Bord laughed. “Between ourselves, Chief, no need to be so damned official,” he said. “You’ve come to us and laid your cards face upwards on the table and I’m all for co-operation in the Force. If so be as you’d come it over us – well, I’m a Lancashire man myself and I don’t truckle to Londoners ower-easily – but treat us fair, as you’ve done, and we’ve nought against you. Aye, I’ll be glad to work with you. As for our old man – well, he’ll be happy enough to have you; we’re still short-handed, and this looks like being a job of work.”
“It does that,” agreed Macdonald, “and what’s more it looks like being a job we could do best together. If this man Ginner has been up here, your local knowledge will help to trace him.”
Bord meditated a moment.
“Aren’t you pretty sure where you’ll find him?” he asked.
“No. I’m not,” replied Macdonald. “I think it’s long odds that something has been hidden in the river: the weights indicate that – but why the chain and hook? My notion would be that the hook’s been used as an anchor, to prevent anything getting adrift. With the sort of stream you get at that bend of the river twenty pounds of weight might not be adequate to ensure that a thing stay put. Also, by means of the chain and hook you could recover the sunken object if you wanted to. From what I know of Ginner, he might well have a lot of papers he’d rather not carry about with him. That’s all surmise of course. Does anything else suggest itself to you on the evidence we’ve got at the moment?”
The sergeant put a word in:
“We don’t know that it was the same party broke into the fishing but and the cottage,” he said, “but I reckon it was. Mr. Willoughby hadn’t been down fishing of late. August was too fine and the river too low. Seems to me the thief might’ve looked in the hut first, to see if he could find what suited his purpose and then tried the cottage next.”
“That’s quite reasonable,” assented Macdonald, and Bord put a word in:
“There’s waders gone from the hut, an old coat, cap, and creel from the cottage. Seems to me the thief might well have walked off looking the dead spit of an old-fashioned angler. Not a bad idea at all. No one looks twice at a fisherman in Lunesdale.”
“I quite agree,” said Macdonald. “Also the waders and brogues would successfully conceal any bootprints. I wish we could fix the time at which the thefts took place. All we know at present is that they occurred between the time the Hoggetts were last in the cottage – on August 28th they say – and September 15th, when Mr. Hoggett went down there. Mrs. Hoggett saw Ginner on August 31st, but she did not go into the cottage that day.”
“We shall have to find out if any of the Wenningby farmers was down in the dales between those dates,” said Bord.
Macdonald nodded agreement. He didn’t add that he’d already made a few extra inquiries himself on that score. Mr. Hoggett had told him that everybody in Wenningby had been busy in the harvest fields during the first fortnight of September. The only one of the farmers who had gone down to the dales was Richard Blackthorn, who had some young beasts pasturing at the foot of the scarp, some half mile below Wenningby Barns. Macdonald had had a few words with Mr. Blackthorn, asking him if he had seen anyone in the dales on his visits of inspection. The old farmer eyed Macdonald shrewdly: the leisurely, independent judicial stare of appraisement which the C.I.D. man connected with the dalesmen.
“You’re asking me if I saw ‘anyone,’ ” he commented. “Happen you mean anyone from away.”
“I said anyone,” persisted Macdonald, “from away and from here as well.”
“I shall have to think a bit,” said the farmer. “Won’t do for me to go telling you things too hasty like, and having you running in my neighbors just in case.”
There was a twinkle in the shrewd long-sighted eyes, and Macdonald put in:
“I’m from o’wer the Border, Mr. Blackthorn. Hasty like’s not our motto in the Highlands.”
“Eh. . . but you’re from London, too,” chuckled the other. “Happen I saw Bob Fletcher time and again when I was in the dales. Aye, it’s a funny thing, because he lives across. the river.”
“Then what was he doing the Wenningby side?” asked Macdonald and the other roared his delight.
“He weren’t this side. ‘Twas his own side he was on, and we had a crack ower the stream, same as we’ve done this dun’-a-many years. That just shows you mustn’t be ower hasty. Now I might ha’ seen my son-in-law down by the river, and happen I saw Mr. Shand one day afishing in his own waters, all in order, and John Staple, he came along the river after one of his heifers. The beasts’ll ford the river when it’s low, and Mr. Fletcher, he’s got a bull over yonder. Eh! but I’ll have to think this out, Mr. Macdonald. I can’t go making rash statements.”
