The Barker's Dozen - Reminiscences of an Early Police Dog (8 page)

The disdainful footman eventually introduced Inspector Pendle. I looked up to see a tall and dapper man, probably in his early forties. He crossed over to the two other men with a loose and easy stride. However, he paused just long enough to snap his fingers at William
and me.

‘Good morning Lord Arnston, Inspector Thompson
,’ he began. ‘I gather from your message that the poachers have finally resorted to murderous violence.’

‘Good of you to come, Inspector
,’ Lord Arnston said. ‘Are you acquainted with the events of yesterday?’

‘No, my Lord
,’ Inspector Pendle replied. ‘I decided to listen to the facts before I heard Constable Lee’s theories.’

Your uncle once more ran through the story, but this time he showed his fellow policeman the sketches in his notebook. All Inspector Pendle’s comments and questions were sensible and to the point. I decided that I liked this provincial inspector.

‘If you are ready, gentlemen,’ said Lord Arnston, ‘I’ll take you to see Fred Wallace.’

Lord Arnston led us from the library and out into the gardens
, explaining that Fred lived in a tied cottage near to the main house. He went on to explain that the cottage was in effect Fred’s for life. The gardens were very well laid out with the back facade of the house being reflected in a lake. There were ducks on the lake and I was reminded of the house at Maygrove.

Fred Wallace’s cottage was surrounded by a neat dry-stone wall that enclosed an attractive cottage garden at the front and a well-kept vegetable patch at the rear. As we entered the garden, through a smart, wooden gate, a homely woman
, obviously Fred’s wife, opened the front door and greeted us all very nicely. In case I haven’t mentioned it, I enjoy being treated as a hero.

We were shown into the cottage’s bedroom where we found Fred Wallace sitting up in bed stroking an elderly tabby. Although he was still rather pale he was wide awake, and
, I think, glad of our visit. We greeted him warmly and inquired after his health.

‘Fred,’ began Lord Arnston, ‘you know Inspector Pendle. The other gentleman is Inspector Thompson of Scotland Yard. I would be grateful if you would tell them what you told me yesterday.’

‘It was Saturday night,’ said Fred Wallace. ‘I finished work at about nine o’clock and decided to call in at the Red Lion. I had heard that a gentleman had come down for some fishing and I wanted to have a sight of him.

‘While I was having a beer, Thomas Lee came over to me and started asking me if I had any more thoughts about the gang I had surprised. I refused to answer his questions. He got rather insistent
, so I told him that when I was sure, I would go to Lord Arnston first. He would undoubtedly call in someone from Martelton and not the village bobby.

‘I think that this offended him because he went off to mutter with his brother-in-law. I don’t trust the man. When I first realised that I was having problems with a poaching gang
, I discussed the matter with Constable Lee. He was very helpful, and willingly helped me lay my plans. I soon realised that whenever I had discussed something with him, the poachers seemed to know about it in advance. I think that he has a loose tongue.

‘The poachers also altered their tactics quite regularly, which prevented me from setting up a reliable ambush. In the last few months, they have stretched a net across the river and poured poison in upstream. That section of the river is now dead. They have also speared fish from boats while using flaming torches to attract them. A short while ago I came across them dynamiting the river. It was on that occasion that I shot at one of the net handlers on my bank.

‘On that occasion, as the poachers fled, I heard one of them mention my name and it suddenly occurred to me that someone in the village was working for this gang. I therefore asked the doctor if anyone had come to him with shot injuries.

‘I was in the Red Lion for about an hour on Saturday night, and I left to walk home just after the moon had risen. It was a good evening and I spent some time standing on the bridge listening to my river flowing past. I had gone perhaps fifty yards from the bridge when a figure stood up by the estate wall.

‘“Fred Wallace?” he asked. “I want a word with you.”

‘“Yes, I’m Fred Wallace
,” I replied. “What do you want to say to me?”

‘“I know something that you might find interesting,” he said
, coming towards me. “How would you like to know the name of the man you shot a few weeks ago?”

