“How about if Alfred and Ambrose are sheep dogs?” he asked. “I mean, I do keep a flock on the moor.”
“Dogs used solely for tending sheep or cattle on a farm, or in the exercise of the calling of a shepherd, may be exempt if their owners get a certificate of exemption to prove that’s all the dogs do. You would have to make a declaration to that effect; you’d not have to use them for anything other than tending sheep or cattle, and then you’d have to go to court to make your claim for a certificate of exemption.
“Court?” He was horrified at the idea.
“Yes, the magistrates court, not one of your favourite places, I believe. Look, Claude, don’t be so daft. You need a dog licence for Ambrose, it’s as simple as that, so get yourself down to the post office for one and I’ll be back in a week to inspect it!”
He blinked at me and said nothing as I left.
In the days that followed, there were no further complaints about Alfred-look-alikes raiding the homes and business premises of the people of Aidensfield and I believed that Claude was performing a very useful task in rehabilitating his visitor. When I saw him and Alfred heading towards the pub for their lunch one day, I took the opportunity to halt the pair and to ask about Ambrose’s dog licence.
“No need, Mr Rhea,” Claude said. “He’s gone. Upped and left without so much as a word of thanks.”
“Ambrose, you mean?”
“Aye. He had his breakfast yesterday, cleaned it all up and then just walked out. I spotted him trotting up the hill towards the main road . . . I shouted but he just kept going; I went after him in my truck, but he’d vanished. He’s not come back and I don’t think he ever will.”
“A wanderer, eh?”
“It’s the gypsy blood in him, Constable. I reckon he didn’t want owt to do with licences and officialdom, you see . . .”
And he blinked at me as he stooped to stroke Alfred.
* * *
For all Claude’s control over Alfred, the lusty male dog did break Claude’s curfew once in a while, invariably when there was a bitch on heat somewhere in the locality. Alfred would scent the air, follow his nose and sometimes disappear for days leaving Claude worried and sleepless at the thought of Alfred coming to some harm or being locked up as a stray. But the inbred cunning of the animal ensured he was never caught and that he always returned home with a triumphant air about his lithe, muddy and tired body.
In reaching the object of his desire, Alfred proved, on occasions, to be something of genius. He would travel up to four or five miles in search of love and instead of walking, he would hitch a lift. Many is the time he was found hiding under one of the seats of Arnold Merryweather’s bus, sitting on the rear platform of a dustcart or even lying among the crates of a brewer’s lorry. In all cases, he seemed to know where he was heading and always reached his destination by the simple device of snapping and snarling at anyone who tried to remove him. In time, the locals who found Alfred inside or upon their vehicle allowed him to remain, knowing that he was upon a romantic mission of desperate urgency.
By and large, his roaming did not concern me, unless, of course, there was a suggestion that Alfred was attacking moorland sheep or being dangerous in any way. There could have been claims that Claude did not have the dog under proper control on such excursions, but to bring in the force of law on such an occasion would have been too heavy-handed. As long as Alfred went about his love-life in a gentlemanly manner, few people were likely to object.
It was a combination of these factors, aided no doubt by Alfred’s realisation one sunny spring morning that there was a bitch on heat somewhere within sniffing distance, that did cause me a few problems. I was on routine patrol in my minivan when I received a radio call from Sergeant Blaketon; he was somewhere nearby in his official car and wanted a rendezvous because he had a task which required my presence — and his. I suggested meeting him at 11 a.m. in Aidensfield village street, near the War Memorial, and he agreed.
I had a few minutes in hand before the meeting and, having parked my van at the police house, patrolled the street on foot, chatting to the local people and popping into the pub for one of my routine visits. All was in order — the only customer was Claude Jeremiah Greengrass and he was discussing the flat season with George. Alfred was asleep before the fire. The relevance of that peaceful scenario was of material interest later that morning.
As the church clock was striking eleven, I strolled towards the War Memorial and, with split second timing, was followed by Sergeant Blaketon in his car. He pulled up, climbed out and savoured the fresh moorland air as the clock completed its eleven strikes. I noticed he left the driver’s door open, something he would not normally do. He saw me looking at it.