“That’s right. You think it over, Mr. Blackthorn, and I’ll come and ask you again another day.”
“Aye. You give me time, Mr. Macdonald, and I’ll give you a plain answer when I’ve given my mind to it.”
So when the inspector said: “We must ask the farmers,” Macdonald felt he was on safe ground when he said:
“Aye, and give them time to think about it. I feel I could do with a bit of time to think things out myself. In any case, I’ve got to ring up my own boss and tell him I’ve found a job to do up here, if you decide you want cooperation. Now what about this business of investigating Jacob’s Buttery? We shall need a drag.”
“Aye, and a boat, too, and that’s not so easy as it sounds, Chief. You can’t scull a craft down the Lune like you can on the Thames; there’s too many rapids. We shall have to cart a boat by road on the south side of the river and get it down to the water over the holm land. Quite a job that’ll be.”
The inspector scratched his chin.
“Whatever it be that’s chained in Jacob’s Buttery, Chief, it’s been there for some days, hasn’t it? D’you reckon it can bide till Monday?”
“I reckon it can,” agreed Macdonald.
The plan suited the chief inspector well. There were quite a number of things he would like to do on his own account on Sunday. True, he had said that the Sabbath was a day when no man should work, but following his own devices in Lunesdale did not seem oppressively like work to Macdonald. He concluded his talk with Bord by saying:
“All this is on the assumption that your chief constable sees fit to apply to C.O. for cooperation.”
“He’ll see fit all right,” said Bord. “Anyway, you’re here.”
***
As soon as Macdonald had left his colleague he found a convenient call-box and telephoned through to Mr. Hoggett.
“Macdonald speaking. Do you think I could stay at the cottage in the dales for the week-end?”
“Aye. Come when you like. I’ll go down and light a fire and see there’s some food. When will you come?”
“You’ve got a car, haven’t you? I’ll see, you get some extra petrol if you use any for me. Could you come and pick me up at the Carnton-Borwick cross-road in an hour’s time.”
“Aye. I’ll be there.”
“Thanks very much – and I’d be obliged if you wouldn’t go to the cottage again before I join you.”
“Right. I’ll be at the crossroad in an hour’s time.”
Mr. Hoggett was waiting in his car when Macdonald arrived, and when he had got in the C.I.D. man said:
“It’s like this, Hoggett. It’s a safe bet that there have been some illicit doings in your valley. What’s the nature of them I don’t know, but I want to avoid any show of police activity at present if I can. If anyone in these parts is watching out, the sight of your car isn’t going to interest them nearly as much as the sight of a police outfit. Then I suppose you do lend the cottage to your friends occasionally?”
“Aye. That’s very sound,” said Mr. Hoggett. “I think it’d be a good idea if I stayed at the cottage with you. It’s quite a usual happening for me to have a friend or two down for fishing.”
“Thanks very much,” said Macdonald, tho
ugh he chuckled a bit to himself. Mr. Hoggett wanted to be on the spot while his own private mystery was being investigated. In most cases, the Scotland Yard man would have refused the offer of company, both tactfully and firmly, but he had a feeling that Giles Hoggett might be very useful. He had that same quality which (unbeknown to himself) had endeared Macdonald to the haymakers. He’d got the sense to do as he was told. Perhaps Macdonald felt confidence in his companion because he remembered him on the Rugby field. Hoggett had been a very good forward, not only because he was fast, but because he was cunning. He had shown himself a past master of the wiles which induced his opponent to think he was going to do just what he wasn’t going to do. Looking at the long-headed fellow beside him, Macdonald summed the matter up with a Scot’s reticence which Mr. Hoggett would have approved.
“I might do worse than have him there.”
“I’ve got some food in my haversack at the back,” said Mr. Hoggett. “It’d be best if we put the car away at the farm as I always do and then we can walk from here. By the way, my Wenningby neighbors know who you are, but they won’t mention you to anybody else. One thing about a small community like ours is that you do know your neighbors.”
