The Barker's Dozen - Reminiscences of an Early Police Dog (39 page)

‘Two of them, the frigate Swiftsure and the Indomitable, a sixty-four,’ the General sighed and then winked at me. ‘You see, Isobel, what happens when you build a school and educate these people.’

Saturday Afternoon

I had hoped to spend some of the day with James but after breakfast, he joined his uncle and grandfather in the latter’s study where they have been closeted for most of the day. 

Rather than spend the better part of the day moping I decided to sit by the lake and try to sketch the house. I say try because, due to the attentions of Clara, Snuffles and various members of the house pack, I spent more time throwing sticks into the water than I did wielding my pencils. At last, exhausted and slightly damp from over enthusiastic Spaniels I retreated to a small folly, one of several that grace Arlesford. The enclosed sketch shows the house as seen from this faux Grecian temple, hence the pillars. The tall hedge to the left of the house is the maze.

The hunt meets at Arlesford tomorrow morning and tonight several people are coming over for a pre-hunt dinner. I understand that most of them will be staying overnight and riding out with us in the morning; hopefully, I will get some time to talk to James during the evening because, even with his injured leg, I know he will be a much better rider and will undoubtedly leave me behind during the hunt.

Sunday Morning

Lucy I am writing this entry before I go to bed. The party has just broken up after one of the most exciting evenings of my life. I hope that once I have written everything down I will be calm enough to sleep, but I am inclined to believe otherwise. As I sit here writing I can hear the General standing on the terrace shouting at some of the more recalcitrant members of the house pack who are refusing to leave the lake. Although the old man’s words sound stern and uncompromising, I can tell that he is on the verge of great laughter. It has been one of those nights.

I was seated at dinner by a rather pleasant old clergyman who, having spent his working life in
India, has retired to England and our healthier climate. I gather he knows James’ father who is serving in India and it is this connection that led to the reverend being given an empty house on the estate. He is a very fascinating conversationalist and kept my part of the table spellbound with his tales of native customs set against a backdrop of immense wealth and abject poverty.

Listening to him you became aware that he had a deep love for
India and its peoples and it had upset him to leave, especially after so many years. He confided to me that it was only his poor health that had led to his returning home. During his ministry, he had come into contact with many native diseases and eventually they had eroded even his iron hard constitution. He tells me that the British either love or hate India (there is very little middle ground) and many of those who fall in love with her stay for the rest of their lives.

The dessert course had been served and our glasses charged when the General tapped loudly on his glass and, once silence had fallen, told the servants that he would ring when he wanted them. This was of itself unusual enough to rivet everyone’s attention on the old man as he began to speak.

The General told the story of the hole in the maze starting from the moment when he was woken by a servant to be told of the outrage through to the maid’s tale. This latter became very funny when Richard repeated her words verbatim in a high, squeaky, falsetto voice and he had to pause on several occasions for laughter to die away. I expect that his memory is a great asset in his work but I doubt that he gives evidence in that manner.

Once the story was finished one of the younger men asked if anyone was game for a moonlight treasure hunt. The General sighed theatrically and explained the coincidences that had led to the villager’s story. The young man was obviously somewhat disappointed and suggested that we all go and dig up the Swiftsure arbour just on the off chance that the villagers were correct.

The General was adamant that no member of the party was going to dig up his maze but he offered an acceptable alternative entertainment, He pointed out that the moon was full and the sky was cloudless, a combination that allowed clandestine excavations without the need for lanterns. These favourable conditions would not repeat for another four weeks making it very likely that the villains would return to dig up the second arbour once they thought that the house was quiet.

The young man expressed the opinion that anyone with any common sense would lie low for a month or two until all the excitement had died down. To my surprise, it was the elderly clergyman who contradicted him. Gold, he said, was such a lure and temptation to some minds that the thought of it could override all common sense. The perpetrators would be convinced that everyone would work out why they had dug the first hole and would be afraid that if they delayed someone would beat them to it. Believing their myth to be real they would also expect the General to move the treasure to a more secure hiding place. For those in the grip of treasure mania it would have to be tonight or not at all.

