The Barker's Dozen - Reminiscences of an Early Police Dog (34 page)

‘Some times I think he understands everything I say,’ Richard said reflectively and, glancing up, I saw a strange half smile on the General’s face.

I will not detail my conversation with James but it will suffice to say that I made my peace with him and the rest of the weekend was far more to my liking.

I had come down to Arlesford for a long weekend with my uncle, partly for the pleasure of my relatives' company but also for a chance to think about some of the problems that were starting to confront me.  To be blunt, my work for the government was not very interesting and did not provide enough stimulation to satisfy my needs.

I was not the type of man who is happy to occupy a mere sinecure and I needed to find a satisfying occupation. It was with these thoughts in mind that I set off with Snuffles for a small walk round the estate before supper. For the first time I understood why my uncle had decided to become a detective. He was doing something that satisfied his need to work and his high altruistic motives.

Our walk led us, eventually, as it normally did, towards the kennels where my Grandfather continued the family tradition of breeding the best ‘Springer Spaniels that a gentleman could own’. It was from one of the litters bred in this converted stable block that my uncle had chosen the young Snuffles.

I was somewhat dumbfounded when I emerged from the walled kitchen garden into a small lane expecting to see a paddock between the old stable block and myself, and was instead confronted by a newly raised bank that surrounded a field of kale.

Even allowing for the fact that I had not been down to the house for some time it was a surprising development, as my Grandfather is always rather opposed to change.

‘What’s this?’ I asked rhetorically. ‘Has the General become a gentleman farmer in his old age?’

I should have known better than to air any question in Snuffles’ hearing because he replied in a rather superior manner.

‘No, he had it planted for Pepper.’

‘Pepper?’ I echoed, completely at a loss. ‘Who is Pepper?’

Snuffles looked at me and slowly lifted his ears in a pitying gesture.

‘If we wander over to the fish pond, I will tell you the story of what the newspapers dubbed the Hazel Brook Horror, while you enjoy a pipe.’

I followed Snuffles’ suggestion since I am always ready to listen to one of his tales.

When we were both comfortably settled, he lowered his head onto his paws and began.

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Hazel Brook Cottage is one of the tied cottages on the King's Stone Estate near Winterbourne Somer in
Dorset. It is a lovely tranquil place that is completely unsuited to be the location for one of the most unpleasant cases we investigated. The cottage was occupied by Ben Fleming who was the kennel master and assistant head gamekeeper on the estate.

One particularly fine June morning, one of the dairy maids, Elizabeth Cooper, who was engaged to young Fleming, took a small measure of fresh milk to her fiancé’s cottage. She did this every morning between the first milking and the start of the day’s other activities while the other dairy maids were eating breakfast. As she opened the cottage door, she felt a slight resistance followed by a roaring explosion.

The noise and her screams brought other people running from the dairy and into the cottage where they found Miss Cooper sobbing brokenly by a chair where her lover sat dead, in what was described as a ‘diabolical machine’.

It looked as if the young man had chosen to commit suicide in a particularly cruel and nasty fashion. As his shotgun had been rigged to fire when someone entered the cottage, he had obviously decided to die by someone else's hand and most likely that of his lover.

When Inspector Hastings came on the scene, he was told of a bad lovers' quarrel and was left to draw an obvious conclusion. He spent the morning walking round the cottage, kennels and some old stables, then to everyone's surprise announced that he was calling the Yard in as a murder had been committed. Leaving several constables on guard, he then arrested Elizabeth Cooper and having photographed the scene with his own camera, arranged for the body to be taken to Dorchester for a post mortem. He then returned to his office and sent a long telegram to the Yard detailing the case and summoning assistance.

Before we left London my master received a note from his superior telling him to clear up the case quickly as Lord Ballard, who owns King's Stone, had complained to the Home Secretary about 'heavy handed police incompetence'. This ‘instruction’ annoyed your uncle as he refuses to believe that justice should be for the personal convenience of the upper classes. His mood lightened considerably once we had left
London behind and were travelling through the countryside.

