I don’t touch that, only jot down notes. I ask her to describe the two watchmen, which she does. They’ll be our best source of information, as I presume they’ll want to get the dog back.
“Anyone else we could speak to?” I say. “Does Bobby have any particular friends?” I pause. “You mentioned children. Are there any who attend to him regularly?”
Her eyes narrow, as if I’m mocking her. “There are children. Many children, all friends of dear Bobby.”
“Do they come by at a certain time? So I can speak to them?”
Her lips press into a thin line. Clearly, she has decided I’m testing her story about doing this for the children.
“Do any adults attend him regularly?” I say.
“People come and go,” she says with a wave. “I leave them be. I am not the sort to bother innocent passersby who wish to pay their respects to the little prince.”
I glance at Gray, but he only sips his beer. I suspect Davina is a relatively recent arrival to the Bobby fan club, and the more I press for other potential witnesses, the more she’ll decide I’m trying to undermine her story.
“You said Bobby often wanders,” I say. “Do you know where he goes?”
“To do his business mostly. Sometimes to stretch his legs or nose around for food. He’s an old dog with a bottomless pit of a stomach.”
I push for more. Does she know where Bobby likes to walk? Where he begs for food? Again, she doesn’t seem to have paid any attention, and my pressing only makes her clam up. In the end, I’m stuck with what I have. He’s been gone for two days, and she’s never known him to be gone more than a few hours. Time to speak to the day watchman.
Chapter Five
The day watchman is a man in his fifties, heavy-jowled and surly. He accepted Gray’s sovereign with resentment, as if he’d been tricked into taking it. Now that we’ve told him what we want, he looks ready to give the coin back. Of course, he doesn’t, but his scowl deepens.
“Bloody mongrel,” he says. His gaze drops to the one with us. “You’d better not even think of leaving that one here.”
“We are taking this one home,” Gray says mildly. “Someone had left it here, but we will look after it, so you do not need to.”
The guard somehow manages to look even more annoyed, as if we’re making him look bad by taking the dog off his hands.
“About Bobby . . .” I say.
“Bobby.” He sniffs. “If I never see that mongrel again, I’ll dance a jig.”
“Is he trouble?” I ask.
“He is a dog. In a kirkyard. It’s disrespectful.” He waves toward a cluster of tourists looking at the old kirk. “They’re all disrespectful. This isn’t the bloody Scott Monument. It’s for the dead. So they can find their eternal rest. Not be tramped on and gawked at.”
“You make a good point,” I say.
“I make an excellent point.” He straightens, throwing out his chest. “No one else cares about the sanctity of the dead. Nor about the safety of the living. Look at these people. Traipsing around like it’s Princes Street. Someone picks their pocket, and they come crying to me. My job is to care for the dead, not the living.”
“If the kirk wants to let tourists in, they should hire someone to ensure their safety. That is not your job.”
He jabs a grubby finger at me. “Just so. And then there’s the dog. Everyone wants to see the dog, and some folks take advantage of it, picking their pockets while they’re busy cooing at the mongrel. But when I complain that I should be able to throw the thieves out, I’m told that I need to catch them in the act. Otherwise, they have a right to be here. But how do I catch them? I’m not a policeman. And if I do catch them, what am I supposed to do?” He throws up his hands. “I am not a policeman.”
“I do know a few constables,” Gray says. “I could ask whether they would consider passing through now and then.”
“Sometimes that is enough,” I say. “If thieves see police, they are more likely to move on.”
“Oh, they already patrol through here. And every thief knows their schedule and vanishes.”
I can see we’re not going to get anywhere. While he has a valid point—he isn’t responsible for the safety of unwary tourists—he’s reached the point where no solution will appease him. It’s not as if the kirkyard is jammed with tourists. He’s just found something to complain about, and he’ll complain about it as long as anyone will listen.
So I give him what he really wants. Sympathy. As I listen to his list of gripes, Gray switches into undertaker mode.
Being an undertaker in this world has nothing to do with preparing or storing bodies. They are funeral directors. They make the arrangements. They need to be efficient and also empathetic, ready to deal with the grieving.
