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

by Robert Warr

  Whatever my private thoughts, this gang had turned violent and had tried to kill Fred Wallace. They were also not fishing for themselves, but were happily killing large numbers of fish just to get the few that they could easily sell. If I were right, at least one of the gang would happily kill me just to be rid of my master. I did not think that my unexpected poisoning would make your uncle leave the area- he would instead be determined to discover why I had been killed- but I have noticed that cowards and assassins tend to judge everyone by their own miserable standards.

  According to Inspector Pendle, the gang had started working the river several years ago. They tended to move their predations up and down a twenty-mile stretch of river. Although these moves were seemingly random, they actually centred on four villages. Inspector Pendle suspected that they had sympathisers in each of these villages who informed the gang of any unusual activity by the landowners, river bailiffs or police.

  The gang started quite small but had grown, by the time of our fishing trip, to roughly a dozen active members. As the gang had grown, their raids had also widened from simple netting or spearing to dynamiting and poisoning whole stretches of the river.

  On several occasions, the gang had resorted to violence. This had normally occurred when one or two people had surprised the gang while they had been poaching. The violence had gradually become more serious but this was the first time they had tried to murder someone.

  At last the gang had made a mistake. When they attacked Fred Wallace, one of his attackers had mentioned a raid on the Tuesday night. The problem was how we were going to capitalise on it. After some discussion, the Inspectors decided that your uncle would return to the inn and casually mention that Fred had no memory of what had happened. We would then go fishing and spend the evening in the taproom just like any other holidaymakers. While we were innocently engaged, enjoying our fishing trip, Inspector Pendle would make a few discreet inquiries of his own.

  It was finally agreed that on Tuesday we would go to see nearby Locksy Castle. Inspector Pendle would meet us there at noon and we would finalise our arrangements. Lord Arnston then suggested that if he invited us to dinner on the Tuesday night, it would give my master a good excuse for not being at the inn. He promised to arrange matters so that the invitation would be delivered to the inn before breakfast.

  We returned to the Inn to collect the fishing tackle. As we left our room the innkeeper approached us.

  ‘Excuse me, Inspector Thompson,’ he said. ‘Have you seen Fred Wallace today? I wouldn’t normally bother you but we are all worried about him.’

  ‘Yes, I went to see him,’ my master responded in a rueful tone. ‘Unfortunately, he is not very well. He has very bad concussion. The poor man cannot even remember finishing work.’

  ‘Will he ever get better and remember what happened?’ pressed the innkeeper.

  ‘Probably not, I’m afraid. Even if he does suddenly remember anything it is just as likely to be something that someone else has told him happened,’ your uncle extemporised with an insincere smile.

  ‘If you hear anything more, you will tell me, won’t you, Inspector?’ the innkeeper asked.

  Your uncle promised to keep his host fully informed of any developments. We then left the inn and went down to the river for few hours’ fishing. Almost opposite the site chosen by my master, there was a large boulder in the centre of the river that was catching the full force of the late afternoon sun. I realised that I had not been into the water all day. For me, to think is to act, and within moments I was swimming out to the rock. It was a relatively easy task to scramble up on to the boulder. I lay down and in full sight of my master, stretched out and went to sleep.

  I awoke sometime later to the sound of angry hissing, somewhere between a kettle and an irate cat. Opening one eye, I saw that a massive bird was glaring at me. It took a second for me to realise that I was looking at a swan who had scrambled up onto the top of my rock.

  ‘Good evening,’ I said in my friendliest voice. As I was told as a pup, politeness costs nothing and a wagging tail wins many a friend.

  ‘Good evening,’ hissed the swan. ‘What are you doing on this rock?’

  The bird was obviously naturally polite, but the tone of his hiss suggested that if I did not give a satisfactory answer, something nasty was likely to happen to me. I decided that honesty was the best policy.

  ‘I am on a fishing holiday with my master,’ I began. ‘I decided to swim out to this rock and sleep in the sun, at least until my fur dried out.’

  The swan looked at me quizzically.

  ‘Has it occurred to you that your fur will get wet again on your way back to your master?’ This swan was definitely quite an intellectual. This is rare, since most fowl are definitely bird-brained.

  ‘Has it occurred to you that I like getting wet?’ I countered.

  I was relieved to hear the hiss change from aggression to amusement. I realised that I had an unparalleled opportunity to ask one of the residents of the river about the poaching gang. It was just possible that this swan had seen something.

  ‘There is a second reason why we are here,’ I admitted conversationally. ‘My master is looking for the humans who come and fish at night.’

  The swan’s hiss started to get more hostile again. He brought his head back so that I was looking at the business end of a very sharp beak.

  ‘Does your master want to go fishing with that pack of rats? Is he a friend of those despoilers of nests?’

  It was obvious that I had managed to touch a nerve. It was also apparent that I was within seconds of being pecked. It was time to win the swan over to our cause.

  ‘On the contrary,’ I replied in my stoutest tones. ‘We wish to drive these vermin away from the river. It seems, however, that we do not know the full extent of their infamy. What do you mean when you say “despoilers of nests”?’

