The Barker's Dozen - Reminiscences of an Early Police Dog

by Robert Warr

  I now knew what had happened, but how could I tell my master? I could not just tell him the truth. I had to provide evidence. I did not believe that the average judge would accept my master’s word that his dog had heard the story from the accused’s cat. They can get terribly stuffy about hearsay evidence.

  Lucky had started mewing again so I decided to enlist her help; I thought that between us we might be able to solve my problem. It was a good idea that I did, because without her help, your uncle would have never solved the case.

  At first there seemed to be no solution to the problem. How could I prove that the bird had been in Lady Emma’s room? I must admit that I was on the verge of giving up, when Lucky asked whether a tail feather would be evidence of the bird’s guilt. Of course! physical evidence, the very best kind. My elation was dashed when I remembered that no such feather had been found in the room. It was then that the cat revealed that she had in full her species’ duplicitousness.

  ‘Why don’t we put a feather in Lady Emma’s room, for your master to find?’ Lucky suggested.

  I was shattered. Did this cat really think that I was the kind of dog to fabricate evidence? I naturally remonstrated with Lucky, but, as she said, we really had no choice and that sometimes, when the lives and happiness of the innocent are at stake, one must be prepared to break the rules. I wonder if that is sophistry, for all its fine sentiment, and as far as I know your uncle has never broken these rules. Naturally, he’s a better man than I am; in fact, I’m a real dog.

  The only flaw to this excellent plan was the lack of a feather. Even if we could find this bird, how would we get one of its feathers? I must admit that I was totally stumped. The cat, with what could only be described as an air of smugness, told me that she knew where to find a feather. With all the insouciance that I could muster, I told Lucky to show me the way.

  The cat led me from the stables and away from the house into the surrounding woodland. I will always remember that walk with pleasure; the sun was shining through the trees, throwing dappled shadow over everything. All around there were scents that I had not smelt before. Unfortunately this idyllic walk soon came to an end. A stray breeze brought me the smell of rotting meat and the jumble of sharp scents that you find near a person’s house.

  The trees fell away revealing a neat cottage, which was standing at the side of a track. The charnel smell seemed to come from one of the fences that surrounded the cottage garden. It was in this direction that the cat led me.

  The source of the smell was soon apparent. Someone had attached the bodies of various birds and small animals to the fence. Although a good rotten bird makes a wonderful toy on a walk, something about this fence made me feel very cold.

  ‘Do you see that large black and white bird?’ asked the cat. ‘We need one of the tail feathers.’

  It was the work of a moment for me to approach the fence, take a feather in my teeth, and remove it from the bird. I held the feather delicately in my mouth as Lucky and I started back to the house. At that moment we heard the sounds of a cart on the track and I caught the distinctive smell of my master. I was just deciding to run to the cart and greet him when I heard him telling someone that he wished to examine the scene of the crime. My welcoming bark died in my throat as a small mew of shock came from Lucky.

  ‘We’ll never get back in time,’ she wailed, ‘I can’t run all that way.’

  It was one of those rash and heroic impulses that come across us dogs on occasion, although collies are very prone to them. In a gruff and noble tone of voice, I told Lucky to jump on my back and hang on.

  No sooner had the cat’s light weight settled on my back, than I was off like the wind. Flat out I ran, my ears streaming out behind me. Whenever an ear touched the cat she tightened her claws, which spurred me on to even greater efforts.

  I said that I will never forger the walk to the gamekeeper’s cottage; the same is true of the journey back. I have never run faster, and all the way Lucky clung to me meowing in excitement. Picture if you can a young Spaniel racing through a wood, a feather in his mouth, with a cat riding on his shoulders. I remember leaping a fallen trunk and landing by a squirrel. Naturally the squirrel ran; unfortunately it chose my direction. For several bounds I had its tail in my nose and the sound of its chattering in my ears. I haven’t chased a cat since: squirrels are so much more fun.

