“Aye. Likely he would.”
Then Mr. Hoggett got to the point.
“This Scotland Yard man who came up here for haymaking – wasn’t he a capable sort of fellow?”
“Aye. He was that. A sensible, hard-working chap he was, forthright too, no sort of nonsense about him, aye, and he could use his head. A very useful, reasonable man – and kindly, too. Did his job well, as I’d reason to be grateful for. But he’s not hereabouts now. He’s back in London.”
“I could write to him,” said Mr. Hoggett. “I tell you what. I’ll put the story down on paper and send it to him and let him use his own judgement. If he thinks it’s all moonshine, well, no matter. I shall have got it off my chest, and nobody will ever be able to say I didn’t do anything about it.”
John Staple scratched his head thoughtfully. He was used to keeping accounts and to filling in forms and making returns, but to put a long story down on paper was the sort of activity for which he had no liking.
“Rather you than me,” he muttered, and then brightened perceptibly.
“See here, Mr. Hoggett,” he said. “You’re like one of us these days, though happen you’ve not our experience in farming because you took to it late – though you’re shaping none so badly – but you’re used to a pen and paper. Happen you could put it all down, plain and straightforward, though it’d take me a month o’ Sundays and a sorry mess I’d make of it. You do as you say, and tell Mr. Macdonald I advised you to write. He told me if ever I was bothered by aught I could write to him and he’d tell me the rights of it if he could. That was when we were having crack about wills and such like. He’s got a head on him, and he’s a plain man, not conceited like because he’s a London policeman. He wasn’t too proud to ask advice from me. Aye. Reckon you couldn’t do better.”
CHAPTER THREE
MR. HOGGETT’S letter was duly delivered at Scotland Yard, and Chief-Inspector Macdonald found it lying uppermost on his desk when he arrived at his office on Thursday, September 16th. Macdonald had a varied mail. His name was well known, and various eccentric persons took it into their heads to write to him about problems not always connected with the C.I.D. He was accustomed to warnings concerning the end of the world (frequently imminent); he had many letters from persons suffering from persecution complexes of varying kinds; he had many offers of assistance from those whose friends told them they were born detectives; he also had some letters of abuse.
Mr. Hoggett’s decent envelope and clerkly hand looked different from most of the shoddy missives which lay below it, but the point which really took Macdonald’s attention was the postmark, LANCASTER. It brightened his morning, as though a honey-laden breeze from the fells blew through the room. Macdonald had a momentary vision of Crook o’ Lune, shining in the September sunshine, and Ingleborough behind him, with Penyghent and Whernside. He turned the letter over and read the address on the back: “From Giles Hoggett, Farmer, Netherbeck Farm, Wenningby, Lunesdale.”
The bulk of the envelope told him that this was no brief communication. On impulse he shoved it into his pocket.
“I’ll read it at lunch,” he said to himself, with a quite illogical feeling that this letter from an unknown farmer in Lunesdale was going to give him pleasure.
Macdonald’s morning was spent in sifting reports concerning a missing man. This latter, by name Gordon Ginner, had left his lodgings in a midland town a month ago and had disappeared into the blue. The inquiry about him had been set on foot by a middle-aged widow who was affianced to the missing man. She had gone to the local police in a great state of alarm saying that she was certain he had been murdered, and producing a long, vague story about “enemies.” The Midshire police had not been much impressed. Frankly they thought Mr. Ginner had done a bolt to escape from the importunate widow. However, as the days went on and no news came in concerning the missing man, it seemed reasonable to look into the circumstances.
The fact which quickened the interest of the police was the discovery of a letter which seemed connected with a theft of clothing coupons which had occurred recently. Since this letter had been posted in London, the Metropolitan Police were informed, and the activities of Mr. Ginner considered from a London angle. It was soon found that he had rooms in Pimlico, but he had not visited them for some weeks. Letters found here indicated even more plainly that Mr. Gordon Ginner may well have thought it wise to “beat it.” Undoubtedly he was connected in some illicit dealings with the wholesale wool market. Macdonald was occupied in making out a précis from the various reports which had come in. It was a dull, plodding job, analyzing the essential points concerned with the comings and goings of a very commonplace rogue – one of the Smart Alec type who make a good deal of money until their doings are brought to the notice of the police.
