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

by Robert Warr

  For a moment, I thought the cat was going to tell me what had occurred and I was starting to feel a bit smug for solving a case before my master. Then the cat hissed something that sounded like ‘Crumble wouldn’t be happy’.

  ‘Crumble…’ I started and then yelped in pain as the cat raked me hard over the nose with his damnably sharp claws.

  By the time I had blinked the tears from my eyes, the cat had vanished.

  We left Sir James’ house about an hour later having interviewed the butler and other servants. I could tell that neither my master nor Inspector Clarke had learnt anything that advanced their understanding of the case. In fact, on the way back to the station, your uncle summarised the known facts.

  The burglar had on both occasions gone straight to the jewellery and had entered the house at the nearest convenient point to the lady’s dressing room. On both occasions, a member of the household had heard a noise but on investigating had, coincidentally, seen the family cat playing and returned to bed. Another puzzling feature was the seemingly unrelated food thefts in the weeks prior to the robberies. As my master put it, we were left in the odd position of hoping for another robbery to provide us with more information.

  That evening after supper, I went down to the kitchen and whined at the cook until she gave me an old bone, mutton if I recall accurately. Taking this treasure to a quiet corner, I sat down to worry the problem and the bone.

  No matter how I looked at the information we had, I could not make any sense out of the facts, even though I knew two things that my master did not: that Lord Harridge’s Setter had been drugged and that Sir James’ cat was terrified of a crumble. This was definitely more than a one-bone problem.

  The next few days added nothing more to our knowledge and gradually our mood became as bleak as the London weather. It became obvious that I needed some advice, so on the third evening I went to see Fielding, my master’s cat.

  In general I get on well with Fielding; he is a very personable almost black fellow neatly put together with a twinkle in his eye and some of the most rakish whiskers you have ever seen. He does have one major character flaw: he is the laziest creature on God’s good earth. However, that aside, he does have a sharp mind and often perceives connections that I have missed. You could say that he is Mycroft to my Sherlock.

  I carefully laid out the facts for his consideration and described in detail everything I had observed during my visits to the burgled houses. After the end of my narrative Fielding asked a couple of questions about the case although he did seem to be inordinately interested in the food that had been stolen rather than the burglaries. Fielding raised a paw for silence and then proceeded to comb his whiskers, which is, I have found, a sign of deep feline thought.

  ‘I cannot find a simple explanation for this one, Snuffles,’ Fielding said after a few minutes intense cogitation. ‘The only apparent explanation is that the household cats are betraying their pets, which I find very hard to credit. The case intrigues me and I think I will go out and talk to some of my peers.’

  With that hopeful statement, Fielding stretched and sauntered over to the kitchen door where he proceeded to meow until his faithful servant, the cook, let him out into the rain.

  For all our different efforts, it wasn’t until December that there was any further movement on the case. By this time, the papers had taken up the story and were using it as ammunition in their long running campaign of vilification against the police force. The detective service, in particular, came in for especially savage criticism. I can understand some of the reason for their behaviour; the police had not made an arrest in the Jack the Ripper case and, as I knew, now never would. Their comments were, however, grossly unjust and manifestly untrue.

  It was in the third week of December that I spent several days at home in the care of our cook, having survived an attempt to poison your uncle, something nasty in a Christmas Stilton that was left on his door step by a very misguided villain. It is the only time I have been commended for stealing a delicacy.

  Fielding, my master’s cat.

  During these few days, the first break in the case seemed to come when several pieces of Lady Trimperton’s jewellery were purchased by Mr Andrew Williams, a pawnbroker, who then reported that he had items that the police had listed as stolen.

  From what I overheard, when I returned to work after my indisposition, the pawnbroker pretended not to have any information that the police might find useful. Apparently, a heavily muffled man, with a foreign accent, had pawned ‘his wife’s jewels’ and no, the pawnbroker probably would be unable to recognise him. The pawnbroker was only interested in the reward that Sir James would no doubt pay for the return of these items.

  This was not an unusual occurrence. London has always had its fair share of worthy citizens who will happily buy stolen property in order to claim a reward for returning it. These people are little better than the thieves with whom they trade and in some cases a good deal worse. As my master remarked, the pawnbroker’s cat could probably have told us more.

  On the last day of my recuperation, I was lying in the back garden enjoying a rare sunny afternoon when Fielding strolled nonchalantly up to me looking inordinately pleased with himself.

  ‘Hello Snuffles,’ he said as he enthusiastically butted his forehead against mine. ‘I’ve brought someone around to meet you but I have to warn you that she is very scared, so please try not to frighten her any more.’

  With that, my enigmatic friend vanished into the shrubbery to reappear a few minutes later shepherding a very small ginger kitten. I realised that I was looking at the most frightened but determined creature I had ever seen.

  ‘Portia, this is Snuffles. Snuffles, Portia.’ Fielding performed the necessary introductions. ‘Her especial pet is Lady Annabelle Morton.’

  ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ I responded in a friendly tone. ‘How can I be of service?’

