The Barker's Dozen - Reminiscences of an Early Police Dog (14 page)

‘I can answer your question easily,’ the Station Master said affably. ‘No passengers caught the milk train Tuesday morning.’

‘Are you certain?’ Inspector Harris asked.

‘Absolutely,’ the Station Master continued. ‘You see the milk train was delayed because the gentleman was ten minutes late for his special train. When he arrived it was along the tracks and not through the station entrance.’

‘What gentleman?’ the two inspectors asked simultaneously.

‘Why
, Mr O’Brien,’ the Station Master replied. ‘He may have been late, but he apologised vociferously and was handsome with his gratuities. He is a real gent.’

‘What arrangements did he make for his special?’ Inspector Harris asked.

‘Mr O’Brien sent his man on Saturday morning to make the arrangements, which was odd, as most specials are arranged through the head office.’ He paused and then continued, ‘the time of the train was also slightly unusual, especially as it was only from Swanage to Christchurch.’

Inspector Harris asked the Station Master if he could describe the man who had arranged the train. That worthy happily obliged and although the description meant nothing to me, it was obvious Inspector Harris recognised the person. He said nothing in response to my master’s quiet question.

We were on the train back to Wareham before Inspector Harris told us what he had learnt. The man who arranged the special train was none other than Richard Adams, Mr Littleton’s servant! That and the fact that the train had been arranged a day before O’Brien had come to Wareham suggested that the facts were not as clear as they seemed to be.

‘When you examined Fromebridge Manor, did you find any of Mr Littleton’s financial papers?’ my master asked while lazily playing with his pipe. Knowing your uncle well, I knew that he had solved the case. All we had to do was prove his theory, whatever it was.

‘I can’t remember off-hand,’ Inspector Harris admitted. ‘I did have the contents of the Manor listed and we can look that up back in my office.’

We returned to the police station and my master, Inspector Harris and Sergeant Taylor examined the list of the manor’s contents
: not only were there were no financial papers but there were no easily saleable items of any value within the manor.

‘Sergeant,’ my master asked, ‘when you interviewed Mrs Field did she mention any identifying marks on her husband?’

‘She didn’t, Sir,’ the sergeant replied. ‘But it is common knowledge that Fred has a ragged scar on his right side, caused by a shot from a spring gun when he was poaching as a young man.’

‘Thank you
, Sergeant.’ My master turned to Inspector Harris. ‘I have one question to ask Doctor Coates.’

We went to the doctor’s house and were fortunate to catch him at home. A pleasant middle
-aged woman asked us to wait in the study and within a few minutes the doctor joined us. After the normal pleasantries, Inspector Harris asked if he had seen any scars or marks on Mr Littleton’s body. The doctor sorted through the papers on his desk and produced a sketch of a male torso. Clearly shown was a ragged scar on the right hand side.

‘I sketched this while examining the body,’ Doctor Coates observed. ‘All his wounds were so singular that I wanted a permanent record.’

Inspector Harris passed the sketch to Sergeant Taylor. The sergeant took one look at it and said, ‘That is a drawing of Fred Field’s scar.’

All at once, the fiendish nature of the plot became clear. Worried that O’Brien was on the verge of finding him, the villain knew that discovery meant the end of his privileged way of life. Mr Littleton, or John Shaw
, as we now knew him to be, had faked his own death by killing Fred Field and leaving evidence pointing to O’Brien. Unfortunately, he had been just a bit too clever for his own good.

That at least was the obvious conclusion, but your uncle has never been one to accept unsubstantiated theories. After a short discussion with Inspector Harris concerning the case, my master decided to go to
Christchurch to see if he could ascertain Mr Littleton’s movements early on Tuesday morning. We did, after all, have a murderer to catch.

We dined that evening at the King’s Arms Hotel on
Christchurch crab and local lamb. Inspector Lawton joined us and told several interesting stories of the local smugglers and the tunnels that ran under the town.

As it was a lovely night, my master decided to finish the evening with a good walk. With this in mind
, we left the hotel and, after crossing a small bridge, walked down a narrow piece of land between the main river and what I took to be a mill stream. The night was warm and quite light with only a few small clouds obscuring the majesty of the moon. I walked contentedly by my master’s side looking at the river and deciding where I would swim the following day. One of your uncle’s rules has always been no swimming after dark unless in the course of duty, a rule that I have always tried to obey, even though I disagree with it.

Part way along this path my master stopped and having filled his pipe leant against a tree for a reflective smoke. I could see that he was absorbed in looking at the church and its attendant castle ruins so I decided to wander off for a small sniff round.

I was enjoying myself when I became aware that I was under observation and looking round carefully saw a small fox watching me from behind a tree. Foxes do tend to be a bit cautious with dogs, for some very understandable reasons. However, when approached politely and in a non-threatening manner most foxes will prove to be good informants. Their reputation for slyness comes from the fact that the average fox knows how to profit from everything that goes on in its territory.

‘Good evening,’ I said very politely. ‘My name is Snuffles and I am staying with my master at the King’s Arms for a few days.’

‘Ah yes, the London detective,’ my new acquaintance said knowingly. ‘The hotel dog was telling me that we had a distinguished visitor in our little town. The name’s Reynard Todd, by the by, at your service. If you have a few moments I would be grateful to learn the reason for your visit.’

Foxes are by their nature very curious animals and given the slightest encouragement are prepared to gossip for hours. A most useful character trait if you are investigating a case. Without hesitation, I settled down and ran through the facts of the case.

Reynard listened intently to my account of the crime. Occasionally he gently swished his tail in concentration when we reached the more exciting parts of the story. When I finished talking, I lowered my head on to my paws and waited for the fox to comment. 

