The Barker's Dozen - Reminiscences of an Early Police Dog (4 page)

‘I think that it is probably a coincidence,’ my master continued, ‘but we have two professional robberies. In both cases, however, there are seemingly unrelated thefts of food in the weeks preceding both the robberies. I think we should go and see Sir
James. There may be some details that Inspector Clarke thinks are too trivial for his report.’

Sergeant Allen made the arrangements for this trip with his usual efficiency and we found ourselves after lunch travelling by train to
Brighton, soon leaving the London fog behind.

We were met at the station by a tall, dapper man who identified himself as Inspector Clarke. He led us from the station to a waiting carriage, which took us to Brighton Police Station and the relative warmth of the Inspector’s office.

The three police officers discussed the two crimes and it became obvious that there were marked similarities between the burglaries.  The modus operandi was, however, new. It was also apparent that Sir James and Lord Harridge moved in the same social circles. This meant that some of their servants were familiar with both houses. Unfortunately, this also applied to the retainers of several of their aristocratic friends. However, it did give us a possible starting place for the investigation.

Inspector Clarke then took us to Sir
James’ town house. This building was in a quiet avenue close to the front. The smell of the sea was especially welcome after the fogs of London and I gave some thought to running off for a swim. I am, however, a conscientious dog and duty always comes before pleasure. A lane running between two of the houses indicated that there was stabling accessible from the rear of the property.

We were shown into the house by a rather grand butler who asked us to wait in the library in tones that suggested that we were lucky to be invited into the house. I have noticed that some of the servants of the upper classes are far more class conscious than their employers. It was obvious that the butler thought that the police were very low
er class. I waited until we were alone before I had a good scratch. I know that it was petty but the sight of dog hair on an otherwise pristine rug filled me with delight.

I was somewhat surprised when an elderly gentleman dressed in comfortable old clothes came into the room and greeted Inspector Clarke warmly. He was introduced to us as Sir
James. One sniff was enough to tell me that he was of a scholarly temperament. There was a faint smell of old books about him that led me to assume that we had disturbed him at his work.

‘What can I do for you gentlemen?’
he asked politely. ‘Have you found any of my wife’s trinkets?’

‘Unfortunately not, Sir
James,’ Inspector Clarke replied. ‘My London colleague, Inspector Thompson, is investigating a very similar robbery in town. He thinks that the two robberies may have been perpetrated by the same man, and would like to ask you some questions.’

‘Certainly
, Inspector,’ the old gentleman replied. ‘I have already run through that evening with Inspector Clarke here, but if another retelling will help, this is what happened.

‘My wife and I retired early that evening leaving my butler Jenkins to lock up.  About
two o’clock in the morning, Jenkins says that he heard a noise. When he went out to investigate, he found my wife’s cat playing on the staircase. He thought nothing more about it and went back to bed.’

Inspector Clarke volunteered, with Sir
James’ permission, to show my master where the burglar had entered the house and the possible route he had taken to Her Ladyship’s dressing room. I was dutifully following the two inspectors when I heard a faint noise from behind a floor length curtain. A quick sniff told me that a cat was hiding there, a young and rather scared cat. I quietly lay down and waited for the men to go out of earshot.

‘Hello
, young one,’ I said in my most friendly voice. ‘My name is Snuffles and I have come here with a police inspector. I would like to ask you a few simple questions about the recent theft of your pet’s toys.’

‘Go away,’ hissed a young feline voice from behind the draperies.

I was not overly surprised by the cat’s initial reaction. I was, after all, a strange dog and a young cat was not likely to trust me instantly. Knowing from my observations of your uncle that eye contact is important when trying to make a witness trust you, I carefully hooked the curtain to one side with my paw, revealing a very small tabby with a tail fluffed up like a chimney sweep’s brush.

‘Just a moment of your time
, youngster,’ I said in my most engaging tone as the cat started to move away.’ What happened during the burglary?  I know you were an eyewitness. Anything you can tell me might be of help to your people.’

For a moment, I thought the cat was going to tell me what had occurred and I was starting to feel a bit smug for solving a case before my master. Then the cat hissed something that sounded like ‘Crumble wouldn’t be happy’.

‘Crumble…’ I started and then yelped in pain as the cat raked me hard over the nose with his damnably sharp claws.

By the time I had blinked the tears from my eyes, the cat had vanished.

We left Sir James’ house about an hour later having interviewed the butler and other servants. I could tell that neither my master nor Inspector Clarke had learnt anything that advanced their understanding of the case.  In fact, on the way back to the station, your uncle summarised the known facts.

The burglar had on both occasions gone straight to the jewellery and had entered the house at the nearest convenient point to the lady’s dressing room. On both occasions, a member of the household had heard a noise but on investigating had, coincidentally, seen the family cat playing and returned to bed. Another puzzling feature was the seemingly unrelated food thefts in the weeks prior to the robberies. As my master put it, we were left in the odd position of hoping for another robbery to provide us with more information.

That evening after supper, I went down to the kitchen and whined at the cook until she gave me an old bone, mutton if I recall accurately. Taking this treasure to a quiet corner, I sat down to worry the problem and the bone.