The young man who had been looking rather downcast suddenly brightened and thumping his hand on the table rather enthusiastically blurted, ‘Gosh, now I see. You are going to let the peasants dig their hole and then nab them and the treasure.’

This statement was met by a resounding silence broken only by a whispered, ‘Inbreeding, poor pup’ which sounded like it came from the hearth. I looked around quickly and saw James and the General smile at each other as if they had shared a secret joke. I would not have thought of either of them as a likely ventriloquist.

Softly the General explained his plan. The maze has two entrances one of which is overlooked by the house while the other can be seen from the kennel block. We would behave normally for the rest of the evening until just before we retired when the General would lead a group off to the old stables to see a new litter. A few of this group would remain in hiding watching the maze’s rear entrance while most of the party returned to the house and supposedly to bed.

As soon as the house was quiet those of the party wishing to take part in the night’s entertainment were to come quietly down stairs and wait in the library, lit only by the remains of the fire. Richard was to remain in his room watching for a signal light from the old stable block while I volunteered to watch the entrance to the maze nearest to the house.

When our expected guests arrived, the watcher who saw them would let them enter the maze and then after five minutes show a light briefly in their window. Once that signal was seen, the men would wait another three minutes then issue from the buildings and enter the maze through its two entrances. With both their escape routes blocked, the villains would soon be in our hands.

It was about one thirty when Richard caught a sudden gleam of light from the bell turret on the old stables. As he went past my door on his way to warn the party he was good enough to whisper that the prey had arrived. I counted softly under my breath I had just about reached the three-minute mark when the terrace doors opened and a surge of men and Spaniels spilled out of the house, down the steps and onto the lawn. At the same moment, there was a loud barking from the stables and I realised that someone, probably James, had let the breeding dogs out.

As soon as the breeding pack sounded, the housedogs joined in and, barking happily, they surged past the men and into the maze. I was not surprised to see Snuffles in the vanguard but I was shocked, and slightly mortified, when I saw my own small puppy following him.

Realising that all hope of stealth had been lost the General brought a hunting horn to his lips and, standing on the terrace, blew something that sounded more like a cavalry charge than a hunting call. Bedlam ensued. The peace of the night was banished as a cacophony of barks, bellows, howls and shouts, interspersed by hunting calls from those who like the General had horns, erupted from the maze.

I pitied the poor villagers who found themselves in the maze and could see, in my mind’s eye, the approach of twenty or so Spaniels, compressed by the hedges into a heaving carpet with many bright flashing eyes. I think this sight must have led to a sudden unearthly scream from the middle of the maze. From my vantage point, I could see some of the hedges start to move violently as if a sudden unstoppable rush of water was flowing past their stems.

A figure suddenly came through the top of the hedge nearest the house and tumbled to the ground. As he got to his feet, I could see that it was a young man, his clothes rather rent and tattered probably by his passage through the hedge. He shook himself and started running towards the safety of the house but, seeing the General on the terrace, checked and turned towards the lake and the shrubberies.

With a crackling noise, a Spaniel came through the hedge in much the same place as the young man; first one dog, followed closely by two more and then, as that part of the hedge gave way, a seeming torrent of them. The dogs looked up, saw their prey fleeing across the lawn, and with happy barks the pack launched itself in pursuit.

As the first dogs reached him, the young man turned at bay, terror plain on his pale features. It looked as if he expected to be torn to pieces and for a second I was horrified by what I might witness.

The Arlesford Spaniels, with the probable exception of Snuffles, have never been taught to attack anyone or have ever experienced the need, thus a running man is not quarry but more a toy to be enjoyed. The first dogs in their exuberance started jumping up and I saw the man stagger and then fall to his knees before with a last despairing scream he was enveloped in dogs.

It is a curious thing that when they play Spaniels have a tendency not only to run round each other but also over and under, on rare occasions seeming to form a ball of playful animals. With all of them wanting to play with the man, they quickly formed a spherical heaving mass around him. I had just realised that I was looking at the largest Spaniel ball that I had ever seen when it started moving slowly away from the house.