‘An interesting tale and no mistake,’ he said after a few minutes thought. ‘I think that I am in the position to add a bit more to your knowledge. Four days ago, I was finishing my night’s hunting on the marsh. I am partial to the occasional waterfowl and I was stalking a rather unobservant swan when a man came striding along the path. I had to abandon my hunt and take cover in some bushes until he had passed.

‘As I watched a second man came running quietly down the path and catching sight of the other shouted, “Shaw, I have you now.” Obviously, no one had ever told him how to hunt chickens because the first man span round and raised his stick in a threatening manner.

‘With a roar the newcomer lunged at his quarry with the obvious intention of wrestling him to the ground. Unfortunately, he slipped on a small patch of mud and while he was off balance, the first man swung his stick hard into his pursuer’s head knocking him off his feet and the path at the same time.

‘Seeing what he had done, the first man threw away his stick and ran blindly off down the path’

‘Which way did he go?’ I asked keenly

‘The path crosses a channel on a small footbridge just past this place,’ Reynard said with a surprising amount of suppressed excitement. ‘The man was running with all the intelligence of a panicked sheep. For some reason he missed his footing and fell from the plank into the water. As far as I know he didn’t come up again.’

‘How do I find this bridge?’ I asked my new friend and was gratified to receive clear instructions. It was with a wag in my tail that I returned to my master and the hotel. I knew that our morning walk would be unexpectedly interesting for him.

To my great pleasure, my master woke up very early in the morning and, having dressed, took me out into the predawn stillness. It was, I remember, a cold clear morning with a touch of mist rising from the river. Across the road from the hotel, the dark mass of the castle ruins stood clear against a starry sky. Your uncle turned right away from the river and I deduced that we were working. With a loud and long-suffering sigh, I put away happy thoughts of chasing sleepy ducks and finding the footbridge. Knowing that it would wait, I walked quietly by my master’s side.

It did not surprise me that your uncle started walking back towards the station as he was obviously trying to find out what
had happened after Mr Littleton reached the town.

We had just passed the police station when my master suddenly stopped and looked into a dark archway. There in the shadows a man was busily harnessing a horse to a cart.

‘Good morning, my man,’ my master greeted him warmly. ‘I was wondering if you could possibly assist me?’

‘If I can, I will sir,’ the man said, walking out towards the road.

‘I am investigating a recent murder,’ my master began.

‘The ones over Purbeck way?’ the man asked quietly but with a sudden keen interest
, and I deduced that this conversation would be retold with great relish in at least one of Christchurch’s many inns before the end of the day.

‘The very same
,’ your uncle confirmed, ‘I am trying to trace the movements of a man involved in this case and I was wondering whether you saw any strangers at about this time on Tuesday morning?’

‘Now that you mention it,
sir, there was one very rum fellow walking about at that time. He was walking briskly in the direction of Bridge Street, whistling quite loudly as he walked.’

‘You say he was rum looking?’

‘Unusual certainly: he was impeccably dressed as if he was coming back from some grand function, with a gold-handled stick in his left hand. It wasn’t that which made him memorable, sir, but the fact that he was wearing walking boots and carrying a pair of heavy saddlebags over his shoulder.’

After a few more questions, it was apparent that this local worthy could not help us any further.
Thanking him for his time, my master and I proceeded with our enquiries.

My master took me first to the station and then to the local barracks before returning to the King’s Arms. This route seemed to me to cover all the ways in which Mr Littleton might have returned to the station. Although your uncle asked everyone we met, no one else could remember seeing a stranger on the morning in question.

As we reached the hotel, I expected that my master would turn up the steps into the building for an early breakfast. To my pleasure, he continued on, over the bridge in the same direction that the fox had told me led to the marsh.

There is a rather nice town house just past the hotel in
Christchurch, located on a short stretch of road between two bridges. As we approached, a young maidservant was busy scrubbing the front steps.

‘Good
morning,’ my master greeted her politely. ‘I wonder if you could spare me a few moments?’

The girl started and looked up at us warily, then suddenly smiled in such an open way that I knew we had a very willing witness, provided
, of course, that she had anything to relate.

‘Certainly,
sir,’ she replied happily dropping her brush into the pail and advancing towards us. ‘Are you the famous London detective who’s staying at the King’s Arms while investigating them foul murders over at Wareham? My sister will be jealous when she realises that you’ve spoken to me.’

‘I am indeed,’ answered my master, seemingly slightly nonplussed by this very voluble interlocutor.

This type of thing is always happening to us; it does not take long for the presence of one of Scotland Yard’s finest detectives to become common knowledge throughout an area. I suppose that gossiping about crime, criminals and the great detectives brings some interest to otherwise drab and boring days. We suffer more than most, I think, because no other detective owns such a personable dog.

‘Do you clean the steps about this time every morning?’ the great detective cleverly enquired.

‘Most days, sir,’ the girl replied.

‘Can you recall seeing anything or anyone out of the ordinary last Tuesday morning?’

‘I did indeed,’ the girl replied after a moment’s thought. ‘I saw the man who’s been taken by Inspector Lawton for the murder. He staggered past, drunk as a lord, covered in blood. I will remember to my dying day the sight of his right hand covered in blood. Red it was, almost to the elbow. I felt most peculiar afterwards, I did and all.’

‘Why haven’t you come forward with this tale?’
my master asked gently. ‘I would have thought that a bloodstained man walking out of town should have been reported at the police station.’

‘He wasn’t leaving town,’ the girl replied. ‘He was going back towards the hotel. Anyway, I didn’t see that it was any of my business, seeing as I knew that he had taken a room there. I always hold that if you pay no attention to trouble then it won’t notice you.’