by Evelyn James
“I rather fancy owning a Labrador,” Tommy mused as they waited.
“You have Bramble,” Clara pointed out.
“No law against owning two dogs.”
“No. But there is Annie,” Clara reminded him. “She just about tolerates that poodle.”
She was being hard on Bramble because she was still recalling the misfortune of her stolen breakfast from that morning. Her stomach was beginning to rumble, reminding her that she was actually quite hungry.
“Labradors are very biddable,” Tommy said, as if he was reciting something from a book. “They are loyal, obedient and gentle.”
Clara gave him a look and hammered on the door again.
“I am not convinced anyone is going to answer,” she said after several more seconds had elapsed. “Shall we see if anyone is around at the kennels?”
“Why not? Maybe I shall see a dog that takes my fancy.”
Tommy was teasing her now, but two could play at that game.
“Annie shall never dare leave the house again if she comes home to find a Labrador has moved in.”
“Even better,” Tommy grinned.
Clara shook her head at him and headed in the direction of the barking. It was not hard to locate the kennels if you just followed the rapidly increasing noise level. The squire was fortunate he did not have any near neighbours, or they might have been quick to complain.
After following a path that led along the front of the house, they found a gateway in a stone wall, that appeared to lead into another garden area. Clara tried the gate and it opened easily. Peering through cautiously, for there was no knowing who or what was behind it, she observed a large yard lined with dog kennels. These were not the humble kennels the average pet dog might be lumped with, they consisted of sheds for sleeping quarters and mesh runs with concrete floors for easy cleaning.
Assuring herself that there were no loose dogs about to spring upon her, Clara pushed open the gate and entered. She was greeted by the dogs in the kennels nearest her jumping up at the bars of their cages and wagging their tails furiously. Some tried to shove their heads through the bars to lick her hands, while others leapt up and down and barked in delight. Tommy was soon offering his hand to the nearest dogs for them to sniff and giving them pats on their heads.
Clara attempted a quick count of the number of animals present, but soon stopped when she had reached twenty with many kennels to go. There were not just Labradors in the kennels, but spaniels of various types and even a few pointers. She was about to call out to see if anyone was around when a young woman appeared from one of the sheds, clutching a puppy under each arm.
“This is a private area,” she informed her visitors, though her tone was light.
“We tried the front door, but no one answered,” Clara explained.
The woman blew a strand of hair out of her eyes, her hands being otherwise occupied.
“Sorry about that, father is going deaf. Doesn’t always hear the door,” she said. “Are you after a dog?”
“Not exactly,” Clara said quickly before Tommy could get any ideas. “We were wondering if you were missing a Labrador, as one has been found deceased.”
“Damn it,” the woman sighed. “That will be Betty. Look, you best come speak to father, just let me put these two back.”
The woman deposited the puppies back into their shed and shut the door. They were soon tumbling out into the adjoining run with their littermates.
“Marjorie Piers,” she introduced herself, turning back to them. “Don’t expect a warm reception from father once he hears your news. He dotes on Betty.”
Marjorie pulled a face as she heard her own words.
“Doted,” she corrected.
Chapter Eighteen
They were escorted inside the hall through a side door and led through a series of rooms, most in a dishevelled state that seemed to suit the home of a country squire, until they entered a large library. A gentleman was sitting in an armchair by the fire reading a newspaper. Five dogs were slumped about his feet, ranging from a small brown cocker spaniel, to a stately dome-headed English pointer. An ageing and extremely fat Labrador wheezed at them from the fireplace. This appeared to be an attempt at barking.
“Father, these people have news about Betty,” Marjorie called out.
Squire Piers was a man who took being a country gent seriously and lived up to every stereotype he knew of. He wore a green tweed suit, the legs of the trousers being noticeably flared around the thighs and hips, while his lower legs were wrapped in tight brown stockings that reminded Tommy of the puttees he was expected to wear in the army. Piers adorned his outfit with a red bowtie and a neatly folded handkerchief in his top pocket. He had impressive mutton chops, that merged into a moustache and made up for the fact he was bald on his pate. He had watery blue eyes, and a blotchy complexion that suggested a great deal of time spent outside in all weathers. By his side leaned a stout stick, its handle carved into the shape of a duck’s head.
“Has she been found?” Squire Piers asked urgently, putting aside his newspaper, and leaning forward keenly.
“We believe we have found her,” Clara said. “At least, we have found a black Labrador. I am sorry to say that the dog is dead.”
Squire Piers immediately slumped back in his seat and his face fell. The aged Labrador lumbered up from its place by the fire, limped over to its master and rested its head in his lap.
“This is a very bad day,” Piers said sombrely as he stroked the dog’s greying head.
“Betty disappeared last night,” Marjorie elaborated. “There was some thunder and she bolted. She never has liked thunder.”
“Absolutely useless as a gundog,” Squire Piers sniffed. “First sound of a gun she would run and hide, but she was the dearest creature to have in the house.”
The waver in his voice suggested the morose squire was quite inclined to cry.
“How did she die?” Marjorie asked, her own face solemn.
“We don’t fully know,” Clara admitted. “She was found this morning at Spinner’s farm, already deceased, but no sign of the cause.”
