could not climb down, and thinking they had finished him, they left him.

  For three days he lay there, and if it had not been for a trickle of water near him, he would have died. He’d broken most of the ribs on his left side, and of course, he’d been shot as well. How he had suffered, every breath a torment. And then he got that awful cold in his lungs. It was, he reflected, a miracle that he had survived. On the fourth day he had managed to crawl out, but he could not hunt. After two weeks he was a hundred pounds lighter and every bone in his pain-ridden body could be counted. Even now, his ribs ached when it was damp.

  It had been in January, with two feet of snow on the ground, and he had been dying of hunger. He hadn’t eaten in three weeks.

  There was a logging camp near by, so he went there at night, to the cookhouse, to see if there were any scraps about. Something hot and steaming was hanging on the porch rail, and, starving, he gulped it down. It was a dishcloth. A wet dishcloth.

  When the cook came out carrying a shotgun, One-ear was so weak the cook nearly outran him. The cook shot off his ear.

  He stretched his right front foot before him. From that huge velvet paw sprang talons, two inches long and as sharp as razors. One was missing, caught in one of their traps. He’d had to bite it off at the root to free himself.

  A piteous life, he thought moodily, blameless and piteous. Indignation choked him as he rose from his forest bower and lashed his long, black-tipped tail. Like an enchanted beast, he sprang into the bushes, looking for a nice plump deer.

  LADY SYDDYNS left a message at the store for Sergeant Coulter to call at her home at his earliest convenience.

  He found her in her storybook garden, where the scent of dianthus hung heavy and roses ruled. Though the air was languid with the pulse of bees, a hummingbird darted about in rapier haste, fearful of missing one blossom.

  Surrounded by nymphs and plaster gnomes, Lady Syddyns was pruning her prize bushes. She took off her floppy-brimmed leghorn hat and switched on her hearing aid when she saw Sergeant Coulter approach.

  ‘Albert, how nice to see you. My, it’s warm today. You must stop for tea. How is your father, dear?’

  Albert smiled.

  ‘He passed away some time ago, Lady Syddyns. You wanted to see me?’

  ‘Why, Albert, I’m always happy to see you.’

  She handed him her pruning shears and began brushing leaves from the faded velvet dressing gown that was her usual gardening costume.

  ‘Where’s my cane, dear?’

  Seeing it hooked over the extended arm of a marble maiden, Albert handed it to her.

  ‘My Bertha Alexanders are riddled, completely riddled. They won’t win this year.’

  She had not summoned him to discuss insects.

  ‘You left a message at the store?’ Albert repeated.

  ‘Did I? Oh, so I did, so I did. It’s my greenhouse, dear.’

  She pointed with her cane.

  ‘Two little children came into the garden yesterday. I didn’t know there were any children on the Island, Albert. To whom do they belong? One had a catapult. My, my, they are high-spirited.’

  Sixteen shattered panes of the greenhouse bore mute testimony to the nature of their spirits. Master Gaunt, Albert deduced, had recently passed by.

  He sighed as he took out his notebook.

  ‘I’ll look after this.’ He had a protective, proprietary feeling for his old Islanders, and Lady Syddyns was his favourite.

  ‘I knew you would, dear.’ She clicked off her hearing aid, smiled courteously, and went back to her pruning.

  When he reached the gate, she called him.

  ‘Oh, you mustn’t go without one of my Star of Hollands. Such a year for aphides, but fortunately these have come through unscathed.’

  Unconcerned with R.C.M.P. regulations, she pushed the rose through the button-hole of his tunic.

  What a delightful old oddity she was, thought Albert, and he waited until he was around the bend of the road before removing the rose. He sniffed it wearily as he made his way home.

  The old Sergeant-Major’s cottage stood only a stone’s throw from the high-tide line, with a short, overgrown path leading from the log-strewn beach almost directly to its door.

  Grey shingles, weathered by the salt winds gave the two-roomed cottage a shabby air that was partly relieved by a scarlet trumpet honeysuckle vine.

  Despite its worn appearance, the house was soundly built, for the old Sergeant-Major had raised it with his own hands, and like his son, he had been thorough.

  It was a house with a face: two windows with the door between gave it the appearance of a pair of unblinking eyes separated by a nose. A dull, plain face and the only frivolous aspect of the whole scene was the gay honeysuckle, which held the little cottage in an embrace of jaunty green tendrils. Albert’s mother had planted it when she ca
me to the Island as a bride, and Albert watered it, pruned it, fed it and tied it with a secret tenderness.

  Albert retired early, and at seven the next morning, his day off, he was awakened by a heavy pounding on the door. Still in his pyjamas, he opened it to find Mr Duncan.