  It has always amazed me how our simple social conventions can make an uncertain or frightened witness surer of themselves. Possibly one is less likely to chase someone when one has been properly introduced… or perhaps not, when I recall the behaviour of some young men towards any young lady who is unfortunate enough to make their acquaintance. Anyway, the little cat sat down just in front of me and wrapped her tail decorously round her feet.

  ‘Fielding tells me that if I am completely honest with you, both my mistress and I will be protected,’ the kitten began. ‘Having met you I know that you will make good on this promise.

  ‘I was given to my pet by her father a few months ago as a welcome home present to celebrate the end of her education, and I now divide my time between the family seat near Oxford and a house a few minutes run from here.

  ‘I honestly could not want a better home. The family and servants all treat me with a great deal of affection; so much in fact that I sometimes have to hide in the garden if I want some uninterrupted sleep.

  ‘About a week ago I was prowling through the shrubbery looking for something to play with when suddenly I was attacked by a massive and extremely vicious tabby. I was unable to protect myself and within seconds, I was pinned to the ground while this brute dug his claws into my side.

  ‘Having made it abundantly clear that he could hurt me whenever he wished the monster lowered his terribly scarred face to within a whisker of mine.

  ‘“Pretty cat,” he hissed, “if you don’t want your ears ripped and your tail mauled, you are going to do exactly what I ask.” Suddenly his teeth closed on my ear just enough to draw blood. The threat was abundantly clear and I agreed to do anything he wished.’

  ‘The first thing this monster demanded was that I told absolutely no one about him. If anyone caught me carrying out his demands then I was to take any blame myself. One word about “our understanding” and he would maim me so badly that my adoring pet would throw me out to die alone in a gutter rather than look at the terrible ruin of my face.’

  The little cat meowed gently t
o herself and stopped talking. I looked at her shivering with remembered fright and decided, there and then, that someone was going to get bitten, very hard. I growled protectively and after taking a minute to compose herself, she continued her narrative.

  ‘In the beginning I was asked to steal small items of food for the brute. Nothing that I could take from my own saucer, you understand but prime treats of human food. Smoked oysters were a particular favourite. It wasn’t pleasant stealing from my pets without any benefit to myself, but I had to do it.

  ‘Two days ago I took my daily tribute out to Crumble, for that is the monster’s name, to discover that it had another job for me to perform. I was instructed to spend the following day sitting in the window of whatever room my people stored their most valuable toys. I was also to tell my tormentor how the toys were stored.

  ‘I may be a pampered kitten but I am not stupid. I have heard my pets discussing a series of daring robberies and I realised that we were next. It took me a day to pluck up some courage but I found I could not bear the thought of my pet losing her precious toys so I decided that I had to do something. To this end I sought an interview with Big Ginge, the dominant tom in my area, and he introduced me to Fielding.’

  I must admit that I was very impressed with this little cat. It is so easy to condemn the whole species as hedonistic layabouts with the moral fibre of wet bread. However, every so often one is reminded that, except for the tragedy of their births, they might have been dogs, poor unfortunate creatures that they are.

  ‘Well done, Portia,’ I said, making sure that my voice was rich with admiration and respect. ‘It only remains for us to determine when this robbery will be attempted.’

  ‘The evening of the twenty-first, I believe.’ The little cat finished her story with a definite grin. ‘My pets are very careful and store their nicest toys in a bank, although I am not certain that burying them by a stream is safe, and they will only be in the house the night after my pets’ Christmas ball.

  ‘Crumble told me all about my jobs for that night. I was to hide in the hallway and wait until every one had gone to bed. As soon as everything was still, I was to jump onto the ledge of the window over the front door and wait. If any of the household heard a noise and investigated, I was to distract them by playing noisily on the stairs.’

  We thanked Portia while praising her courage. I hope we sent her home with a sense of security and self-worth. Once she had gone, I quickly reviewed everything that we had learnt. The case was solved. It was obvious that Crumble’s pet was the human who entered the houses and then pawned or sold the jewellery. I had jumped to my feet and was barking happily when Fielding brought me back to reality.

  ‘How will you tell the Inspector?’ he said.

  This has always been my problem. I can’t really place my paw on his knee and tell him straight, dog to man. It just is not done that way. I was resolved to try the voice in the fog again when I remembered that due to my weakened condition I was being walked on the lead during the day.

  Worrying old sacking never makes it meat, as my mother used to say, and as there were two days before the Mortons’ ball, I put off solving my problem and joined Fielding in discussing what we could do to ensure that young Portia did not suffer for her courage.

  The following day I accompanied your uncle to work. It was gratifying in the extreme to see how many of our colleagues were pleased to see me back. Several of them offered me choice bits of food to “build the strength up”.

  It was therefore in a contented frame of mind that I settled down in front of my master’s fire to worry my problem while waiting for any further developments.

  While I was half-asleep, one of my master’s senior colleagues entered the office to talk about the progress of various cases, including the burglaries. This conversation did not add any extra information or insights to what I already knew so when my master’s visitor got up to go I settled done to sleep until lunch.

