“Eh?” said Mr. Hoggett.
“Yes, you,” replied Macdonald. “Weren’t you once guilty of playing Rugby football?”
“Rugger!” gasped Mr. Hoggett. “I thought for a moment. . .”
“Yes. We can all feel like that sometimes. Did you once play against a Police team in the Home Counties – many years ago? At Woodstock, wasn’t it?”
“Guilty,” said Mr. Hoggett solemnly. “It was in 1928 – one of the last games I played.”
“I sympathize. It was one of my last, too. I was ‘borrowed’ by the Home Counties Police team. I played Wing-Threequarter.”
“Well, well, well. . .” said Mr. Hoggett, and the two stood still and regarded each other with increased respect.
“Having settled that, without either of us saying the world’s a small place,” went on Macdonald placidly – “say if you tell me some more about the other inhabitants of Wenningby. Are they all indigenous, so to speak?”
“No, not quite,” said Mr. Hoggett. “This is the brow, by the way. I don’t advise you to bring a police car down here. The leading inhabitant of Wenningby, by seniority in farming, is Richard Blackthorn of Great Gill. He farms nearly 200 acres. Then Edward Troutbeck of Wenning Hall, my nearest neighbor, would be next in line. The Troutbecks have farmed here for four generations. Gilbert Clafton of Upperbeck is a young farmer – we have just passed his steading – but he is married to Richard Blackthorn’s daughter. These constitute the wisdom of the inner Chapelry, so to speak. Then there are four other out-living farms, all held by natives, but in addition we have some members of the outside world. There is Mr. Vintner, who is a tenant of a poorish-looking property on the Garthmere Road. He runs a chicken farm, not very successfully I imagine, but my wife tells me he is quite a competent painter.”
“A suspicious circumstance,” said Macdonald, and Mr. Hoggett agreed simply.
“I used to think so, but my wife thinks otherwise. Then there is Mr. Willoughby, the tenant of Mr. Shand’s water. Mr. Shand owns land further down the river and has land adjoining mine. Mr. Willoughby leases a cottage which is mine. . . But there he is.”
They had descended the brow and were walking along the level toward the cottage in the dales. A short, stoutish man, carrying fishing tackle, was approaching them. Mr. Hoggett greeted him in friendly tones.
“Good morning, Mr. Willoughby. Have you been fishing so early?”
“Good morning, Mr. Hoggett. I thought of trying for a fish, though the water’s not too good – the river’s fallen quickly, but I’m feeling annoyed. Someone has broken into my fishing hut up in Chough Close. I’m going to notify the police.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Mr. Hoggett. “Has anything been stolen?”
“My waders. It’s most annoying. Quite unobtainable today. This is the first time such a thing’s happened. The padlock was wrenched off. Have you noticed any suspicious characters about, Mr. Hoggett?”
Mr. Hoggett stood and scratched his head. He didn’t look at Macdonald, nor did Macdonald look at him. At length Mr. Hoggett replied:
“I haven’t seen anybody down here, Mr. Willoughby.” He spoke slowly, and the stout man replied hastily and testily:
“No? Then I’m going straight to the police. I consider it to be my duty to do so, and I’m very much put out about my waders. Perhaps you can tell me the appropriate officer to consult, Mr. Hoggett.”
Again Mr. Hoggett scratched his head, Macdonald with an expressionless face and a straw in his mouth, was staring toward the river. Mr. Hoggett said:
“I think Sergeant Cobley’s your man, Mr. Willoughby. His headquarters are at Carnside, but he lives at Nether Pollock. If you care to use our telephone, my wife is at home.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hoggett, very kind of you to suggest. I’ll go straight up.”
The stout man bustled off and Mr. Hoggett turned to Macdonald.
“I don’t know if I acted incorrectly,” he began, and Macdonald laughed.
“Well, if you did, I’m in it too,” he replied. “In my opinion you were most discreet. This is not my pigeon, it’s the sergeant’s. What a pity!”
“Why?” asked Mr. Hoggett.
