The Barker's Dozen - Reminiscences of an Early Police Dog (24 page)

As my uncle spoke, I felt my natural trepidation fading to be replaced by a fierce excitement that I hadn’t felt since my rugby days.

‘One final thing,’ my uncle said with mock seriousness. ‘Would those of you carrying pistols please refrain from firing in the direction of the dynamite; I would hate to give the press another reason to laugh at the force.’

The tension gradually mounted and it seemed hours later that I crouched in a noisome alley, my swordstick in my hand and waited for my uncle’s signal. There was the blast of a whistle and, almost simultaneously, a loud crashing noise as the backdoor gave way under Sergeant Allen’s first ferocious swing.

‘Come on.’ My uncle shouted and I followed him into the shop and through a kitchen into a passage that I knew from Snuffle’s description. Without thinking about it I opened the correct door and started down the cellar steps. From behind me on the ground floor I heard an exclamation of shock followed by a shot and the sounds of a fight.

I rounded the turn in the stairs to see the cellar before me just as Snuffles had described it. It was lit by a weak glow that emanated from the low tunnel.

By the tunnel mouth, a reel of cord was propped next to a solid looking clock that looked like it had come from the shop. There was something about the shadow cast by the clock that worried me so I motioned to the police officers to wait and then crept gingerly towards it.

I knelt by the clock and examined it in the dim light. An old-fashioned lady’s flintlock pistol had been attached to the back of the clock and a wire led from the trigger into the clock. The end of the cord, which proved to be a quick fuse, had been placed in the muzzle of the pistol. The fuse had been securely wadded into place.

With care I cut the fuse, and then with my thumb securely on the hammer, I raised the cover plate and blew the powder out of the pan. I then lowered the hammer fully, reassured that the primitive timing mechanism was disabled. I then crouched down and having called the officers on led the way into the tunnel.

You might think that I was being unnecessarily courageous, or perhaps stupid, to lead the way into that tight space when there were fitter and stronger men who would willingly have gone first; actually, my actions were dictated by sheer cold logic. I was the only one in the party who was likely to have much experience of working in tunnels, I knew about explosives and my swordstick gave me invaluable extra reach, essential in a cramped space where both adversaries would face each other on their hands and knees.

The touch of a paw against my calf told me that Snuffles had entered the tunnel immediately behind me; strangely reassured, I crawled forward.

I traversed the length of the tunnel unchallenged and soon reached a small chamber. Standing I looked hurriedly around. A lantern stood to one side on a pile of rubble. In front of me was a brick wall through which a hole had been driven. The fuse ran through this gap and into the darkness beyond.

I looked through the hole into a much larger space beyond. There was another faint light that seemed to be partially masked by some type of free-standing shelving. I could hear the noise of something scraping across a stone floor followed by the faint susurration of quiet conversation. For a moment, I was disorientated then I realised that I was looking into one of the Nocks' wine cellars. The faint light must be coming from a partially open dark lantern on one of the wine racks.

As I waited for my uncle to join me Snuffles agilely jumped through the hole and disappeared around one of the racks. I nearly called him back but realised that he probably knew what he was doing.

My uncle arrived and glanced through the hole. A few seconds later he stood and placed his mouth close to my ear. 'Let three of my men through before you enter the cellar.' His voice a mere thread of sound, was normally pitched, so it lacked a whisper’s betraying sibilance. 'Leave the villains to us, if possible, and just make sure that the explosives are safe.'

I nodded my acceptance and watched my uncle and three of his men clamber through the hole before I started after them. It must have been the stiffness in my wounded leg that caused me to be clumsy but I dislodged a loose piece of brick that fell with clatter on to the floor.

'Patrick, why are you here?' A cultured American voice asked, 'have you spotted something outside?'

I used the second’s grace while he waited for an answer to crouch behind one of the racks. I reached cover not a moment too soon because the light brightened and a beam of light was turned onto the hole.

'Patrick?' The voice asked again a concerned note now apparent. The light bobbed as the man moved a few paces forward for a better view. A metallic click sounded loud in the cellar and my uncle's voice rang out.

'Stay exactly where you are,' he ordered. 'You are under arrest.'

