The Barker's Dozen - Reminiscences of an Early Police Dog (6 page)

Extracts from the journal of Miss Isobel Fraser, written for her sister Lucy in Boston.

Monday

Aunt Emily informed me this morning that we are travelling down to Hampshire on Friday to visit with her sister for the weekend. The place we are going to is called Arlesford House and belongs to a family called Thompson. Having questioned Aunt Emily on the proposed trip I am of the opinion that I will be trading one old barn for another while enduring ‘a jolly company’. At least it is only for the weekend and I can, if necessary, feign some small illness and remain in my room.

A positive note today was a visit by Aunt Emily’s couturière to measure me for some ‘appropriately fashionable gowns’ as if we Americans have no idea of fashion or style. On my saying something of this kind, the couturière told me that the cut of clothes was subtly different this season and my aunt did not want me to be ‘disadvantaged in society’
. In truth, I think that she does not want to be embarrassed by my wearing something unfashionable.

My ire at what I took to be a patronising attitude soon melted when the couturière showed me sketches of the proposed dresses. They are truly beautiful and I will endeavour to draw them in this journal. I was told that one of them, in a pale blue silk, would be ready by Thursday so that I can wear it this weekend.

Friday

             
We travelled down to Hampshire on a special train hired by Uncle Graham for our party. This train consisted of the engine and its tender, what we would call a saloon car for the family, an ordinary coach for the servants and our luggage and a horse car. I had expected us to go on a normal train but apparently, Uncle Graham always hires a special when he travels.

             
At lunchtime, some of the servants laid out a magnificent cold meal that had been packed in several hampers. There were only three of us eating this feast but there was easily enough food for three times our number. According to Aunt Emily, the extra food would be shared by the servants ‘as a special treat’.

Lucy, we have always lived in privileged circumstances but we do not live in this style. It was probably worth insulting Pa to experience this way of life.  I do wonder though whether part of our relatives
’ easy spending is a result of their having no surviving children.

We arrived at Arlesford in the late afternoon to be met by a carriage from the house and were soon driving out through some really beautiful country. I was admiring some swans on a river that ran by the road when Uncle Gr
aham asked the coachman to stop, then called out to a tall, distinguished looking man and inquired whether he wanted a lift to the house. The man declined the offer stating that he wanted to exercise ‘Snuffles’, who I presume is a dog, after his journey.

As soon as we were politely out of earshot, I asked Uncle Graham about the man. I was told that he is Richard Thompson and is one of my relations, through Aunt Emily’s side of the family. He is apparently a famous Scotland Yard detective.

We turned off the road through a set of very impressive iron gates and onto a driveway through parkland. There, in front of us, was Arlesford House. The building is at least twice the size of Heron Court and is of the Palladian style. It is without doubt the most beautiful house I have ever seen and I will sketch it for you. According to Aunt Emily, the grounds contain several follies in the form of small classical buildings and there is a large maze. If the company proves to be tedious, I shall enjoy myself sketching this wonderful place.

Saturday

My dear Lucy, much to my surprise I have thoroughly enjoyed myself and have found the party to be excellent company. Aunt Emily has shown herself to be a first-class conspirator because I had no idea until I went down to dinner that this whole party had been arranged so that I could be introduced to our relatives. I will take a few minutes to describe some of them for you.

Arlesford is owned by Sir Henry Thompson, a retired general. He is married to Aunt Emily’s sister, Lady Amelia. The General is a delightful, grandfatherly man in his seventies who carries himself as well as a man half his age. His main occupation in life is breeding Springer Spaniels. He prides himself in producing the ‘perfect companion for the sporting gentleman’ and I gather that the Arlesford Spaniels are well regarded.

Lady Amelia is a pleasant, slight woman but after a few minutes discourse, it was obvious that she has a shrewd mind and runs Arlesford. She asked after Ma and Pa and was quite well acquainted with the doings of our family.