The lawn at Arlesford slopes gently down from the house to the lake and I realised that the ball was very gradually rolling down this slight incline. As dogs came out of the rear of the ball, they turned and launched themselves back into it accelerating the motion. The frenzied sphere was travelling quite quickly when it came to the edge of the lake and rolled into the mud and water.

If I had believed the dogs to be excited earlier I was proved wrong as they really forgot themselves and started chasing each other, the man and any sleeping waterfowl all round the lake. Less than a minute later Richard arrived and offering the man his hand hauled him from the lake. I have never seen anyone more thankful to be arrested.

That was over half an hour ago and the Thompson men are still extracting Spaniels from the lake. Glancing from my window, I can see James by the lake with my struggling and very dirty Clara in his arms. Both dog and man are very wet and covered in mud. They are also both very happy and I ache with jealously that I am not with them.

MY grandfather and uncle waited patiently as I read my father’s letter for the third time and then sat staring at the empty fireplace at Arlesford. Eventually I put the letter down and turned to face my relatives. I tried to think of a clever quip that would simultaneously display my great sangfroid and incredible maturity, unfortunately a mumbled ‘Er hum’ was the best I could manage.

‘James, I know that your father’s letter and my decision are a lot to accept instantly,’ my grandfather said, taking pity on my tumbling thoughts. ‘Why don’t you take Snuffles for a long walk, throw some sticks for him and smoke a pipe or two. Then when you come back we will discuss your decision over lunch.’

I started to say something but realising that I needed time to think thanked him for his courtesy and calling to Snuffles left the house and headed towards my favourite stretch of the Arle where I intended to sit and ponder.

I wandered along the bank and threw a few sticks into the water for my companion, a simple activity that always brings me to a state of easy tranquillity. After a while I sat down, loaded my pipe and leaning contentedly against the trunk of a willow watched the world pass by.

The proposal that my Grandfather had put to me no longer seemed to be such a vast undertaking and I realised that as a Thompson I could make only one decision if I wanted to retain my self-respect. I smiled happily, as I realised that I would have something meaningful to do with my life rather than just fulfilling my sinecure as an Inspector of Coastal Fortifications.

‘You look remarkably happy,’ Snuffles said as he lent himself companionably against my legs, both of us unmindful of his damp fur on such a gloriously hot summer’s day. ‘I perceive that you have come to a decision.’

‘Yes my old friend I have, although I don’t think that I had any real choice in the matter,’ I laughed happily at the world. ‘The General is very good at organising things.’

‘He would not have made you the offer, James, if he was not convinced that you are the right man for the job.’ My friend paused thoughtfully for a few moments then continued, ‘well, if not exactly the right man for the job at least a promising puppy who, with some intensive training, may prove to be barely adequate.’

Stung by this unwarranted attack on my character I started up only to see that Snuffles was laughing at me. I also realised that he was right and there was a lot to learn but I would have the best of teachers. There would be time enough, however, to think on the future at lunch.

‘Snuffles, my father casually mentions a Reverend Bullock in his letter, is he the retired clergyman who is living in the Old Mill House?’

‘Indeed he is,’ my companion replied with a lifting of the ears. ‘He was an unexpected responsibility that your Grandfather dealt with earlier this year. I don’t suppose you want me to tell you his story?’

At my eager assent, Snuffles settled himself comfortably and began.

-----

Our association with the Reverend John Bullock began late one very wet April evening when there was a frantic knocking on the door of my master’s Barker Street house. We heard Short answer the door and from the sounds, he let someone in and told them to wait in the hall. Moments later Short came into the library.

‘Begging your pardon, Sir,’ he said bluntly. ‘We have a visitor and I think it would be better if you came into the hall.’

Short having been my master’s servant in the army is a competent and very sensible man of proven ability. When he makes a suggestion, my master has found that it is usually common sense to comply.

We followed Short into the hall where an elderly man conservatively dressed in a long coat was sitting slightly hunched over in a chair, his right hand pressed against his ribs. On the ground beside him there was a black leather Gladstone bag. A raincoat and a wide brimmed hat were on a stand dripping water onto the neat tiles of the floor.

