“Aye, a dark young chap, neat as a bird. Another of these C.I.D. men, eh?”
“That’s it. Named Reeves. By the way, Macdonald’s found my old coat. At least, Mr. Willoughby found it, and Macdonald came on him with it.”
“Mr. Willoughby? By gum, lad, ‘tis wheels within wheels. Yon Mr. Willoughby, I’ve not a word to say again him, but he’s in the dales oftener than most. Aye, he’s been down fishing after dark, and swimming, too – and he’s a sturdy chap for all he’s no chicken. I mind I’ve seen him lifting some rare big branches out o’ t’ river when the foods have brought stuff down.”
“Aye.” Giles Hoggett sounded glum, because he had always liked the cheerful little Yorkshireman. “It’s a hard nut to crack, Mr. Staple, and all I can do is to try to get the facts straight. About my coat: I put it on Reeves, the other C.I.D. man. You can’t imagine how different he looked in it, with George’s old tweed cap on his head making him look taller. It’s a rum shape, that cap. It’s shrunk up until it’s conical and makes a man look taller.”
“Aye. I see what you mean – the big coat’d make him look stouter. Well, we’ll ask Bob. Bob’s got very good eyes, like all these shepherds. He can’t see a thing near-to, but at a distance he can see things better than I can – and I’ve got good eyes for far away.”
They came on Bob Moffat leaning on a gate watching the sheep in one of Staple’s pastures. The flock had forgotten their recent troubles and were setting to grazing vigorously, making up for lost time, their backs to the light breeze. Giles Hoggett went and leaned against the gate, too.
“They’re all right now, Bob. Safe home again.”
“Aye, Mr. ‘Oggett. They’ll do. None so bad they be this year. I seen worse.”
This was Bob’s way of expressing his conviction that the flock was a credit to him, and Staple looked over them, saying:
“Aye. They’ll do nicely. You ought to have a few sheep, Mr. Hoggett, they’re useful stock, and you’ve got a bit of rough grazing that’s not much use to your cattle. Now see here, Bob. Mr. Hoggett and I, we thought ‘twas more likely you’d got a better idea about the chap in Mr. Hoggett’s coat than had Mr. Shand. No disrespect mean, Mr. Shand’s a townsman before he’s a countryman and I’d sooner trust your eyes than his spectacles, Bob.”
Bob spat, strongly, judiciously, and waved a horny fist as he usually did before the effort of formulating a sentence. ” ‘Im? ‘E don’t even know t’ names of ‘is own fields. ‘E axed me once, tell me T’ owd names, ‘e said and I towd ‘un: Crow Flat, Summer Fold, Whinney Hill, Clerk’s Field, New Banks, Ella’s Close, Longland’s, Fortyfold, Broad Ash, Fat Pig, Lamb’s Lot. Could e’ name ‘em agen? Not likely. As for when ‘e ‘s doon in t’ dales, he does na know thine from hissen. Canna’ tell ewes from lambs, stirks fra’ heifers, gilts from hogs. Sheep, ‘e says. Cows, ‘e says, and beasts for ‘em all. Aye. ‘Im and ‘is spectacles.”
Giles Hoggett did not laugh: he listened very intently, because he hoped to repeat this effort verbatim to Kate later. It was seldom that Bob Moffat indulged in speech at such length, and to Giles Hoggett’s mind the effort was memorable. Very soon there would be no old men like Bob left to recite the age-old names for the fields.
“Aye, Bob. I like to hear you tell the old names,” said Hoggett, and the old man replied:
“Eh, tha’s awreet, Mr. Hoggett. Thi folks lived here, like us. Tha won’t forget.”
“Now see here, Bob,” said John Staple. “You’re through for today. What about coming down to the river with me and Mr. Hoggett, and telling us just where you saw the owd chap in Mr. Hoggett’s coat? Aye, and he’ll put the coat on, and maybe I will, and you can tell us just what you think.”
“Ah don’t mind if ah do,” rejoined Bob, “though t’weren’t neither of you, that I do know.”
***
The three turned and made their way through the fields until they reached the path through the woods below the Upfields. When they reached the valley flats, Bob took charge and led them to a stretch on the river bank on Garthmere land and turned and pointed upstream.
“ ‘Twas there I saw un, close by t’ ould willow. Eh, Mr. Hoggett, thi granfer did tend those willows praper like, for baskets; but they’ve been let go and now they’re fit for nowt. Aye, ‘twas here I saw the owd un, close by yon willow it was.”