  The swan’s hissing became louder and I saw my master look up from his sketch book. While I had been sleeping, he had started drawing. In fact, he later painted a fine picture of the swan and me.

  ‘My mate had chosen a good place where one of these rocks touches the bank,’ the swan began. ‘We nested there without any problems for two years and raised several fine cygnets. One night a year ago my mate, who was with the eggs, became aware of men creeping along the bank. Naturally, she was startled and called her alarm. One of the keepers heard her and came to investigate, causing the other men to run off. We thought nothing more about it that night.

  ‘The following morning, while I was off eating by the bridge, two men approached our nest and drove my mate off with stones. While one of the men kept her at bay the other broke the eggs and kicked the nest into the water.’

  ‘Is your mate all right?’ I asked horrified by this callous act of violence.

  She is now,’ replied the swan. ‘We have a new nest site, which we’ve built quite close to the village.’

  ‘Have you seen any of these men recently?’ I asked. ‘We know that they are going to come tomorrow night but we have no idea where they intend to strike.

  ‘I think I can help you,’ said the swan after a moment’s thought. ‘Every time they come they do the same things. I think this allows them to work quickly and in near silence. Since our nest was destroyed, I have been more vigilant. ’

  The swan looked at me quizzically

  ‘The first warning that we have of one of their visits comes during the day. Three men come down the river in a boat. It is not always the same men but it is always the same boat. Sometimes we see the boat and the men do not come that night, but if they come we will have seen the boat earlier, if you follow me.’

  The swan seemed to be working all this out for the first time so I signalled for him to continue.

  ‘On the day of a visit the boat will pull up first at one bank, normally near a stout post or tree and they will place a white stone clearly on the bank. The stone has actually been painted with that stuff they put on their cottage
s. They then cross the river and put another stone on the opposite bank, near a similar tree. I have noticed that the river at this point is always quite shallow, level and free from obstructions. One of the men will then walk a short way upstream and put two of the white stones close together on the same bank.

  ‘Later that night the men come and there is a loud noise. The following morning the stones are gone, but there are often scrape marks on one of the banks.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said to the swan. ‘That is very useful. With this information we can be waiting for them.’

  My only problem was, of course, communicating this intelligence to my master, but I have my methods, as you shall hear.

  ‘Can I do anything to help?’ asked the swan. ‘I do feel that I should do something about my ruined nest.’

  This seemed like a reasonable request. For a moment, I could not think of anything. Then I had it: I would use the swan’s talents against the poachers.

  ‘Can you go upstream early tomorrow and watch for the boat?’ I asked. ‘If you see them, follow them and see where they place their stones. If they come, we’ll be down near the village tomorrow evening and you can tell me where they are.’

  The swan agreed to this and waddled back into the river. I returned to my nap until my master called. We returned to the inn and supper.

  The main subject of conversation in the inn was still the attack on Fred Wallace. My master’s comments on the seriousness of his injury had obviously been repeated and the patrons of the inn were agreed that the attackers would never be found. I have always admired your uncle’s cunning. He asked the landlord if there were any sites of historical interest in the area. Within five minutes, the landlord had persuaded my master that he had to see Locksy Castle. Ten minutes later, a dog cart and a hamper had been arranged for the next day.

  When my master ordered his supper, I decided to make my way to the kitchen and watch my own food being put out by the landlady. I was also thirsty, so I decided to go by way of the stable yard and its horse trough. I had just finished drinking when I saw the landlord greeting two men who were standing in the yard. Without thinking, I walked past the group on my way towards my supper. I almost stopped in my tracks when I recognised the voice of the man who had wanted to kill me.

  The kitchen door was unfortunately closed, so I sat down and waited for it to open. I did not bark, whine or scratch at it, because I did not want to draw attention to myself. While I waited, I listened to the poachers’ conversation with the landlord.

  ‘We are going to work the river tomorrow night. Midnight at Staine’s Wood,’ one of the poachers said, ‘if you think it’s still safe’.

  ‘You don’t have to worry,’ the landlord replied. ‘I have persuaded the Inspector to spend tomorrow at Locksy Castle. In the evening, he is having dinner at Arnston Hall. He won’t be here to see anything.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ said the second poacher. ‘Inspector Pendle was at Arnston Hall today. Apparently the two policemen are as thick as thieves.’

  ‘You worry too much,’ the landlord said. ‘Of course Inspector Pendle went to the Hall. What did you think would happen when someone tried to kill the water bailiff?’

  ‘Fred Wallace had the goods on us. If I hadn’t acted it would have been up for all of us,’ the second poacher replied with a rising level of belligerence.

  At that moment, the kitchen door opened and I gratefully entered. Behind me I could hear the second poacher continuing, ‘I still think we should get rid of your guest. If you poisoned his dog tonight, the Inspector would leave tomorrow.’

  The landlady who was in the act of putting my food bowl down heard these words. I saw in her face a sudden anger. She straightened up and went to the doorway. I, naturally, started on my food. One can, after all, eat and listen at the same time.

  ‘Tom Dawson,’ she snapped, ‘you will not harm that dog. Fred Wallace would be dead if that dog hadn’t found him.’

