The Theft of the Iron Dogs

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “You’ve been in the valley at night several time, haven’t you? You must have been to have done that flood picture.”

  Vintner was silent, and Macdonald went on: “You were there one night when somebody shouted at you from the bend in the river.”

  “No, I wasn’t!” Anthony Vintner sounded surprised. “No one’s ever shouted at me down in the dales. I should remember it if they had. It’s silent down by the river – silent with the peace of God. . . until you came.”

  “You mean until Ginner came,” retorted Macdonald, “and it was you who brought him here. Remember that when you’re feeling disposed to self-pity.”

  Vintner’s face quivered miserably. “You’re self-righteous, like all Scots,” he said bitterly. “Do you think I wanted Ginner here, damn you? He was the last thing I wanted. I came here to get away from all that.”

  “Do you realize what you’re saying?” asked Macdonald. “If I repeated the substance of that as evidence, what is the conclusion that would be drawn?”

  “That I killed him. I know. I’m beginning to wonder if I did. I hated him. Because he knew of things I’d done in the past, he was trying to force me to do his dirty work for him. I was to deliver his beastly letters. I didn’t. I told him I’d put the cops on to him and risk the results. That was why he beat it. He was cunning, he knew just how far he could drive anybody.”

  “You say that you didn’t kill him, Vintner. Then who did?”

  “I don’t know. I tell you I don’t know. If I did, I shouldn’t tell you, but I don’t know.”

  “Where did he want you to deliver his letters?”

  “I don’t know. I told him I’d see him damned before I did anything of the kind. It was a swindle – he lived on swindles, but I can’t tell you what it was about.”

  Anthony Vintner peered at Macdonald’s face as though he were trying to read his thoughts.

  “Are you going to arrest me and hang me for killing Ginner?”

  “Not unless I’m satisfied about the probability of your guilt.”

  “I didn’t do it. . . I’m certain I didn’t do it. If you’d only leave me alone I could start again here. . . I could clean up those hen-houses and start again, and sell some of the pictures. I’ve learned a lot. I could start again.”

  Macdonald looked at the puffy, unhealthy face and red-rimmed eyes and got to his feet. He knew that Anthony Vintner had no chance of getting out of the district, and it was for that reason he risked leaving him. There was other evidence to be gathered before any arrest could be made, but Macdonald was conscious of the grimness inherent in a weak man’s words: “I could start again if. . .”

  He left Anthony Vintner brooding over his pictures, muttering to himself the while.

  ***

  When Macdonald reached Carnton Police Station, he found Inspector Bord looking cheerful.

  “Well, Chief, we’ve collected a few of the items you wanted. Mrs. Gold has been staying in Slaidburn; that’s right over the fells on the other side of the Lune. It’s a place that’s none too easy to get at from these parts. Mostly folk’d go around by Clapham or you can get there by road from Lancaster. Now Gold didn’t choose either of those routes: he seems to have followed the track by the River Roeburn – that’s a tributary of our Wenning – and he took his missis up to the top of the fells and she seems to’ve walked down to Slaidburn by herself – and that’s a tidy walk. I reckon Gold took that route because it’s so lonely and he thought they wouldn’t be noticed – it’s pretty desolate fell country up in those hills.”

  “That was a mistake on his part,” said Macdonald. “The lonelier the country, the more likely it is that a traveler will be noticed and remembered.”

  “Aye, that’s true. There’s no actual road the way Gold took – just a track over the fells.”

  “Wasn’t there a Roman road that came north from Manchester to Castleton over the fells past Slaidburn?” asked Macdonald unexpectedly. “I walked part of it once, and it’s grand fell country – the track still follows the Roman road.”

  “Does it, indeed?” inquired Bord. “Well, you’re teaching me something about my own country I didn’t know. The track’s still there; and that’s the way the Golds went with his pony, right up to the top of the fells, and there he must have left his wife and she walked down into Slaidburn. One of our chaps there who’s keen on studying birds actually saw them on the fells, and that’s how we found her. She’s staying in a cottage outside Slaidburn. The other thing you asked me to find out was Mrs. Gold’s maiden name. Dr. Castleby was quite right. Mrs. Gold came originally from the Kirkby Stephen country and her maiden name was West. We traced that through the records in Preston.”