  The cat started to direct me by flexing her claws, so I veered away from the stables and raced directly towards the house. I soon emerged from the wood and entered the open parkland. As we approached the house I turned my head to ask the cat how we were going to enter the building. At that moment, the ground opened in front of my paws and we tumbled rather unceremoniously, tail over muzzle, into a large ditch that separated the lawn from the park. The air was knocked out of my lungs and I just lay there panting.

  ‘What happened?’ I managed to gasp out.

  ‘Ha ha,’ said the cat before taking the feather and running towards the house.

  I must admit I found the cat’s laughter a bit hard to take. Shaking myself, I got to my feet and scrambled from the ditch. I could hear my master’s cart coming up the drive. I knew that I had to give Lucky the time to place the feather. With happy barks I raced round the house and gave your uncle my best welcome. You have to greet your people properly, since it makes them feel wanted.

  My greeting everybody at the front of the house, including the odious Inspector Evans, managed to waste a few minutes. I had to hope that it was enough. Eventually my master walked into the building and I quietly followed him.

  Lady Emma’s room was on the second floor of the house, and was situated half way down the east face. I say ‘room’, but in actual fact it was a small suite with a sitting room and dressing room. As we entered the bedroom, I caught a glimpse of Lucky’s tail disappearing through a small, plain door that stood barely ajar in one wall. Your uncle probably saw the movement, because he walked over to the door, and opening it, revealed the top of a small spiral staircase. Lucky had vanished.

  ‘Where does this go?’ asked your uncle, pointing at the stair.

  ‘It’s a servants’ stair that leads from the servants’ hall, up past the library and my dressing room; it is obviously how the villain entered my niece’s room,’ Lord Brockenham replied. ‘The girl let him into the servants’ hall and after that it was easy.’

  While your uncle was distracted by the staircase, I looked for the feather and quickly spotted it protruding from under the fallen curtain. Lucky had done a really good job. All I had to do was sit and watch my master come to the right conclusion. I settled down with that contented feeling that comes from a job well done.

  One should never tempt fate. It was at that moment that Inspector Evans strode forward and stopped by the curtain. He took a pencil from his pocket and dropped it on the carpet. He told your uncle that the twig had been found at that spot. My problem was that he was standing on the feather completely hiding it from view.

  He stood there with a smug self-satisfied grin on his face, and I just could not help myself. ‘Wroof,’ I said, which you will agree pretty much said it all. Rather than leaping from the feather while apologising profusely, he asked your uncle why I had been allowed in the house. Things became really desperate when Lord Brockenham called for a servant to remove me.

  Everything was ruined if your uncle did not see the feather. A sense of desperation came over me and I just put my head back and howled. Now I may not be a large dog but when I howl I can really belt out the noise. I realised that everyone was staring at me, so I decided to seize the opportunity and give it a good shake.

  I darted forward, avoiding your uncle’s hand and pounced on Inspector Evans’ shoe. His foot was between the feather and me so I started digging. The madness was really on me because Lucky told me that she could hear me barking the canine equivalents of ‘Yoicks’ and ‘Tally Ho’ from the safety of the ground floor.

  All was pandemonium, with grown men shouting, maids screa
ming, me barking and Inspector Evans swearing. I could tell he mixed with the lower classes from the unnecessary profanity of his words. Inspector Evans jumped back so I caught up the feather, just as your uncle grabbed my collar and pulled me away. That scoundrel Evans chose that moment to kick me, the coward, and I yelped with surprise and dropped the feather.

  ‘What’s that,’ said Lord Brockenham as he picked up the feather.

  ‘What’s that?’ demanded Lord Brockenham as he picked up the feather. Turning, he gave it to your uncle and said, ‘Well, Thompson, is this a clue?’

  Sometimes, all the hard work is worth it; your uncle reached out and took the feather. He looked at it for a few seconds and then smiled. He patted me and said ‘Good lad,’ in a rather distracted fashion before striding over to the windowsill. He examined the area carefully, even to the extent of leaning out of the window and inspecting the edge of the roof. Then he turned back into the room.