There was a bright flash that illuminated my uncle standing with a pistol extended; I saw him flinch as the sound of a shot echoed round the chamber. The chamber was lit again as my uncle fired, once, twice and again. In the flashes I saw O’Neil stagger forward, his gun flying from his hand and then he collapsed to the ground.

The darkness that followed was more intense than before. Our eyes had not yet readjusted before an eldritch scream echoed round the chamber, a scream that started as a baritone and ended as a falsetto shriek.

Confidently I stood up and walked forward, pausing only to pick up the lantern that O’Neil had dropped. I rounded the wine rack to see the last of the villains lying on the floor, moaning softly, his right wrist tightly grasped by his left hand. Behind him was a large pile of dynamite, already fused and on the floor a Vesta was burning itself out.

Snuffles looked at me and wagged his tail, ‘He was about to light the fuse,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t really think I had any alternative.’

‘Good boy,’ seemed to be the only appropriate response.

-----

It was several days later before Snuffles and I were alone together and I could ask him what had happened after I had returned home.

‘We had a very exciting time.’ Snuffles said, a burr of satisfaction in his voice, ‘my master shot the gun out of O’Neil’s hand and then put a bullet through his leg. As it wasn’t the one I bit, I can only commend your uncle on his marksmanship.’

‘My uncle arrested them all?’ I asked with a certain amused satisfaction, having heard from Aunt Mary that three of the villains had gone to the hospital; the forth, the lookout, had fired at Sergeant Allen and had ended up at the undertaker’s. A direct hit from a large sledgehammer tends to be very hard to shrug off.

‘Those that were left,’ Snuffles agreed, wagging his tail. ‘Our problems began when O’Neil claimed that one of the policemen had stolen a purse full of gold sovereigns.’

‘What happened?’ I asked, intrigued.

‘The Commissioner ordered that all the officers involved, and their houses, were to be searched in the presence of the accused’s solicitors,’ Snuffles replied. ‘My master volunteered to go first, although no one even suggested that someone of his rank would have taken anything from a prisoner.’

‘Did they find the gold?’ I asked.

‘Of course not,’ Snuffles replied, wagging his tail. ‘Canary found the purse in O’Neil’s bedding and appropriated it. I understand that she is whispering to her master as he sleeps that if he digs in the corner of the cellar he will find enough to open a shop out of town.’

‘Really?’

‘Of course she doesn’t know where out of town is but her pet has always wanted to live there.’ Snuffles paused and continued, ‘I do think that living in the country would help Sally make a full recovery.’

‘The money doesn’t belong to him,’ I observed in a somewhat prim tone. ‘If he finds it he should hand it in.’

‘Canary is doing her best to ensure that he suffers from no inconvenient ethical impulses.’ Snuffles raised his ears in a questioning manner, ‘who actually deserves to have this money: the anarchists, the government or the victims?’

On reflection I found that I agreed with Snuffles. Every so often true justice and the letter of the law are incompatible.

An extract from the journal of Miss Isobel Fraser, written for her sister, Lucy, in Boston.

I was very glad when Uncle Graham announced that we had been invited down to Arlesford for the weekend; partly because I was tired and needed a chance to relax but mainly because I wanted to see James again.

I must admit that I have viewed James in a new light after I heard about his confrontation with the Fenians. At first sight he comes over as a rather conceited but charming man; a bit of a dandy with no real substance to him. First impressions are sometimes very wrong. His leg injury limits his movements but he faced up to and beat off two thugs who attacked him in a dark alley.

We were the first of the weekend party to arrive and I had determined that I would sit and read for an hour or two when Sir Henry asked if I would join him for a short walk in the garden. Needless to say I accepted his kind invitation with genuine pleasure.

I was not surprised when we were joined by Ben and Tess, two of the ‘household pack’ which is the name Sir Henry gives to those of his older dogs who have retired to a life of idle luxury.

It was a glorious afternoon for a walk and I happily listened to the General as he described the garden and its plantings. I had not realised that many of the more exotic shrubs had been sent back to Arlesford by the General’s father, a tradition that continues to this day among the younger family members.

Our walk took us slowly along the side of the house and through the old walled garden with its orangery where the gardeners manage to grow fresh lemons and limes.