Richard Thompson is a tall man in his late forties. He has a distinguished and courtly bearing and if I had not known that he was a detective I would have assumed him
to be an academic of some type. There is an air of old sadness about him, a grief caused by the death of his young wife during her first pregnancy. Apparently, he has become somewhat of a social recluse. He should remarry since he is one of the finest men with whom I have ever conversed.

Aunt Amelia made an especial point of introducing me to James Thompson, one of the younger men. He is tall
, dark-haired and very fashionable, although I think he is rather vain about his moustache. James walks with a pronounced limp following an accident he suffered whilst serving in the Army. He is extremely charming and I found myself laughing unreservedly at some of his stories.

Sunday

When the maze was planted, some of the dead ends were laid out as charming little arbours, where one can sit quietly. I had just settled myself in one of these and was about to write in this journal when I was joined by a Spaniel who sat down in front of me. A name tag depended from his collar and from that, I ascertained that his name was Snuffles.  He is Inspector Thompson’s dog and, I have been assured, a prime example of an Arlesford Spaniel.

I don’t know what came over me but I soon found myself telling him about my troubles and I would swear that he understood my every word.

I had taken the trouble to call in and see my uncle at a time when I knew that he would be busy.  I had a strong desire to discuss Lady Victoria, whom I had recently met, with one of my friends and Snuffles I knew would be discreet. There was also a good chance that he would be in a talkative mood and willing to share some more of his reminiscences.

I waited impatiently until my uncle’s man, Short, had left the room
, having brought me a drink and the paper. Then Snuffles came over and sat on the rug by my feet.

‘Well, young fellow, I can see that you are very keen to tell me something and I would presume you want some more advice about your social life?’
he said, cocking his ears in a questioning fashion.

‘No Snuffles, I don’t need any advice. Lady
Victoria and…’ I had hardly begun telling him of my good fortune when he barked loudly and then growled. I was so taken aback that I stopped talking.

‘Thank you
,’ Snuffles said. ‘If all you wish to do is to prattle about a woman who would, and I quote, “get rid of that smelly old dog” if she lived here, then you have chosen the wrong interlocutor. If, however, you wish to discuss something more pleasant, like violent crime, then I am your dog.’

For a second I felt like telling Snuffles his fortune and striding from the house in a justified rage. On second thoughts, I realised that Snuffles did have a very good point. Lady
Victoria didn’t really like animals, which was a minor blemish to an otherwise perfect character. I also couldn’t bear the thought of lowering his opinion of me by acting like an unsophisticated child.

‘My uncle mentioned a gang of salmon poachers last time I was here,’ I replied. ‘I would like to hear about them.’

‘Certainly,’ said Snuffles and, lifting his muzzle so that he could look straight into my eyes, he began.

-----

You remember a few years ago that we had a particularly good May. My master had just finished solving a extremely difficult case involving a certain prominent poisoning. He decided to take a week’s holiday far away from the city and the evil that we had discovered. After some thought he sent a telegram to the Red Lion at Lower Swineford and arranged to spend the week fishing. As you would expect, this met with my full agreement. What could be nicer than a whole week spent by the side of a river? With any luck, there would even be a few ducks to chase.

The following Saturday we duly set off. The train journey took most of the day, but I found it quite exhilarating. There is something very
satisfying about travelling through England while watching her beautiful countryside unroll.

We arrived at Martelton in the late afternoon and took a dogcart to
Lower Swineford and the Red Lion. This is one of those charming village inns that make travelling in this country so pleasurable. When you find yourself investigating as many out of town murders as I have, it is comforting to know that there will normally be a hot fire and a full food bowl in a good inn.

Your uncle had been given a very comfortable room at the front of the inn. The innkeeper had even placed a good blanket on the floor by the fire for my use. We unpacked and then set out for a much-needed walk. My master apparently wanted to find the best fishing places. This is one of those jobs that you humans can apparently do while just strolling along, smoking a pipe.

I was struck by the total tranquillity of the place. The light was starting to fade as we walked by the river, the only sounds being the birds, an occasional lowing of cattle and the rippling sounds of the water. The only thing to break the peace of this idyllic evening was the outraged quacking of the ducks when I chased them into the river. We returned to the inn in a state of quiet contentment.

