Giles Hoggett made the tea and gave each a large steaming cup.
“Can I have some sugar in mine, please?” asked Vintner with his irrepressible grin.
While he fetched the sugar-basin, Hoggett found an opportunity by dumb play to ask Macdonald which of them should open the inquisition, and Macdonald signalled “You.”
Hoggett gave Vintner the sugar, and then suddenly barked out:
“What have you been doing down here?”
The voice was quite unexpected; in place of his usual gentle tones, Giles Hoggett barked out the question like a severe schoolmaster accusing a schoolboy in the tuck cupboard.
“What the deuce has it got to do with you?” demanded Vintner. “You can’t say I was trespassing – the river bank’s got a path along it, hasn’t it? – and if I was trespassing, I’ve done no damage.”
“Now you listen to me,” said Mr. Hoggett. “There have been some very improper things happening here of late – at last two cases of theft and an alleged one of assault. If you can’t give any explanation of your presence down here at night, I shall consider it my duty to detain you and hand you over to the police. Now I come to think of it, there have been a number of unexplained thefts since you arrived at Thorpe Intak.”
“Damn it all, Hoggett, you don’t really think I’ve been thieving, do you?”
Vintner spoke in tones of injured innocence, but Macdonald realized the underlying tone of uneasiness.
“I’ve asked you what you were doing down here,” persisted Mr. Hoggett, “and I’m waiting for an answer.”
“I came to study the valley in the moonlight. I’m painting an impression of it.”
“Very good. Why did you need to go in the river in order to study the moonlight? Why did you run away when you saw me? Why didn’t you answer Mr. Shand when he called to you? Why did you trip him up at the bottom of the brow and then run away? Remembering that certain thefts have been reported to the police, I think they’ll want to know the answer to the questions I have just put.”
“If I choose to paddle in order to study the moonlight it’s nobody’s business by my own,” retorted Vintner.
“You weren’t paddling – you wouldn’t have got your head wet paddling. Why did you run away when you saw me?”
“I told you. I thought you were Shand. He’s a damned awful consequential bully and I hoped to see him take a purler in the flood water.”
Macdonald put a word in at last, meditatively.
“I’m not a painter myself, and I can’t draw a thing, but how any man trained to use his eyes could mistake Mr. Hoggett’s figure for Mr. Shand’s I can’t imagine. Not even in the moonlight. If Mr. Shand can run at all – which I doubt – he wouldn’t look like Mr. Hoggett while he was doing it.”
Anthony Vintner turned and studied Macdonald with his impish light eyes.
“Hallo, Scotty. It’s you is it – the chap with the chin. You’re going to sit for me one day, remember.”
“Don’t prevaricate,” said Mr. Hoggett. “If Mr. Shand brings an action for assault you won’t be improving your chances of acquittal by what you’ve just been saying.”
“Hi, steady on,” protested Vintner. “You said I tripped him up on the brow. I didn’t. He tripped himself up. He fell over a branch. I wasn’t on the brow. When I realized he’d got out of his car I climbed over on the bank and came down the fields. I don’t like Mr. Shand – but I didn’t trip him up. Can I have a cigarette?”
He reached out and took a tin which lay on the bookshelves beside the chimney, and Mr. Hoggett pulled a depressed looking packet of Stars out of his pocket and held it out:
“That tin hasn’t had any cigarettes in it since 1939,” he said. “You can have one of these. Well, I can tell the sergeant that you came down to the river to study the moonlight over the flood water, that you took your coat off and hung it on a tree, that you got your head wet while you were paddling, and that you ran away from me because you hoped to trip up Mr. Shand. I think Sergeant Cobley will be interested.”
Vintner stirred restlessly in his chair.
“Look here, you’re not really going to try to get me into trouble with the cops, are you? I think it’s damned unfair. I haven’t done you any harm and I don’t believe you really think I’ve stolen anything. What’s been stolen, anyway?”