“I was enjoying myself,” said Macdonald. “I hoped your cottage affair would turn out to be a good leg-pull and that I should be asked to fish in your water. Now it’s all up. The local men will have to investigate and I shall have to behave like a responsible official who knows his place – which isn’t here. In other words, I shall have to report – and Sergeant Cobley will resent my intrusion from the start.”
“But look here,” said Mr. Hoggett earnestly, “now you’re here, you might as well come in and see the cottage.”
“. . .and the bogie; and Jacob’s Buttery,” added Macdonald. “All right – but the sergeant will be annoyed.”
***
Mr. Hoggett brought Macdonald back to the farm just after midday. Mrs. Hoggett, with commendable reticence, did not worry Macdonald with questions. She fed him extremely well, with the most magnificent soufflé omelette Macdonald had seen for years, followed by an enormous apple pie with thick cream. It was after they had finished the meal, and had drawn their chairs around the fire that Macdonald said:
“I have enjoyed my morning very much, Mrs. Hoggett, and I have enjoyed the sort of dinner you can only get in a farmhouse. I’m only sorry that I’ve got to get back to my job, and that your husband has got to report to Sergeant Cobley that his cottage has been entered by some unauthorized person. Before I go, will you look at these photographs and tell me if you recognize any of them?”
Mrs. Hoggett took the photographs and sedately put on her glasses. Macdonald watched her, as she studied each in turn, laying them carefully on the table after each had been scrutinized: she was leisurely, but not slow. At length she picked one out and handed it to Macdonald.
“That is a photograph of the man I saw fishing on Giles’ water some weeks ago. I do not know any of the others.”
It was Mr. Hoggett who broke into startled speech.
“Are you sure, Kate? Let me see. What an extraordinary thing. . .”
He seized the photograph and Mrs. Hoggett said calmly:
“Put on your specs, Giles, and don’t look at it upside down. . .”
By the time Mr. Hoggett had examined the photograph, he also was of the belief that the face Mrs. Hoggett had claimed as her poacher’s was familiar to him. His wife took a poor view of his statement.
“Could you swear you’ve seen him, Giles? If so, where?”
“I’m not certain. Can you swear to him, Kate?”
“Yes. I can. Anywhere. This is a photograph of the man I saw just below Jacob’s Buttery on August 31st. I’ve remembered the date. It was the day the stirks broke out when you were carting with Richard Blackthorn in Parson’s Intak. I found Nanette in the dales and Patchey and Kitty in the river.”
Mrs. Hoggett would make a good witness, thought Macdonald. She only said she was certain of a thing when she really was certain, and she added chapter and verse with exemplary clarity. A judge would appreciate Mrs. Hoggett, meditated the C.I.D. man – but the jury would like her husband.
It was Mr. Hoggett who asked the inevitable question. For all his north-country forebears, he was a very human individual and not ashamed to voice his curiosity.
“Who is this?” he inquired, flourishing the photograph.
“He is named Gordon Ginner,” said Macdonald. “I have been told he once lived in Kendal. I can’t tell you anything more about him now, because I have got to regularize my position.”
Mrs. Hoggett studied him.
“Isn’t it detective etiquette to pick up evidence in your spare time?” she enquired. “I should have thought it was praiseworthy.”
Macdonald could not for the life of him tell if her question were serious or not.
“I think you probably know the substance of the answer to that question, Mrs. Hoggett,” he replied. “I had a consultation with my colleag
ues in Manchester. When that was over, I was free to go my own way for the week-end, but if I intend to carry on as a police official in this district, it is up to me to get into touch with my country colleagues. I don’t wish to be regarded as a snooper from London.”
“Aye,” said Mr. Hoggett. “That’s sense. I see just what you mean – but I’m sorry your week-end has been marred.”
“There’s one thing about it,” chuckled Macdonald. “My week-end may be prolonged – and if so, I’ll wet a line in your water before I’m through.”
He turned again to Mrs. Hoggett.
“Thank you very much for your hospitality,” he said. “I only hope you won’t regret your husband ever wrote and told me about the theft of the iron dogs.”
Mrs. Hoggett considered a moment.
“It won’t be any use regretting it,” she said. “If owt’s amiss, as we say up here, it’s got to be looked into.”