When it was time for him to get a meal, Macdonald strolled northwards to a restaurant in Covent Garden. Here, seated in a quiet corner, he drew Mr. Hoggett’s letter from his pocket and read it through; then he re-read it.
Mrs. Hoggett was perfectly correct in saying that Giles could write when he tried; his letter was not only an excellently clear description of what Mr. Hoggett had noticed that wet morning at Wenningby Barns; the narrative had a quality which made Macdonald feel that he knew Mr. Hoggett, that he had seen Wenningby Barns, that the wheel-marks of the “bogie” were reasonably to be connected with the loss of the iron dogs, the chain and hook, the salmon line and sack, the tin of beans and sardines, and Mrs. Hoggett’s clothesline. Macdonald was even pleased to note that George had brought his own eggs with him.
When he finally got up from his meal, Macdonald said to himself: “Thank you very much, Mr. Hoggett. I enjoyed that.”
He went back to his researches concerning the wool-trade reprobate, but one word in Mr. Hoggett’s narrative stuck in his mind.
“Potters,” murmured Macdonald.
He turned back to one of those dreary police reports, containing the evidence of a lorry driver who fared from Manchester and Liverpool to Leeds and the other Yorkshire cities.
“I have known Ginner for some time. I believe he was born in Lancashire, but he lived in Kendal at one time. He was generally in with a low lot – bookies and that. He had a row with some tinker folk at a coffee stall one day – something about recognizing the old girl and something about a pottery. I think it was a pottery. It might have been a china shop.” (Police query: Bucket shop?)
Macdonald pondered as he put the paper down.
“Pottery. . . Why not potters?” he asked himself, and then chuckled. This was wishful thinking with a vengeance, or wasn’t it? He worked away at the ramifications of Mr. Gordon Ginner, and the more he thought about it, the more necessary it seemed to go to Manchester to consult with his colleagues there about the desirability of asking for a warrant to be made out. The evidence against Mr. Ginner was by no means conclusive; a skillful counsel would have made hay of it in no time, but it was obviously desirable to “pull in” anyone connected with the frauds in question.
Macdonald decided to write a brief report based on the essential facts he had culled from the papers which had been sent to him, and to hand in his own report without further comment to his Assistant Commissioner. This done, he decided to acknowledge Mr. Hoggett’s effort, and wrote as follows:
“Dear Mr. Hoggett. I write to acknowledge the letter which you wrote at the suggestion of my friend Mr. Staple. I was much interested in the facts you described so clearly; and I will let you know at a later date if any official action be decided on. This acknowledgement is a personal one, so I can add that your description of your Lunesdale property made me envious. Yours truly, Robert Macdonald.”
When Colonel Wragley saw Macdonald that evening he said:
“You seem to be collecting some useful data about the coupon ramp, Macdonald. Do you think a consultation is advisable? The Manchester men would have no objection to a visit to London and something of the kind seems to be indicated.”
Macdonald allowed him
self a chuckle.
“I’m sure the Manchester men wouldn’t object to a London consultation, sir. For my own part, I should have no objection to a consultation in Manchester. Tomorrow is Friday. The Sabbath cometh, when no man should work unless compelled by urgent duty.”
Wragley laughed good-humoredly.
“Have it your own way, then. You don’t often suggest combining duty and pleasure, Macdonald. A week-end in Manchester isn’t my own idea of enjoyment. However, good luck to you. I think you’ve made some very good points in that report, and the sooner we get this particular set of gentry in the dock, the better for everybody. This coupon business is an infernal nuisance, all the same. It’s about doubled the work of the police.”
Macdonald agreed, but with inward reservations. He had no particular liking for Manchester, but Kendal had been mentioned in the evidence about Ginner and a week-end in Kendal was not to be despised. Moreover, the route for Manchester to Kendal undoubtedly ran through Lancaster. Whether Mr. Hoggett’s discoveries had anything to do with any case on which Macdonald was employed was highly speculative, but since Mr. Hoggett had written a personal letter to that Robert Macdonald who was a friend of Mr. Staple’s, the chief inspector saw no reason why he should not pay a friendly call at Netherbeck Farm.