Two scents arrested my attention instantly, that of blood and that of a strange cat. Our visitor heard us enter the hall and raised his head, then started to stand. It was with a mild shock that I saw that he was wearing a dog collar and that his right hand was shiny with fresh blood. This situation looked interesting since it is not everyday that a freshly injured clergyman turns up on the doorstep of the country’s finest detective.

My master rushed to the elderly man’s side and eased him back into the chair. It was obvious that, as well as being in quite a lot of pain, he was suffering from the cold and wet.

‘Let’s get him into the kitchen,’ Short suggested practically. ‘It’s the warmest room in the house and Cook is a very experienced nurse.’

‘Good Idea. Go and warn her whilst I help our guest.’

My master helped the elderly man to his feet but not before the clergyman had reached down with his left hand and clutched the handle of his bag with what looked to me like a despairing grip. Our visitor could walk although he was obviously unwell, and we made it into the kitchen without mishap.

The elderly man sighed gratefully as he was helped into a chair by the fire and sat placidly while the Cook put a large kettle on the stove and started sorting out bandages and ointments from her store.

‘Well, Reverend. From the way you are holding yourself and the amount of blood on your clothes I’d say someone had knifed you,’ she said coming over and looking at our guest. ‘It’s a real disgrace that scum should think to attack a man of the cloth like that. If you will allow the Inspector and Short to help you remove your jacket and shirt we will see what needs doing.’

‘No, please,’ the elderly man said weakly brushing off my master’s hand.

‘None of that now, Sir,’ Cook said briskly. ‘I know what I’m about. Not only was I a nurse when younger, but I’ve dealt with the Inspector’s injuries oftener than I care to recall.’

‘No, please,’ our patient said again, waving his hand at his bag. ‘Make sure Tiger Moth’s not hurt first.’

My master knelt down and opened the Gladstone bag. He reached in and gently removed a small spotted cat who chirruped gently as he laid her on the hearth. She looked around anxiously, but having seen the elderly man sitting nearby, sat down and curled up in front of the fire.

‘She seems to be perfectly fine,’ my master laughed helping our visitor off with his jacket. ‘Although a little bit damp and, from the bagginess of her skin, slightly undernourished although I suspect that is a side effect of her long voyage.’

‘You must be Inspector Thompson. I am so glad to have found you,’ the elderly man replied as his waistcoat was removed. ‘How did you know that we have come a long way?’

‘Simplicity itself,’ my master replied with a laugh. ‘You have a deeply pronounced tan that only years living in the tropics achieves. That, coupled with the luggage label on your bag that reads
Bombay to Portsmouth, suggests a recent long voyage. The air holes punched in the bag indicate that your cat has travelled with you.’

By this time, my master and Short had removed our guest’s upper clothing and revealed a nasty gash on the left hand side of his chest. Cook stepped forward and closely examined the wound having cleaned the worst of the blood off.

‘Inspector, in my opinion someone has stabbed this man,’ she said in a matter of fact tone that belied the anger I could scent emanating from her. ‘I think they intended to stab to the heart but something caused them to miss and the knife turned on a rib and ripped through the skin. It is a nasty wound but not nearly as serious as it looks.’

My master looked quickly at the wound and then stepped back so that Cook could get on with the serious work of treating the cut. He walked over to the dresser,  removed a bottle of brandy, poured a generous measure into a cup and brought it over to the patient. I half expected the elderly man to refuse the drink but he drained it without complaint.

The cut was obviously going to need more than bandaging but the elderly man bore Cook’s treatment stoically as she first thoroughly cleaned and then deftly stitched the wound shut. While Cook was working, my master sat on the end of the table and told the visitor how he had met Short while they were both serving in India. He spoke of the places that he had served and some of the people he had met.

When Cook had finished our guest was helped into one of my master’s old dressing gowns. Having put away her medicines Cook started bustling round the stove preparing  ‘good sweet tea to fight the cold and shock.’

‘I know that you must be very tired but I would like to hear what happened to you,’ my master said as he pulled up another chair so that he sat facing our guest across the hearth. ‘For a start, I do not believe I caught your name.’