  ‘Lord Brockenham,’ he said, ‘you must order the release of that unfortunate young couple. They were not involved in this tragedy.’

  ‘But,’ interjected Inspector Evans, ‘the young scoundrel had the brooch. How did he get that if he is innocent?’

  ‘His only crime,’ said your uncle, ‘was to be honest and come to Lord Brockenham with the brooch. I think he was hoping that you would reward him, possibly with an estate cottage. All he wants is to marry his girl. He found the brooch in the rose garden, where the real thief had dropped it.’

  ‘I always thought that you London detectives with your fancy ways were a bunch of impostors and charlatans,’ said Inspector Evans, ‘but I never expected you to be blind as well. It is as clear as day that you have been totally deceived by this pair of miscreants. It was obvious that the girl was acting when you went to see her. That class of woman can cry at will if they think they can profit from it.’

  ‘What about the feather?’ your uncle asked reasonably. ‘You surely must see the implications of that?’

  ‘All I see is a fool who lets himself be side tracked by an irrelevance. The lad was the only person to enter the rose garden. Therefore simple logic tells us that he, and only he, could have put the brooch there.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said your uncle. ‘A real detective would never have jumped to conclusions without properly examining the crime scene, or make an arrest based on nothing more than their own bigoted prejudices.’

  ‘All right,’ said Evans rather snidely. ‘If it wasn’t the lad, who killed Lady Emma? I suppose the great London detective is prepared to share his wisdom with us simple country men?’

  ‘Nobody. Lady Emma died in a tragic accident.’ Your uncle raised his hand to stifle Inspector Evans’ angry response then continued. ‘The facts of the case, as Lord Brockenham described them, showed that the theft of the brooch was the latest in a long number of incidents. In each of the previous thefts the item taken was small and showy. I am right in assuming, Lord Brockenham, that sometimes small pieces of costume jewellery were taken when a thief could have stolen real jewels at the same time?’

  ‘Indeed,’ Lord Brockenham agreed. ‘It was this very lack of sophistication that led Inspector Evans to suspect that the thief was a servant. People of that class would easily assume that paste jewels were real.’

  ‘It is from the nature of the items stolen that the experienced detective can determine the probable thief.’ Your uncle paused for a few seconds then continued: ‘In this case the identity of the thief was obvious as soon as we entered the room.’

  ‘But damn it man, what thief?’ Lord Brockenham shouted. ‘First you say my niece died in an accident, then you start talking about the thief. Be clear, man - say what you mean.’

  ‘Precisely what I said.’ Your uncle held up the feather. ‘This bird stole the brooch and Lady Emma fell to her death while trying to get it back. An examination of this room proves it beyond any reasonable doubt.’

  ‘London foolishness!’ shouted Evans. ‘I don’t know what you think you are doing. It’s as plain as anything that those two criminals killed Lady Emma. You cannot prove a word of your fancy theory. You just cannot accept the fact that the local man solved the case.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ drawled your uncle, ‘I can and will prove it. Lord Brockenham, shall we ask your gardeners where this bird nests?’

  ‘And what do you hope to gain from that?’ asked Evans. ‘A confession?’

  ‘No,’ said your uncle. ‘I propose to recover the other missing trinkets.’

  It was obvious to me that Lord Brockenham had reached the limits of his endurance. White-faced, he led us from the room and out of the house on to the terrace. He summoned the gardener and gamekeeper and stood there quietly, staring up at his niece’s window. I remember thinking that a good howl would have helped him cope with his grief.

  When the gardener arrived, Lord Brockenham asked him if any magpies nested near the house. Without hesitation the gardener pointed to a tall tree in a copse behind the rose garden. I saw your uncle nodding in quiet satisfaction. The thief was making straight for its nest when it dropped the loot.