“I dropped Ventress off before driving out here, Rhea,” he explained. “Smoking like a chimney, he was. A draught of fresh air through the car will clear the smell, I hope. I might declare my car a no-smoking zone, Rhea. Open the other door will you? We can talk out here, in the fresh air.”
We stood near the War Memorial as the breezes of Aidensfield began to purify the police car and, as we chatted, I noticed Alfred trotting along the street, albeit with no sign of Claude. I thought little of it at the time because Blaketon was explaining our task.
“I’ve had a report of vandalism, Rhea, at Ashfordly Cattery,” Blaketon told me. “In fact, I’ve had several in recent weeks in other places where animals are confined. It could be the same culprit or culprits.”
From what he told me, it seemed that someone was going around places where animals or birds were enclosed, and either cutting wire fences, knocking down barriers or opening gates to allow the animals to escape. Recent attacks included a battery hen unit, an aviary, a dogs’ home, the zebra enclosure at a nearby zoo and now Ashfordly Cattery. There had not been any messages to claim responsibility, either by an organisation or an individual, but it did appear that someone felt that all creatures should have their freedom and not be caged or enclosed. So far, none of the escaped animals had been dangerous, although some were valuable, such as the birds released from the Elsinby aviary. What the culprits had failed to understand was that birds of that kind, and many of the animals, depended upon their captors for specialist food and accommodation. Most would undoubtedly perish in the wild, and that seemed to indicate the culprit or culprits were mentally unstable. There was always the possibility that, if such a person was mentally deranged, they would turn their attention to the big cats in the zoo or even cattle in a field. Sooner or later someone would get hurt.
“We’ve not made a public fuss about this, Rhea,” Blaketon went on. “It’s the sort of nutty behaviour that might tempt others of similar views to copy it, if we publicise it, and if the perpetrators have a grievance or a message for the world, it might encourage them to do more. We’re adopting the softly-softly approach — observations, discreet enquiries and low-key investigations with the minimum of publicity. We don’t want the nutters of Yorkshire turning all caged and enclosed animals loose.”
Having outlined the problem, he suggested that I accompany him to the cattery at Ashfordly so that I could see the damage that had been done. He had brought Alf Ventress there earlier, and other rural constables would find themselves involved. If further acts of that kind were committed on my beat, on any of the poultry farms, dairy farms or even piggeries, then I may recognise the modus operandi. Entering his car, I was conscious of the prevailing smell and thought it was funny-smelling tobacco that Alf Ventress used, and so with the windows partly open we drove to the cattery, which was on the Aidensfield side of Ashfordly.
During the journey, Sergeant Blaketon told me that the cattery was owned and run by David and Eileen Easton, and that having established a thriving cat-breeding business, they had expanded into a cattery where people could leave their pets to either recuperate after an illness or lodge while their owners were away for any length of time. Many of the cats, some exotic in appearance, roamed free around the premises, but others, li
ke those lodging there during their owners’ absence, were kept in large, airy and clean enclosures surrounded and topped by sturdy, narrow-gauge wire fences. The cattery was known across a wide area and was regarded as a superb example where the animals received the best care and attention. The Eastons also wrote books and gave talks about all aspects of cat-keeping, ranging from its history to its hygiene.
The previous night, someone had cut the wire of several enclosures, thus allowing the cats to escape, and indeed several had. As they belonged to other people who had left them on trust, it was regarded as a very serious matter, hence the police involvement. Not all the cats had been caught and the cattery owners busily sought them immediately after contacting Ashfordly Police Station. A few had been located before Sergeant Blaketon’s arrival with Alf Ventress.
Now it was my turn. Having briefed me fully on the case, Sergeant Blaketon drove off the main road and we entered a narrow lane at the head of which was a sign saying Ashfordly Cattery. Proprietors: David and Eileen Easton. No dogs allowed. After passing the sign, we drove down the long, winding lane into the isolated cattery and parked in the spacious yard in front of the house. As we climbed out of his car, he said, “Leave the doors open again, Rhea, we must get rid of that Ventress smell. I think he must smoke old socks or something. I’ve never known cigarette smoke to produce such a pong. The car will come to no harm here, we’re well off the beaten track!”
