The Barker's Dozen - Reminiscences of an Early Police Dog (35 page)

‘Lord Ballard seems to have approved of your fiancé, was there any particular reason?’ my master asked the girl when she paused for a moment in her account.

‘Why yes, Inspector,’ she continued with the faintest trace of a smile. ‘Lord Ballard wanted to perfect his Springers and, as Ben had previously worked for one of the best breeders, he had hopes of rivalling even the Arlesford Spaniels. If you look at any of the Ballard Spaniels you will see how much he had achieved.’

‘I was helping Ben in the kennels one evening when I heard a horse in the yard. Looking outside, I saw the Honourable Herbert dismount and walk into the centre of the yard where he shouted for my fiancé. The young man was obviously slightly drunk and, unfortunately, he is one of those men who become violent and beastly when they are in their cups. His belligerent behaviour was starting to upset the dogs so Ben hurried over to our visitor.

‘I heard enough of the conversation to realise that the Honourable Herbert was telling Ben that he still wanted me and that he always took what he wanted. My fiancé was naturally incensed and told him that he would make allowances because of Herbert’s drunken state but if he ever approached me again Lord Ballard would hear of it.

‘Lord Ballard’s heir then held out a purse that Ben angrily struck from his hand. The Honourable Herbert stepped back and looking at my man said, “You fool. How will you protect her if you die?” in a voice so full of menace that it chilled my heart. Ben laughed in his face and said that he had nothing to fear from a drunken ne’er-do-well.

‘Enraged, the young man span around, walked over to his horse and mounted it. As he rode out of the yard, Pepper was led through the same gate by one of the kennel maids. The brute suddenly lent down and whipped his riding crop over the dog’s eyes blinding him instantly. I have never seen anything so callous, so cruel. After attacking Pepper, the monster rode away laughing.

‘Ben ran to the dog and although he tried everything, he could not save Pepper’s sight. He carried Pepper into the cottage and, as I tried to make the dog comfortable, my man wrote a hurried note and told the distraught kennel maid to take it to the big house.

‘A short while afterwards, the cruel coward returned, with a shotgun held loosely in his right hand, and shouted that he had come to put down a crippled dog. Ben walked up to him, ripped the gun out of the beast’s hand and pushed him away; the Herbert staggered backwards before falling onto his rear. It was at this precise moment that Lord Ballard entered the yard.

‘“Fleming just assaulted me, Father,” the young man cried out accusingly. “Dismiss the rogue this instant.” Lord Ballard glared at him and then quietly told him to return to the house and sober up. Rebelliously, the son left the yard but not without one final murderous glance at my fiancé.

‘Lord Ballard ordered Ben to tell him everything which my fiancé did with some hesitation. The old man reassured him that he would not act against a loyal employee who was just doing his job. I could tell that his Lordship was shocked by his son’s behaviour. He apologised and assured us that we would have no more trouble. The Honourable Herbert left King’s Stone the next morning and only returned last week.

‘Pepper’s injury affected the old man quite greatly and, after stroking his head, he told Ben to put the dog down as there was no point in prolonging its suffering. Ben refused to obey his employer’s order and eventually convinced Lord Ballard that not only could a blind dog enjoy life but he would also be able to sire the next generation.

‘Ben and I had decided to get married at the end of August since a wedding in harvest time seemed to be a good omen. Pepper’s wounds healed and, although he was blind, he used to trot about the kennel yard as if he could still see. Knowing that young Springers love running around madly, Ben enclosed a small paddock with low earthen banks and then planted it up with lines of kale. After a short time, Pepper was running up and down the rows of kale with the plants brushing against both flanks.

‘Last night, I went for a walk with Ben after supper. Just before we parted, he told me that Mr Jackson, the Head Gamekeeper, was worried about an increase in poaching and had asked Ben to patrol Drayman’s Wood after dark. This was a usual occurrence so I did not think anything more about it.