That first evening in the inn was almost perfect. I had some very good food
with a saucer of beer, and gently dried out in front of the fireplace while locals vied with each other to give your uncle advice about the local fishing.

My master told me that we would be up before dawn. In accordance to his wishes, as soon as the first predawn light could be seen, I jumped on to his bed to wake him up. I always feel that waking one’s master is one of the great parts of a dog’s life.  There are dogs who believe in landing on their people and others who prefer to lick sleeping faces. There is one
Labrador I know who pins her people down by standing on their shoulders and then washes their ears. I, however, am a gentledog. I place my muzzle an inch away from my master’s ear, take a deep breath and howl. It gets him on his feet every time.

That first morning at the inn, it worked perfectly. My master jumped out of bed and went over to the washstand. This of course left a pile of warm sheets on the bed, into which I settled for a good nap. I awakened to the sound of my master calling me and we ventured out into the predawn light.

We walked down to the river along still-dark paths, the only real noise being the bird song. It was so different from London’s the rattle of wheels, jingle of harness and clanking of milk churns. I felt really invigorated: the grass was covered with dew and there were fresh scents everywhere.  It was such a tonic after all our previous hard work.

When we arrived at the river, I was content just to lie by my master’s side and watch the mist on the water. It did not take your uncle long to get ready and soon he was fishing. He stood contentedly with his pipe clasped between his teeth. Dawn was just breaking when he caught his first fish. I do not really know what it was but it was cooked for breakfast as soon as we returned to the inn. We were by the river that first morning for about two hours. It was a peaceful, happy time.

All too soon, we returned to the inn where, as I have said, the fish was cooked.  The landlady, as I recall, called it ‘a real bigun’, a type of fish of which I had not previously heard. The fish smelt good, but I did not really care for it since fish does not have rinds like bacon or ends like sausages. My master, however, was delighted.

Your uncle got ready and we went to church.  As normal, my master went into the building while I lay down by the lychgate.  It did not take long before I fell into a delightful sleep. I was awakened from my slumbers by the sound of two men talking inside the gate. These two men smelt quite peculiarly of pitch and fish. These are distinct smells and ones that you would associate with a fishing port
rather than a country churchyard.

‘Agnes tells me that there is a policeman staying at the Lion, and she says that he has come to spy on us.’
the first voice hissed.

‘He has come down for some fishing,’ replied the second voice. ‘He is apparently a famous London detective.  The likes of him won’t be interested in small fry like us.’

‘I still don’t like it,’ the first voice said. ‘I think that he should have an accident and drown. The river runs faster and deeper than outsiders would credit.’

‘Stop that talk. Do you want to give that Inspector Pendle an excuse to nose around here?’ the second voice remonstrated.

There was a pause during which the first man shuffled his feet and mumbled something.

‘I thought not,’ continued the second voice. ‘If we want to get rid of him, all we have to do is give his silly
-looking dog a piece of the poisoned bait that John uses. If his dog dies he’ll soon abandon his holiday.’

You can imagine how I felt on hearing this. There were real serpents in this Garden of Eden. I could not believe that anyone would contemplate poisoning me to get rid of your uncle.  I vowed then not to eat anything that my master did not give me. I have kept to this decision whenever we have been on an investigation and I believe that it has saved my life on several occasions. The only time that I forgot this rule, I ended up being poisoned with a strychnined
Stilton.

I kept still and hoped that they wouldn’t see me. I may be faster but I am not as strong as two fully-grown men. On balance, it is never a good idea to give the ungodly an easy opportunity.

The service finished at last and it was all I could do to wait patiently for my master as he spoke to the vicar and several of the locals.  We returned to the inn, for an enjoyable lunch, before venturing out for an afternoon’s fishing.  While we were enjoying some bread and cheese and the local ale, I received my second shock of the day. The landlady was called Agnes and she was the one currently providing my suppers. If she was a confederate of those two men at the church, I was quite likely doomed. It was about this time that I remembered that your uncle was not involved in any investigation, so there was no reason for anyone to kill me. I was, however, greatly relieved when we collected the fishing tackle and headed for the river.