“Quite right,” agreed Macdonald. “That’s the way to look at it.” He paused and then added: “Do you mind telling me – were you born in London?”
“Yes. I was. Why?”
Macdonald chuckled.
“I thought you were,” he said, and Mr. Hoggett scratched his head.
“I wonder what he means by that?” he inquired – but Macdonald did not answer him.
The chief inspector set out, regretfully, “to regularize” his own position. Having borrowed Mr. Hoggett’s bike he went to the nearest call box (he was far too canny to phone from Netherbeck Farm). He first got in touch with the acting chief constable – the same impetuous gentleman who had been instrumental in first bringing him to Lunesdale on the occasion of old Robert Garth’s death.
“Chief Inspector Macdonald of the C.I.D., sir. You may remember me. . .”
“Macdonald? Indeed! I remember you very well,” barked the cheerful voice. “I should be glad to see you again. What is it brings you up north, Chief Inspector? Are you cooperating again on the agricultural front? I’m told you showed promise at the hay time.”
“Evidently nothing escapes you, sir,” replied Macdonald. “I came to Lunesdale for a week-end of walking – and fishing, if I could get it. As it happens I’ve had a different sort of bite – it concerns a case of mine and possibly one of yours. In the circumstances I thought it better to report direct to you.”
“Perfectly correct. Excellent. Now were are you at the moment, Chief Inspector?”
“I’m speaking from a call-box on the Chapelton-Lonsdale road. One of the farmers told me that Sergeant Cobley was in charge of this particular area – between Garthmere and Wenningby. I should like a word with him, with your permission.”
“By all means. You had better come over to Carnton for a consultation. Inspector Bord will be on duty. The superintendent is away today. He’s at the Assizes. I’ll see that messages reach them. Meantime, do you wish to see me personally – or would tomorrow do?”
“Tomorrow would do, sir. I just wanted to notify you of my presence in your district, and to consult with your men over points which have come my way.”
“Precisely. Excellent. Quite in order,” barked the deputy official. “Er. . . let me think. A call-box, you said. Could you ring back in fifteen minutes’ time?”
“Very good, sir.”
While he waited, Macdonald strolled back along the road. In a dip, standing back from the road, was a sorry-looking little stone house, whose flagged roof sagged despondently. There were a number of shoddy outbuildings, and some rusty wire and makeshift hen houses proclaimed that the occupier had once kept a number of head of poultry. Today, a few dispirited hens and some moulting ducks were half-heartedly seeking a living off old cabbage stalks. A tall, lanky fellow was doing some repairs to a gate which was off its hinges. As Macdonald drew level a vicious, “Damn the whole blasted outfit,” was uttered as the gate fell drunkenly askew once more.
Macdonald said: “Can I lend you a hand? Gates are awkward things to lift.”
“Thanks. Don’t bother. The whole contraption’s rotted through. I think I shall cut it up for firewood. More use that way.”
“Certainly not a native,” pondered Macdonald.
The voice was an educated voice, but ill-tempered. The speaker was very lean, of almost boyish build, if he had straightened his round back, carroty-haired, blue-eyed; something about him was like a ferret, but he lacked alertness. He was slovenly, like his property, down at heel and none too clean, but not altogether unlikeable.
“If you move the gate away altogether, there’ll be nothing to keep the cattle out,” said Macdonald.
“Then let ‘em come in. They’re welcome. You’re a stranger to these parts, aren’t you? I haven’t seen your dial before.
“I’m a Londoner, but I’ve friends hereabouts. Are you the painter someone mentioned to me?”
“Well – I paint. D’you want to buy a poultry farm – good will, enclosures, a few fowls and lease of ancient and picturesque dwelling?”
“If I did want to buy a poultry farm, I’d rather buy one where the birds didn’t show every sign of imminent decease. Those hens are in a bad way.”
The sandy fellow laughed, but his laugh was rueful.
“You’re telling me. . . I ought to wring their necks, but I’m fed up with it. Hens ought to be easy – but they’re not. D’you know how many diseases a hen can get?”
“I don’t. On the whole I should think painting is less speculative.”