“Yes. That must be very pleasant – but don’t you ever miss Camford and the book shop?”
“No. I’m doing what I always wanted to do and I want to go on doing it more than ever,” replied Giles Hoggett. “Here we are. Now if you can take the milk and that basket of plums. . . good. I like cooking. I’ve got the cottage keys. . . I’ll just go and get my rods to add a little verisimilitude. . .”
By the time he was walking down the brow with Mr. Hoggett, Macdonald not only looked the part of an angler on holiday – he felt like it, too. It was quite a long time since he had carried such an assortment of goods, and it was evident that Mr. Hoggett made no conservative estimates concerning the amount of food two men could put away in a week-end.
Arrived at the cottage, Mr. Hoggett took off his coat and looked business-like. He nodded toward the hearth, which Macdonald had already examined that morning.
“Are you through with that? We shall want a fire.”
“Of course. You carry on with the fire. I’ve got a sample of the ashes and I’ll just go around with an insufflator. I’m hoping for some nice portable fingerprints – on cups and plates and so forth. I’ve got a copy of Ginner’s prints with me, so we can soon check up.”
“Good. I’ve brought some extra crocks and tools and a couple of saucepans so that I needn’t touch those in here,” said Mr. Hoggett. “My wife and I were very careful not to touch anything here, just in case. . . Do you care for mushroom soup? – and I’ve got sausages and tomatoes and plenty of eggs and a plum pie my wife sent. . . and there’s the cream and a jar of honey. . .”
Macdonald went through the cottage in a very businesslike way. He had soon got evidence that Gordon Ginner had been in the cottage; his finger-prints showed up plainly in two places: on an old cigarette tin which had been left on a shelf in the recess by the chimney piece (a beautiful clear print this one) and on the upright of the door. Macdonald was interested to find that there were very few fingerprints traceable; most of the surfaces had been wiped, so that his powder only showed up a series of smudges, and the old cups and plates and mugs on the dresser had also been wiped. The C.I.D. man made a thorough job of it, using his camera and flashlight outfit. He concluded that the housebreaker (or housebreakers) had not been upstairs in the cottage, for none of the furniture or other surfaces had been wiped in either bedrooms or on the landing. A thin film of dust lay undisturbed on chests and tables, and these, together with washing bowls and ewers, showed a complication of fingerprints, many of them children’s prints.
It was growing dusk by the time Macdonald had finished his examination, and Giles Hoggett called to him asking if he should close shutters and curtains before lighting the lamps. Macdonald agreed, and having put away his gear, he came back into the living room of the cottage conscious that he was pleasantly hungry. A magnificent wood fire blazed up the open chimney, and Mr. Hoggett was ready with bowls of mushroom soup, white a vast mixed grill waited sizzling on the hearth as second course, with plum pie with thick cream to follow.
Macdonald sat down with his feet stretched out to the blaze and took his bowl of soup. They consumed their supper in companionable silence, and at length, having piled up the plates and pans in the adjoining small kitchen, they lighted their pipes and returned to the fire.
“Man, you’re a grand cook,” said Macdonald gratefully. “Now say if we get a few points cleared up before we both sleep the sleep of repletion. How many routes are there by which a man could arrive at this place?”
Giles Hoggett took his time over answering and then he said:
“It’s like this, Macdonald. It depends on the weather conditions. You want to know about routes to the cottage at the end of August, the time when my wife saw the poacher?”
“Aye. That’s about it.”
“Route one you know. Down the brow, the way we came. Route two, by the river bank upstream from Garthmere bridge. It’s a rough path, and not many would come that way because the path’s overgrown and difficult to follow. It runs through the woods and it hasn’t been kept clear of recent years. Route three, by the river bank walking downstream from the Knabb – that’s a farm by the river a couple of miles to the east. Route four, by the right of way cross Tom Profert’s land – the Middle Upfield. Route five, by fording the river from the southern bank. You can do that when the river’s low.”
“If a man wanted to reach the cottage unobserved, which route would be best?”