“That damn Spinner did her in!” Squire Piers shook his fist. “He is a wicked man with a heart of stone!”
“Mr Spinner appeared shocked at the discovery,” Clara explained to him. “He believes someone may have put the dog in his yard on purpose.”
“Why?” Marjorie asked in alarm.
Clara wasn’t sure how to answer that. Saying Mr Spinner was considering it a threat rather sounded far-fetched in the comfortable confines of the library.
“He thinks someone is trying to upset him,” Tommy saved her. “Scare him, even. What with all this talk in the village about a demon dog on the loose.”
“Demon dog?” The squire could not believe his ears. “That is what they are saying? Heavens preserve us!”
“It is because of the death of Mr Beech,” Marjorie nodded. “I have heard folk talking about witchcraft, and how there is some deep, dark secret involved because he was killed on Valentine’s Day.”
“I have never heard such tosh!” Squire Piers grumped. “The man was murdered for very boring, ordinary reasons, I am sure. Not that I had much time for him, myself.”
“You didn’t care for Mr Beech?” Clara asked, curious, as this was the first person who had admitted to not liking the old man.
“Not so much we didn’t care for him, as he did not care for us,” Marjorie said. “Mr Beech was afraid of dogs, especially black ones. He wouldn’t come near the hall or the kennels. One time, a cow wandered into the shoot and Mr Beech was sent to retrieve it. When he saw the dogs, he seemed to become deranged, screamed they had to be kept away from him.”
“Never trust a person who dislikes dogs,” Squire Piers wagged a finger at them. “Dogs are intuitive creatures and they can read a man’s soul. I trust their judgement over any person.”
“Seems rather odd that a man living in the countryside, on farms where there
will be dogs working, would be scared of them,” Tommy remarked.
“Oh, well Mr Beech was peculiar,” Squire Piers snorted. “My father had this hall and kennels before me, and he would tell the story of how back when Beech was a young lad, he was followed home by a black dog. Most folks would think that a stray had taken a shine to them, and either shooed it away or ignored it. But Beech, he takes it into his head that this dog is something sent from Hell and that it is an omen of death. Sure as you like, the lad reached home one day and found his sister had dropped dead at the kitchen table. Ever after, Mr Beech was deathly afeared of black dogs.”
“Even black dogs that were obviously not demons,” Marjorie snorted. “Still, he caused us no harm.”
“His death was a shock, seeing how it occurred,” Squire Piers shook his head, then his face fell. “You don’t suppose someone killed Betty thinking she was a demon?”
Clara, who had been about to tell him about the sighting of Betty near the farm by Constable Stanley, decided against it. There was already too much nonsense going around.
“I am not sure what happened to Betty,” Clara explained. “There were no marks on her to suggest how she died.”
The squire slumped in his chair.
“Terrible times we are living in,” he sighed to himself. “First the war, now folks massacring old men and killing people’s dogs.”
“I would like to come and fetch Betty,” Marjorie interjected. “She deserves a proper burial, in her favourite spot in the garden.”
“I don’t like all this,” Squire Piers seemed to have huddled up into himself. “I think we should add some extra locks to the kennel yard, just in case.”
“I’ll buy some on the way home,” Marjorie reassured him.
“We have a car outside, we shall gladly give you a lift,” Clara said.
Marjorie showed them through the hall and to the front door.
“How are you connected to all this?” She asked as she was showing them outside.
“We have been hired by Mr Spinner to investigate the death of Mr Beech,” Clara explained. “We are private detectives.”
“Well, that’s unexpected! I don’t think I have ever met private detectives before,” Marjorie considered what she had just heard. “Might I hire you to discover what happened to Betty? Or do you not investigate the deaths of dogs?”
“Clara will investigate anything,” Tommy said with a grin.
His sister gave him a stern glance.
“I shall gladly take a look at the situation, though I make no promises,” Clara told her. “If you really want to find out what happened to Betty, it might be advisable to take her body to a vet and see if they can determine what caused her death.”
Marjorie was nodding.
“That is a very sound idea. I think we ought to know.”
She clambered into the car with them and sat quietly while Clara asked Jones to return them to Spinner’s Farm.
“What sort of gundogs do you breed?” Tommy asked as they rode along.
“Mainly Labradors, cocker spaniels and springer spaniels,” Marjorie replied. “A number of the dogs you saw in the kennels are here for training, having been sent by their owners. You would be amazed at how hopeless some people are at training dogs.”
Clara smirked at Tommy, but he pretended not to notice.
“Sounds like it keeps you very busy,” he said to Marjorie.
“It does. I do most of the training these days, father is more the administrative side of things, and, of course, the face of Piers’ Gundogs. He runs all the shoots and puts in a good appearance as the typical country squire,” Marjorie chuckled. “He is a soft-hearted old thing. He hates cruelty to dogs and is always taking on ones that have failed their training and proven themselves unsuited to being a gundog. Betty’s death will have deeply upset him.”
The conversation stuttered to a halt at the mention of Betty again. Fortunately, they were not far from Spinner’s farmhouse and the distraction of their arrival helped to jar them back to life. Spinner was on his doorstep again the second he heard the car.