‘“Very much,” I replied. I thought I knew what was happening here. Often a disgruntled member of a poaching gang will betray their fellows. I thought that this one was prepared to tell me everything for a consideration of some kind.

‘“Look here, Mr Wallace,” he continued, “I’ll give you a list of all those involved in poaching on your stretch for two guineas and your word that no action will be taken against me.”

‘“I don’t have that much on me
,” I said.  “If you give me your list, I’ll give you my word to pay you the money.”

‘“I know I
 can trust you, Mr Wallace,” he replied. “If you meet me here on Tuesday night, I’ll even lead you to where the gang is due to poach.”

‘I was so completely involved with this offer that I did not hear anyone behind me until the last second. I heard a footstep and started to turn. Then there was a heavy blow on the back of my head, I saw a bright light and it suddenly went dark.

‘I revived to find myself being dragged face down and by my heels to the edge of the bank by the bridge. It was obvious that the devils intended to throw me into the river and make an end of me. I forced myself to be calm and managed to take one very deep breath before they threw me in.

‘I floated down the river drifting in and out of consciousness. I believe that the chill of the water helped to revive me sufficiently for me to keep breathing. I became aware that my legs had touched gravel and a branch from a riverside willow tree reached the water by my head. Somehow, I managed to throw my arm over the branch. I can remember nothing more that night.

‘The next thing I remember is opening my eyes and seeing a dog licking my face. At least that is what I think I saw. I do know that I heard it start howling. Now I like dogs and it sounded so unhappy that I tried to reach out and pat it. The next moment I was face down in the water. I don’t think I had any fight left in me and I just lay there.

There was a heavy blow on the back of my head.

‘As I abandoned myself to death something grabbed me hard by the shoulder and turned me on my back. I have a crazy memory of a Spaniel holding onto my collar while trying to bark. I know that someone held my head out of the water.’

Having finished his story Fred sank tiredly back into the bed. Lord Arnston thanked him and we left the cottage.

‘I am afraid that there can be no doubt now,’ Inspector Pendle observed. ‘That was a deliberate and cold blooded attempt to murder Fred Wallace. The only question that I can not readily answer is, why attack him now?’

‘Two possibilities spring to mind,’ your uncle replied. ‘Either it was revenge for Fred’s shooting of a gang member or someone in the inn overheard his conversation with Constable Lee and thought that he had worked out who the poachers
were.’

‘Every time I look into this problem it always seems to lead straight back to the Red Lion
.’ Inspector Pendle hesitated and continued, ‘I have my suspicions about the innkeeper and I believe that he is very heavily involved with this gang. I know that you are on holiday, but can I ask you to assist me with this case? You are, after all, staying at the inn and you might overhear something.’

‘With pleasure,’ your uncle agreed with alacrity. ‘I was just about to offer my services anyway. I would rather catch the miscreants before they successfully commit murder and you have to call me in officially. I need to know everything you can tell me about this gang.’

‘If you don’t mind my presence during this conversation,’ interjected Lord Arnston, ‘I would suggest we discuss this over lunch.’

This idea met with our unanimous approval and we returned to the hall for lunch. The food was simple and plentiful, but very good. It was quite easy to see why William had put on weight. During the meal, the humans discussed the poaching gang. For the sake of simplicity, I will summarise the conversation. I must remind you that most of this was supposition based on hearsay, circumstantial evidence and Inspector Pendle’s instincts.

Poaching has long been an unofficial country pastime. In fact, quite a few countrymen are full-time poachers, existing entirely on what they hunt and catch in other people’s fields. I must admit to a certain ambivalence in my attitude towards poaching. I cannot see anything wrong in a man taking a wild creature to feed himself.  Quite apart from that, hunting is fun. There is, however, a difference between a man hunting for himself and a gang hunting commercially. There is also a difference between wild animals and specially-bred birds.