“Various items from the dales,” responded Giles Hoggett. “I’m very upset about it. The folk hereabouts are honest folk and I’m going to see that the thieving is put a stop to. I’m not satisfied with the story you’ve told, Vintner, and I advise you to think it over. I’ll give you until midday tomorrow to make up you mind.”
“Make it up about what?”
“About telling the truth. I know enough already to know that you haven’t told the truth so far.”
He turned to Macdonald.
“Ought we to keep him here?” he inquired.
Macdonald shook his head.
“I think not. It’s probable that Mr. Vintner will decide for himself that he’d be wiser to be more accurate next time he’s questioned.”
“Aye, let him think it over.” Giles Hoggett sounded very solemn. “You can go now,” he said, “but I shall be seeing you again shortly.”
Anthony Vintner looked both puzzled and uneasy; he looked from one to the other of the big solemn fellows and then shrugged his shoulders.
“All right. Thanks for the cup of tea and the warm, Mr. Hoggett. You’re not being fair, which is a pity, because you’re the nicest chap in a day’s march hereabouts. I know you think I’m bats. I don’t mind that – but the other stuff’s a bit thick.”
“You’ve only yourself to blame,” said Giles Hoggett, and his voice was once again the low kindly voice which was his norm. Vintner glanced quickly at him and then made for the door.
“Good night,” he said. “Sorry you think I’m a thief – because I’m not.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
AFTER THE DOOR had shut behind the carroty-headed painter Hoggett and Macdonald turned to one another with the same impulse – to grin.
“Aye,” said Macdonald, “You did fine, Hoggett. That hoary chestnut about ‘knowing more than you think’ – it impressed even me, and I’ve heard it pretty often. The point is – do you?”
“No,” said Giles Hoggett truthfully, stirring the teapot vigorously. “What did you make of him, Macdonald?”
“Well, I’d say he’s a bit of a twister. The point that interested me was that the chap was afraid. When you first copped him his shivers weren’t all due to being chilly – and he was very relieved to find it was you who’d copped him. Now what was he afraid of? Certainly not of Shand. He didn’t care a fig for Shand.”
“I’d say you’re right there.” Giles Hoggett sat forward, warming his toes at the fire, deep in thought. “He’d been in the river,” he said. “He left his coat on the thorn trees and walked across the dales. He must have hung his shorts and vest on the willow tree, because they weren’t soaked. I knew he’d been in the river, because his skin was so cold. What would he have been in the river for? I know he’s a queer bird, but I don’t think he took a dip just for pleasure. At the same time I shouldn’t have said he was a scoundrel. He’s mischievous, maybe, but not a real bad ‘un.”
He looked up at Macdonald.
“Did you notice he pocketed that empty cigarette tin?” he asked.
Macdonald nodded. “Yes, I noticed. I hope to find out the reason for that some time. Meantime, before we both fall asleep, tell me a bit about those two other worthies I met today – Shand and Willoughby. Shand’s not a countryman, is he?”
“Not what I call a countryman. His people came from Barrow and his father had an iron foundry and made a lot of money. He spent some of it buying land in this district and his son Barton Shand bought more land. He only comes here occasionally. He has a big place in the Peak district. He’s a business man really, but he fancies himself as a landowner.”
“Iron foundry. H’m. . . Is he marri
ed?”
“Aye, and he’s got a son. They say clogs to clogs in three generations. They think that’ll be the way of it.”
“Do you? Where’s the son?”
“In London, I believe. He escaped military service on account of poor physique. He’s a poor sort of bloke; as near weak-witted as makes no difference. Shand’s not a bad sort. He’s honest, and I’d say he’s truthful, and he’s quite a considerate landlord if his tenants behave themselves. He’s got a very nice wife – Kate’s met her and says she’s a great improvement on her husband. Incidentally he’s a very good husband, deeply devoted to his wife.”
“Does Mrs. Shand come up here with her husband?”
“Not now. She used to, but I believe her health is pretty poor. Shand doesn’t really care much about Lunesdale, but he’s a conscientious landlord in his own way and he comes up here at intervals to keep an eye on his property; then he’s a fisherman, of course. But what I think he really enjoys is the feeling that he’s a ‘Squire’ – although we don’t have Squires up here.”