I wasn’t surprised to see, when Sir Henry ushered me through a small door in the garden wall, that we were heading towards the old stables where he breeds his Spaniels. We went into the building and in no time at all I was standing in a run looking at a rather proud Springer and her litter of seven well-grown puppies.

‘This is
Rosa,’ the General said, lightly knuckling her head. ‘She is one of Snuffles’ littermates, and as you can see one of the best Spaniels I have yet bred.’

The dog looked at me and gently wagged her tail, obviously in full agreement with Sir Henry’s words.

‘Snuffles is one of my favourite dogs.’ Sir Henry said crouching down and picking up one of the puppies, ‘I really must thank you for your courage in saving him. I am most deeply obliged.’

‘You are very kind, Sir Henry. I wasn’t brave at all you know. Once I saw Snuffles I just acted.’

‘Be that as it may,’ he said kindly passing me the puppy to hold. ‘I have discussed the matter with your uncle and he has agreed that I can give you a very special puppy as a token of my gratitude.’

I looked at the little animal in my arms and saw that her coat was composed of patches of black, brown and white fur. She moved in my hands and her small tongue gently licked my fingers.

‘This one?’ I asked, with an almost incredulous joy.

‘Yes, my dear,’ Sir Henry said with a laugh. ‘What are you going to call her?’

‘Clara.’

‘WHAT’S wrong old boy?’ I asked Snuffles, with a certain amount of concern as he held a rigid pose with an expression of noble suffering on his face. ‘Is it bad indigestion or have you pulled your back?’

Snuffles relaxed and turned an enquiring look on me where I was lounging by the lake at Arlesford smoking a cigar. With a slow deliberation he glanced around before looking back at me.

‘Was that remark addressed to me?’ He asked, ‘if it was I must assure you that not only am I in glowing health but I am also a perfect example of my breed.’

As he spoke my companion struck another interesting pose. It was no doubt intended to look noble but it looked to me as if he had sat upon a particularly nasty thistle. There was something so ludicrous about his stance that I snorted with laughter.

‘I trust that you are not laughing at my final statement,’ Snuffles growled, while getting slowly to his feet. ‘If you are, there will be an unfortunate incident involving my teeth and your rear.’

‘Nothing of the kind,’ I reassured him hastily, remembering the damage that he could inflict.

‘Then why were you laughing? Was it, as I suspect at me, or have you been overcome by some previously unsuspected idiocy?’

As he spoke my companion allowed his ears to drop, which taken with his very pompous delivery reminded me of a Punch cartoon of a judge and I started laughing again. My mirth was cut short when my companion started growling in a low fashion that promised much discomfort.

‘My most noble dog,’ I said hurriedly as Snuffles took a pace towards me. ‘You are without doubt the best of your breed: handsome, courageous, clever and witty. I could not conceive of a more worthy dog than your good self.’

‘These virtues cause you merriment?’ Snuffles inquired in a rather dangerous voice. I wasn’t out of the woods yet but at least he had stopped growling.

‘My mirth had nothing to do with either your character or your looks,’ I explained in a placatory fashion while reaching into my pocket for my silver cigar case. ‘The reason for my laughter was the ludicrous pose you had assumed. You looked in short like a Dowager Duchess meeting an unsuitable guest.’

‘I did not,’ my friend barked, stung anew by my remark.

‘If you would care to adopt the same pose again, I’ll show you what I mean.’ I offered while opening my cigar case.

Snuffles gave me a withering look but adopted much the same position as before. It was perhaps even funnier, because his air of offended dignity added to the comedy, but I bit my lip. I carefully angled the open case until the change in his expression indicated that my companion had seen his reflection.

This new expression triggered my laughter only this time he softly howled with me. After a while, we got ourselves under control.

‘Thank you, James,’ he said after a few more minutes. ‘But for your honest humour my pride would have resulted in me becoming a laughing stock. I would have been remembered as a figure of fun rather than the perfect example of an Arlesford Spaniel.’

‘What’s going on?’ I inquired with genuine curiosity. ‘You make it sound like you are being painted for posterity.’

‘But I am.’

I glanced at my companion to see if he was making fun of me, but I could tell from the set of his ears that he was telling the truth.