“I hate that man,” Marjorie muttered. “We used to run part of our shoot across his land. No issue whatsoever, but when he took over, he turfed us off and left us short by several acres. We thought we might lose the whole season of bookings because of it.”
They exited the car, Marjorie managing to keep a polite smile on her face to mask her antagonism towards Spinner.
“Well? What have you learned?” Spinner demanded of Clara and Tommy, folding his arms across his chest.
Marjorie was the one who spoke.
“I think the dog you found is our Betty,” she said. “I wish to see her.”
“Should have known it was one of your dogs,” Spinner sneered at her. “Can’t your father keep them on his land?”
Marjorie maintained her composure.
“Can I see the dog?”
It was Tommy who answered her.
“Its just around the back. This way.”
He walked past Spinner who stared in astonishment at Tommy taking charge but was too much of a cowardly bully to say anything. He tagged along behind them, muttering under his breath. Clara was attempting not to laugh, enjoying seeing him brought down a peg or two, though this might not be the best way to earn their fee.
Tommy led the way to the outbuilding they had come to before. The dog had been discreetly covered over with a blanket, presumably to prevent Mrs Spinner seeing it. Marjorie knelt by the body and pulled back the covering. She did not flinch at the sight of the dead dog, though her smile was long gone.
“That is Betty,” she said, softly. “Father will be devastated.”
“I’ll help you carry her to our car,” Tommy offered kindly.
Marjorie brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, which covered up the fact she was also wiping away a stray tear.
“Thank you.”
While the pair dealt with the deceased dog, Clara took Spinner to one side.
“Betty was spooked by thunder last night and ran off,” she informed him. “Something happened to her after that, we are not sure what, but obviously it led to her death. Now, whether the person responsible for her demise brought her here, or whether someone found her corpse and decided to play a cruel trick on you, we don’t know, but we plan on finding out.”
Spinner was quiet, slightly cowed by the scene before him.
“I don’t know the purpose for bringing this dog here, maybe she crawled here herself and died. But if someone put her here deliberately, well, that was a pretty nasty thing to do and I shall try to determine who was behind it,” Clara continued. “I don’t suppose you heard anything in the night?”
“No,” Spinner snapped. “I sleep soundly.”
Clara was tired of the conversation already. Tommy and Marjorie were already at the corner of the house and she saw no reason to remain. As she began to walk away, Mr Spinner spoke.
“Bill was scared of dogs.”
“Yes, Squire Piers explained that,” Clara nodded.
Spinner pulled his brows together in a deep frown.
“I’m not a superstitious man, but this business is starting to make me think about the old stories concerning Bill,” he looked uncomfortable speaking about this. “Bill was said to be able to talk to animals, it was what made him a good cattleman. He could charm the birds from the trees, they said. And he saw ghosts. Ever since he was a lad. That was why he never stayed out after dark, because once, they say, he saw the ghost of his father walking past him. Only his father weren’t dead at the time. He went home shaken up, a week later his father was crushed by a haycart.”
“Mr Spinner, I don’t believe in ghosts or magic,” Clara told him calmly. “I do not believe there to be a supernatural element to this killing, other than possibly the murderer being of a superstitious nature. Mr Beech was killed by a human being, of that I am sure, and no paranormal entity was involved.”
“Maybe you should start cons
idering the possibility,” Spinner said. “What if this is all connected with witchcraft?”
Clara wondered if he was trying to put her off his own scent if he was indeed the killer. Bamboozle her with theories of black magic and ghosts that predicted doom. She was not going to even consider such nonsense. She knew that a person had slain Mr Beech, she just did not know the reason. Spinner, however, was becoming agitated and his concern seemed genuine. The discovery of the dog had spooked him more than he had admitted earlier.
“There is always an explanation, Mr Spinner,” she promised him. “A rational, usually rather mundane reason for what has occurred. I shall find that reason, and I shall find the killer of Mr Beech.”
Spinner was not appeased.
“Bill talked about all sorts of things, about the old ways. I used to think he was ridiculous, a relic of the past, but maybe someone took him very seriously?” Spinner shivered. “I used to walk these fields at night without a thought, now I am starting to think like Bill and prefer not to go out after dark. You just don’t know what might be lurking in the shadows.”
“On that I agree,” Clara said to him. “However, I think what lurks is very much flesh and blood, not supernatural. Which makes those shadows even more dangerous.”
Spinner was frowning at her, troubled by her words. Clara was not in the mood to reassure him further; he had been too rude to her and Tommy to have earned her sympathy.
“I shall let you know when I have news,” she said to him and turned away.
“You better hurry,” Spinner called out behind her. “Else we all might end up as ghosts.”
With that retort, he stomped into his house. Leaving Clara amused by his convictions that they were all in peril from the paranormal.
Chapter Nineteen
They dropped Marjorie off at the vets in Hangleton. Once again with Tommy’s help she took the body of the dog inside, to discuss having it examined and the cause of death determined. She was going to pop into the village after that and insisted they not wait for her. She would be fine walking home, in fact, would appreciate the exercise and the opportunity to clear her mind.