“I was wondering if Mr. Shand could help us later on – if we need help – by giving evidence of any folk he has noted in the valley.”
“He’d be willing enough to help; but I don’t think he’d be much use. He was away for ten days from the end of August onwards. In any case, Shand doesn’t really notice much. He’s too busy concentrating on his own impressiveness. He’s no judge of character, otherwise he’d never have let Thorpe Intak to Anthony Vintner.”
“What about Mr. Willoughby?”
“Oh, he’s a very decent chap. He’s a wool merchant, from Leeds. He’s a good fisherman, a good tenant and a pleasant neighbor. He rents a cottage of mine just above the beck, and he’s Shand’s fishing tenant.”
“One last question before I let you go to sleep: Is your suspicion of the potters based on. real evidence or on prejudice?”
Giles Hoggett took his time over answering, and the answer when it came was perfectly truthful.
“On prejudice; but it’s worth bearing this in mind. We’re slow in forming judgments hereabouts, and we don’t often analyze the reason behind our judgments, but there generally is a reason somewhere. Leave me out of it and consider the opinion of men like Richard Blackthorn and John Staple. They have a very poor opinion of the Golds and both these men are sound judges of character. I admit that I have inherited a prejudice from my parents; they both distrusted nomads of any kind. But that’s only my opinion, and as Kate will tell you, once I’m prejudiced, I’m unreasonable. Richard’s a very fair man. You have a crack with him sometime.”
“Aye, that’s sound advice,” said Macdonald, “but can’t you tell me a bit more about these potters yourself?”
A fresh gleam of interest lit up Mr. Hoggett’s face, and Macdonald realized his companion was willing enough to talk now he made it clear that he didn’t want his opinions to be regarded as objective fact.
“You know, Macdonald, the potters are an interesting phenomenon. It’s a wonder some bright young student hasn’t done a sociological survey of them. In an ordered society they are among the very few people who remain free. They are free, just like birds.” Mr. Hoggett scratched his head and went on with more certainty as his ideas developed.
“Robins have a fixed territory which they keep to themselves and from which they exclude others: similarly these Golds have a territory of their own which they work, say from Carnton up the valley as far as Chapleton-Lonsdale. I’d describe them as the economic parasites for this district which they have somehow claimed as their own.”
Mr. Hoggett glanced at Macdonald as though wondering whether to proceed, but the latter reassured him:
“Go on. You’re just beginning to be interesting. Develop your thesis and translate it into terms of everyday life.”
“Meaning ordinary plain Lunesdale,” agreed Hoggett. “I admit the potters have their uses; they act as scavengers, so to speak, for the farmers. They take rabbit skins, mole skins, old iron, slag bags, and anything else that’s accumulating at a farm, and they pay some sort of price for them. They’ll buy rabbits which have been snared, and save the farmer the bother of taking them into market. They come along before Christmas and they’ll pay an agreed price to be allowed to cut the berried holly. Oh, they have their uses – but farmers don’t really trust them and they keep their eyes on them as far as they can. Even so, we have a feeling there must be a lot of things the potters pick up on the quiet. The upshot is there’s a sort of irritated tolerance for them, and the irritation comes to its height when something of value is missing and the tendency is to blame the loss on to the potters.”
Hoggett paused again and then added:
“All the same, there have always been potters about the countryside; they’re traditional and so they’re tolerated. I expect even if I had the power to clear them out of the district I shouldn’t exercise it. You see, they’re part of the landscape.” He concluded apologetically: “I don’t suppose all this has helped you much – you try talking to Richard about them.”
“Thanks, I will. Next, can you tell me of anybody who knows the Golds as individuals and whose word could be relied on?”
“Aye. There’s my cousin George. He’s a doctor in Ingleforth. He’s doctored the Gold family, and he’s a very truthful man. George makes allowances – but he doesn’t live right in the country.”
Here Giles Hoggett allowed himself the colossal yawn he had been suppressing heroically.