No matter how I looked at the information we had, I could not make any sense out of the facts, even though I knew two things that my master did not
: that Lord Harridge’s Setter had been drugged and that Sir James’ cat was terrified of a crumble. This was definitely more than a one-bone problem.

The next few days added nothing more to our knowledge and gradually our mood became as bleak as the
London weather. It became obvious that I needed some advice, so on the third evening I went to see Fielding, my master’s cat.

In general I get on well with Fielding; he is a very personable
almost black fellow neatly put together with a twinkle in his eye and some of the most rakish whiskers you have ever seen. He does have one major character flaw: he is the laziest creature on God’s good earth. However, that aside, he does have a sharp mind and often perceives connections that I have missed. You could say that he is Mycroft to my Sherlock.

I carefully laid out the facts for his consideration and described in detail everything I had observed during my visits to the burgled houses. After the end of my narrative Fielding asked a couple of questions about the case although he did seem to be inordinately interested in the food that had been stolen rather than the burglaries. Fielding raised a paw for silence and then proceeded to comb his whiskers, which is, I have found, a sign of deep feline thought.

‘I cannot find a simple explanation for this one, Snuffles,’ Fielding said after a few minutes intense cogitation. ‘The only apparent explanation is that the household cats are betraying their pets, which I find very hard to credit. The case intrigues me and I think I will go out and talk to some of my peers.’

With that hopeful statement, Fielding stretched and sauntered over to the kitchen door where he proceeded to meow until his faithful servant, the cook, let him out into the rain.

For all our different efforts, it wasn’t until December that there was any further movement on the case. By this time, the papers had taken up the story and were using it as ammunition in their long running campaign of vilification against the police force. The detective service, in particular, came in for especially savage criticism. I can understand some of the reason for their behaviour; the police had not made an arrest in the Jack the Ripper case and, as I knew, now never would. Their comments were, however, grossly unjust and manifestly untrue.

It was in the third week of December that I spent several days at home in the care of our cook, having survived an attempt to poison your uncle, something nasty in a Christmas Stilton that was left on his door step by a very misguided villain. It is the only time I have been commended for stealing a delicacy.

                 Fielding, my master’s cat.

During these few days, the first break in the case seemed to come when several pieces of Lady Trimperton’s jewellery were purchased by Mr Andrew Williams, a pawnbroker, who then reported that he had items that the police had listed as stolen.

From what I overheard, when I returned to work after my indisposition, the pawnbroker pretended not to have any information that the police might find useful. Apparently, a heavily muffled man, with a foreign accent, had pawned
‘his wife’s jewels’ and no, the pawnbroker probably would be unable to recognise him. The pawnbroker was only interested in the reward that Sir James would no doubt pay for the return of these items.

This was not an unusual occurrence.
London has always had its fair share of worthy citizens who will happily buy stolen property in order to claim a reward for returning it.  These people are little better than the thieves with whom they trade and in some cases a good deal worse. As my master remarked, the pawnbroker’s cat could probably have told us more.

On the last day of my recuperation, I was lying in the back garden enjoying a rare sunny afternoon when Fielding strolled nonchalantly up to me looking inordinately pleased with himself.

‘Hello Snuffles,’ he said as he enthusiastically butted his forehead against mine. ‘I’ve brought someone around to meet you but I have to warn you that she is very scared, so please try not to frighten her any more.’

With that, my enigmatic friend vanished into the shrubbery to reappear a few minutes later shepherding a very small ginger kitten. I realised that I was looking at the most frightened but determined creature I had ever seen.

‘Portia, this is Snuffles. Snuffles, Portia.’ Fielding performed the necessary introductions. ‘Her especial pet is Lady Annabelle Morton.’

‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ I responded in a friendly tone. ‘How can I be of service?’

It has always amazed me how our simple social conventions can make an uncertain or frightened witness surer of themselves. Possibly one is less likely to chase someone when one has been properly introduced… or perhaps not, when I recall the behaviour of some young men towards any young lady who is unfortunate enough to make their acquaintance. Anyway, the little cat sat down just in front of me and wrapped her tail decorously round her feet.

‘Fielding tells me that if I am completely honest with you, both my mistress and I will be protected,’ the kitten began. ‘Having met you I know that you will make good on this promise.

‘I was given to my pet by her father a few months ago as a welcome home present to celebrate the end of her education, and I now divide my time between the family seat near Oxford and a house a few minutes run from here.

‘I honestly could not want a better home. The family and servants all treat me with a great deal of affection; so much in fact that I sometimes have to hide in the garden if I want some uninterrupted sleep.

‘About a week ago I was prowling through the shrubbery looking for something to play with when suddenly I was attacked by a massive and extremely vicious tabby. I was unable to protect myself and within seconds, I was pinned to the ground while this brute dug his claws into my side.

‘Having made it abundantly clear that he could hurt me whenever he wished the monster lowered his terribly scarred face to within a whisker of mine.

‘“Pretty cat,” he hissed, “if you don’t want your ears ripped and your tail mauled, you are going to do exactly what I ask.” Suddenly his teeth closed on my ear just enough to draw blood. The threat was abundantly clear and I agreed to do anything he wished.’