Mr. Hoggett scratched his head thoughtfully.
“Not by the brow, because he’d have to walk through Wenningby, and though you might not think it, hardly any stranger passed unobserved by somebody. Not by Knabb – that’s a tidy-sized farm, and it’s close to the river. Not by Garthmere – there’s too many folk working in the fields. If I wanted to reach the dales unobserved, I’d leave the main road by the Upfields’ turning. There are three Upfields – Near, Middle and Far Upfield, and two farmhouses to each. It’s lonely land and they’re small farms. You can follow the track through Middle Upfield down to the woods above the river and turn upstream by a path through the woods. Forty minutes’ walking from the main road would bring you to these dales, and the track’s marked on the Ordnance Survey. I’ll show it to you tomorrow if you like.”
“Good.” Macdonald yawned comfortably and stretched his long limbs. “D’you care for swimming?”
“Aye. I like swimming well enough – but the river will be cold with all the water that’s coming down the hills.”
“Need you remind me of that?” said Macdonald, leaning closer to the fire. “When you bathe from here, where do you take the first plunge?”
“Our bathing pool’s a couple of hundred yards downstream by the big willow tree. You can get a good swim from there to Jacob’s Buttery, over the rapids.”
“Losh keeps! Rapids, are there? Well, I’m going in for a dip as soon as the sun’s up the morn’s morn.”
“I’d better come in with you to see that you don’t drown,” said Giles Hoggett. “It’ll be a thought chilly. . . but maybe you’ll enjoy it.”
“Maybe I shan’t,” groaned Macdonald.
CHAPTER SIX
MACDONALD, warm, well-fed, and just comfortably tired, bent to knock his pipe out on the hearth, and as he looked up he became aware that Giles Hoggett was listening intently, staring at the door as tough he could see through it.
“There’s someone moving out yonder,” he said, and listened again. Macdonald listened, too, but he could hear nothing: the silence seemed unbroken – and the silence at Wenningby Barns was profound. Nevertheless Giles Hoggett was listening so that his long ears seemed to be more pointed in the effort of hearing.
“He stood still for a bit; now he’s moving toward us,” he said. “It’s odd. . . no one ever comes down here after dark.
”
Macdonald could hear the footsteps now; they were coming steadily nearer, until they stopped close at hand.
“He’s opened the gate. He’s coming in,” said Mr. Hoggett, and turned to the door of the cottage.
“Wait and see if he knocks,” said Macdonald quickly. “If he does, keep behind the door as you open it.”
“Aye,” said Mr. Hoggett sagaciously.
A second later there was a drumming on the door. Obedient to Macdonald’s instruction, Giles Hoggett kept well behind the door as he opened it.
“Who’s there?” he asked.
“Is that you Mr. Hoggett? It’s Barton Shand. Can I come in?”
“Of course. Come in, Mr. Shand. We don’t often have visitors after dark at Wenningby Barns – but it’s a fine evening. I see the moon’s quite bright.”
Giles Hoggett’s pleasant voice was as serene as if he were greeting an expected guest, but the visitor looked far from serene.
“Shand. . . the adjoining landowner,” registered Macdonald’s mind as the two men turned toward the fire.
Mr. Shand was a tall fellow, a thought taller than Giles Hoggett (who just missed six feet). He had a fine head of white hair and a rather heavy, fleshy face with deep-set eyes; he was the sort of man who could have been described as “of commanding presence,” for he was well-poised and held his head with a touch of arrogance that was not unbecoming. Macdonald, of all men the last to be impressed by “a commanding presence,” noted that Mr. Shand’s figure had a tendency to obesity in the under waist, and that his cheeks sagged a little under his fine dark eyes. Hoggett was less impressive at first glance, but Macdonald approved of his lank northern spareness, his big shoulders and the way he stood on his feet, as though there was always a spring behind that easy stance. For no known reason, and rather unkindly, Macdonald thought that Hoggett could tackle the bigger man with every prospect of success – but Hoggett was firmly linked with the Rugger field in Macdonald’s mind. The conversation which ensued, however, held no hint of bellicosity.
The Theft of the Iron Dogs Page 5