During the journey down, Sergeant Allen and my master discussed the outlines of the case as far as it was detailed in
Hastings’ excellent telegram.

Dorchester
is, in its way, a perfect example of an English county town. There is a country sophistication, which, although mocked by some of the smarter Londoners, appeals to me. The people seem to be friendlier and more honest, although some would call them ‘simple’. Previous travels with my master had shown that the town is served by a good river with several very commodious swimming beaches, and the local bacon is without equal. I must admit that it was with a very contented tail wag that I alighted from the train, my mind focussed more on pleasure than duty.

Sergeant Allen had arranged our trip with his usual efficiency and it was a simple matter to ask a porter to take our bags to our usual inn while we took a cab to the police station.

As we approached the doors, we could hear that a loud argument was taking place in the station. ‘I know that voice’ my master said and, with a sudden quickening of interest, walked up the few steps into the building.

A man in his twenties, and one of the local landed gentry by his clothing, was shaking a fist under the nose of a man at least fifteen years his senior. 

‘I don’t care, Inspector,’ the young man shouted. ‘The girl is one of my father’s servants and I demand that you release her into my charge.’

‘That I can’t do, Sir,’ the older man replied calmly; his slow, even Dorsetshire accent seemed to irritate his interlocutor even more.

‘Of course you can man. Are you unaware of who I am?’

‘Yes Sir, I know that you are the Honourable Herbert Vasio, Lord Ballard’s heir. I also know that unless you stop waving your fist in my face I will arrest you for disorderly behaviour and you can explain yourself in court tomorrow.’

‘I am going to see my father, Inspector and after he has told the Chief Constable of your infamous behaviour to me I am sure that you will be removed.’

With that threat the young man span on his heel so that he could stride dramatically from the station only to find that he was face to face with my master.

‘Richard!’ He cried stepping backwards in surprise. ‘Just the man I need.’

‘Indeed?’ Your uncle asked.

‘This bucolic idiot has arrested one of my father’s servants and I want her released.’ There was an arrogance about the young man that I found extremely distasteful. ‘He refuses to comply; as a Yard man surely you can order him to do what I require?’

‘Herbert, I assume that the girl in question is Elizabeth Cooper?’ My master waited until the young man agreed before continuing in a cold voice, ‘you seem to be labouring under several misapprehensions.

‘Firstly, just because you are the son of Lord Ballard you have absolutely no right to interfere in Inspector Hastings’ investigation. Secondly, if you, or your father, attempt to prejudice the Chief Constable against the Inspector I will be forced to remember your recent, infamous behaviour at Arlesford. Finally, I do not like bullies and if I see you ever threaten another police officer I will personally throw you into a cell.’ 

The young man stood there for a moment, his mouth opening and closing like a stranded trout, before he muttered a curse and strode from the building in a towering rage. Seconds later I heard a horse squeal as he savagely kicked it into motion.

‘Inspector Thompson,’ the older man walked forward with his hand out. ‘Andrew Hastings, at your service.’

My master introduced Sergeant Allen and myself. Once the pleasantries were completed,
Hastings showed us through into his office and gestured for everyone to sit.

‘I am quite relieved that you managed come down here so quickly,’
Hastings said casually filling his pipe. ‘I have already had a note from the Chief Constable as well as personal approaches from Lord Ballard and his charming son.’

‘What type of approaches?’ my master asked with a keen interest.

‘You were greeted with the son’s idea of diplomacy,’ the Dorset man said with a short laugh. ‘Lord Ballard sent me a note that said as the victim had obviously committed suicide there was no need to investigate the case.’

‘You doubt that Fleming killed himself?’

‘The blood pattern was wrong. Guns are common down here and I have seen several shootings, both suicides and murder, and the basic fact is that shotguns make a lot of mess. Blood flies everywhere in a characteristic spray pattern that can help in the solution of the case.

