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

by Robert Warr

Having exhausted myself, I returned to your uncle in time to share the bounty of his hamper. Fortunately, there was enough for three because Inspector Pendle arrived during lunch. It was quickly apparent that Inspector Pendle had learnt nothing since we had seen him last. My master listened with some sympathy and then told him that as he had lain in his bed some of the gang had met under his window. He not only knew the time and place but he had the names of two of the gang members.

  I knew that my method of telling your uncle would work. If you look back over the last ten years, a lot of villains have indiscreetly conversed under his window. If we both know better, why ruin it for him?

  Inspector Pendle was highly delighted. The mention of Tom Dawson in particular caused him some pleasure. It turned out that Inspector Pendle had been after him for some years following an assault on a farmer’s son -an attack where the profit of an entire market day had been stolen and the victim left senseless in a ditch.

  We arranged that Inspector Pendle and some constables would meet us at Arnston Hall at nine o’clock that night. They would ensure that they did not pass through Lower Swineford. We left the castle hoping that we would soon see the capture of the poachers.

  Your uncle and I arrived back at the Red Lion in time for a quick tea, during which my master proudly displayed the watercolour that he had painted at the castle.

  After the meal, we went down to the river for an hour’s fishing. I could tell that my master was pretending to be a totally relaxed fisherman. I am probably the only one who noticed that he did not put any bait on his hooks.

  While we were constructively wasting time, my friend the swan went past and hissed confirmation of the location. While we were there, I became aware that someone was watching us. Looking over my shoulder, pretending to bite a flea, I saw my old friend Tom Dawson staring at us. He stood there on the bank glaring at us for five minutes while your uncle sat and contentedly smoked a pipe, before turning and striding off in the direction of the inn.

  It was about seven o’clock when a neat trap arrived with one of Lord Arnston’s keepers at the reins. Dressed impeccably for dinner, my master got into this conveyance. As we drove off, I was aware of many eyes watching us. The atmosphere in that village was as tense as a summer evening before a storm.

  At the Hall Lord Arnston had laid on a light supper, which we enjoyed before my master went off to change into some clothes that his Lordship had arranged for him. We then sat and waited for Inspector Pendle and his men. I have always found waiting very hard, as I am a dog of action.

  At about ten past nine I heard the noise of several vehicles pulling up outside the hall. Led by Lord Arnston and William, we arrived in the drive to find Inspector Pendle and a dozen of his men. Lord Arnston invited them inside the hall.

  I remember that scene very well. Lord Arnston and the Inspectors stood half way up the grand staircase explaining their plan to a dozen policemen and about that number of burly estate workers. I could see from the serious faces that the estate workers had at least one score to settle.

  We moved out at ten o’clock, led by Lord Arnston’s gamekeepers. Within fifteen minutes we were all in position. Half of us lay in the woods of the lord’s estates, while the other half were hidden in Staine’s Wood, having crossed by an ancient ford that used to serve the plague village.

  I lay on the ground between my master and Inspector Pendle and composed myself to wait patiently. There is one common factor to all these ambushes. You wait patiently and then, five minutes after you decide that the villains will not come, they arrive. I will admit that they were very good. For a few seconds I was not even sure that they had arrived.

  We watched quietly as the villains placed their nets. There was a sudden gleam of light as one of the men opened the back of a dark lantern, fumbled for a moment and then threw something into the river. For a second there was complete silence, then with a subdued roar the river seemed to leap from its bed and the poachers pressed forward.

  Inspector Pendle stood and blew his whistle. Suddenly all was pandemonium as we fell upon the gang. They were completely surprised and most of them surrendered quickly. One of them, however, sprinted down the bank and somehow managed to dodge past the policeman who tried to stop him. Inspector Pendle took up the chase and for want of anything better to do, I joined in.

  We had covered about a hundred yards when the poacher stopped and turned. In the moonlight, I saw that it was Tom Dawson. He raised his arm and pointed it directly at Inspector Pendle. I gasped when I saw the pistol clenched in his hand. It was obvious that he was about to shoot the Inspector. I did not stop to think: with a bark, I threw myself at his right arm. I saw his hand turn in my direction and a tongue of flame leapt out at me. I felt a hammer blow on my head. Suddenly my paws did not seem to work and I tumbled to the ground. My last sight as a wave of blackness washed over me was of Inspector Pendle stepping over me and punching Tom Dawson once on the chin.

  A tongue of flame leapt out at me.

  I came back to my senses lying in a wicker dog basket in front of a fire. I looked around and saw that William was asleep nearby, so allowed myself to go back to sleep.

  The following morning I awoke properly to find that my master and I were now staying at Arnston Hall. The whole gang had been rounded up and arrested by Inspector Pendle.

  We stayed for another two days at the Hall until I was fit to travel. Biding farewell to Lord Arnston and William we started home. On the way, we stopped at the Red Lion to pay our respects. The landlady was effusive and gave us some nice victuals for our journey. The innkeeper was rather subdued but very polite.

  You may ask why the innkeeper had not been arrested. The answer is simple: because the landlady had been good to me I neglected to mention her husband’s involvement with the gang when I spoke to my master in the middle of the night.’