“It’s as easy to starve on. I say, would you like to sit for me? You’ve no idea how difficult it is to get models around here. The farmers are all worth painting – but will they sit for me? No. Too busy.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Macdonald, glancing again at the sagging roof beyond. “Who’s your landlord?” he inquired.
The sandy fellow did not take the inquiry amiss. Macdonald knew his type well enough; he’d have been more at home in the brasserie of the Café Monico than in this upland solitude.
“My landlord? Name of Shand. You’re wondering why he doesn’t mend that roof. He might if I paid my rent. It’s a vicious circle.”
“I see. Well, I’ve got to move on. May I come and see your work one day?”
“For God’s sake do. You’re the only person I’ve talked to for days. They don’t talk in these parts. At least, not to me.”
Macdonald strolled back to his telephone box. What on earth had brought a fellow like that to this place of solitude and toil? A man must work to get a living from the sour soil of that poor holding.
. . .Hens ought to be easy. . . “Poor devil,” thought Macdonald, as he lifted the receiver again.
CHAPTER FIVE
SERGEANT COBLEY did not go out of his way to make difficulties. He accepted Macdonald’s tactful explanation of his presence in Lunesdale without question, and was anxious to hear what the Yard man had discovered for himself. Macdonald had found time to pay a call on John Staple in the interval between telephoning to the chief constable and meeting the sergeant, and was able to quote that worthy’s opinion that “summat was amiss” in the dales. Cobley had already received reports from Mr. Willoughby about the “entering and breaking” of the fishing hut and Mr. Hoggett had dutifully rung up and reported that certain items were missing from Wenningby Barns.
Cobley said: “Mr. Hoggett is probably right in his surmise about the potters doing both jobs. I’ve notified all stations to look out for them. Oh – here’s the inspector.”
Bord, who entered the room at that moment, turned out to be a tall, fair fellow, lean and sinewy, with powerful sloping shoulders and very big hands. Bord was a north country man all right, and Macdonald took to him at once. Cobley was encouraged to repeat his report about the burglarious doings in the valley, and then Macdonald weighed in.
“I came up to Manchester to consult about a case which has been passed on to our department,” he said. “You’ve probably noted the routine inquiry: a man named Gordon Ginner disappeared from his lodgings in Marrington in Au
gust. We found he had rooms in London – in Pimlico – but he hadn’t been seen there for weeks. It’s probable that he is concerned in the coupon racket which has been carried on in the wool market. That was where I came in.”
Bord nodded. “Aye. We noted it – but we’ve nothing to report up here.”
“By chance, I’ve happened on a curious piece of evidence,” went on Macdonald. “You know John Staple, the Garthmere bailiff?” ‘
“Aye. A friend of yours, I’m told,” said Bord with a grin which showed his strong white teeth. Macdonald nodded.
“Staple’s a man I’ve a great liking for,” he said. “Now you know his friend, Mr. Hoggett? I saw him today because I was interested in what I heard of the burglary at his cottage. Admittedly it wasn’t my business, because I wasn’t there on duty–”
“We won’t quarrel about that,” said Bord cheerfully. “What was it you discovered about the cottage?”
“Mrs. Hoggett said she’d seen a man poaching on her husband’s water at the end of August, and suggested he might be the housebreaker. She gave a good description of him. So good that I showed her a packet of photographs I’d got in my pocket. She identified one of them as the poacher – this one. You’ve seen it in our notification. It’s Gordon Ginner. I should say Mrs. Hoggett is a reliable witness, and she’s prepared to swear to her identification.”
“By gum,” murmured Bord, and Cobley said:
“That’s a rum go, that is.”
“Now about the thefts at Wenningby Barns,” went on Macdonald, and proceeded to detail them. “I’ll get you to come down there with me,” he added. “I’m in agreement with John Staple and Mr. Giles Hoggett that the thefts are suggestive, especially coupled to the fact that the cottage is close to one of the deepest pools in the river. In other words, we’d better investigate Jacob’s Buttery and the adjoining reaches. I say ‘we,’ but at the moment I’ve no official standing in the matter. It remains with you and your chief constable to decide if you want me here.”
The Theft of the Iron Dogs Page 4