‘This morning I went up to the cottage with Ben’s milk as usual. I knocked on the door; and as there was no reply, turned the handle. There was a slight strange resistance then the door opened. There was a terrible explosion and I saw Ben jerk violently in his chair.

‘I ran to his side and remained there until Lord Ballard arrived with his son. Someone took me back to my room and tried to make me drink something, but I refused. Later Smith, the village constable, came to see me and asked if Ben and I had quarrelled or if I knew why he had killed himself. Ben would never have killed himself; he had no reason to. If he had been confronted by a large problem he would have faced up to it. He was no coward.

‘Later when I was sitting outside trying to understand the tragedy that had befallen me I realised that someone had murdered him and I could think of only one man who had a reason to hate my fiancé. If Herbert Vasio had murdered Ben then I knew that I wasn’t safe.

‘To my intense relief Inspector Hastings was dissatisfied with the suicide theory and as I had discovered the body decided to invite me to come into
Dorchester for further questioning.’

The girl sat back exhausted and began to cry as she remembered the full desolation of her life and plans. Naturally, the men tried to comfort her but she was still crying when Inspector Hastings helped her from the room.

A few minutes later Hastings returned and having collected his hat and coat led us out into a courtyard where a constable was waiting with a smart two-horse carriage. As we made ourselves comfortable, the Dorset Inspector pointed to a box attached to the back of the vehicle and told us that, as it would be evening before we reached Winterbourne Somer, he had taken the precaution of bringing some lanterns and other necessities. I hoped that some cake would feature in his supplies because, although he was a very efficient man, Inspector Hastings had shown himself to be regrettably slow in offering a starving dog some nourishment.

‘I have asked Constable Miller to stop here so that you can see the body and talk to Doctor Baird who has examined it,’ Inspector Hastings said as the constable swung the carriage into the courtyard of the hospital. Anticipating my master’s command to stay, I curled up and napped in the afternoon sunshine until the men returned.

‘That rather definitively removes the notion of suicide, I think,’ my master remarked as he climbed back into the carriage after the other two men. ‘This can only be a deliberate murder.’

‘Could it possibly be a manslaughter?’ Sergeant Allen asked. ‘Young Fleming might have died accidentally and then the killer, panicking, could have tried to conceal his involvement.’

‘That theory just will not do, Sergeant,’ Hastings replied, gesturing for the constable to drive off. ‘Let me just summarise Doctor Baird’s findings and you will see the impossibility of your suggestion.

‘The Doctor is certain that young Fleming was killed sometime around
midnight last night, give or take an hour or so. He was shot in the chest from very close range with a shotgun, probably smaller than a twelve bore. The later shooting with Fleming’s twelve bore was intended to disguise the earlier wound.  Unfortunately for the killer, two different types of pellet were recovered from the body.

‘Shotguns are favoured by poachers who like to shoot at quite short ranges so that they can quickly retrieve their kill and leave the area before a gamekeeper arrives. I would agree that a gamekeeper could be easily shot by accident, or  even design, by a poacher but I can see no reason why such a killer would then take the body back into the village and fake a suicide.

‘The lack of blood convinces me the Fleming did not die in his cottage and the doctor says that he suffered some injuries which would have been consistent with his being moved after death. Finally, the infernal device is a complex mechanism and must have been designed, in advance, by someone who knew the inside of the cottage.’

‘We have to find where he died,’ my master remarked. ‘It might be worth our while seeing if Snuffles here can pickup a trail.’

I looked suitably noble but I did not hold out much hope for success. It can be really difficult following a cold trail through a strange wood as your uncle would know if he ever bothered to try it for himself.

Eventually we came through a gap in some trees and saw Winterbourne Somer nestled in a valley beneath us. The village was strung out along the side of a small stream between the two main focuses of traditional rural life; the church and the inn. I was pleased to see that the tavern had survived as, in some parts of the country, teetotal gentry had imposed their temperance on everyone else by closing down the inns. A really monstrous breach of droit du seigneur if you ask me. Firstly, the farm hands work very hard for little pay and deserve to have their pleasures. On the other paw, where is a Spaniel going to find good
Dorset bacon if they close the inns?