  “Good work,”said Macdonald. “You’ve done your part well, Bord, and done it quickly. I shouldn’t have got far without you.”

  “Well, it’s nice to know we were able to lend a hand, Chief. It’s your case, but we like to be able to do our stuff as far as we can. Now you’ll be wanting to see Gold? He’s as mum as a graven image. We charged him with being in possession of stolen property and assaulting an officer in the execution of duty – the charge sheet’s there. Gold didn’t say a word, but I reckon he’s had time to think things over a bit by now.”

  At this moment a constable came in with a slip of paper, saying that it was a telephone message just sent through by Giles Hoggett. Macdonald took it and read: “Profert of Middle Upfield saw Gold passing his farm on foot early one morning during harvest. Profert harvested between August 28th and September 10th. Gold was coming away from the river and walking toward the main road.”

  Macdonald passed the message to Bord, saying: “That has come just when it’s most useful. I think Gold may decide it’s wiser to speak out.”

  A small room was given to Macdonald for his interrogation, and Bord said he would come in as witness. When Gold was brought in, Macdonald told him to sit down and began.

  “The charge set down against you, which will be heard by the magistrates, is that stolen property was found in your possession and that you assaulted a police officer in the execution of his duty, but I think you should understand that you are suspected of being concerned in a more serious crime. I warn you that anything you say may be taken down and used as evidence.”

  Macdonald met the man’s surly gaze and after a second or so continued: “On Sunday last, September 19th, the body of a man was recovered by the police from the River Lune. This body had been tied up in a sack and was chained to the roots of a willow tree in a deep pool known locally as Jacob’s Buttery. This pool is a few hundred yards downstream from the cottage called Wenningby Barns, and a short distance upstream from the path through the woods which leads toward the main road between the farms called Middle Upfield. The chain and weights attached to the body were stolen from the chimney at Wenningby Barns. The owner of the cottage reported the thefts to the police, and at the same time reported that he found some fragments of orange curtain material outside the cottage. These fragments were torn from some old curtains which Mrs. Hoggett of Netherbeck Farm gave to your wife some weeks ago.”

  Macdonald paused here and studied the man in front of him. Reuben Gold sat motionless, but very rigid, his big fist clenched, his jaw set. The only sign that he gave that he was in any way affected by the narrative was the tenseness of his muscles.

  “This morning when I saw you on the Carnton road,” went on Macdonald, “there was a piece of the same orange curtain material in your pocket. Have you anything to say about what you did with the stuff after it was given to you?”

  “ ‘Twas na given to me. ‘Twas given to t’ wife. She tore it up likely. ‘Twas good for nowt.”

  “Very well. In that case your wife can answer the same question. She has not been seen on the road with you for some time, Gold, but you were both seen on the fells above Slaidburn.”

  The potter made no reply, and Macdonald went on: “I asked you this morning what you had been doing in the dales. You replied that you had
not been in the dales for two years. Do you still stick to that?”

  “Aye.”

  “Yet one morning, during harvest, you were seen coming away from the dales. The farmer at Middle Upfield spoke to you, and he can swear that you were walking up from the valley.”

  At last the man spoke. “Mebbe I was on t’road by Middle Upfield, but I wasn’ in t’valley. I was out after wild mushrooms.”

  Macdonald was interested in the reply, because it showed that Gold was cognizant of the law. The operative word was “wild.” A farmer can only claim that the mushrooms on his land are his own property if he has planted spawn to raise them. Since mushrooms have risen in price, some farmers have taken to planting a brick of spawn in their fields; if a dispute as to the ownership of the mushrooms arises, the farmer who produces the receipt for the cost of mushroom spawn can claim them as his own property because they are cultivated mushrooms. It is a legal offense to gather cultivated mushrooms but not an offense to gather wild ones. A farmer has the right to order a trespasser off his land, but he cannot claim wild mushrooms as his own property.