Whatever my private thoughts, this gang had turned violent and had tried to kill Fred Wallace. They were also not fishing for themselves
, but were happily killing large numbers of fish just to get the few that they could easily sell. If I were right, at least one of the gang would happily kill me just to be rid of my master. I did not think that my unexpected poisoning would make your uncle leave the area- he would instead be determined to discover why I had been killed- but I have noticed that cowards and assassins tend to judge everyone by their own miserable standards.

According to Inspector Pendle, the gang
had started working the river several years ago. They tended to move their predations up and down a twenty-mile stretch of river.  Although these moves were seemingly random, they actually centred on four villages. Inspector Pendle suspected that they had sympathisers in each of these villages who informed the gang of any unusual activity by the landowners, river bailiffs or police.

The gang started quite small but had grown, by the time of our fishing trip, to roughly a dozen active members. As the gang had grown
, their raids had also widened from simple netting or spearing to dynamiting and poisoning whole stretches of the river.

On several occasions
, the gang had resorted to violence. This had normally occurred when one or two people had surprised the gang while they had been poaching. The violence had gradually become more serious but this was the first time they had tried to murder someone.

At last
the gang had made a mistake. When they attacked Fred Wallace, one of his attackers had mentioned a raid on the Tuesday night. The problem was how we were going to capitalise on it. After some discussion, the Inspectors decided that your uncle would return to the inn and casually mention that Fred had no memory of what had happened. We would then go fishing and spend the evening in the taproom just like any other holidaymakers. While we were innocently engaged, enjoying our fishing trip, Inspector Pendle would make a few discreet inquiries of his own.

It was finally agreed that on Tuesday we would go to see nearby
Locksy Castle. Inspector Pendle would meet us there at noon and we would finalise our arrangements. Lord Arnston then suggested that if he invited us to dinner on the Tuesday night, it would give my master a good excuse for not being at the inn. He promised to arrange matters so that the invitation would be delivered to the inn before breakfast.

We returned to the
Inn to collect the fishing tackle. As we left our room the innkeeper approached us.

‘Excuse me
, Inspector Thompson,’ he said. ‘Have you seen Fred Wallace today? I wouldn’t normally bother you but we are all worried about him.’

‘Yes, I went to see him,’ my master responded in a rueful tone. ‘Unfortunately
, he is not very well. He has very bad concussion. The poor man cannot even remember finishing work.’

‘Will he ever get better and remember what happened?’ pressed the innkeeper.

‘Probably not, I’m afraid. Even if he does suddenly remember anything it is just as likely to be something that someone else has told him happened,’ your uncle extemporised with an insincere smile.

‘If you hear anything more
, you will tell me, won’t you, Inspector?’ the innkeeper asked.

Your uncle promised to keep his host fully informed of any developments. We then left the inn and went down to the river for few hours’ fishing. Almost opposite the site chosen by my master, there was a large boulder in the centre of the river that was catching the full force of the late afternoon sun. I realised that I had not been into the water all day. For me
, to think is to act, and within moments I was swimming out to the rock. It was a relatively easy task to scramble up on to the boulder. I lay down and in full sight of my master, stretched out and went to sleep.

I awoke sometime later to the sound of angry hissing, somewhere between a kettle and an irate cat. Opening one eye
, I saw that a massive bird was glaring at me.  It took a second for me to realise that I was looking at a swan who had scrambled up onto the top of my rock.

‘Good evening,’ I said in my friendliest voice. As I was told as a pup, politeness costs nothing and a wagging tail wins many a friend.

‘Good evening,’ hissed the swan. ‘What are you doing on this rock?’

The bird was obviously naturally polite, but the tone of his hiss suggested that if I did not give a satisfactory answer
, something nasty was likely to happen to me. I decided that honesty was the best policy.

‘I am on a fishing holiday with my master,’ I
began. ‘I decided to swim out to this rock and sleep in the sun, at least until my fur dried out.’

The swan looked at me quizzically.

‘Has it occurred to you that your fur will get wet again on your way back to your master?’ This swan was definitely quite an intellectual. This is rare, since most fowl are definitely bird-brained.

‘Has it occurred to you that I like getting wet?’ I countered.