We moved away to head for the front door, and by chance, I turned to look behind me — and saw Alfred sneaking out of Sergeant Blaketon’s car! Now I knew what part of the pong had been! Dog! And not just any dog, a Greengrass dog!
“Sarge!” I said, calling him to a halt. “We’ve given Alfred a lift — I’ll bet he’s going courting!”
“Not that flea-ridden mutt of Greengrass’s!” he snapped, turning around to look at the dog. But Alfred was loping away towards the drive, clearly heading for some pre-destined pleasure in Ashfordly. Then he saw a cat.
It was a beautiful blue Persian and it was halfway across the drive when Alfred spotted it; he barked and leapt towards it, all cats being fair game to a lurcher, and with an astonishing turn of speed, the cat galloped for safety. It headed for the place it knew best — the assemblage of cages — with Alfred in hot pursuit. He was barking furiously and within seconds, the faces of several other cats had appeared in the surrounding vegetation. Some stood their ground and spat, others rushed into the cattery and some shinned up trees. Quite suddenly, there were cats everywhere and Alfred had no idea which of them to chase. He barked at several in turn as others yowled and spat with all the ferocity of their species. There was pandemonium. At the sound of this commotion, David Easton ran from the enclosure armed with a yard brush, but he made the mistake of leaving the gate open. Alfred was inside like a shot, snapping at the heels of a cat which had dared to dart through in anticipation of safety. Suddenly, all the cats in the undamaged cases were clinging to the sides of their enclosures, spitting and yowling and crying with alarm as the woolly grey dog ran around, barking and snarling at every cat he could find.
Alfred had never had such a good time and he apparently forgot all about his amorous intentions because he raced around the cattery, barking and snarling at hundreds of cats in different positions and avoiding Sergeant Blaketon, me and David Easton, all of whom were now in pursuit.
“Sergeant Blaketon, you should not have brought your poodle here . . . it is a rule of this establishment . . .”
“That is not my dog!” Sergeant Blaketon came to a halt with all the majesty he could muster. “And it is not a poodle. No self-respecting poodle would look like that or behave like that. That animal belongs to a ne’er-do-well from Aidensfield, name of Greengrass, and if I were you, Mr Easton, I should sue him for damage and distress to your animals.”
“But you brought him here, Sergeant, in your car!”
“He hitched a lift in my car without my knowledge,” blushed Blaketon. “I had no idea he was with us, had I, Rhea?”
“No, Sergeant, and neither had I!” I confirmed. “He’s done this before, hitched lifts from passing vehicles.”
“Rhea, you will report Greengrass for failing to keep that dog under proper control and if he touches any one of those cats, I’ll have him for worrying livestock, so help me!” snarled Blaketon.
“I don’t think cats are regarded as livestock, Sergeant,” I said, remembering a fiasco with a budgie that Alfred had worried. “Nor do I think a cattery will be regarded as agricultural land.”
The offence of worrying livestock could only occur on agricultural land, and involved only cattle, sheep, goats, swine, horses, asses, mules and poultry. Not cats.
“Then find something to fit the circumstances,” he snapped.
Our attempts to thwart Alfred in his rampage came to nothing; he dodged every attempt to corner him in the maze of cat enclosures, and succeeded in sending every cat to safety up trees or within their cages. Indeed, some had returned to the cages which had been vandalised, darting through the holes in the wire before clambering to the highest part of the netting. Some were spitting with anger and fright, others clung to their supports in abject fear but Alfred managed to keep well clear of our posse. Then he made a mistake. He rushed into a wire cage in pursuit of a ginger tom; the door was open and in a flash, Sergeant Blaketon slammed it shut.
Alfred was now a prisoner among hundreds of cats.
