Chapter 1
Loggerheads
His hands behind his head, Ginger lay still, enjoying the sun warm on his body, listening to the buzz of insects while he waited for Bertie to arrive.
Suddenly something cold and wet touched his cheek and he opened his eyes in surprise. Dark brown eyes regarded him sombrely and he smiled. "Hello," he murmured, "where have you come from?"
The black Labrador grinned at him, its tongue lolling. Ginger sat up and looked round. There was no one in sight. He regarded the dog with curiosity. It had probably come from the shoot, he thought. He clicked his fingers and quietly ordered it to sit. The dog thumped its back end on the grass and wagged its tail frantically. Ginger laughed softly and stroked its ears.
There was a crashing in the bushes and a thick-set, red-faced man in stiff new tweeds emerged. He glowered at Ginger before addressing him peremptorily.
"What are you doing with my dog?" he demanded in a suspicious tone.
"He came to me," replied Ginger, trying to remain civil but annoyed at being addressed in such a manner. Before he could say any more the man continued, still in the same hectoring tone, "Why aren't you with the rest of the beaters?"
"Well," returned Ginger slowly, containing his irritation with difficulty, "there could be any number of reasons for that, but the chief one is that I am not one of the beaters."
The man looked him up and down contemptuously. Ginger was casually dressed, in jeans and a tee-shirt, as the day was warm and he was off duty, having a day out with the shoot on Bertie's cousin's estate. Although he did not wish to do any shooting himself, he had accepted the invitation to the country house weekend with alacrity as a chance to get out of the city for a while, especially as there was a slack period in the office. With Biggles away at a conference and little to do apart from routine paperwork, he felt at a bit of a loose end. He vaguely recalled meeting Bertie's cousin when they had all been invited to Ascot and had been pleasantly surprised to be included in the invitation. Fortunately, Algy had agreed to hold the fort and thus release him from duty. As Algy had remarked, there was no point in all of them dying of boredom doing the filing.
The red-faced newcomer called his dog loudly by name and was ignored. Ginger hid a grin but not sufficiently well because the man glared at him.
"This is private property," he declared, clearly thinking Ginger had no right to be there.
"Yes, I know," Ginger informed him evenly. "I'm waiting for one of the guns."
Finding Ginger was not intimidated by his bluster, the man turned his attention to the dog and began berating it.
"If I may make a suggestion," ventured Ginger. "Keep your voice down, don't use his name all the time - there are no other dogs here; he knows you mean him - and make him seek you rather than the other way round."
"What does riffraff like you know about champion gun dogs?" asked the man insultingly.
"More than you, evidently," retorted Ginger, finally losing his temper. "Look!" He stood up in a smooth movement, clicked his fingers and, with his voice barely above a whisper, put the dog through its paces. Tail wagging happily, the Labrador obeyed him first time.
"The dog's well trained," Ginger told the animal's owner bluntly, fed up of being treated like a nobody, "he just needs to be given the right commands in the right way."
The man's colour deepened and he looked so furious Ginger would not have been surprised if he had had to defend himself.
The tension between them was broken by a hail as Bertie, in a dilapidated shooting suit and carrying a Purdey in the crook of his arm, emerged from the undergrowth with his cousin and a couple of dogs.
"What-ho, Ginger, old top!" exclaimed Bertie. "Sorry we're late, we were delayed. There are some awful …" His eyes fell on the man in the new tweeds and his voice changed. "Oh, hello, Cliffe," he greeted him, his tone icy. "I didn't realise you were here."
"Lord Lissie!" the man named Cliffe fawned, oblivious of Bertie's coolness. "I was just having a word with this young man."
Ginger saw a spasm of dislike flit across Bertie's face and knew how he felt.
"This is Flying Officer Hebblethwaite," Bertie announced, much to Ginger's surprise because he had not used his RAF rank since he left the Service. "Alfred Cliffe," he added shortly, to complete the introduction. He turned to Ginger. "You know my cousin, Celia, don't you?" he commented.
Ginger nodded and smiled as he acknowledged the tall, pretty young blonde in a well-worn tweed suit, noticing Alfred Cliffe looking at him with a changed expression. Suddenly Ginger understood. He had just been transformed from a despised estate worker into an officer and a gentleman.
"Don't let me keep you," stated Bertie pointedly as Cliffe hovered. "You must have more important things to do than hang around here."
With such an obvious dismissal, there was no excuse for the man to stay, so he called his dog and made off. Ginger was amused to find that he had lowered his voice somewhat and had better success in getting his dog to comply.
"Awful man," commented Bertie as Cliffe disappeared. "He's such a snob! And he's a terrible shot. He's got no idea about controlling his dog."
"I think he's got a bit more now," remarked Ginger with a wry smile and related the events leading up to their appearance.
Celia laughed and sat down, patting the grass beside her to invite them to join her. "It's true he's a terrible snob," she commented, "but unfortunately, with death duties and taxes we have to have paying guns at the shoot these days. It has all become so terribly commercial. It lets in some truly dreadful people, but what can one do? Money talks," she added sadly. "The nicest people don't have a bean these days," she remarked, her gaze straying to Ginger.
Bertie intercepted it and smiled. "Ginger's never had a bean, old girl," he commented. "All he's got is his charm and good looks!"
The pair blushed and both spoke at once as they tried to change the subject.
Bertie laughed at their confusion. "Let's go back to the house, you two," he suggested. "I don't know about you, old girl, but I've had enough shooting for one day. I shall be ready for a spot of tea by the time we get there."
They rose and made their way through the coppice, talking unconcernedly, until they reached the drive. They took a short cut through the rose garden and Celia paused for a moment to sniff one of the blooms. Ginger and Bertie waited for her a little further along the path and she quickly came up to join them.