‘As soon as I saw the body I knew that this shooting was odd. Young Fleming’s chest had been blown apart but there was insufficient blood. I am quite convinced that he was already dead long before he was shot and I think that he probably bled out before he was put into that infernal device.

‘I left a Sergeant and two good men on duty, Inspector, but experience has taught me that crime scenes are somewhat vulnerable and the longer you wait the more likely it is that someone will have tidied up.’

‘Is that why your report states that you photographed the scene?’ my master asked, with professional interest, as photography is starting to be used by the City of London Police but has yet to be adopted by the Yard.

‘I always photograph the scenes of suspicious deaths and the corpses, both in situ and later at the mortuary,’ Hastings replied in a slightly lecturing tone. ‘Some of my colleagues and the local press accuse me of ghoulishness but I have found that photographs are very persuasive when you want to convince a jury.’

‘I would deem it as a great favour if we could discuss this further before Sergeant Allen and I have to return to
London.’ I could tell that my master was very interested in Hastings’ work and, with an obvious reluctance, dragged himself back to the subject in hand. ‘You were about to suggest that we go to Winterbourne Somer?’

‘Yes, Inspector, I think that would be the best plan.’

‘Would it not be wise to talk to Miss Cooper before we go to the village?’ Sergeant Allen interjected. ‘Then we could at least weigh the veracity of her statement against our own observations.’

‘A good point, Sergeant,’
Hastings replied with a laugh. ‘I will ask her to come through while a trap is being readied for our use.’

‘Before you fetch her in, why did you arrest her?’ my master asked as
Hastings reached the door.

‘Everyone I spoke to in the village, with the exception of Miss Cooper, tried to persuade me that Fleming had committed suicide after a lovers’ quarrel. They were all so positive that I began to fear that the fiancée might, involuntarily, follow suit,’ the
Dorset man answered enigmatically and left the room. Sergeant Allen looked after him and muttered something about ‘strange country notions’ under his breath.

After a few minutes, the door opened and Inspector Hastings ushered a very pretty young woman into the room. Although she was dressed in the simple clothes of a country maid, she carried herself with a truly regal bearing. With his normal great courtesy, my master stood and helped her to a chair.

‘Miss Cooper, these Gentlemen are Inspector Thompson and Sergeant Allen from Scotland Yard,’ Hastings said making the introductions. ‘I would appreciate it if you repeat what you told me this morning.’

‘Yes, Inspector,’ she looked carefully at each of us as if weighing our personalities in a balance. Seemingly reassured she smiled sadly at my master and began her tale.

‘I was employed as a dairy maid at the Home Farm on the King’s Stone estate. It was a pleasant job. The people who work in the dairy are very kind and Lord Ballard believes in caring for his staff. I say that I was employed there because I don’t think that I can ever go back. My troubles began in the middle of last year when Lord Ballard’s heir, the Honourable Herbert Vasio, saw me walking towards church.

‘The rumour was that he had been made to come back to King’s Stone by his father to avoid a scandal in
London. The gossips, who may be far from the truth, said that it involved a servant girl and that his Lordship had paid out a handsome sum to her family to ensure their discretion. The young man was apparently in need of entertainment and seemed to decide that I was just the diversion he wanted.

‘It started innocently enough and I was rather flattered by his attentions but after a while he started making his intentions very clear. I had been walking out with Ben Fleming for quite a while and it was apparent that we would eventually marry. Ben was a very kind man but it was obvious that he disapproved of the Honourable Herbert’s advances to me although he accepted that I was not encouraging a rival. Eventually Ben put a stop to the problem by the simple expedient of proposing to me.

‘Ben approached Lord Ballard after church the following Sunday and told him of our plans. The old man seemed to be genuinely pleased and said that he would be letting us have a larger cottage on the estate after our marriage as a sort of wedding present. After that the son left me alone and I soon forgot about him as I busied myself with wedding preparations.’