‘My apologies, Inspector,’ our guest sounded embarrassed. ‘I am John Bullock and until I retired I was serving my church as a minister in
India.’

‘As you surmised, I am Richard Thompson and these good people are Mr and Mrs Short who do for me.’ My master smiled reassuringly at our guest, ‘could you tell me what happened to you and how you fortuitously ended up coming to this house?’

‘If you feel that you are too tired at any time just tell the Inspector,’ Cook admonished as she bustled over with a saucer of warm milk for Tiger Moth. ‘Your story could easily wait on the morrow.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Short,’ Reverend Bullock replied sounding rather tired. ‘I think that I might sleep better if I told my story tonight, then if anything untoward happens someone else will know the truth.

‘As to why I came to you Inspector when I was in trouble?  That is the easiest of questions to answer. I met your brother Colonel Frederick just before I left for England. He told me that if I should ever require help I should contact either you at 221 Barker Street or your father at Arlesford House.’

‘Why would my brother think that you needed help?’

‘Simple, Inspector, I told him about my treasure and he wisely said that what gives me simple pleasure would be seen as others as a quick way to a large fortune.’

‘Your treasure?’ My master leaned forward and smiled. ‘From the way you speak I do not think that you had ever viewed it as having a financial value. What is it? Some Indian artefact or other?’

‘Inspector, let me tell the story at my own speed, that way I will be sure to leave nothing out.’ Our visitor’s face lit up with a sudden mischievous grin, ‘and don’t worry, you will see my treasure.’

It is a strange thing but whenever there is any mention of treasure humans always seem to start hanging on every word. For most of them I think the interest is purely financial, but for men like my master I think that treasures normally represent a historical puzzle and it is the love of knowledge, not wealth, that beguiles them.

My train of thought and our guest’s narrative were interrupted by a sudden loud meow from outside the area door. Obediently, Cook turned away from the stove and opened the door so that Fielding could enter the kitchen. The cat who entered was not the usual impeccably turned out feline but rather one who looked like he had been thrown into the Thames. With a small compassionate noise, Cook reached for a towel that she reserves for his Lordship’s especial use and I watched with some amusement as Fielding submitted to her attentions.

‘Good prowl?’ I woofed mischievously.

‘No!’ he hissed, and, looking at the glare in his eyes, I decided not to press the conversation or my luck.

Now I should have realised that there was going to be trouble but Fielding has always been a tolerant animal and has never shown any aggression to the various other cats who have come into the house or garden. Fielding turned towards the hearth and stopped dead. His ears went backwards and his claws extended.

‘My saucer! My milk! My fire!’ he yowled, hurling himself across the room towards Tiger Moth who was contentedly finishing the last of her milk. Short threw himself forward but just missed Fielding who clawed him in passing.

The smaller cat turned towards the yowling monster, who was speeding across the kitchen towards her, obviously intent on mayhem. She crouched and sprang clearing her would be assailant with ease. As she leapt, the skin on her sides flared out and I heard the gasps of astonishment as her wings carried her safely to the top of the dresser. Fielding, head turned to watch her flight, collided noisily with the milk saucer and meowed once in acute embarrassment.

‘Tiger Moth’s my great treasure,’ the Reverend Bullock said simply into the silence, his voice warm with the affection he felt for his special, little cat.

‘Fielding, her pet came for our help,’ I barked sharply at my friend. ‘I’m surprised that you, a great champion of the weak, should react like that.’

‘I was in a bad mood and wanted to whack something,’ my friend admitted. With all the dignity he could muster looked up at the small cat and meowed a handsome apology before removing himself into the shadows under the dresser. The little cat chirruped in reply and, spreading her wings, glided down onto her human’s shoulder.

The Reverend Bullock lovingly rubbed his cheek against the little cat’s side and smiled before continuing his narrative. ‘One evening about eighteen months ago there was a knock on the door of my study and my servant entered. There was, he said, a woman of the lowest sort who desired to see me. My servant would have taken it upon himself to turn the woman away except that she had a gift for me; a present that she would give only to me and would not entrust to a servant. I told him to show her in and with a very poor grace he ushered in a poor local woman.