The Barker's Dozen - Reminiscences of an Early Police Dog (37 page)

The two inspectors decided that the only way forward was to circulate a description of the gun in the hope that someone would identify it. Meanwhile, all the known poachers would be questioned about their activities on the night in question. It was frustrating to listen to their plans since I knew that they were barking up the wrong tree.

The guilty man, being the gamekeeper, would of course be central to my master’s enquiries as the obvious expert on the local poachers. Mr Jackson would not initially be suspected; guilt, however, does place a man under tremendous pressure. It was, therefore, highly likely that he would do or say something that would trigger my master’s suspicions. One of the strangest things about police work is the fact that many villains are convicted through their own words or deeds. There is something about murder, perhaps a subconscious desire to be caught, that makes murderers, in particular, prone to this; they assume that their guilt is obvious and either confess or attempt to misdirect the investigation.

It occurred to me that rather than telling my master of Jackson’s guilt, perhaps I could somehow tell the gamekeeper that the game was up. When a seemingly innocent man suddenly runs, it normally means that he is guilty of something.

We reached the kennels with the intention of returning to
Dorchester for the night and Inspector Hastings was in the process of giving some final instructions to the men, he was leaving to guard the cottage, when a kennel maid approached us.

‘Begging your pardon, Sir,’ she said bobbing slightly to my master. ‘Lord Ballard’s compliments. He wondered if you and your colleagues would join him for a cold supper at the
Inn.’

‘My thanks to Lord Ballard,’ my master replied giving the girl a coin. ‘Please tell his Lordship that we will join him directly.’

‘I must admit the thought of a bite to eat is rather appealing,’ Inspector Hastings enthused as the girl hurried away. ‘In all this afternoon’s excitement, I quite forgot about refreshments.’

It was with good humour that we made our way into the village towards the buzz of noise that marked the inn. I noticed that my master was carrying the gun casually under his arm; having found a piece of evidence, he was not going to risk losing it.

The inn was crowded and a fair number of men had spilled outside with their drinks. It was obvious that the events of the day were the major topic of conversation and most of the villagers were there willing to offer their own theories to anyone who would listen. It was a crowded heaving bedlam that became noticeably worse when we were spotted and the villagers started calling out questions to the inspectors.

The landlord heard the racket and, emerging from the inn, escorted us through a common hallway and into a comfortable private parlour. Lord Ballard, who was seated by the hearth, rose and greeted us. My master propped the gun in the corner of the room and the men got down to the serious business of demolishing a fine cold supper.

I looked around quickly and decided that his Lordship was probably the most likely of the men to respond to my begging. All it took was a small whine and a paw to the knee and he started automatically feeding me. It was good to see that some Spaniel had not neglected Lord Ballard’s training.  It was an excellent meal with fine Dorset ham among other delights.

The men discussed the case but Lord Ballard was unable to make any helpful suggestions although he did promise that he would ask his estate workers to co-operate with the investigation. He was examining the gun when one of the serving maids entered the room. She gasped loudly enough to draw our attention.

‘Isn’t that…’ she blurted out before stopping herself.

‘Do you recognise this gun?’ Lord Ballard asked, holding it out for her to see it better. The girl paled but shook her head and backed away from the table.

‘Come here!’ My master ordered her and she reluctantly approached the table again.

‘I believe that you know who owns this gun and I want you to tell the Inspector.’ Lord Ballard’s voice had a new firmness and it occurred to me that he was probably a local magistrate experienced in handling reluctant witnesses.

The girl shook her head again. Her mouth tightly shut as if, by muscle power alone, she could prevent herself from uttering a damning name.

‘You know who owns this gun,’ his Lordship spoke slowly but with an iron certainty. ‘You also know that we will catch him. I can only conclude that you are deliberately shielding him in the hope that he can make good an escape. I will ask you one more time. If you refuse to answer I will order your arrest and tomorrow morning I will commit you to the assizes as an accomplice to the murder of Benjamin Fleming.’

At these last words, the poor girl’s eyes rolled upwards and she collapsed in a dead faint. Lord Ballard gently picked her up and placed her in a comfortable chair then rang the bell to summon the landlord.

‘Damn it, Richard,’ Lord Ballard said sorrowfully. ‘I just wanted an answer; not to scare the silly girl half to death.’  

‘While you were questioning her she kept glancing, I thought, towards the door,’ my master observed. ‘At first I thought she was looking for a means of escape but it occurs to me that the owner of that weapon might be drinking in this inn and she wanted to warn him. Whatever we do, everyone in the village will soon know that we have this gun. I propose to try a very direct approach. I do not think that we have anything to lose and perhaps much to gain.’

My master stood up and holding the gun casually under his arm led the way out of the parlour. To my surprise, he led us straight into the public bar, every eye turned towards us and the room quickly became quiet. Reaching into his pocket with his free hand my master produced a golden coin that he nonchalantly flicked into the air where it seemed to hang for a second, glinting, before falling back into his hand.

‘I will give this sovereign to the person who can tell me who owns this gun,’ my master held the weapon up as he spoke.

There was a moment’s silence then an amused voice answered, ‘I can’t be sure from this distance but I think she belongs to me.’

‘Please come here and look closely,’ my master spoke calmly, although I could see that he was tense with excitement. ‘Who are you my good fellow?’

‘Edward Hardy.’ A young man replied as he rose from a bench and pushed his way through the crowd that parted in front of him as if he was somehow unclean. He looked carefully at the gun and then smiled as if at a private joke

‘Ain’t no doubt, Inspector, she’s my old gun and no mistake,’ he smiled warmly, and held out his hand. ‘You’ll be giving me my sovereign now.’

