And suddenly he seemed to hear Rigby's voice: 'Blood everywhere. Whoever killed her must have been covered in it.' And then Mad Janie calling to him across the moonlit snow: 'Janie seed 'im… silver wings like fishes… flying on the wind… there's not many seen the devil fly…' Of course: the parcel! He remained a long time at the window, watching the rain. Finally, content at last, he climbed back into bed and fell asleep.
He tried to telephone Miss Brimley throughout the morning. Each time she was out and he left no message. Eventually, at about midday, he spoke to her:
'George, I'm terribly sorry—some missionary is in London—I had to go for an interview and I've got a Baptist Conference this afternoon. They've both got to be in this week. Will first thing tomorrow do?'
'Yes,' said Smiley. 'I'm sure it will.' There was no particular hurry. There were one or two ends he wanted to tie up that afternoon, anyway.
Chapter 12—Uncomfortable Words
He enjoyed the bus. The conductor was a very surly man with a great deal to say about the bus company, and why it lost money. Gently encouraged by Smiley, he expanded wonderfully so that by the time they arrived at Sturminster he had transformed the Directors of the Dorset and General Traction Company into a herd of Gadarene swine charging into the abyss of voluntary bankruptcy. The conductor directed Smiley to the Sturminster kennels, and when he alighted in the tiny village, he set out confidently towards a group of cottages which stood about a quarter of a mile beyond the church, on the Okeford road.
He had a nasty feeling he wasn't going to like Mr Harriman. The very fact that D'Arcy had described him as a superior type of person inclined Smiley against him. Smiley was not opposed to social distinctions but he liked to make his own.
A notice stood at the gate: 'Sturminster Kennels, proprietor, C. J. Reid-Harriman, Veterinary Surgeon. Breeder of Alsatian and Labrador Dogs. Boarding.'
A narrow path led to what seemed to be a backyard. There was washing everywhere, shirts, underclothes, and sheets, most of it khaki. There was a rich smell of dog. There was a rusted hand-pump with a dozen or so dog leads draped over it, and there was a small girl. She watched him sadly as he picked his way through the thick mud towards the door. He pulled on the bell-rope and waited. He tried again, and the child said:
'It doesn't work. It's bust. It's been bust for years.'
'Is anyone at home?' Smiley asked.
'I'll see,' she replied coolly, and after another long look at him she walked round the side of the house and disappeared from view. Then Smiley heard from inside the house the sound of someone approaching, and a moment later the door opened.
'Good day to you.' He had sandy hair and a moustache. He wore a khaki shirt and a khaki tie of a lighter shade; old Service dress trousers and a tweed jacket with leather buttons.
'Mr Harriman?'
'Major,' he replied lightly. 'Not that it matters, old boy. What can we do for you?'
'I'm thinking of buying an Alsatian,' Smiley replied, 'as a guard dog.'
'Surely. Come in, won't you. Lady wife's out. Ignore the child: she's from next door. Just hangs around; likes the dogs.' He followed Harriman into the living-room and they sat down. There was no fire.
'Where are you from?' Harriman asked.
'I'm staying at Carne at the moment; my father lives over at Dorchester. He's getting on and he's nervous, and he wants me to find him a good dog. There's a gardener to look after it in the daytime, feed it and exercise it and so on. The gardener doesn't live in at night, of course, and it's at night that the old man gets so worried. I've been meaning to get him a dog for some time—this recent business at Carne rather brought it home to me.' Harriman ignored the hint.
'Gardener good chap?'
'Yes, very.'
'You don't want anything brilliant,' said Harriman. 'You want a good, steady type. I'd take a bitch if I were you.' His hands were dark brown, his wrists too. His handkerchief was tucked into his cuff. Smiley noticed that his wrist-watch faced inwards, conforming with the obscure rites of the military demi-monde from which he seemed to come.
'What will it do, a dog like that? Will it attack, or what?'
'Depends how she's trained, old boy; depends how she's trained. She'll warn, though; that's the main thing. Frighten the fellers away. Shove a notice up, "Fierce Dog", let her sniff at the tradesmen a bit and the word will get around. You won't get a burglar within a mile of the place.'
They walked out into the garden again, and Harriman led the way to an enclosure with half a dozen Alsatian puppies yapping furiously at them through the wire.
'They're good little beasts, all of them,' he shouted. 'Game as hell.' He unlocked the door and finally emerged with a plump bitch puppy chewing fiercely at his jacket.
'This little lady might do you,' he said. 'We can't show her—she's too dark.'
Smiley pretended to hesitate, allowed Harriman to persuade him and finally agreed. They went back into the house.
'I'd like to pay a deposit,' said Smiley, 'and collect her in about ten days. Would that be all right?' He gave Harriman a cheque for five pounds and again they sat down, Harriman foraging in his desk for inoculation certificates and pedigrees. Then Smiley said:
'It's a pity Mrs Rode didn't have a dog, isn't it? I mean, it might have saved her life.'
'Oh, she had dog, but she had it put down just before she was killed,' said Harriman. 'Damned odd story between ourselves. She was devoted to the beast. Odd little mongrel, bit of everything, but she loved it. Brought it here one day with some tale about it biting the postman, got me to put it down—said it was dangerous. It wasn't anything of the sort. Some friends of mine in Carne made inquiries. No complaints anywhere. Postman liked the brute. Damned silly sort of lie to tell in a small community. Bound to be found out.'
'Why on earth did she tell it then?'
Harriman made a gesture which particularly irritated Smiley. He ran his forefinger down the length of his nose, then flicked either side of his absurd moustache very quickly. There was something shamefaced about the whole movement, as if he were assuming the ways of senior officers, and fearful of rebuke.
'She was trouble,' he said crisply. 'I can spot 'em. I've had a few in the regiment, wives who are trouble. Little simpering types. Butter-wouldn't-melt, holier-than-thou. Arrange the flowers in the church and all that—pious as you please. I'd say she was the hysterical kind, self-dramatizing, weeping all over the house for days on end. Anything for a bit of drama.'
'Was she popular?' Smiley offered him a cigarette.
'Shouldn't think so. Thanks. She wore black on Sundays, I gather. Typical. We used to call them "crows" out East, the ones who wore black—Sunday virgins. They were O.D. mostly—other denominations. Not C. of E.—some were Romans, mind… I hope I'm not…'
'Not at all.'
'You never know, do you? Can't stand 'em myself; no prejudice, but I don't like Romans—that's what my old father used to say.'
'Did you know her husband?'
'Not so well, poor devil, not so well.'
Harriman, Smiley reflected, seemed to have a great deal more sympathy for the living than the dead. Perhaps soldiers were like that. He wouldn't know.
'He's terribly cut up, I hear. Dreadful shock—fortunes of war, eh?' he added and Smiley nodded. 'He's the other type. Humble origin, good officer qualities, credit to the mess. Those are the ones that cut up most, the ones women get at.'