  Sergeant Coulter gazed at him in alarm, for, with his ginger handlebar moustaches quivering and his fists clenching and unclenching, the old man looked like a Viking berserker.

  ‘Come with me!’ he roared.

  ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ asked Albert, throwing on his clothes.

  Mr Duncan only sputtered and cursed, so Albert followed him silently. The old man sprinted with such agility that Albert, for all his youth, was breathless by the time they reached Mr Duncan’s farm.

  Pointing a finger at the Iron Duke, the old man wheeled on Albert.

  ‘What are you going to do about this?’

  Sergeant Coulter looked, closed his eyes and looked again. No, it was not some hitherto unknown bovine disorder.

  The Iron Duke’s sacred coat was covered with heliotrope-blue polka dots, the identical colour of Mr Duncan’s barn.

  ‘Well?’ bellowed Mr Duncan, ‘you know who did it, don’t you?’

  Sergeant Coulter’s imagination did not have far to soar.

  ‘I’ll go down to the store immediately,’ he said. He sighed. ‘Where was the paint? Did you leave it outside?’

  Mr Duncan pointed. The brush and paint were beside the barn door.

  Sergeant Coulter walked over and looked in the doorway. Inside, Agnes Duncan was convulsed in happy, hysterical giggles.

  ‘Isn’t it the funniest thing you ever saw?’ she gasped.

  Albert wanted at least to smile, but he was too awed by the old man. He jerked his head warningly in the direction of her father. Agnes nodded, and still giggling, fled to the house.

  Sergeant Coulter walked back to her father.

  ‘I’ll look after it, Mr Duncan. I’ll call in later.’

  Under interrogation, Barnaby denied knowledge of either the broken windows or the sullied Iron Duke.

  ‘I see,’ said Sergeant Coulter. ‘Perhaps your little friend knows. I stopped in at Mrs Nielsen’s on my way here, but there was no one home.’

  ‘She’s out, they’re delivering the bread,’ said Barnaby.

  ‘I see. Well, I’ll speak to her later. You run along now, I want to speak to Mr and Mrs Brooks.’

  Barnaby got as far as the door, stopped and turned.

  ‘Changed your mind?’ said Sergeant Coulter. ‘Care to tell me what you know?’

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ said Barnaby. And then, with an insolent grin, ‘You wouldn’t want me to say I did it, if I didn’t, would you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t like you to tell a lie, Barnaby.’ Sergeant Coulter leaned against the counter and lit a cigarette. ‘Still, you should know that Lady Syddyns saw you breaking the windows.’

  ‘Maybe she’s a liar.’

  ‘Maybe. And,’ Sergeant Coulter blew a smoke ring and gazed at it meditatively, ‘and maybe there is blue paint on your hands.’

  Barnaby raised his hands, stared and ran from the store.

  When Sergeant Coulter rang the bell on the counter Mr Brooks, looking more than ever like Alice’s rabbit, poked his white head through the beaded curtains.

  ‘I’d like a few words with you please. It’s about Barnaby.’

  Mrs Brooks joined them.

  ‘We couldn’t help overhearing your conversation, Sergeant. I am sure there is some logical explanation. Barnaby is not a bad boy, please believe us when we say we know.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Sergeant Coulter stared at his boots. ‘But, nevertheless he does these things.’ He paused and gazed at the end of his cigarette. ‘I think perhaps the best thing to do would be for us to hold a little meeting, and discuss Barnaby. You, Mrs Nielsen, Mr Duncan, Lady Syddyns. I’ll see if maybe I can get Mr Rice-Hope to come over, perhaps he’ll have some advice.’

  The Brookses nodded meekly. Sergeant Coulter, in his official capacity, terrified them.

  ‘Would this afternoon be all right?’

  They nodded again.

  ‘Very well. Two-thirty?’ He touched the brim of his hat and left them.

  At two-thirty that afternoon, they were all gathered at the store. Crime was unknown on the Island and the case of the Crown vs. Barnaby was an important incident in their lives. Even Mr Rice-Hope, the minister from the neighbouring island of Benares, made a special trip.

  Mrs Nielsen volunteered the information that Christie had been present on both occasions. She offered to pay half the cost of the glass for the greenhouse, since she was being paid for Christie’s board and the child was a small eater. She also suggested that Mr Duncan try paint remover on the Iron Duke.

  Mr and Mrs Brooks, more disturbed by the stigma of the law than the amount of money involved, were only too glad to pay for the other half of the glass.

  Mr Duncan, moustaches still bristling at the outrage suffered by the Iron Duke, had no comments to make except that he did not wish to find Barnaby on his property again. Then, mumbling darkly that certain persons were born to be hanged, he jammed his hat on his head and stalked out.