There was a faint rustle of movement as Sergeant Allen and Inspector Hastings surreptitiously moved closer to the young man. Behind them, Lord Ballard gestured to a big burly man who was sitting by the door; he stood up blocking the most obvious route of escape.

‘Where did you last see your gun?’ my master asked softly.

‘In court, when Lord Ballard took her,’ Hardy replied in a very aggrieved voice. ‘He said I’d been poaching on his land. He wouldn’t believe me, took my gun and sentenced me to six months hard labour.’

I very rarely see my master at a loss for word. Silently, he handed the young man his sovereign. There was a ripple of laughter at my master and Lord Ballard’s discomfiture. With a rueful smile, my master held up his hand for silence. The crowd hushed eager for the next part of their unexpected entertainment.

‘My Lord, what did you do with this gun after you confiscated it?’

‘Went poaching!’ some wit shouted from the back of the room and Lord Ballard waited until the resultant laughter died away.

‘I told Jackson, my Head Gamekeeper, to take it to the smithy,’ Lord Ballard said after a moment’s thought. ‘He was to make sure that the smith destroyed it.’

With a violent oath, the burly man snatched up a bag and a shotgun from his seat and ripping open the door ran from the room.

‘
Jackson, come back!’ Lord Ballard shouted ineffectively as a draught of cold air told me that the murderer had made it to the outside.

The policemen and I rushed from the room slightly impeded by the locals who were obviously not going to miss any of the excitement. Being smaller and far more nimble, I managed to weave my way through the legs of the crowd and broke out into the open. Fortunately, the night was lit by a full moon and, by its silvery light, I could see that
Jackson had already opened a fifty-yard lead while the crowd had impeded us.

The two inspectors came through the door hard on my heels and while my master called on
Jackson to stop, Inspector Hastings blew his whistle. There were answering blasts from the kennels. The running man just kept going and it occurred to me that if he reached the darkness of the woods he would be clear. With a low bark, I started running after the fugitive, remorselessly closing the gap with every bound. Behind me, I could hear the running footsteps of the policemen but it was obvious that Jackson was the fitter man.

We were almost level with the church when my master shouted, ‘Snuffles! Bring him down!’

Looking up I assessed the gamekeeper and, seeing that he was carrying his gun in both hands over his chest, I realised that I had no chance of taking him by the hand or forearm. He also looked very strong and I did not want to suffer the indignity of racing out of the village hanging from an oblivious villain’s arm. One does have one’s image to consider after all.

I gathered myself, shortened my stride so that I was matching his speed then sprang forward and fastened my teeth on the back of his right leg between the top of his boots and his breeches. Frankly, it was like trying to bite into a piece of wood covered with old leather but I have diligently exercised my jaws at every opportunity and I proved to be dog enough for the job. I tasted blood and felt something tear in the muscles of his leg.

With an inarticulate cry of pain, the gamekeeper stopped running and brought the butt of his gun smashing down towards my head. It was let go or die, so I did the prudent thing and ducked, my head turned away from the blow. The butt hit me on the right shoulder with enough force to knock me sideways into the road. I was winded for a moment but, fortunately, I suffered no lasting damage.

Jackson
looked around him in desperation. It was obvious that he could no longer run and it would be moments before the policemen reached him. With a feral snarl, he turned and aimed his shotgun at a young woman who was watching the proceedings from her garden gate.

‘Keep away or I’ll kill her!’  He shouted at the officers while gesturing to the girl with the barrel. ‘Come here, come here right now or I’ll shoot.’

The policemen jerked to a halt. The man was a known killer and it was not worth risking another life. The woman obviously scared almost witless, just stared at the gun. He moved the barrel slightly to one side and pulled the trigger. A jet of flame shot from the muzzle illuminating the scene clearly for one brief second. The window of the cottage shattered and the girl put her hand to her face with a small gasp of pain. The gamekeeper gestured again and numbly she opened the gate and walked towards him. He reached out and grasped her firmly then, using her for support limped slowly to the church door.

‘
Jackson, give up.’ My master shouted.

The gamekeeper’s only response was to dig the muzzle of his gun into the young woman’s side causing a small sound of protest. Helplessly we watched as he opened the church door and dragged his captive into the building. In the few seconds, after
Jackson entered the church, but before he turned to secure the door I saw a small black and white shape follow him in.

Several minutes passed during which Inspector Hastings and Sergeant Allen tried to control the wildly excited crowd. My master knelt by me and gently checked to make sure that I had taken no serious damage before he let me stand up.

One of the villagers shouted excitedly and pointed up to where Jackson was leaning through one of the tower’s crenellations.

‘Thompson!’ the gamekeeper shouted, his voice revealing a dangerous mixture of fear and exhilaration. It was the voice of a man who could kill just because it seemed to be a good idea at the time.

‘Yes, I am here,’ my master replied, sounding completely calm and if anything rather disinterested in the current situation.

‘Just to get things straight, Inspector, I’ve got Sally Tanner up here with me; she’s tied to the flagpole. All she wants to do is return home to her husband and children. If anyone rushes me I will shoot her and at this range the pellets would kill instantly.’

‘Let her go, Jackson. What possible benefit do you obtain from holding a frightened woman?’

‘I can force you to talk to me and hear my side of the affair.’

‘I would have listened to you anyway,’ my master shrugged as the gamekeeper rejected this statement with a string of rural profanities. Once the tirade had finished my master looked straight at the man and called calmly, ‘you ran when Lord Ballard told us that you had the gun. That would appear to be a suspicious action. Can you help explain why you fled?’

‘I was afraid that you wouldn’t believe me. I was scared of you, so, without thinking through the consequences, I just ran.’

‘Very well, I can accept that you panicked. Why didn’t you destroy the gun?’