It took little persuading to make Bob agree to stay where he was by the river, while Hoggett and Staple hurried back to the cottage and found Reeves, apparently busy loading up the bogie with logs.
“Hi, you can come and help over this,” he called.
“Aye, but first you can help us,” replied Mr. Hoggett. “We’ve got old Bob Moffat down by the river, and he saw the chap in my old coat. We want to get an idea of the man he saw.”
“I get you,” replied Reeves. “You want me to put the coat on and act suspicous-like. Right-o. Here it is. . . If this is what you call a good coat, chum, give me utility every time. It weighs a ton to start with. . . and the hat. . . best dustman’s model. Got any specs on you? Might as well do the thing in style.”
“I’m afraid I’ve only got horn-rims, but Mr. Staple might lend you his.”
Mr. Staple was struggling manfully with the mirth that beset him: “By heck, I wouldn’t have believed it,” he said. “What was’t I said? Neat as a bird. Look at him now. He might be old Tim Thorpe over at Highfell. Ninety-two he is. Here’s my specs, lad, and no games wi’ them, if you please. They do suit me proper. . . I don’t like those neat blue trousers of yours with this outfit. Not in the picture like. Leggings he should have. Nay, don’t spoil the job by being hasty like. Bob won’t mind waiting. Mr. Hoggett, you’ll have some old leggings here somewhere?”
“Aye. I won’t be a minute. I’ve got the very thing.”
A moment later Reeves’ shanks were being suitably encased, while Staple murmured:
“Spindle-shanks he said. Aye, spindle-shanks. That’s true enow. You’ll do lad. Go and do thi part.”
Reeves walked clumsily out of the garden and made his way toward the river. With every step which took him farther away, Giles Hoggett felt more strongly that it would be impossible ever to swear to the identity of a man in those garments. The figure he saw was no longer Reeves – it was nothing like him. The bulky shapeless coat made him double his own size, the hat concealed his face and altered the character of his head; in short, the figure by the river was unrecognizable.
Staple stood and stared. “Yon’s a rum go,” he said. “That coat and hat, ‘tis champion for a disguise. If so be the villain wore these, reckon nobody could swear to him.”
When Reeves returned, Mr. Hoggett went through the same performance, and finally Mr. Staple went and poked around by the willow tree, similarly clad. After this, leaving coat and hat behind, the three men went and joined Bob Moffat.
“Eh. . .” he said, ” ‘twas champion, that was. First, the little chap there. T’ coat did reach nigh to’s ankles, but I saw his legs when he climbed up a bit to t’ bank by t’owd willow. Neat as a donkey’s tha legs is, lad – and tha hands right oop t’ sleeves, I marked ‘un. Then thee, Mr. Hoggett. ‘Twas more like, aye, ‘twas more like, but tha moved lissom-like, wi’ fine long strides, and thi shoulders swung like a man used to hills. Aye, that’s it. I seen tha go oop hills easy-like; long strides tha takes, not like Mr. Staple. He’s nearer the build, likely, but he sets his feet firm wi’ not so much spring. T’ chap I saw, he wer stouter and he slipped wi’s feet. Not used to muck like.”
“Bravo, Bob! You see a thing or two,” said Mr. Hoggett. “You’re a better detective than I am.”
“Now, Bob. You know the potters – Reuben Gold that comes around with his old nag,” said Staple. “Could it have been him you saw?”
Bob considered. “I never saw no beard, but t’ chap I saw had collar right oop around ‘s chin. Gold, he’s always in his cart. Ah niver seen ‘im step out – but ah reckon ‘twas nearer Gold than any of thee. A bit ‘unched about the
shoulders he were, aye, and stoutish. Ah can’t tell for why, that coat’s powerful big, but ah did think ‘twas a big chap inside un – stout like.”
With that they had to be content, and Mr. Staple and Bob Moffat went home to the comprehensive tea with which the farm world celebrates the end of the main part of the day’s toil.
Hoggett and Reeves walked back to the cottage, and Hoggett said: “What were you doing with the bogie and those logs?”
“Now you’re here, I shan’t want the logs,” said Reeves. “You’ll do instead. As you probably know, a human body is an awkward thing to lift if you don’t know how to do it. I weigh ten stone odd; I guess you weigh nearly thirteen, but probably I could carry you farther than you could carry me because I’ve been trained to do it.”