  ‘I am convinced that your burglar must strike again over the Christmas season,’ the visitor said as he walked towards the door. ‘There are so many functions which will encourage people to get their best jewellery out of the bank.’

  ‘I am of the same mind. The only question is where and when, and in this large city that is a problem.’ With these words, my master turned slightly to gesture out of his window at a grey and dismal London.

  ‘Lady Morton’s ball,’ I said quickly, having realised that they both had their backs to me and were slightly distracted.

  Both men turned to look at each other, and I could see that they were both weighing this idea up.

  ‘A flash of inspiration,’ my master said slowly, ‘but it may very well be the right answer. If the target is the Morton’s ball it will be most convenient for us since both Assistant Commissioner Davis and myself have been invited. The ball is the biggest of the remaining festivities so I would wager that if the Mortons are not the intended victims, then one of their guests is. A small amount of subtle and judicious questioning and we may be able to determine where the robbers will strike.’

  ‘How on earth are you going to do that Thompson?’ our visitor asked with some incredulity.

  ‘Simplicity itself,’ my master answered, with a smile. ‘All I have to do is ask Lord Morton if his household has been suffering from any thefts of luxury foods recently. If they haven’t, I will start checking up the guests. The inexplicable feature of this case may be its solution.’

  I must admit that I breathed a sigh of relief when your uncle called in Sergeant Allen and asked him to send a message to Lord Morton at his club, which, I was given to understand, he visited for lunch every day. I realised that speaking up like that had risked exposure but I also thought that the two men would each assume that the other had spoken. After all, the alternative explanation was simply unbelievable; whoever heard of a talking Spaniel?

  We had come back from lunch and I had settled down for a nap when Sergeant Allen entered the office to say that Lord Morton had arrived and wished to see my master. Your uncle asked the sergeant to show up our noble visitor.

  ‘Thompson,’ that worthy said entering the office, angrily brandishing a sheet of paper, ‘what the devil did you mean by “Must see you urgently if expensive foods are being stolen”? A most irregular communication, don’t you know.’

  ‘Irregular it may be,’ responded my master showing his visitor to a chair. ‘I deduce, however, from your prompt response that you have experienced such thefts?’

  ‘My smoked oysters; but I don’t understand how you knew and I cannot see what it has to do with Scotland Yard. The papers have criticised you, young man, for wasting time on trivialities but as I have known you most of your life, I discounted the reports. Are there no serious criminals left to catch?’

  ‘That is precisely what we are trying to do,’ my master responded good-humouredly. ‘As you have read the newspaper reports, you will probably recall that in the days before the burglaries at the properties of both Lord Harridge and Sir James, there were small thefts of food. It is my belief that you could be the next victim. If my assumptions are correct the robbery will be sometime in the hours following your ball.’

  Your uncle ran over the facts we had gathered during our investigations and with the addition of some pieces of complete conjecture, he produced a case that almost exactly matched the information I had learnt from Portia, even though he seemed to have missed the relevance of the feline involvement; something he dismissed as an ironic coincidence. By the time he had finished, Lord Morton was our keen conspirator.

  As my master had already been invited to the ball, it was decided that he would be solely responsible for ensuring that nothing untoward happened while the party was in progress. Although my master felt that it was extremely unlikely, there was always the chance that the criminal might make use of the confusion to enter the house during the ball with the intention of hiding for a few hours.

  At the end of the evening when the last gues
ts were departing, my master and I made ourselves comfortable in Lord Morton’s darkened study to await developments. The Assistant Commissioner was driven to the local police station to summon Sergeant Allen, who was waiting there with several constables dressed as young men about town who would ensure that our villain would not escape.

  I do hate this type of waiting; the minutes stretch into hours with every small noise or stray scent causing one to become fully alert. At the same time, one can’t help worrying: in this case, that the villain might detect Sergeant Allen’s party, even though they were disguised, and be scared off. Eventually Portia meowed softly in the hall and I knew that the waiting was over.

  I got to my feet and moved cautiously to the door. My master and I have waited together too often for him not to recognise the signs. Quietly he joined me and kneeling by my side, we glanced into the hall.

  A man was creeping delicately up the stairs, one at a time, keeping well to the sides of the treads. In front of him and a few risers higher, a large tabby was moving up the middle of the staircase. I noted that when the cat’s weight caused a stair to creak slightly the man stepped clear over it. This was a very clever villain.

  The door to Lady Morton’s sitting room was directly opposite the head of the stairs with her dressing room being the next door along. We watched as the villain opened the second door and entering the room, carefully pulled the door closed behind him.

  He must have been facing the door when Lord Morton addressed him from an armchair in the corner of the room. The elderly gentleman had insisted on playing an active rôle in the night’s entertainment.

  The door flew open and our intrepid villain rushed out of the room and, preceded by his cat, raced down the stairs. As he came level with the study, I shot out and raced in front of his legs. That, coupled with my master’s own actions, resulted in the villain crashing to the ground. Before he could recover his senses my master and Sergeant Allen, who had followed the burglar in through the scullery window, had him adequately secured.