  Macdonald returned to his statement. “Very good. You have not been in the valley for two years. How is it that fragments of this orange curtain stuff which was given to your wife were found tied to bushes by the path through the woods which leads from the Middle Upfields to the dales?”

  “Some child’s trick. Nowt to do with me.”

  So far, so good, from Gold’s point of view. In the few brief words he had spoken, he had met Macdonald’s case, and though Gold’s speech might be rough, the answers were skillful enough. Macdonald went on: “About the same time that Mr. Hoggett of Wenningby Barns reported thefts from his cottage, Mr. Willoughby of Clunterbeck Cottage reported that his fishing hut in Chough Close had been broken into and his waders stolen. Those waders, marked with his initials, were in your cart when it was examined this morning. If you have never been in the dales, how did you get those waders?”

  Gold was startled at last. He stared unbelievingly at Macdonald, and sweat broke out on his forehead.

  “You haven’t got to answer, Gold,” went on Macdonald quietly. “I have stated my case. You have the wits to know what a jury would think if they heard it. I have given you a chance to explain. If you have no explanation you will have to answer the question when you are charged in court. I have cautioned you, and I am not trying to make you give evidence against yourself.”

  “Ah never went near t’ fishing hut,” broke out Gold. “If so be Ah’d done what yore trying to make oot, would A’ve been fule enough to keep t’waders in ma cart? Tha’s got a maggot in thi brain if tha reckons that. Ah bought t’ waders off a chap oop Kirby way.”

  “Very good. When did you buy them?”

  “ ‘Twas weeks ago. Back in August ‘twas. A chap on t’ road, same’s ussen.”

  “It won’t do, Gold. I know when Mr. Willoughby last saw his waders in the hut.”

  Macdonald got up, as though he had heard enough, and his movement startled Gold into speech. Macdonald knew that the potter had followed every implication in the evidence. He knew exactly what he was up against – a murder charge – and he was frightened at last.

  “Nay, Ah’ll tell tha,” he protested. “Ah never bought t’ waders. Ah found them. Throon awa’ they was. Shoved into a hole in t’ wall roond old park at t’ Middle Ugfield. ‘Twas plain they was throon awa’, and I took them, same as I take any rubbish the farmers don’t want. Ah was niver in t’ dales. Niver.”

  “Did you ask Mr. Profert if he wanted the waders, or if he knew whom they belonged to?”

  “Nay, I never named them. ‘Twas harvest time, and there was no one about that way.”

  Macdonald paused a moment and then continued: “You know Mr. Vintner, the tenant of Thorpe Intak. He had a visitor staying with him in August. What was your business with him?”

  “Ah had no business wi’ him.”

  “What about the messages he asked you and your wife to take for him?”

  Gold hesitated: he had no means of knowing that Macdonald was guessing, but Gold’s hesitation told Macdonald that his question wasn’t far off the mark. The chief inspector went on:

  “You generally keep to the roads with your cart, and you don’t know the field paths very well. That path through the woods isn’t easy to find at any time. The rags were tied on to the bushes to mark the path, and they were rags torn off the stuff, which had been given to you. The path marked by the rags leads straight down to the meadows by Jacob’s Buttery.”

  Gold was sweating freely now, his hands clenching and unclenching, his breathing heavy. Macdonald went on:

  “Deceased – the man whose body was found in the river – was seen in the dales at the end of August. He was then fishing without a permit on private water. It is known that he was at one time in Wenningby Barns. He was murdered, and his body was put in a sack and hidden in the river under the roots of the willow tree. Footmarks were observed by a responsible witness in the soft ground by the beck in front of the cottage. These footprints were probably made by a man wearing the big nailed brogues sold to wear over waders.”

  Gold burst out into violent speech. “Tha’s saying I murdered him. Why should I ha’ murdered him? He was nowt to me.”

  Macdonald’s voice when he answered seemed all the quieter in contrast to the other’s roar.

  “I am not accusing you of murder. I am telling you plainly what will be told in court later, and I am giving you the chance to explain the evidence which appears to connect you with the murder. There is one other question which you would be well advised to answer if you are innocent. Why did you take your wife away by the lonely track over the fells? And why was her maiden name found on a paper in the dead man’s coat pocket?”