Macdonald reached Manchester by midday on Friday. He had a satisfactory “crack” with his colleagues, comparing notes on the London and Midland aspects of the case against Ginner, and determined to get a warrant out against that elusive gentleman. By four o’clock Macdonald had concluded his consultation, and shortly afterwards was in a train heading north for Lancaster, a knapsack on his back and a holiday feeling in his mind.
It was a fine clear evening when he reached Lancaster, and the gray mass of John of Gaunt’s castle towered grandly above the Lune, a somber silhouette which had majesty in its severe outlines. Macdonald found a car for hire in the station yard, and decided to trust to luck that the inn where he had stayed before would provide him with a bed. He could have telephoned, of course, but he knew quite well why he didn’t stay to do so. The light would soon be fading, and he wanted to see Ingleborough again that evening.
He told his driver to take him as far as the hill above Garthmere – some mile or so from the main Lancaster-Carnton road – and soon he was driving eastwards from Lancaster, breasting the hills which climbed steadily up on the north bank of the Lune. After twenty minutes’ driving, he paid off his hired car and continued his way on foot.
Macdonald had a feeling for hill country and he liked walking. When he breasted the next rise he knew that his impulse to get out and walk was justified; this was the sort of country to be enjoyed leisurely, while a man was afoot. At the top of the rise he stopped and stared his full. There it was, just as he remembered it, grander than ever in the gray evening light. The great limestone mass of Ingleborough stood out blue against the pallid eastern sky, as fine a skyline as a man might hope to see; in sweeping lines the great hill reached from north to south across the horizon, a sleeping lion of a hill, sloping like a figure shrouded from head to foot, head to the north, feet to the south; in the far distance, over the lion’s shoulders Penyghent and Whemside showed in mauve shadows the distant line of the Pennine Chain.
As the twilight deepened the wind freshened and Macdonald set out again at a good swinging pace. Half an hour’s walking brought him to Wenningby – a group of stone farmhouses with mullioned windows. He did not know which was Netherbeck Farm and he had no intention of visiting Mr. Hoggett that night, but quite apart from his detective calling, Macdonald felt a very human curiosity about the bookseller who had turned farmer.
It was by chance that Macdonald became aware of Mr. Hoggett’s proximity. He had just passed the last farmhouse of the group and at the gate of a pasture a tall man was bending to fasten a gate more securely. His figure was only half-seen in the gloaming, but over the gate was a cow with a white patch on her forehead, and she was bawling lustily while making every effort to impede the shutting of the gate. Behind her, two younger beasts bellowed encouragement.
“No, Lady Clare,” roared a voice. “I said ‘No.’ You have plenty to eat in the pasture.”
“That,” said Macdonald to himself, “must be Mr. Giles Hoggett. . . Lady Clare. . . well, she seems a recalcitrant lass.”
Abreast of the gate, Macdonald ventured: “A fine clear evening,” spoken in the direction of the disciplinarian.
A pleasant voice answered him from the shadows:
“Aye; a good clear evening, but the wind’s freshening. Have you lost your way by any chance?”
“No. I don’t think so. This is Wenningby, isn’t it? My name’s Macdonald. Are you Mr. Giles Hoggett?”
There was a moment of silence. Then Mr. Hoggett said wonderingly:
“Did you say Macdonald?”
“Aye. You wrote to me, and as my business brought me up north, I thought I’d come and have a word with you. Will you be at home in the morning?”
“I certainly shall – but won’t you come in now? My wife. . .”
“Thanks very much, but not now,” said Macdonald gravely. “I’m sure your wife has enough to do to make her rations go around, and I’m not going to bother her at suppertime. Tomorrow morning about ten o’clock? Good. Is that cow really in trouble?”
“Not at all,” said Mr. Hoggett firmly. “That heifer is above herself. She thinks the world was made for her alone, including all the fruits of the earth in due season. She must learn a sense of proportion. I think the gate is safe now. I have mended it again.”
