'Put them both in the ambulance,' ordered the sergeant, ignoring the Colonel's claim to his pet, and Mr O'Brain and the bull-terrier were bundled into the ambulance and driven off at high speed. As they went forensic experts moved cautiously through the rubble of the house and sought the cause of the
explosion. 'The IRA have been threatening him,' the sergeant told them,
'It looks as if they got him too.' But when the experts finally left they were still puzzled. No sign of explosives had been found and yet the house was a shambles.
"Must have been using something entirely new,' they told the Special Branch officers at the police station. 'See if you can get something out of the man himself.'
But Mr O'Brain was in no mood to be helpful. The vet who had been called to sedate the bull-terrier into relaxing his grip had found his job made all the more difficult by Mr O'Brain's refusal to lie still and having twice tried to inject the dog, the vet had finally lost his nerve and short-sightedly given Mr O'Brain a jab sufficient to placate a rhinoceros. In the event it was the gynaecologist who relaxed first and passed into a coma. The bull-terrier, convinced that his victim was dead, let go and was led away with a self-satisfied look on its muzzle.
At Number 12 Sandicott Crescent Lockhart had much the same look on his face.
'It's quite all right,' he told Jessica, who was worried that one of her houses had been largely destroyed. 'It's in the lease that the occupier has to make good any damage done during his tenancy. I've checked that out.'
'But whatever can have caused it to blow up like that? I mean it looked as if it had been hit by a bomb.'
Lockhart supported Colonel Finch-Potter's argument that Mr O'Brain had been making bombs and left it at that.
He also left his activities at that for the time being. The Crescent was swarming with police who had even invaded the bird sanctuary in search of hidden caches of IRA arms and besides he had other things to think about. A telegram had arrived from Mr Dodd. It said quite simply and with that economy of expression that was typical of the man, 'COME DODD'. Lockhart went, leaving a tearful Jessica with the promise that he would be back soon. He caught the train to Newcastle and on to Hexham and then took a bus to Wark. From there he walked in a straight line across the fells to Flawse Hall with the long stride of a shepherd, climbing the dry-stone walls nimbly and leaping across the boggy patches from one hard turf to another. And all the while his mind was busy pondering the urgency of Mr Dodd's message while at the same time he was glad of the
excuse to be back in the land of his heart. It was not an idle expression. The isolation of his boyhood had bred in Lockhart a need for space and a love of the empty moorlands of his happy hunting. The havoc he was wreaking in Sandicott Crescent was as much an expression of his hatred for its closeness, its little snobberies and its stifling social atmosphere, as it was for the recovery of Jessica's right to sell her own property. The south was all hypocrisy and smiles that hid a sneer. Lockhart and the Flawses seldom smiled and when they did it was with due cause, either at some inner joke or at the absurdity of man and nature. For the rest they had long faces and hard eyes that measured man or the range of a target with an exactitude that was unerring. And when they spoke, as opposed to making speeches or arguing disputatiously at dinner, they used few words. Hence Mr Dodd's message was all the more urgent by its brevity and Lockhart came. He swung over the final wall, across the dam and down the path to the Hall. And, by that instinct that told him Mr Dodd had bad news, he knew better than to approach the Hall by the front door. He slipped round the back and through the gate into the garden shed where Dodd kept his tools and himself to himself. Mr Dodd was there whittling a stick and whistling softly some ancient tune. 'Well, Mr Dodd, I'm here,' said Lockhart. Mr Dodd looked up and motioned to a three-legged milking stool. It's the auld bitch,' he said, not bothering with preliminaries, 'she's set hersel' to kill the man.'
'Kill grandfather?' said Lockhart recognizing the man for what he was. Mr Dodd always called Mr Flawse 'the man'.
'Aye, first she overfeeds him. Then she waters his drink with brandy and now she's taken to wetting his bed.' Lockhart said nothing. Mr Dodd would explain. 'I was in the whisky wall the other night,' said Mr Dodd, 'and
the auld bitch comes in with a pitcher of water and sprinkles it
on his sheets afore he gan to bed.' 'Are you sure it was water?' said Lockhart who knew the cavity in the bedroom that Mr Dodd called the whisky wall. It was behind the panelling and Mr Dodd stored his privately distilled whisky there. 'It smelt like water. It touched like water and it tasted like water. It was water.'
'But why should she want to kill him?' said Lockhart.
'So she'll inherit afore ye find your father,' said Mr Dodd.
'But what good will that do her? Even after grandfather dies I've only to find my father and she loses her inheritance.'
'True,' said Mr Dodd, 'but who's to say ye'll find him, and even then she'll have possession and nine points of the law. You will have the devil's own job getting her out the place once the man dies and you've no father to your name. She'll gan to litigation and you've no money to fight her with.'
'I will have,' said Lockhart grimly. 'I'll have it by then.'
'By then's too late, man,' said Mr Dodd, 'you mun do something now.'
They sat in silence and considered possibilities. They were none of them nice.
'It was an evil day the man married hisself to a murderous wife,' said Mr Dodd, and sliced the stick in half to express his desire.