The river at Lower Swineford is one of those slow rivers that gradually meander their way down to the sea. It has steep banks with small gravel beaches at the outermost part of each of the curves. The river is generally deeper towards the inside of each bend, and it is here that fish lurk in deep pools. The river is graced with several large boulders that sit in mid-stream.

On the village side of the river, the land is mainly given over to farmland and there is a thin screen of willows along the top of the bank. There is one wood on this side of the river downstream of the village, known locally as Staine’s Wood. Your uncle found out from the landlord that it marks the site of a plague village and it is said to be haunted.

The other side of the river is more heavily wooded and is part of the estate of Lord Arnston. Apparently, the woods are maintained as his private shoot. The locals described Lord Arnston as a sportsman and he is apparently disliked because he employs several gamekeepers and a water bailiff to protect his sporting interests.

It was a beautiful warm afternoon and I approached the river intending to do nothing more strenuous than sleeping in the sun. My master had decided to fish from one of those little gravel beaches. It was a wonderful spot with a bank to lie on and willow trees to shade us from the sun. Although the water looked inviting, I did not enter the river. Your uncle has made it perfectly clear that I must not swim in water that he is fishing, a rather silly prohibition since I am not scared of fish in the slightest.

As soon as he had cast out his first line, your uncle took out his sketchbook and began to draw the scene. As you know, he will often draw or paint when he wishes to relax or think clearly about a problem.

I spent the first part of the afternoon sleeping but there is only so much rest that an active young dog can stand. There I was by a river and I wanted to swim.  I decided, therefore, to go for a short walk downstream and find a place where I could enter the water without invoking my master’s wrath. For me, to think is to do, so I climbed the bank behind our beach and went exploring.

The countryside is always exciting for a city dog, and always reminds me of my puppyhood spent at your family’s Hampshire seat. I forgot about my swim and enjoyed myself smelling scents and flowers. It was while I was engaged in this innocent activity that a rabbit broke cover almost immediately in front of my paws. I remember that chase well.  The rabbit was fast and could turn quickly but I almost caught it. As I stood panting with my nose to the rabbit hole, listening to my erstwhile prey jeering at me from safety, I caught the smell of blood. A deeper sniff and I suddenly felt cold; it was human blood.

I listened carefully, but I could hear no sounds of a person in distress. Sniffing the wind, I started to follow the scent. It is a lot harder to follow a wind-blown smell than a proper spoor and, for the only time in my life, I found myself wishing that I had a bloodhound’s nose.  The scent gradually became mixed in with another less sharp smell, that of river mud. With that clue, I started running straight towards the river.

When I reached the bank, the smell of blood became stronger and I found that I could follow it easily. I came to a small bay and there, caught in the branches of a low hanging willow, was the body of a man. He had thrown his left arm over a branch and hung suspended with his face barely out of the river. I could see that he was bleeding from a wound in the back of his head. The blood round the wound was caked and already covered in flies.  My police experience suggested that he had been injured some time ago and that he was obviously unconscious.

I sprang down the bank and entered the river by the tree. Fortunately, the water was quite shallow at this point and I could see that most of the man’s body was resting on the riverbed.  As I reached him, I could see that he was in a very bad way: his breathing was shallow and I knew that soon he would slip from unconsciousness to death. Instinctively I licked his face and was rewarded with a faint groan. My second lick caused his eyes to flutter open. Although his eyes did not focus on me, his breathing seemed to steady.

It was obvious that this man would not be able to get out of the water unassisted. He also appeared too heavy for me to drag him to safety. If I had been a collie, I would probably have run to the nearest farm and brought back several strong men to save him.
However, I am a Spaniel so I did the sensible thing and started howling for my master. I have found that humans may ignore a barking dog, especially in the distance, but most of them will respond to a good mournful howl.  The more a person likes dogs, the more quickly they come.