  ‘Really!’ Mrs Brooks reached for her digitalis. ‘Really! I never would have expected Mr Duncan to take such an attitude. Why, that bull is dangerous and the child might have been killed. Sydney, did you notice he was only concerned with the bull? He didn’t even mention the danger to Barnaby. That bull should be kept in a barn away from children.’

  Sergeant Coulter stared down at her in disbelief. Not a word of censure to Barnaby for his actions. Merely worried that the little bastard was endangering his precious life.

  ‘Now look here,’ he said, ‘I’m not satisfied about this yet. That boy is going to stay off Mr Duncan’s property. And furthermore, it’s all very well to offer to pay for the glass to replace Lady Syddyns’s greenhouse, but someone has to install it.’

  Mr Rice-Hope, the peacemaker, broke in.

  ‘Sergeant, I will be only too happy to install the glass.’ He paused. ‘It has occurred to me, Sergeant, that perhaps the root of the little fellow’s trouble lies in the fact that he is separated from his uncle. Mrs Rice-Hope said the same thing this morning. Children usually have a reason for being naughty, and I think Barnaby is lonely and misses his uncle.’

  ‘No doubt,’ replied Sergeant Coulter drily, ‘but as a policeman, Mr Rice-Hope, my duty lies in protecting the possessions and property of the people of this island. Whether he is lonely or not is quite beside the point. He has to learn, and he will learn, that he can’t get away with this.’

  Mr Rice-Hope, the gentle result of five generations of clergymen, privately thought Sergeant Coulter was being rather harsh about the whole affair. Obviously the boy needed love, not discipline. Had not Gwynneth said so that very morning?

  ‘I was wondering,’ he ventured, ‘if I should write a letter to his uncle, not complaining about the boy, mind you, but merely explaining the circumstances. I think we should ask his advice and inquire when he will be here. He really should be kept informed about Barnaby.’

  All agreed, and when the meeting broke up, Sergeant Coulter stood at the counter thinking. The boy seemed to enjoy giving a bad impression of himself. A means of getting attention, no doubt. Sergeant Coulter shrugged to himself. Maybe Barnaby did miss his uncle.

  He saw the boy playing with a few marbles at the base of the war monument. As he approached from one side, Gwynneth Rice-Hope came from the other.

  ‘My dear!’ she cried, ‘there you are!’

  Sergeant Coulter blanched and secret gales lashed the rocky pinnacles of his heart.

  But Gwynneth Rice-Hope’s overflowing Christian love was directed to the boy at the foot of the monument.

  Barnaby listlessly continued playing with the marbles.

  Since he was not going to rise for her, she would kneel for him. Handling children was basically praise and love
, praise and love.

  ‘My,’ she said as she sat beside him, ‘that looks like fun.’

  Barnaby eyed her without interest.

  She glanced up, saw Sergeant Coulter, smiled and turned back to the boy.

  ‘You’re a really good marble player, aren’t you, Barnaby?’

  ‘No,’ said Barnaby.

  She was not discouraged.

  ‘I’ve just been talking to Mr Rice-Hope, dear. He’s going to write a nice letter to your uncle.’

  The boy’s manner changed. He watched her like an alert animal.

  ‘Why, there’s nothing to worry about, Barnaby. He’s going to tell your uncle what a very, very good little boy you are, and how much everybody here loves you.’

  Without warning, the boy sprang to his feet, almost exploding with rage.

  ‘You - you - you stupid bitch!’

  He kicked the marbles aside and ran away.

  The policeman’s face darkened. In a split second the disciplined Sergeant Coulter vanished and a very righteous Albert took his place. No one was going to talk to her that way.

  He ran after Barnaby and Mrs Rice-Hope saw him collar the boy roughly. He shook him, and leaning down, spoke earnestly to him. The boy gazed up, nodded and walked slowly back to Mrs Rice-Hope with Albert at his heels.

  He stood before her, staring at his running shoes. Finally he raised his eyes and said: ‘I’m sorry I said that. I shouldn’t have. I won’t say it again.’

  Mrs Rice-Hope tried to clasp him to her to reassure him of her never-failing affection, but he backed away.

  ‘You’re a very brave little boy to apologise,’ she said.

  Barnaby looked at her with surprise.

  ‘Oh, that’s okay,’ he said with his sudden cheerful smile, ‘Sergeant Coulter said he’d break every bone in my body if I didn’t.’

  With a startled glance at Albert, Mrs Rice-Hope left. When she reached the mission boat at the dock, she turned and gave a long look at the two who stood by the war monument.

  She was profoundly shocked. At big, brutal Sergeant Coulter.

  Sergeant Coulter, his expression sour, gazed down at Barnaby.

  ‘Well, my little friend, you finally told the truth.’