  We had reached the base of the indicated tree by the time that the gamekeeper arrived carrying a gun and accompanied by a rather muddy Labrador. Lord Brockenham asked him to climb the tree and fetch down a magpies’ nest he would find up there. Passing his gun to the gardener the gamekeeper climbed the tree, disappearing into the leaves.

  It was a tense few moments, but suddenly there was a raucous squawking and a bird like the one I took the feather from burst out of the tree, and settled on the wall of the rose garden. We could hear the gamekeeper swearing and then with a cry of triumph he dropped a nest from the tree. We watched it as it fell to the ground. As it landed several small bright trinkets spilled from it.

  With a cry of rage, Lord Brockenham snatched the gun from the gardener, and raised it to his shoulder. The bird saw the gun come up and took flight, but not fast enough. Lord Brockenham fired and the bird fell in an explosion of feathers. The gamekeeper’s Labrador ran towards the falling bird and practically caught it before it fell to the ground.

  ‘Thank you, Thompson,’ Lord Brockenham said. ‘I will ensure that those young people are released right now.’

  We returned to London in time for supper.

  -----

  ‘But what about Lucky?’ I asked.

  ‘Your uncle got a letter from James O’Brian about three months afterwards, thanking him for his help. Lord Brockenham gave them a cottage so he married Jenny. I assume that Lucky moved in with them.’

  ‘Can you tell me about another case?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘Later, lad,’ Snuffles replied, ‘not now. Can you not hear your uncle’s step in the road?’

  With that Snuffles walked to the window, and placed his paws on the windowsill. Wagging the stump of his tail he began barking with delight.

  Lord Brockenham fired and the bird fell in an explosion of feathers.

  An Exile

  An extract from the journal of Miss Isobel Fraser, written for her sister, Lucy, in Boston.

  LUCY, I thought that I would take this opportunity to explain my side in the recent family difficulties. I was truly sorry that you were away at school when the trouble broke as I could have done with your loving support.

  I knew that our parents would be upset when they discovered my romance with John Hutchings as I realised that they would see only his poor background and not his many personal virtues. I never expected them to forbid my seeing him ever again. I tried to describe his virtues only to have Pa say that John was a worthless adventurer who cared only for my inheritance.

  I told them that they had misjudged a noble man and that we cared not a whit about money and, should they try to stop me seeing him, we would elope and head West. Well, Pa took exception at that and told me that I would do no such thing under pain of instant disinheritance.

  Well I told them that they could not stop us if we decided to elope and if Pa cut me off a
better man than him would provide for me. For a second I thought Pa was going to strike me but then he turned and walked from the room. Ma looked at me and told me to go to my room as she was too ashamed of me to bear to look on my ungrateful carcase. I went because I was rather ashamed by my outburst.

  The next day my relationship with the parents was even icier and I kept out of their way. I took the opportunity to write to John and was gratified when he sent a reply by return. His letter confirmed everything I had said about his noble character. He told me that although he would elope with me tomorrow, if that were my wish, he knew that such a break with my parents would be a life long regret. Surely, it was better, he argued, for us to try to win my parents round and obtain their blessing on our union.

  I tried to apologise to Pa that night but he turned from me stony-faced and I realised that it would be some time before he forgave my outburst. Ma took pity on me and said that she had arranged for me to stay with a friend of hers for a few weeks while Pa recovered his equanimity. I thanked her and was gratified when she told me that she would handle my packing for me.

  The following afternoon our parents drove me to the docks and before I knew it I was on a ship bound for Liverpool with Ma’s friends, the Abrams, as my enthusiastic jailers. They did not let me out of their sight until America had disappeared over the horizon and I was irrevocably on the way to my exile with Aunt Emily and Uncle Graham in England.

  I suppose unsophisticated people would describe our relatives in the Old Country as aristocratic, but this is only a polite way of saying boring, dismal and quite frankly, tatty. The rundown barn that they call a house, Heron Court, no less, is apparently over three hundred years old and consists of endless cold corridors lined with rooms in a state of genteel decay. Our relatives are like their house, terribly old-fashioned and very unfashionable.