‘Please explain,’ I asked. ‘It is obviously a great honour, but it is news to me.’

‘Sir Henry considers himself to be an enlightened and very humane man.’ Snuffles began, with a certain amount of pomposity. ‘How could he be otherwise, when he has dedicated his retirement to Spaniels?

‘Some months ago Arlesford was visited by one of the senior churchmen from Winchester who, on being shown round the estate, happened to remark that the dogs lived in better accommodation than most of the rural poor.

‘I think that the cleric’s remark stung Sir Henry because he spent most of the next week riding round the estate visiting his tenants. The household dogs tell me that he became quite introspective and after a long conversation with Lady Amelia went up to
London for a few days.

‘Everything went quiet for a few weeks then Sir Henry announced that he was rebuilding all the estate cottages; this effectively includes the whole of Arlesford St Mary village. One of the buildings being replaced is the village tavern, which is being transformed from a dark and dingy one-room drinking hole to a modern inn with light airy rooms and some accommodation for visitors.

‘The villagers wanted to call the new inn The Thompson Arms but Sir Henry insisted that it be called the Arlesford Spaniel and has asked someone to paint me for the inn sign.’

‘It is right for the old man to think of his tenants’ living conditions.’ I mused, ‘but I will miss the quaint old-world charm of the village. I suppose that we will soon have neat rows of identical brick-built terraced houses?’

‘Not at all,’ Snuffles replied, throwing himself down on the grass by my side. ‘Sir Henry has taken great pains to ensure that the new village will retain its traditional charm. He is also building a water tower on Clerance Hill so that all the cottages can have running water.’

‘All our villagers are going to be quite middle class by the time Sir Henry finishes,’ I observed with a laugh.

‘Why shouldn’t they be?’ my companion retorted. ‘If you insist on good accommodation as a right why can’t they enjoy the same privileges? Or are you inherently better because you were born into a moneyed family?’

‘That’s rather a political question for a gun dog,’ I observed with a delighted chuckle. ‘You are of course completely right. Given my advantages, I have no doubt that any number of them could be successful in polite society. One good thing about the growth of this middle class will be a reduction in the amount of crime.’

‘I doubt that very much,’ Snuffles growled.

‘Oh my dogmatic Spaniel,’ I chided him. ‘Surely even you can accept that as more people become relatively affluent the amount of petty crime will drop. If you can afford to buy your bread why steal a loaf?’

‘Naïve pup,’ my companion snapped. ‘Many people steal just because they can. The only difference with the new middle classes is that their crime tends to be a bit more interesting because they have more opportunities.’

I snorted loudly and started to get up.

‘I see you don’t believe me. If you sit back I’ll illustrate my point with a recent case that your uncle solved.’

Snuffles settled his head comfortably on his paws and began.

-----

This case took place at the beginning of last autumn. If you remember, although the nights were really starting to draw in, the days were still quite lovely as we enjoyed a little summer of St Martin. Life, in short, should have been very good.

Some prominent cases had taken longer to solve than the press expected and their uninformed, but very vitriolic, editorials about the police had convinced the Home Secretary that he had to be seen taking some action. He therefore decided to ‘order a review into the workings of the Metropolitan Police and most especially the detective office to identify the causes of their inefficiencies.’  It is enough to make you weep considering that the vigilance of our office had saved that odious man from a particularly damaging scandal.

Mr Johnstone, a senior Civil Servant, was therefore appointed to look into the policing of
London. The Commissioner decided that it would be a good idea if an experienced police officer accompanied him, ostensibly to smooth his way. As soon as this idea was mooted the press changed tune and called for ‘the best detective at the Yard’.

As a direct result we spent most of that enjoyable autumnal weather visiting police stations all over the metropolis while my master kept explaining to the Civil Servant that it was impossible to set targets for detectives. There was no way that anyone could expect each burglary to be solved in a day or every murder in less than a week. The two of them, detective and bureaucrat, had been having this same argument for over a week when it came to a head one misty morning south of the Thames.

‘Thompson, I know you are well regarded by the press and I will admit that you have been very good at catching criminals,’ the Civil Servant sneered over his pince-nez. ‘You are however a complete amateur, with no idea of proper procedure.’