Mr. Hoggett looked skeptical; Reeves didn’t look much like a weight-lifter – but Hoggett also remembered the ease with which Reeves had reduced him to helplessness in the Jiu-Jitsu demonstration.
“Aye, perhaps you could,” he admitted, and Reeves went on:
“In your original evidence you mentioned the bogie tracks by the small stream there. You saw those tracks after it had been raining for twenty-four hours. Before that the weather had been dry for weeks.”
“Aye. It’s like this. The ground as a whole was dry and hard up till September 15th, but the ground by that beck wasn’t dry. As the water in the beck fell lower, the ground along its course dried as river silt does dry, going through a stage when it will take an impress and retain it. The tracks I saw were made before the weather broke and had dried hard, so that even after twenty-four hours of rain they were still observable.”
“They had probably been made by a considerable weight. I’ve been trying it out. It’s no sense of balance, if you see what I mean.”
“I know,” replied Giles Hoggett. “I made it myself, long before we lived here. I thought we could haul our suitcases up the brow in one journey. Kate always said it wouldn’t work. She was quite right.”
“Well, if you made it, see if you can work it, chum,” replied Reeves cheerfully. “I’ll get in it, so. . . Now you push me as far as the willow trees.”
“I can’t,” admitted Giles Hoggett. “The’ ground’s too soft now; those wheels would sink right in. If the ground were hard I could have done it.”
“Oh, don’t give up without trying. The track’s fairly hard. Give me a ride as far as the brow.”
With Reeves as cargo, Giles Hoggett manhandled the bogie about fifty yards along the rough path. Then he stood panting.
Reeves scrambled out. “Yes. It sounds easy on paper, but it’s not so good in practice. Your turn now; load up.”
With Giles Hoggett’s long limbs disposed somehow on the groaning contraption, Reeves set to work to push. He worked manfully, putting his back into it, but the bogie jibbed at a rut and finally capsized, tumbling its burden out.
“That’s just what I expected,” said Reeves cheerfully. “I’m no sort of hand at this here. Stay where you are, chum. I’m going to do a bit of fireman’s lift.”
Greatly to Mr. Hoggett’s surprise, he found himself draped around Reeves’ shoulders while the latter crouched beside him and then the tough little Cockney raised himself until he could walk, and with bent back he carried Hoggett bodily back to the cottage gate, where he released him.
“I bet that’s how it was done, chum. He tried the bogie and it worked on level ground, then it capsized. I tell you one thing – that Vintner lad never did this job. He’s not got the physique for it.”
“Do you think two men were involved, one hauling, one pushing?”
“No. If there were two they wouldn’t have goated about with that there thing. They’d have lifted between them.” Reeves walked back and collected the despised bogie. “It’s like this. No one with any sense would ever have imagined they could get that thing across to the river with an awkward weight on it. I reckon the chap who did this hadn’t much mechanical sense. The fact that you saw the bogie marks proves he tried – but it wouldn’t have worked far. Lifting’s the only way.”
Mr. Hoggett looked rather depressed. “We don’t seem to have got much further,” he said, and Reeves replied:
“If you knew a little more about our job you wouldn’t say that. Here a little and there a little is our motto, and it’s quite as important to find out what didn’t happen as what did happen. Why, I’ve sometimes put in a week’s hard work and got less out of it than I got out of this evening’s little game.”
“Well – I must go and get on with milking,” said Mr. Hoggett. “My cows will be bawling their heads off.” He paused and then asked: “Ever milked a cow, Reeves?”
Reeves grinned. “Never – but I hope to try my hand at it before I leave Lunesdale.”
“Aye. I remember coming across a very good motto once – ‘What one fool can do, another fool can do.’ I’ll go on up now, and I’ll ring through to Carnton to leave a message for Macdonald about Profert having seen Gold on the Upfield path.”
“That’s right. Good liaison work,” said Reeves.
***
When Macdonald had finished interviewing Gold, he drove back to Wenningby. First he saw Giles Hoggett and heard an accurate report of the discussion in Richard Blackthorn’s fold yard and the subsequent activities by the river. He then went down the brow to the cottage, and found Reeves just completing a country-tea, in which eggs, tomatoes, honey and rosy apples had all played a part.
Macdonald, aware that he might have a long evening before him, expressed himself in the local idiom: “Don’t mind if I do,” and enjoyed a similar repast. During his meal he exchanged with Reeves all the items of information collected since they had last met. The two detectives examined every shred of evidence, balancing detail against detail. It was a merciless analysis, in which two expert minds built up an edifice of proven fact, side by side with the deductions which could be drawn therefrom. The facts were essential and unalterable, but the deductions, as both knew full well, might have to be modified later.