  -----

  ‘Well,’ said Snuffles, ‘you now know why I have a streak of white fur over my right temple.’

  The dog sat and looked at me for a while. He then walked over to the wall and sat beneath a watercolour.

  ‘Come over here,’ he said. ‘What do you make of this painting?’

  I walked over and looked at it. It was a reasonable picture of Snuffles lying on a rock in the middle of a river. In the picture, he was nose to beak with a swan. I noted that it confirmed some of his story.

  ‘What is the title of that painting?’ he asked.

  I lent forward and read, ‘The Local Informant, 1895’.

  Snuffles looked at me and said quietly, ‘How much does my master know?’

  Queen Victoria

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

  LUCY, we have forsaken the rural delights of Heron Court and are now residing in Uncle Graham’s town house in London. It is a truly beautiful building that faces a quiet, wooded square not far from our Embassy.

  Where life was too quiet in the country with very few visitors, it is much better in town. A seemingly constant string of people call and every post seems to contain an invitation.

  London almost defies description. It is a city of contradictions, being simultaneously a place of fine stately buildings and small crowded slums. It is impossible, even in the cocoon of privilege, to be insensible to the poverty endured by so many of this city’s population.

  Uncle Graham tells me that this is improving and that over the last decades the worst slums have been cleared as the nature of the city changes. Developments like the underground railways have allowed more of London’s population to live in decent villa developments on the outskirts. I was amazed when he informed me that even fifty years ago three-quarters of a million people came into the capital on a daily basis.

  It is exciting to ride on these trains, although I admit that they are not the cleanest of conveyances. One must make allowances, however, when one is using a steam train in a tunnel. One fascinating feature is a next-station indicator that automatically shows th
e next stop. Uncle Graham tells me that this marvellous railway is already out dated and that the steam trains will be replaced with electric carriages by the end of the century.

  The most obvious characteristic of the British is their self-confidence. There is nothing they will not attempt and having essayed , achieve. I suppose this is a natural result of ruling the greatest empire the world has seen.

  -----

  Yesterday I accompanied Uncle Graham and Aunt Emily to a garden party at the Palace. I must admit that I felt somewhat out of my depth as I was introduced to several people who are household names even in Boston. For example, Mr Gladstone, who is a kindly old man with a definite twinkle in his eye.

  The high point of the day, for me at least, was being presented to Queen Victoria. Mindful of the fact that we Americans freed ourselves from British rule, I determined that I would not address her as ‘Your Majesty’ or any other fawning mode of address. I settled for a respectful curtsy and called her ‘Ma’am’.

  She spoke to me for about a minute during which she enquired if I had met Mr Cleveland: On my saying that I had not yet had the honour, she smiled at me. You will have seen pictures of this great lady, but they do not do her full justice. She is quite like Mrs Marshall, only smaller, but with a presence that makes you forget her size. I am of the opinion that if London is the heart of this nation then this grandmotherly woman is its soul.

  -----

  Aunt Emily took me to meet Miss Mary Thompson, who is the sister of Sir Henry of Arlesford. She is a remarkable lady of advancing years who devotes herself, as she says, to ‘charitable works and good conversation’. She has asked me to call her Aunt Mary and has told me that I am welcome to visit with her whenever I like.

  According to Aunt Emily, Aunt Mary was engaged to a very appropriate young man and was looking forward to her marriage. Unfortunately, her fiancé was killed in a tragic fall from his horse and Aunt Mary never looked romantically at another man.

  I learnt more about London society in two hours of Aunt Mary’s company than I have in all the weeks I have spent with Aunt Emily.

  -----

  I have not received any replies from my letters to John and am of the opinion that Aunt Emily is intercepting my correspondence on Ma’s instructions. Could you tell him that he is constantly in my thoughts? Please include some news of him in your next letter.

  The Bone of Contention

  ‘I just cannot believe it!’ I exclaimed loudly. ‘Professors do not behave like that.’

  I was sitting in my uncle's study reading an article in The Times when I made this comment. Unfortunately, my intemperate exclamation woke Snuffles who was lying by my side.

  ‘What has strained your limited credulity so far that you have to wake a hard-working Spaniel with your inconsiderate vociferations?’ asked Snuffles in a rather grumpy tone of voice.

  ‘Just an article in the paper,’ I replied. ‘Apparently a distinguished professor has been accused of falsifying his research to ensure that his experimental results supported his theories. In my opinion, these accusations must have been made by a jealous rival. After all, men of learning always base their theories on the objective evidence.’

  Snuffles made what can only be described as a despairing whine.

  ‘My dear young pup,’ he said, ‘the world of academia is as full of frauds and charlatans as any other branch of human existence. The only real difference is that the frauds tend to be more interesting.’

  ‘But surely these learned men have academic integrity,’ I protested. ‘I would have thought that they would have been too proud to cheat.’

  ‘Pride,’ said Snuffles. ‘With that one word you provide the key to most of these intellectual frauds.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked slightly belligerently. I like my uncle's dog but it does get somewhat trying when he appears to know more about a subject than I do.