“I shall hope to make Lady Clare’s closer acquaintance in the daylight,” said Macdonald. “Are the lesser kine also of undisciplined habits?”
Mr. Hoggett laughed.
“My wife says so – but they’re thriving. Well, I shall be glad to have a word with you tomorrow, Chief Inspector. Where are you staying?”
“At the Green Dragon. Good night, Mr. Hoggett.”
“Good night,” replied Mr. Hoggett, and turned vigorously toward the farmhouse.
CHAPTER FOUR
“GINNER? No, I’ve never heard the name,” said Mr. Hoggett. Macdonald was sitting by the fire in the living room of Netherbeck Farm. It had taken no detective skill to observe that this room, probably the original kitchen of the old farmhouse, was different from most farmhouse kitchens. It was used as a dining room and living room, and its furniture was good old wood – the dresser and “spindle back” chairs and hard oak table of the Lancashire farmhouse. They shone. So did everything else in the room. Macdonald felt relieved that he had wiped his shoes very thoroughly before entering. There was a fine log fire burning, for it was a chilly day, and the chair Macdonald sat in was a good old-fashioned rocker, but he noticed as he came in that a print of Holbein’s “Duchess of Milan” adorned one wall. It suited the room, and Macdonald liked it, but he regarded Mrs. Hoggett rather warily. He hadn’t quite placed her yet; she didn’t seem to fit into any ready-made category.
“There aren’t any Ginners in this part of the world,” went on Mr. Hoggett, and Macdonald said:
“No matter. Now since you’ve told me all about your Wenningby Barns problem, and I have a free week-end, what about letting me see the place? I’ve already told you I am not here on duty, so my visit is not official. I have to make this plain, because we don’t poach. I’ve no more status here than I should have fishing in your water without a permit.”
“Yes, I quite follow that,” said Mr. Hoggett, and his wife looked up from her knitting.
“You were asking about a man named Ginner,” she said. “I’ve never heard the name, either, but when you mentioned poaching just now I thought of something. Giles, there was someone poaching on your water in August. I wonder if he broke into the cottage.”
Mr. Hoggett looked skeptical.
“I don’t think it’s very likely, Kate. The man you saw probably thought he was on the Carnton Anglers’ water. They do make these mistakes.”
Macd
onald turned to Mrs.. Hoggett.
“Can you remember anything special about your poacher?”
“He’d got a face I distrusted at once. I don’t often take unreasonable dislikes to people, but the minute I saw him I knew he was a rotter. I just knew it. He wasn’t a poor man, but he wasn’t what I should call an educated one. He hadn’t a north country voice. I should think he came from the Midlands, and he was probably something in the commercial traveler line. I
only suggest that because of his assurance. He was the type you can’t snub.”
Mr. Hoggett suddenly chuckled.
“Who’s making things up now, Kate? You saw a fellow with a rod who said he wasn’t fishing on my water.”
“. . .But he was fishing,” she protested. “I saw him make a cast–”
“All right – and could you tell from the way he cast a fly that he was a commercial traveler from the Midlands who beats his wife and falsifies the petty cash? Could you swear by Almighty. . .”
“Shut up, Giles, and don’t be an ass,” she retorted cheerfully. “The chief inspector will think we’re profane. Take him down to Wenningby Barns and bring him back in good time for dinner. I’m going to make an enormous ham omelette, so don’t be late.”
Mr. Hoggett was still chuckling as he led Macdonald toward the brows.
“My wife took me to task – quite reasonably – for not being precise over the matter of evidence. She said I make things up to suit myself, and I ought to remember that in a court case I should have to swear to my facts – so I couldn’t help getting at her when the boot was on the other leg.”
“Mrs. Hoggett struck me as a person who has respect for accuracy,” said Macdonald. “She would be the first to admit that we tend to read evidence so that it supports our own preconceived theories. For instance, you are sure that the potters broke into your cottage, and you find evidence to support it. Mrs. Hoggett believes her poaching gentleman was responsible. I have to remind myself at regular intervals that I am here on holiday and am not investigating anything but the countryside – and perhaps you, Mr. Hoggett.”
The Theft of the Iron Dogs Page 3