However, I digress. We went through the village attracting some interested looks and comments from men drinking outside the ‘Ballard Arms’ to the effect ‘that any fool could see that young Ben done his self, any fool but smart London cops that is’. We ignored their drunken blatherings with noble disdain. We quickly left the village and came to the home farm where a small knot of interested idlers by a gate pinpointed Hazel Brook Cottage.

We drove up to the gate, which a constable opened for us and went through into the kennel yard, while the policeman closed the gate keeping all the idlers out except for one enterprising youth who came through to hold the horses.

Our arrival triggered a cacophony of barks from the twenty or thirty Spaniels housed in the kennels. It was a happy racket that continued until your uncle had walked over to the runs and pulled as many ears as he could reach. They were nice dogs although they did lack that final polish that only comes with exceptionally good breeding.

The supposed murder scene was as interesting as we had been led to expect. I had envisaged a shotgun crudely wedged against a piece of furniture with a length of string running to the door latch. One glance and it was obvious that the whole event had been thoroughly planned. Two spring traps had been nailed to the table to support the shotgun, and straps that I identified as dog collars secured the gun in the traps’ closed jaws. A stout cord ran from the trigger to the door, the path of the cord being defined by broad-headed nails that kept it from fouling on any furniture. A quick sniff told me that the cord had been greased where it passed over the nails. A painstakingly carved wooden mechanism was attached to door latch.

My master had the triggering device reassembled on a plank of wood so that it could be shown to the coroner’s jury. The string from the gun’s trigger was tied to a small leather bag of lead shot. This weight hung from a peg by the side of the door latch in such away that the end of the trigger string hung in a short loop. The peg was cut in a conical cross section and greased so that the weight of the bag would tend to pull it from its hole. When the mechanism was armed, the peg was kept in the hole by a beautifully carved wooden spring that located into a grove in the peg’s surface and braced it against the door latch. Once the latch moved, the spring would be released and the bag would fall pulling the trigger. Anyone opening the door would only feel a faint resistance before the retaining spring gave way.

Reassembling the device revealed the reason for its complexity; once the trap was armed, the door could be eased shut without releasing the spring. A partially open rear window was, in my master’s opinion, a clever attempt at misdirection.

We were still inside the cottage doorway when an elderly man rode up and dismounted. From his air of authority, I reasoned that this must be Lord Ballard. From his rather flushed features, I deduced that he was not very pleased and that we were the objects of his ire.

‘I say, Hastings, this just will not do!’ The man shouted. ‘I will not stand for your trying to make something out of an obvious suicide. Off my property, Sir, this instant! Do you hear?’

‘Lord Ballard,’
Hastings replied in a firm and reasonable tone while he stepped toward the belligerent landowner, ‘in my professional opinion Fleming was murdered and it is my duty to investigate all suspicious deaths.’

‘Poppycock, young man,’ Lord Ballard bellowed, his face turning an interesting purple shade in the evening light. ‘You will not further your career at my expense.’

‘Lord Ballard,’ Hastings said with a quiet dignity. ‘I called in Scotland Yard and my London colleague agrees with my belief that this was a murder. Indeed we also have physical evidence that Ben Fleming did not commit suicide.’

My master chose that moment to leave the cottage and support
Hastings. Lord Ballard glanced at us in irritation and then, as he saw me, his expression changed and a look of delight entered his eyes.

‘How are you, my dear boy?’ Lord Ballard shook my master’s hand warmly, ‘my son told me that he had met a Scotland Yard man in
Dorchester. It never occurred to me that it was you, although I do recall that the General mentioned your odd choice of career the last time I went to Arlesford.’

‘Quite well, Sir,’ my master responded politely. ‘It is a pleasure to see you again though I would have preferred different circumstances. I fear that the murder investigation will not leave me much time to appreciate your excellent Spaniels.’