I was relieved to hear the hiss change from aggression to amusement. I realised that I had an unparalleled opportunity to ask one of the residents of the river about the poaching gang. It was just possible that this swan had seen something.

‘There is a second reason why we are here,’ I admitted conversationally. ‘My master is looking for the humans who come and fish at night.’

The swan’s hiss started to get more hostile again. He brought his head back so that I was looking at the business end of a very sharp beak.

‘Does your master want to go fishing with that pack of rats?  Is he a friend of those despoilers of nests?’

It was obvious that I had managed to touch a nerve. It was also apparent that I was within seconds of being pecked. It was time to win the swan over to our cause.

‘On the contrary,’ I replied in my stoutest tones. ‘We wish to drive these vermin away from the river. It seems, however, that we do not
know the full extent of their infamy. What do you mean when you say “despoilers of nests”?’

The swan’s hissing became louder and I saw my master look up from his sketch book. While I had been sleeping, he had started drawing. In fact, he later painted a fine picture of the swan and
me.

‘My mate had chosen a good place where one of these rocks touches the bank,’ the swan began. ‘We nested there without any problems for two years and raised several fine cygnets. One night a year ago my mate, who was with the eggs, became aware of men creeping along the bank. Naturally, she was startled and called her alarm. One of the keepers heard her and came to investigate, causing the other men to run off. We thought nothing more about it that night.

‘The following morning, while I was off eating by the bridge, two men approached our nest and drove my mate off with stones. While one of the men kept her at bay the other broke the eggs and kicked the nest into the water.’

‘Is your mate all right?’ I asked horrified by this callous act of violence.

She is now,’ replied the swan.  ‘We have a new nest site, which we’ve built quite close to the village.’

‘Have you seen any of these men recently?’ I asked. ‘We know that they are going to come tomorrow night but we have no idea where they intend to strike.

‘I think I can help you,’ said the swan after a moment’s thought. ‘Every time they come they do the same things. I think this allows them to work quickly and in near silence.  Since our nest was destroyed, I have been more vigilant. ’

The swan looked at me quizzically

‘The first warning that we have of one of their visits comes during the day. Three men come down the river in a boat. It is not always the same men but it is always the same boat. Sometimes we see the boat and the men do not come that night, but if they come we will have seen the boat earlier, if you follow me.’

The swan seemed to be working all this out for the first time so I signalled for him to continue.

‘On the day of a visit the boat will pull up first at one bank, normally near a stout post or tree and they will place a white stone clearly on the bank. The stone has actually been painted with that stuff they put on their cottages. They then cross the river and put another stone on the opposite bank, near a similar tree. I have noticed that the river at this point is always quite shallow, level and free from obstructions.  One of the men will then walk a short way upstream and put two of the white stones close together on the same bank.

‘Later that night the men come and there is a loud noise. The following morning the stones are gone, but there are often scrape marks on one of the banks.’

‘Thank you,’ I said to the swan. ‘That is very useful. With this information we can be waiting for them.’

My only problem was, of course, communicating this intelligence to my master, but I have my methods, as you shall hear.

‘Can I do anything to help?’ asked the swan. ‘I do feel that I should do something about my ruined nest.’

This seemed like a reasonable request. For a moment, I could not think of anything. Then I had it: I would use the swan’s talents against the poachers.

‘Can you go upstream early tomorrow and watch for the boat?’ I asked. ‘If you see them, follow them and see where they place their stones. If they come, we’ll be down near the village tomorrow evening and you can tell me where they are.’

The swan agreed to this and waddled back into the river. I returned to my nap until my master called. We returned to the inn and supper.

The main subject of conversation in the inn was still the attack on Fred Wallace. My master’s comments on the seriousness of his injury had obviously been repeated and the patrons of the inn were agreed that the attackers would never be found. I have always admired your uncle’s cunning. He asked the landlord if there were any sites of historical interest in the area. Within five minutes
, the landlord had persuaded my master that he had to see Locksy Castle. Ten minutes later, a dog cart and a hamper had been arranged for the next day.