Finally Macdonald spread out his map and saw to it that Reeves was cognizant of the lie of the land around Thorpe Intak. The local men would guard the roads, but it was possible to approach the steading from the rear, and this was to be Reeves’ job.
“I may be quite mistaken, in which case you’ll only have the stars for company,” said Macdonald, “but it’s just possible that an effort may be made to throw a spanner in the works. There’s more than one adventurer abroad, including the one who removed those orange rags this morning.”
Reeves grinned. “I get you. I’ll do my best, Chief, though the Mile-end Road’s more my beat. Still, I’ve scouted a bit in my time.”
Macdonald chuckled: “Maybe it is a bit steep to put you on to this, Reeves, but I’d rather have you there than the locals, taking it all around. I’ve a great belief in your survival value, and you’re the most suspicious chap I know. Now I’m going over to find Bob Traske at Carnton; if I get through with that fast enough, I’m driving on to Slaidburn. I’ll drive back by the road behind Thorpe Intak, and I’ll leave the car by the Borwick turning and come down that old bridle path which is marked here. I shall follow the line of the wall over that rough pasture and then come down by the thorn trees to the beck. I ought to reach the boundary wall there by midnight – but I can’t be certain. . .”
“O.K., Chief. I’ll wait here until sunset and then go up on that bike to the rear of the premises so to speak. . . Put some of those apples in your pocket. They’re champion.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
IT WAS shortly after seven o’clock that evening that Macdonald reached Bob Traske’s “shop” on the outskirts of Carnton. Traske was another member of the potter’s community; he had a cart and a nag, but he also had a store. This latter was a small stone building which had probably been built on farm property long ago. It was now roofed by dilapidated corrugated iron, and various sheds had been put up against it on the lean-to principle. The whole conglomerat
ion of shoddy building stood in a yard of which Traske was freeholder, and in this yard were sundry piles of oddments – old metal, old wood, bottles, broken furniture, rags and paper.
Macdonald was terse and peremptory with Bob Traske – a dirty fellow of heavy build and uncertain age. The C.I.D. man told his status and business abruptly and stated that he had a search-warrant. The last-mentioned item made a considerable difference to Traske’s truculence – it was quite plain that he did not want his premises to be searched. Macdonald told Traske (although certain that he knew already) that Gold had been detained by the police, and then that Gold had stated that he had sold a raincoat to Traske the previous evening. Bob Traske agreed that that was so, and produced a cheap raincoat bought in Manchester. In one of its pockets there was still a screwed-up ball of paper.
Macdonald found that he had been right in one of his hunches – when he had argued that Anthony Vintner should have a good visual memory. It was probable that Vintner had studied the scribbled notes eagerly, hoping for information that would be of profit to himself. There were some notes on the paper which probably did deal with card tricks, because the references to certain numbers had roughly scrawled heart, diamond, club, spade symbols beside them. In addition were the words “gold, silver, copper” as Vintner had stated, and references to A, B and C, with figures which might have been dates. All the handwriting was illegible to a degree which made it very difficult to decipher, and words and symbols and figures were run together without punctuation and without capital letters. It struck Macdonald that the writer of these notes might have written thus illegibly of intent; there was just enough written down to help a man who could not trust his own memory, but not enough to help any other person to make sense of the scrawl. In addition to the script the paper was heavily scored with “doodles,” which might have been more interesting to a psychologist than to a detective.
Sitting in Hoggett’s car, Macdonald tried to make sense of some of the notes, ignoring those which referred to playing cards. “goldaptXspt5silverbptouaug31” might be interpreted as Vintner had suggested: “Gold. A. point X: September 5th” and refer to a meeting with the potters at a prearranged spot. Macdonald wondered if “point X” could be determined from the “doodles” at a later date. “Silver. B. point O. Aug. 31st” seemed a reference of a similar kind. Macdonald felt disposed to believe that his earlier assumption about the potters acting as dispersal agents for Ginner was probably right. Gold himself, plus two associates referred to in the notes as “Silver and Copper” might well have been commissioned as messengers. Remembering the promptness with which the orange rags had been removed from the woodland path after Gold’s arrest, Macdonald had grounds for believing that “Silver and Copper” were still watching in the locality.
The Theft of the Iron Dogs Page 18