  ‘I'll give you an example,’ Snuffles said. ‘Then you can judge for yourself whether academic pride is enough of a reason for a learned man to falsify the evidence.’

  ‘Some years ago an eminent member of the Pyramid Society developed a theory that all the dimensions of the pyramids were linked in a special ratio. From the outside measurements of the Great Pyramid, he made predictions about the dimensions of everything within it. I understand that it was a very scholarly work. He then went to Egypt and tested his theory by measuring the sarcophagus in the King's chamber. Horror of horrors, the sarcophagus was too long. This minor set back did not throw the Egyptologist. He was later found in the chamber busily filing the sarcophagus down to match his theory.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ I said. ‘Even if your story is true it is only a single example, and in any large group of people you will find at least one villain.’

  Snuffles gazed at me with a very pitying look.

  ‘If you want another example, I can tell you about a case of your uncle's that involved two Egyptologists, an attempted murder and a theft. However, if you think it would strain your credulity, I can tell you about some pickpockets instead.’

  ‘Tell me about the Egyptologists, please,’ I said, putting my uncle's newspaper down.

  Snuffles settled himself comfortably and began.

  -----

  We were dining in the grill room of Green’s Hotel one lovely summer evening following the resolution of a very tough case. My master had decided that we would go down to Arlesford for a relaxing weekend. All that remained was some paperwork and we would be free for several days.

  I was happily dozing under my master’s chair, dreaming of the big lake by the house, of ducks, mud and thrown sticks when the manager, a Mr Crow, approached our table wringing his hands nervously. This is always a very bad sign.

  ‘Inspector?’ he asked quietly. ‘Would you mind coming with me? There has been a terrible assault on one of our guests and, having seen you come in, I decided to bring the matter to your attention at once.’

  I sympathised with my master’s deep sigh. For some reason people seem to think that we are always on duty, which we are if a crime is being actively committed. I contend, however, that if the crime is over and the miscreant fled then there is no reason to interrupt a dining detective, especially before his dog receives the last bit of the steak.

  ‘Is the victim badly hurt?’ my master enquired.

  ‘He’s unconscious, but a French doctor who is staying in the adjacent room is dealing with him.’

  ‘Please join me for a few minutes,’ your uncle said waving to the empty chair at the table. ‘People are already staring at us and should I jump to my feet there will undoubtedly be some unnecessary talk and possibly a scandal. If you would be so good as to tell me what has happened and to whom, I will be glad to look into the matter.’

  I can see that you are somewhat surprised by my master’s reaction to the manager’s request. If, however, he had leapt to his feet and followed the manager, within five minutes most of the people in that grill room would have been milling around the crime scene, making our job more difficult. This way would be much better and we would both hear the background to the assault. I would also get my steak.

  ‘Very well, Inspector,’ the manager started. ‘About ten minutes ago our assistant housekeeper, Miss Rodgers, was on the fourth floor resolving an unrelated problem, when she heard a crash from room 37. Close on the noise, there was a pitiful cry, followed by another crash and then silence.

  ‘Miss Rodgers went to the door and knocked. There was no reply but, thinking she could hear a bubbling sob, she bravely tried the door while calling out to Mr Carmichael. Receiving no answer and finding the door locked, she ran to the stairs to call for help. As chance would have it, I had just reached the landing below, and it was the work of a moment for her to enlist my help.

  ‘She had only been gone for a minute at most but when she returned, the door was open and she could see poor Mr Carmichael lying on the floor. Crouching over him was a man. She was about to scream when the man t
urned and she recognised him as M. Ducroix, who is staying in the next room.

  ‘“Ah bon,” M. Ducroix said on seeing us. “M. Crow, Mademoiselle Rodgers, you arrive at the perfect moment. My neighbour seems to have been attacked and he is in a bad state. Fortunately, I am a doctor of medicine and I think I can save him. Mademoiselle Rodgers, please get me my leather bag from my room while you, M. Crow, should run for the police.”’

  As the manager was telling this story my master, in a somewhat abstracted fashion, gave me the end of his steak, proving once again that he never loses sight of the important details. As soon as Mr Crow had finished his account, your uncle rose to his feet and, accompanied by the manager, strode purposefully from the grill room.

  We reached the fourth floor to find the corridor thronged with people who all wanted to have a look in room 37. Standing with her back to the door was a woman whom I took to be Miss Rodgers. My master took one look at the crowd and then, without raising his voice, asked them to disperse. Have you ever noticed that your uncle has a certain presence about him that makes people do as he tells them, quickly and without argument? That evening it worked perfectly; within a few moments the corridor had emptied of the idle and the curious.

  We entered the room to find the scene almost as described by the manager. The injured man was lying on the floor by an escritoire. By his side a chair was lying on its side and I formed the opinion that his assailant had caught him unawares as he was seated at the desk. He had obviously been hit from behind with a blunt object of some nature and had fallen, bringing the chair down with him.

  The room stank of blood and an odd floral scent that seemed to be coming from a small fussy man who was kneeling by the victim. It smelt like some type of cologne, and from its strength seemed as though it would be used by a man who often ventured into noisome places. The scent, with the fact that he was bandaging the victim’s head, led me to deduce that he was the French doctor.