  Macdonald sat silent again for a few seconds and then he said: “You can take your time over answering those questions, Gold – but lies are no good. You’ve got to make up your mind to tell the truth if you are innocent. I’m not going to press for an answer to those questions now, but there’s one point I do want an answer to. You bought a coat from Anthony Vintner outside the inn on Monday night. It’s fortunate for you that I know how you came by it, for that coat belonged to the man who was murdered. Where is the coat now?”

  Reuben Gold’s face was a study: his eyes stared, his heavy lips were parted, his cheeks were furrowed.

  “T’ dirty bastard!” he roared. “Thissen’s his work – that Vintner. Sold me t’ coat, did he, a’ter he killed that other? Put it on t’ me. Ah’ll see he gets what he’s earned. Ah’ll tell tha, in my own time I’ll tell tha!”

  “Be careful what you say, Gold. You can be charged as accessory after the fact if you say that you knew who committed a murder.”

  “T’ hell with thi lawyer’s talk. Ah’ll tell in my oon time. Ah’ve no cause for fear.”

  “If you have no cause for fear, you can tell me where to find that coat, Gold. I’ve been straight with you and I told you that I knew how you came by it. If I had traced it to you without knowing how you got it, it would have gone hard with you.”

  Gold studied the other with painful intentness. At last he said: “Tha was straight ower yon coat. Aye. Ah’ll say tha was straight. Yon Vintner sold me t’ coat outside t’ bar. Said it was his’en, and he wer’ broke. Tha’ll find yon coat in t’ rag shop at Carnton, Bob Traske’ll show it tha. As for yon Vintner, it’s tha job to get him. Aye, you get him and let me task him. Ah’ll make him crack, aye, in my own time I’ll show tha.”

  Inspector Bord was surprised that Macdonald took the matter no further. The chief inspector got up and Gold was taken back to his cell.

  “Seem’s a plain enough case to me, Chief. If Gold didn’t do it, he knows who did. You’ve got on to his trail down to the river valley plain enough. No jury’d be in two minds about a verdict after they’d heard the evidence I heard just now.”

  “I don’t think they would, if they heard that and nothing else,” agreed Mac
donald, “but I can make out an even plainer case against Anthony Vintner, complete with motive, and a straightforward enough case against Mr. Willoughby of Clunterbeck Cottage in addition.”

  “Eh? What’s that?” asked Bord, his eyes opening wide.

  “Ginner was wanted for stealing clothing coupons and was concerned with some fraud in the wool trade,” said Macdonald. “Willoughby is the one man in this district who is in the wool trade: he was frequently in the valley; he is an angler and a swimmer – and I found him with Mr. Hoggett’s old coat. It’s no use, Bord, we’re not through yet. We shan’t be until I know why Mrs. Gold went and hid in Slaidburn, and what is the connection between Gold and Ginner – because connection there is of some kind. Now I’m off to find Bob Traske. In the meantime, put an extra man on the road beyond Thorpe Intak, and I’ll probably put Reeves on duty thereabouts as well. He’ll contact your men somewhere, so you’d better tell them he’ll be there. The only pity is that we can’t let Reuben Gold out to follow his own devices – but I think he’d see through it if we did.”

  “Well, you know your own business best,” said Bord, “but I reckon your Mr. Hoggett was right first guess. He said it was likely the potters – and I still think ‘tis likely he’s right.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  MEANWHILE, Giles Hoggett and John Staple had walked together up the hill above Wenningby. The sun was warm on their faces as they breasted the rise until they were at the summit and could see westwards, right beyond Lancaster and Morecambe to the glinting waters of the bay. Here they paused in tacit appreciation, and at length Staple said:

  “Dost reckon it’s the potters, Mr. Hoggett? Seems to me they must know more than they should – and that owd chap Bob saw wearing thi coat, why it might ha’ been Gold, sure enough. He’s rare big shoulders; but he’s none so stout about the shanks. Never done any walking whiles he could ride.”

  “Aye. I thought of that,” agreed Hoggett, “but it’s hard to say. You passed me on the Chapelton road yesterday cycling with another chap.”