The dog had the bird now, and turned to swim back with it to his master. Every eye watched as the dog gained the bank, paused to shake off a spray of drops, then trotted up to drop the feather bundle at Marsh’s boots. The thing lay there, well stunned by my rock. This was too much for Darling; he shoved his gun at one of the loaders and stalked over to examine the bird. As did we all.
It was not just stunned, it was dead, without a mark on it but with its neck neatly snapped.
“Now, that’s a first for me,” Sir Victor said. “You boys ever seen anything like that?”
The two boys looked as stunned as the duck had. The adults did as well, until Iris, coming up behind me, took one look at the bemused duke with the dripping, limp-necked duck cradled in his hands, and began to chuckle. Soon the rest joined in, pressing forward to see what must be one of the odder kills a shoot has produced.
It was not, I noticed, strung up with the other birds on the game-cart, but was carefully set apart for the appreciation of the below-the-stairs residents of Justice. I sighed: The whole county would know of my feat by the end of church tomorrow. So much for Marsh’s proposed darts match.
We finally dispersed, most of the women towards the house, the rest of us heading to the next and no doubt final drive of the afternoon. Before we had left the bog ground, however, Bloom came up to consult with Marsh. Darling quickly joined them. I could not make out their words, but Bloom gestured with his thumb at the sky, which I noticed was not only taking on the purple shades of early dusk but was also showing signs of mist. Darling shook his head and made calming gestures with his hands. Marsh stood figuratively back from the discussion, nearly an argument, until Bloom turned physically away from Darling to appeal to the master of Justice. Who shrugged, opting out of authority.
Immediately, Darling turned to signal to his loaders, and Bloom, disapproving but obedient, jogged off to urge his beaters towards their last drive of the day, leaving behind him two men and their dogs to gather the remaining birds.
We guns followed at a more leisurely pace, since it would take the men a while to drive the birds to us. As we went, I had to admit that the conditions were fast becoming far from ideal. The evening air was drawing moisture from the wet ground, the mist coalescing in patches and drifts which the low angle of the fitful sun caught here and there. Visibility was tricky in these circumstances, and the mixed woodland, cedars, firs and the occasional dark holly interspersed with deciduous trees, contributed its own share of half light. Darling placed us, then Marsh came through and shifted each gun farther apart from its neighbour, for greater safety. He and Alistair disappeared down the line in the direction of the boys and Sir Victor, and I heard the first whistle of the beaters drawing near.
Bloom must have ordered them to sacrifice artistry and numbers for the sake of speed, because the whoops and crackles came towards us at a brisk walk rather than a controlled stroll. The peculiar noises, the weird light, the near-dusk, and the culmination of the day’s competitive excitement into this last drive had us all kneading our gunstocks with tension. Iris, again off to my right, coughed with the damp; the Germans and Londoners beyond her had gone quiet; to my left, strung out unevenly, were the twins with Sir Victor, then Darling and Ivo Hughenfort, and invisible to me at the far end, the Marquis and Sir James. I could hear men moving off in the woods behind our line—not the loaders, who would be gripping the spare guns at the shooters’ elbows, but probably unneeded beaters, here to watch the final event of the day, or a couple of the women who had stuck it out. It might even be Marsh and Alistair coming back up the line, having spread the guns to their satisfaction.
The birds broke over our heads, and I ceased to speculate. I was pleased to notice that Bloom’s men had, by accident or intent, concentrated the birds along our end of the woods. Iris’s gun sounded steadily, and I was kept busy as well, although to my left the normal continuous fire of the two top-scoring men seemed sparser than it had been.
The cold wet air was filled with the sound of shouts and shot, with rising lead and falling birds, cordite smoke blending with drifting mist. The pheasants seemed to burst out of a white curtain. They were nearly impossible to track, requiring hairsbreadth reactions, the finger jerking the trigger before the eyes had a chance to register what they saw. Mist and the smell of guns and autumn leaves; death and an extraordinary sense of vitality and challenge; competition and camaraderie.
And then down the line out of a sudden volley of shots rose an eerie cry and simultaneous bellow that froze every person in earshot, raising the hair up the backs of our necks. Before the sound faded, I had broken my gun, clawed the cartridges out, dropped it to the ground, and set off running through the trees. Branches snatched at my clothing; people moved around me, bent on the same task; men’s voices shouted, nearby and at a distance, as the birds were forgotten.
Half hidden in a clump of holly, two men huddled together. The colour of blood was shockingly bright amidst the grey light and the dull green foliage; brilliant spatters had travelled all the way up—but no, those were berries, the same startling crimson as the stuff on Alistair’s coat.
Marsh half lay in his cousin’s arms, bleeding freely and grimacing with pain, but not dead. From the sound of his curses, he was far from death, and I felt suddenly faint with relief.
Darling reached them first, put his hand out to seize Marsh, and found himself looking cross-eyed at the shiny blade of a knife. Not the long and wicked blade Ali had carried in Palestine, but still plenty sharp enough to slit a man’s throat.
“You touch him,” Ali snarled at Darling—and it was Ali, even to the accent—“you die.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Darling stumbled back; the others began to collect in a wide circle around the fallen man. Alistair looked like a mother wolf, teeth drawn back and murder in his eyes. It took a deliberate effort to approach him, but I did, warily.
Iris had no such hesitation. She elbowed the men aside and dropped to her knees in front of the bloody tableau. I joined her, moving deliberately so Alistair would not feel threatened. Only when her outstretched hand was inches from it did she notice the knife.
“Ali! Put that away,” she commanded, and pushed his wrist away in order to peel back Marsh’s thick jacket. Alistair hesitated, then the knife was gone.
“Are you shot, too?” I asked him. “Or just Marsh?” He had blood on him, but I couldn’t tell whose it was.
“No. A few pellets, maybe. He walked in front of me just as the gun went off.”
“Whose gun?”
After a moment, he tore his eyes from mine to look over my shoulder at the others, then back to me. “I did not see.”
Iris had excavated the clothing layers enough to determine that the pellets had buried themselves into Marsh’s left side fairly evenly but that there were no torrents or spurting wounds; his injuries would be painful, but not life-threatening. She turned her head to look for Darling, but just then Bloom came pounding up, white-faced and gasping. She spoke to him instead.
“We need to get him to the house, and to ring for the doctor. He’ll be all right—nothing vital seems to have been hit.”
I thought Bloom would collapse at the news, but he pulled himself straight and then leapt to do her bidding. I caught up with him before he reached his men, still drifting in confusion from the woods. “Mr Bloom,” I said. “Don’t let any of your men go home yet. The police will want a word.”
He stared at me. “The police? But it was an accident.”
“Of course it was. But they will want to be thorough.”
“I need to let my men go home before it gets dark.”
“Yes. Well, do what you can. At least write down the name of anyone who has to leave. Please?”
“Very well, mum.” He trotted off, summoning runners as he went.
Back at the holly trees, Iris had wrapped Marsh back into his clothing and was in the process of extricating him from his cousin and checking Alistair’s “few pellets.” She was trying to, anyway. Alistair was none too pleased at being prised from his wounded comrade. Not until Marsh spoke quietly in his ear did Alistair allow himself to be