  ‘A great pity that we didn’t poison it on the first day then, as I suggested,’ Tom Dawson said. ‘If I had known that he would save Fred Wallace I would have poisoned him myself.’

  ‘Fred is a friend of mine,’ the landlady said, continuing with touching simplicity. ‘Before Fred went with the army to India, there was talk of us marrying. I tell you now -if Fred dies of his injuries, I will go to Inspector Pendle.’

  ‘Shut your woman up!’ Tom Dawson shouted at the innkeeper. ‘If you don’t, I will make sure that you bitterly regret it.’

  It was sheer bad luck that my attempts to get the last morsel out of food bowl caused it to grate on the flagstone floor. All three men heard it and turned towards me. Tom Dawson reached into his pocket and produced a piece of cloth. Everything went silent as he unwrapped the cloth and produced a piece of liver. With a false smile on his face, he came towards me. The game, as they say, was definitely afoot.

  ‘Here boy,’ Tom Dawson said, in a horribly false voice, ‘I bet you are still hungry. Here, have this lovely bit of liver.’

  With that, he threw the liver towards me. I backed away. The poacher picked it up again and placed it in my bowl.

  ‘Sorry, boy,’ he said. ‘I expect that a gentleman’s dog always eats from a bowl, don’t you? I bet you love a nice piece of meat.’

  Not likely, I thought, not when it’s covered in some type of poison. I have seen the ugly results of several poisons and this little dog was not going to co-operate.

  Tom Dawson obviously realised that I wasn’t going to eat the liver. With a sudden lunge of his left hand he grabbed for my collar.

  I jumped backward, avoiding his hand by inches. With my hackles up I snarled at him, exposing my teeth. If he wanted to play rough, I was his dog. I would willingly bet my teeth and claws against his fists and boots. At that point, he reached back into his pocket and produced a knife. This changed the odds drastically in his favour. All of the sudden the kitchen stopped being a safe refuge and became a trap.

  I started barking; unfortunately, your uncle did not come running through the door. I looked around and saw that the landlady was being held back by her husband. I was on my own.

  Suddenly Tom Dawson came at me. I turned and ran but felt his hand catch on my tail. Frantically I span round and bit him hard on the wrist. He let go and cursed me in a loud voice. I used my temporary respite to back away. I saw him smile and realised that I had managed to trap myself in the corner. He crouched down with his arms outspread and came on. There was only one way out. Using all the power in my legs, I jumped at him. The top of my head hit him under the jaw and he tumbled backwards, with me on his chest. His shoulders hit one of the legs of the table.

  I saw something fall off the table. There was a massive crash of crockery and we were enveloped in a blinding cloud of white powder. With one more spring, I was free. I raced through the open door into the welcome darkness of the yard.

  I saw another man in front of me and rather belatedly remembered the other poacher. He looked at me and screamed. Turning on his heel, he fled.

  ‘Tom’s killed the dog,’ he wailed, ‘and its ghost is after me. Run before you are all doomed!’

  Hearing this, I realised the crash had been a flour crock falling off the table. Obviously, I was covered with flour and as I ran, grains were being shaken from my fur and catching the faint starlight. Now I am always prepared to join in, so as I ran I started to howl. I learned something that night that surprised me; a frightened poacher can outrun a Spaniel and jump seven-foot hedges to do it.

  When my prey had made good his escape, I went down to the river for a quick swim before trotting back to the inn. Predictably, I met your uncle halfway back. He did not say anything, but he did reach down and pull my ears, which in another way said it all.

  We returned to the inn to find that the company was laughing themselves hoarse over the actions of John Prior. It seemed that the innkeeper had dropped the flour, scaring the little dog, who had run, covered in flour, into the night. Poor John Pr
ior had seen the apparition and run for it. I always find it really odd how events alter with the telling.

  We went to bed soon afterwards. Your uncle, as normal, quickly drifted off to sleep. As soon as I was sure he would not reawaken, I left my blanket and carefully got on to his bed. I sat there watching his face for over an hour before he started having a hunting dream. You can always tell this state of sleep because his eyes start moving rapidly behind their lids and often his hands and feet start twitching.

  As soon as my master was in this state of sleep, I put my muzzle close to his ear and told him everything I had learnt. I spoke to him in clear English, as I am speaking to you now. When I had finished I told him twice more. Then I returned to my bed and went to sleep. This is a method I have often used to tell my master anything. As you will see, it always seems to work.

  I woke up before dawn to go fishing with your uncle. I took it as a good omen that he caught a really nice fish within the first few minutes of trying. I was greatly encouraged when I heard him saying ‘Tom Dawson’ and ‘John Prior’ quietly to himself.

  After breakfast my master and I went outside to find the innkeeper placing a hamper on a dog cart. With a few instructions, he waved us off and we left for a quiet day’s sightseeing.

  Locksy Castle is built on a hill overlooking the river. It is constructed of a striking pink stone, which was obviously quarried from the moat. My master spent some time sketching a D-shaped bastion that he said was very unusual. I spent my time racing around, just enjoying the freedom. There were over a hundred steps up to the top of the tower, but the view was well worth it.