‘Now just look here…’ my master began, but he was interrupted as the Civil servant raised an admonitory finger and began speaking over him.

‘Inspector, I don’t want to insult you as you are undoubtedly the best detective we have,’ the odious man paused, ran the tip of his tongue over his lips then continued. ‘I took the precaution of reading up on some of your cases before starting this review and quite frankly to call you an amateur is no more than you deserve. You seem to solve some of your cases through such a combination of unknown informants and lucky finds as to completely stretch credulity. I believe that these handy coincidences are just there to disguise your fundamental problem.’

‘Which is?’ My master grated.

‘A lack of a coherent scientific system,’ Mr Johnston, stated pedantically. ‘You just do not know how to manage paper.’

‘Detection is not an exact science,’ my master retorted brusquely, thumping the desk with his fist for emphasis. ‘It is an art, an art that is about people who are notoriously hard to predict.’

‘You fail to see my point, Inspector, but I suppose you need to be shown a proof.’

‘What proof?’ your uncle stood up and towered aggressively over the smaller man. ‘All I’ve heard out of you so far is a lot of fatuous pontificating about things you don’t understand.’

‘If you feel that way, Thompson, I am just going to have to rub your arrogant nose in your shortcomings.’

‘How?’ my master asked in a deceptively pleasant tone of voice.

‘Simple, I will solve the next murder before you do,’ the beastly bureaucrat boasted. ‘My systematic method will soon rout your amateur approach. I reckon I can solve the next one in less than twenty four hours.’

‘Police work is not a game, Mr Johnstone and I will not treat any case in such a trivial manner.’ My master glared down at the other man, contempt heavy in his voice. 

‘You are afraid, Inspector?’ the lesser man asked, snidely. ‘I would have thought that you would have risen to the challenge but I suspect that you realise that you are already beaten.’

‘Not at all,’ my master retorted, hot with an anger that I have rarely seen. ‘I remember, however, that the interests of justice require us to consider two lives; that of the victim and that of the murderer. We have to check everything carefully or we risk sending an innocent man to the gallows, something that I am loath to do.’

With an incoherent oath the civil servant rose from his chair, pushed past your uncle and strode from the office. It didn’t take much imagination to see that there was trouble coming.

The first fruit of this argument came in the shape of Sergeant Harris whom the odious Johnstone recruited as an extra adviser, an addition that I could see from my master’s scowl and the bureaucrat’s grin presaged even more conflict. As the growing tension on a summer day heralds an approaching thunderstorm so did the atmosphere in our little group get ever more electric.

Harris was an ageing man who had passed the examination for sergeant at a relatively young age but just did not have the talent to become an inspector. If he had accepted his lot, he would probably have made a very good officer who might, through sheer diligence, have been promoted. Unfortunately, he felt slighted and became ever more obstinate and irascible as he saw those he felt were less talented promoted over him. This attitude of course destroyed any hope he had left of preferment.

When people like your uncle were brought straight into the force as inspectors by Director Vincent they became the personal targets of his animosity. I could see very well that he was the perfect assistant for Mr Johnstone and I once more started pondering whether I could bite first in my master’s defence.

Two days later we were all sitting in the inspector’s office of a new police station, snarling at each other in our accustomed manner, when the desk sergeant knocked on the door and announced that there had been a murder.

‘Oh good,’ Mr Johnstone exclaimed, leaping to his feet in excitement. ‘Thompson, this is where I prove that you are nothing but a bumbling amateur.’

‘Mr Johnstone,’ my master replied with an icy politeness. ‘For the last time, I warn you that I will brook no interference with a murder case. You would be well advised to leave matters to the police.’

‘Mere pompous bluster, Thompson,’ the bombastic bureaucrat replied. ‘You know that you cannot compete with me and are forced to resort to pathetic threats, veiled though they are.’

‘Believe what you will, it makes no difference.’ My master said dismissively before turning his attention to the resident inspector. ‘Now Graves shall we hear what your fellows have to tell us?’

The story was quite simply told although Mr Johnstone’s annoying cross-questioning slowed matters up.  It is my belief that everything he asked was designed not to aid our understanding of the problem but to highlight possible inefficiencies in the constable’s performance of his duty.