From the darkness behind, a voice said, “Caesar. Sit!” The other end of the rope was gripped by a man with a white beard of biblical size. It was difficult to see much else. He was on the floor wrapped in a grey blanket.
The dog heard the command and flattened itself to the ground, still growling.
Gilbert managed to find words. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m entitled to ask the same question,” an educated voice answered, “allowing that I was here first and didn’t send you an invitation. Quiet, Caesar.”
Caesar heard and cut the growling.
“If you want to be friends with us, show him the back of your hand. The back, not the palm. Not the fingers, absolutely not the fingers. When he’s caught a whiff of you, he’ll calm down.”
Gilbert was doubtful, but it mattered awfully to humour the dog’s owner. He extended his right hand to within a yard of what he judged as the limit of the rope.
Panting mightily, but without more barking or growling, Caesar stood again and strained to reach him. Gilbert withdrew his hand and swayed back.
“Steady,” the man said — and he was speaking to Gilbert, not the dog. “It’s not good to show fear. Once he’s pressed his wet nose to your skin, he’ll be your friend for life. Who are you, anyway?”
“I’m Paul Gilbert.” This wasn’t the moment to reveal he was with the police. “What breed is it?”
“I can’t tell you. There’s some Great Dane for sure and some Rhodesian ridgeback and I suspect a dash of Pyrenean mountain dog gives him the shaggy look. The united nations in a pooch. I acquired him two years ago from some unfortunate whose wife delivered an ultimatum: dog or divorce. He’s interested in you. A few inches closer and we’ll have some peace.”
There was such certainty in the instruction that Gilbert believed it. He plucked up the courage to reach out again.
Another urgent reminder. “Fingers tucked in.”
He made a fist, offered the back of his hand and felt the touch of damp — and not only from the nose. A warm, slobbery lick completed the inspection.
Exactly as promised, the huge dog became docile, returned to its owner and squatted beside him. Crisis over.
“If you’re looking for a place to doss down, I suggest you try the officers’ rest room upstairs,” the man said. “Every room is draughty, but that’s got the best views.”
“I’m not here to doss down.”
“Why disturb us, in that case?”
“I heard the barking and came in to see if the dog was in trouble.”
“How civil. I’m sure he appreciates your concern.”
“You live here?” Gilbert asked.
“A temporary guest. I don’t stay anywhere for long. Tomorrow we’ll head down the hill into Aquae Sulis for what’s left of the tourist season.”
“Have you been to Bath before?”
“Every summer for at least ten years. I come here for the history, the architecture, the civilised living and, best of all, the coins that drop into my tin mug.”
“You’re a traveller?”
“On the whole, I prefer gentleman of the road. I’ve been called everything from crusty to scrounger. Governments do their best to demonise us because we’re a comment on their failed policies. Like the polar bear, I’m one of an endangered species.”
Now that his eyes were getting used to the poor light, Gilbert could see the evidence of what he’d heard: a vintage coach-built pram to his left heaped high with objects useful to a tramp, like a folded groundsheet, frying pan and billycan. Yet the man talked as if this was the Athenaeum Club.
Gilbert asked how long he had been living like this.
“I lose track. I’m a Londoner originally. My business went into liquidation soon after the collapse of Lehman Brothers. We were starved of finance. How long ago was that?”
“I’m not sure,” Gilbert said.
“There you are. You’re halfway to throwing off the shackles like me and finding freedom beyond the reach of broadband.”
“No chance.”
“You could become a free spirit. ‘Over hill, over dale, thorough bush, thorough brier, over park, over pale, thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander everywhere.’ A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
A tramp quoting Shakespeare. Gilbert was lost for words.
“How are your feet?” the gentleman of the road asked. “You need healthy feet and a sturdy pair of boots. What are you wearing — trainers? They’ll soon get holes.”
“I’m trying to tell you I’m not a traveller,” Gilbert said. “I’m just visiting the airfield.”
“Out for an afternoon walk?”
“Something like that.”
There was a pause for thought.
“Are you about to tell me I’m trespassing on Air Ministry property?”
“I believe the land is privately owned now.”
“That’s all right, then. The owners won’t begrudge me resting up for a few days. They must have taken a fat fee from the television people.”
Gilbert’s interest quickened. He might have found a witness. “Were you here while they were filming?”
“I was very accommodating. I waited for them to finish before I moved in. I’ve stayed here often, you see. I always try for a roof over my head at night, be it an empty house, garden shed or barn. And I leave the place as I found it. Point of honour.”
“Did you watch the TV people at work?”
“Why should I? There are better ways of spending one’s time.”
“Such as?”
“Foraging for nature’s bounty.”
“Mushrooms?”
“Much more. Nuts, berries, edible plants of many varieties. Wounded pheasants I put out of their misery. Eggs, when I can find them.” He winked. “The occasional past-its-sell-by from the bins at the back of Tesco.”
Now that he had someone to listen to him, the man wouldn’t stop talking. Let it flow, Gilbert decided. Humour him and he may come out with the information I want. “What does Caesar live on? He wouldn’t enjoy that stuff.”
“Don’t have any concerns about him. When he’s hungry, he puts on his dog-at-death’s-door performance, lying flat on the ground with his tongue hanging out and ribs showing and people arrive with tins of dog food. There’s a brand called Cesar and they think it’s amusing to bring him his own signature product. I could get jealous. I’m getting a permanent stoop from carrying his supplies.”
Gilbert got the interview back on track. “Did the TV crew leave anything behind?”
“Not even a bottle of water. They cleared up everything and took it away in their vans.”
“Were you watching when they packed up?”
“I observed from a distance. I can’t think why you’re interested.”
Gilbert decided he’d better front up. “I’m DC Gilbert, from Bath Police, investigating a missing person, one of the crew from the TV unit. I didn’t catch your name.”
“I didn’t offer it.”
“Do you mind telling me?”
“It’s no secret. Everyone calls me Will.”
“But you have a surname?”
“Legat. I’m William Legat, which gets corrupted to Will Leggit. Groan if you like. You won’t be the first. A policeman, you said? I like the police. I like the bed and breakfast you offer wandering men like me, but I doubt whether I can help with your investigation.”
Caesar made a whimpering sound and turned to stare at his owner. Maybe the word “breakfast” had done it.
“You watched them leave, then?” Gilbert pressed on, increasingly hopeful he’d found someone who could help. “What time would this have been?”
“Young man, one of the joys of this mode of existence is that I don’t carry a timepiece.”
“Late in the day?”
“You don’t give up, do you? Of course, it was late. They’re on a budget. They cram as much as possible into the day so that they don’t need to come back tomorrow. They work until the light goes and the poor devils left to do the clearing up are there for an hour or two longer.”