‘Oh, yes, but you could not move Karen once she had made up her mind, so me, I made the best of things, and hoped in my heart that she would be very happy. Edward is a good man. That I know.’
‘Did your daughter mind when you sold Fergus to me?’ asked Laura, struck by an aspect of the matter which had not occurred to her before.
‘Mind? How so?’ Mrs Schumann sounded surprised.
‘Well, I understand he was your daughter’s dog. Hadn’t she bought him from you and trained him?’
‘Oh, that! When she found that Edward did not want him, she gave me permission, well, she almost begged me to sell him. I gave her the money you paid me, of course.’ She looked down at the huge dog, who was asleep in front of the fire, and stirred him caressingly with the toe of her shoe. Fergus raised his noble head, banged the floor politely with his tail, and went to sleep again. ‘He is a good dog. He found my Karen in time, before her body was too long above the ground. He knew where to find her. He guarded her. He is a very good dog. He wanted her to be found quickly.’
‘Yes,’ said Gavin, ‘that’s a point which I find of very great interest. How could he have known where she was?’
‘They have instinct, these hounds.’
‘Enough to lead them more than two miles from home to find a body which nobody but the killer knew was there?’ He spoke with what Laura reproachfully thought of as brutal directness.
‘It is mysterious, that,’ agreed Mrs Schumann. ‘But what do we know of animal instinct?’
‘That it is held by some psychiatrists not to exist,’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘They believe that behaviour pattern, not instinct, is a more suitable and exact term to employ. So you cannot offer any explanation of Fergus’ conduct in leaving Laura’s side and bounding away some two miles to where your daughter’s body lay?’
Mrs Schumann shook her head.
‘He was very fond of my Karen,’ she said. ‘More than that I cannot explain. But now, please, the inquest. What more will they want me to tell them?’
‘Possibly whether your daughter had enemies and whether you knew of any recent quarrel between your daughter and her fiancé.’
‘Two only, all the time they knew one another, and both quarrels so stupid, and not recent, either. One I think Mrs Gavin knows about. I told her when she bought Fergus for her son.’
‘Oh,’ said Laura, ‘you mean when your daughter wanted to give her fiancé the dog, and he refused to accept it?’
‘Yes, that was the second quarrel. Karen was deeply hurt and disappointed when Edward would not take the dog. She had been training Fergus very carefully and keeping him a secret, and she could not understand that Edward did not want him. She was hurt, and the hurt made her angry. Edward was not very kind or tactful, either. He said that he did not “have time to look after a wretched dog”. He was needing all his evenings and week-ends to study for his further degree. He had his B.A. but he had set his heart on obtaining, ultimately, his doctorate in divinity. There was what one calls in English a flare-up.’
‘And the first quarrel?’ asked Dame Beatrice. ‘You mentioned there were two.’
‘Ah, that first quarrel! So unnecessary and so ridiculous, I thought. Karen came home one Friday evening and said to me: “I have had a big row with Edward. What do you think he called me? He called me his misguided little Aryan! What do you think of that, mother? His misguided little ARYAN! As though I have ever made any distinction between Germans like yourself” – she was born in England and claimed to be English, you see – “and Germans who are already Jews!” Oh, she was at boiling-point, my little Karen. Of course, she got over it later. Edward had meant it as a joke, he said, not to offend, and he apologised.’
‘Why misguided, I wonder?’ said Dame Beatrice. ‘And why Aryan? It is not a word that Englishmen would often use.’
‘Is it not?’ said Mrs Schumann. ‘I asked Karen what had occasioned him to taunt her, and she said they had been arguing about religion.’
‘A bold thing to attempt when one of the protagonists is a student of theology,’ commented Dame Beatrice, ‘but it might account for his having referred to your daughter as misguided. I suppose you know of no enemies she may have made? Was there anyone on the school staff, for instance, whom she had offended in any way?’
‘I know of none. Karen was good-natured and friendly. Whenever I went to functions at the school she seemed to be quite well-liked.’
‘When did you speak to her last?’ asked Gavin. ‘Did she live at home?’
‘Yes and no. By that I mean the school, it was too far for her to go day by day, so she and two other young teachers – women, of course – shared a flat, and Karen came home after school closed on Fridays and returned to the flat on Sunday evenings. Then, of course, she was with me at holiday times, so my house was her home.’
‘Yes, I see. So the last time you saw her was on a Sunday?’ said Gavin.
‘Until I was taken to identify …’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
‘It makes me sad now to think that I might have seen her again before – before—’
‘Please don’t distress yourself, Mrs Schumann. I am only asking a question which is almost certain to be put to you at the next enquiry,’ said Gavin hastily.
‘I know. I am sorry. You see, there was a day’s holiday given to the school, following the annual Speech Day. A half-holiday was normal, but there was also another half-day due, so the teachers decided to have the two put together to make a whole day, and Karen telephoned to ask whether