“All right. Go to bed,” chuckled Macdonald. “That was a good run we had.”
“Aye. You’d better leave your socks to dry by the fire. Kate’s very particular about damp socks. I’ll wake you in good time for a swim. I’ve got to be up at the farm for milking by half-past seven. Good night.”
“Good night – and thank you for a good evening,” said Macdonald.
***
The morn broke with a promise of perfect weather. When Macdonald and Hoggett went outside, the sky was still warm hued with the gold of dawn, but swathes of white mist floated down the valley. On the dales the mist was thick to shoulder height, but Macdonald found his head occasionally emerged above the white wraiths, so that he could see the willow trees floating above the mist as though trunkless.
It was very cold and Giles Hoggett looked chilly and glum. They raced together over the cold drenched grass, took off their coats by the big willow and plunged in. The chill of the water was breathtaking but Macdonald trudged downstream with a vigor which soon set his circulation going. In a minute or so he was in the rapids and found that all he had to do was to keep straight and get his head up at intervals to breathe. The river had fallen in the night, and when he got past the rapids Macdonald found the stream was not bank high as it had been the previous night. He called over his shoulder: “You all right?” and heard Hoggett’s answering voice. Then he turned toward the bank in the stretch known as Jacob’s Buttery, and plunged to test the depth of the water.
When he came up he had to fight the stream to get into the bank and found it a tough business – the water was still coming down at a terrific pace. Hoggett went past Macdonald on the current as the latter managed to grip an overhanging branch leaning out from the bank, and Macdonald had a breather and turned to see what Hoggett was doing. He, knowing the ways of this river, was getting in toward the bank by means of an eddy which saved him from battling with the stream as Macdonald had done.
“He doesn’t want any saving,” thought the Scot, and dived down into the deep water by the steep bank.
He found that the roots of the willow had been scoured clean by the current, and he soon found something else. Giles Hoggett’s sack was there, and the chain, and the iron dogs. The laden sack was chained to the willow roots and lodged tight in a recess where the river had undercut the bank.
Macdonald surfaced again and plunged into midstream – he wanted to swim for a bit in the fresh air and wash away the feeling of that clammy sack. He found Hoggett’s eddy and swam
inshore easily, where the other was searching the bank.
“You can get out. I’ve found your sack,” said the C.I.D. man.
Hoggett scrambled out with Macdonald close behind him.
“I want my coat. That river’s damned cold,” said Macdonald.
They ran over the grass, providing astonishment and diversion for Richard Blackthorn’s bullocks, who ran after them with the inquisitiveness of their kind. Hoggett asked no questions, but as he seized the rough towel he had brought out with him, Macdonald saw the unspoken question in the other’s eyes.
“Aye. As you guessed for yourself. A grim business. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks,” was all that Giles Hoggett said, and then added:
“I’ve made some coffee. It’s in the pot – and it’ll be hot.”
They wasted no more words but raced back across the dales. The sun was just getting through the mist, and the pale gleams felt warm to the chilled limbs of the two swimmers.
A fine fire was roaring up the chimney and the two men got dressed before the comfort of the heat. Hoggett poured out the coffee and they were both glad of its scalding fragrance. It was not until then that Macdonald said:
“I think I’d better stay down here. Will you telephone to Inspector Bord and ask him to join me here immediately? It’s only seven o’clock now but the earlier the better. We oughtn’t to attract much attention early on a Sunday morning. Tell him to send the Mortuary Van and stretcher on the south side of the river. You’ll know the right place for them to pull up. There is no need of carrying a stretcher up to the brow.”
“Right,” replied Hoggett.
Again he asked no question, and it was for that very reason Macdonald went on:
“It’s a man’s body; not a woman’s. I knew from the size of his shoes. I can’t tell you anything else.”
“Since there is a body there, I’d rather it were a man’s,” said Hoggett simply. “You’ll want some breakfast. You know where things are. I’ll be getting on up.”
He paused at the door, and added: “Was that why Vintner was frightened? He must have got out of the river just about there.”
The Theft of the Iron Dogs Page 7