He began to howl pitifully the moment he realised his plight, sitting on his haunches and raising his muzzle as if to heaven to issue a most awful noise.
“Sorry about that,” said Sergeant Blaketon, red-faced and highly embarrassed.
“So, what shall I do with that dog, Sergeant?” asked Easton, panting heavily as he placed the broom beside a wall.
“PC Rhea will contact his owner and get him to collect the dog. I suggest he remains here for a while, Mr Easton, to teach him a lesson, and I suggest you insist on some cash compensation before releasing that dog to its owner.”
“Yes, I will do that. Now, I believe you came to inspect the damage caused by vandals, Sergeant?” Easton tried to appear very calm and in control as Alfred’s mournful howling filled the air and disturbed the cats. “My wife would have shown you around, but she’s gone to the dentist. So, where shall we begin?”
“A tour of the external enclosures, Mr Easton, I think. I thought Constable Rhea should see what they’ve done, so that he is aware of their MO.”
I followed them around the premises and within ten minutes, the place had returned to a state of calm, except for Alfred’s awful howling. It sounded as if he was facing death, and I believe the cats were distressed by the din, but there was nothing anyone could do. Alfred was destined to remain a hostage until a ransom was paid. I think his howling was due to frustrated love rather than concern over his current plight.
Having inspected the damage caused by the vandals, I recorded my impressions in my official notebook and we left, with Sergeant Blaketon still apologising for fetching Alfred on to the premises. He dropped me off in Aidensfield, with a reminder to tell Greengrass to collect Alfred as soon as possible, and ordered me to make very discreet enquiries about the vandalising of the animal enclosures. I found Claude at home; I told him what had happened and said he had been seeking Alfred around the village and was relieved when I said his dog was safe, but alarmed when I said it would cost him money to secure Alfred’s release.
“How much, Mr Rhea?”
“How much are several hundred utterly terrified cats worth, Claude? He nearly caused havoc among those moggies . . .”
“I thought he’d gone courting,” said Claude.
“I think you’re right, Claude, but he hitched a lift with Blaketon. Not perhaps the most sensible of ideas in the circumstances.”
“All right, I’ll go and collect him, the daft old sod!” he sighed.
Two hours later, he was knocking on my office door and looked very upset when I confronted him.
“Have you seen my Alfred?” he asked quietly.
“Not since he was locked up,” I answered. “Why?”
“Well, when that cattery chap’s wife came home from shopping, she saw Alfred in the cage, howling his head off, and because he was upsetting the cats, she let him out. Her husband played hell with her, saying she should have asked first, but anyroad, it’s too late. He’s gone. He’s off again, Mr Rhea.”
“He’ll be courting, Claude. I’ll keep an eye open for him. He’ll be safe, you’ll see.”
It was about midnight that same night when a domestic rabbit breeder on the far side of Ashfordly heard a noise outside. It was someone opening a metal gate which led into the premises. Inside the grounds were his hutches, all filled with show rabbits in excellent condition; his dog slept outside the house but had not raised the alarm on this occasion, but when the breeder, Alan Weaver, went out with his shotgun, he found a man about to loosen all the doors of the hutches. He was an animal rights campaigner called Simon Purdey and having locked the fellow in a secure outhouse, Weaver called Ashfordly Police.
He then went to see why his dog had not raised the alarm, thinking she had been doped by the intruder, but instead, found her in flagrante delicto with Alfred. Dog and bitch were locked together . . . Alfred was now incarcerated in a shed.
Alf Ventress drove out to fetch in the culprit — and he admitted the other crimes. He could not bear to see animals locked in cages — that was his only reason — but said he had not entered the premises via the front gate: he had come across the fields, in silence and in darkness.
“So who made the noise with the gate?” asked Ventress.
“It was that bloody dog of Greengrass’s!” snapped Weaver. “I once saw him open my gate before, he puts his paw on the catch and bingo, he’s in. He tried before to get at that bitch of mine and now he’s got her. God knows what our Sally’s pups will be like now that he’s had his evil way.”
CONSTABLE VERSUS GREENGRASS a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 16) Page 17