"It's such a lovely afternoon," she remarked. "We'll have tea on the terrace. It will give us a chance to enjoy it in peace before the guns get back," she added, distaste in her voice. "I'll go and organise it." So saying she quickened her pace and disappeared into the cool, dark interior of the mellow stone sixteenth century house.
Ginger and Bertie sat down on one of the stone benches that, flanked by rosemary bushes, adorned the terrace and waited for the appurtenances of the tea ritual to be brought out for them to enjoy.
"I think tea is my favourite meal of the day," observed Bertie looking out over the lawns towards the ha-ha. "None of the dreadful formality of dinner and in the summer, tea on the lawn or on the terrace is delightful."
Ginger murmured his agreement. He was not particularly looking forward to dinner that evening. He had been warned it was a black tie affair. At least he would not be appearing in borrowed finery this time, he thought, remembering the Lord Lieutenant's visit when he stayed with Cub1.
"Alfred Cliffe is a stinker," commented Bertie suddenly, apropos of nothing. "D'you know, he wiped old Hitchcott's eye today. The man's a positive menace. It wouldn't surprise me to find he'd shot one of the beaters."
"He mistook me for a beater," remarked Ginger. "He would definitely have liked to have shot me. If looks could kill, I'd be in my winding sheet now. He changed his tune a bit when you gave me my RAF rank. I wondered why you did that."
"Odious," affirmed Bertie.
"Who's odious?" queried Celia as she came back out onto the terrace.
"Cliffe," chorused Bertie and Ginger together.
"And so say all of us," laughed Celia.
She sat down beside Ginger, who moved over slightly to give her more room, much to Bertie's private amusement, assuring them that tea would be served shortly. She had hardly made the announcement when Beech, the elderly butler, brought the tea table out and spread it with a lace cloth, weighted at the rim. Chairs, crockery and cutlery soon followed and then the food and drink.
"You do a good spread, old girl," commented Bertie when they were replete.
"You wouldn't think so to hear some of the PGs grumbling," returned Celia. "I don't know what they expect." She paused and cocked her head. "I think I can hear them coming now."
She was correct in her assumption as an untidy gaggle of guns, attired in assorted tweeds, came into view, chattering loudly. Cliffe's voice rose stridently over the rest as he marched at the head of the file, gesticulating to emphasise his words. Behind and beside him, the rest of the guns were in loose order.
Ginger watched them approach, mentally matching the people in front of him with the names of the guests. Two of them were walking close together, a little apart from the rest of the group, Ginger noticed. He watched them, curiously. They were a well matched pair, he thought idly, guessing they must be Peter Fosdyke and Julian Simpson. Both rather less than average height, slim and fair, although Julian's hair was more mousy and Peter was the more slender of the two. In a way, they reminded him physically of Biggles, but he questioned whether they had Biggles' inner strength and resilience. There was a softness he detected in their manner that he knew was not in Biggles' character. The bond between them appeared to be very intimate, reflected Ginger without giving the matter much thought. He supposed their friendship was of long standing, like his and Biggles'.
Beside Cliffe, a pale-faced, almost emaciated man was marching along, his surprisingly firm step and erect posture betraying the bearing of a military man. Although ostensibly it was he whom Cliffe was addressing, Ginger thought the ex-soldier was not paying particular attention and privately sympathised. He speculated that this would be Colonel Hitchcott. A few paces behind the leaders strode a magnificent couple of men, chatting amiably. Both about six foot tall with dark hair, they had contrasting physiques; one was slim and aristocratic with a languid manner, while his companion was sturdy and compact. Ginger had no difficulty in identifying the final pair of guns, Joseph Levy-Strauss and the Honourable Peregrine Worsley. He gained the distinct impression that Joseph Levy-Strauss knew exactly what he wanted in life and was prepared to take it, while his fellow gun expected what he wanted to fall into his lap as a right and was seldom disappointed.
As the party neared the terrace Ginger stood up. "I'm off," he announced. "I've had one dose of Alfred Cliffe today and I expect I shall have to put up with him at dinner, too, so I'm going to my room to write some letters. Make my apologies, please, if anyone inquires," he said to Bertie. "Tell them I've got a touch of malaria or something," he added bleakly as he made his way indoors.
"Does he get malaria?" asked Celia solicitously as she watched his retreating back.
"He had a bad bout when he was in India one time2," Bertie informed her. "But I don't think it affects him generally," he commented. "He has had a bad bout of Cliffitis, though," he smiled. "Apparently the man thought Ginger was a beater and was pretty rude to him. Certainly, when we rolled up I thought there was going to be a fracas."
"So did I," agreed Celia. "I should not have been at all surprised if Cliffe had hit Ginger, despite the difference in their height and weight. The man is a bully. He is either insufferably rude or disgustingly obsequious," she observed. "There seems to be no happy medium. Oh dear," she sighed. "Here he comes."
Celia assumed a smile and greeted the guns, apologising that they had not waited tea.
"My fault," claimed Bertie. "I was starving. The old tum-tum thought my throat had been cut, don't y'know!"
There was a general murmur of forgiveness as they drew up chairs. Bertie stayed for a while, making polite conversation before he vacated his seat with a quiet apology. "I must be off," he remarked. "I have some urgent letters to write, too," he winked at Celia. "Dinner is at eight, old girl?" he asked, looking at her for confirmation.
She nodded. "I shan't be late," he told her. "Dashed bad form to be late for dinner."
With that he followed Ginger into the house, relieved to escape from the presence of his fellow guns, whom he had found rather wearing, being for the most part corporate men with whom he had nothing in common, and in Cliffe's case, totally unbearable.
1 See Ginger Learns A Lesson
2 See Biggles Goes Home
