by Robert Warr
There was no answer to his knock and when your uncle tried the door, it was clearly locked. I think we all realised at the same time that the room was empty and that our bird had flown. My master muttered ‘Carmichael’ under his breath and striding purposefully to the next room, opened the door and entered the American’s chamber.
‘Sergeant,’ he asked, ‘have you seen anything of a small Frenchman?’
‘Dr Ducroix, Sir?’ Sergeant Yates paused for a second until my master nodded. ‘He came in here not ten minutes back. He claimed that you’d told him that Mr Carmichael needed an injection. He had a syringe all ready in his hand.’
‘I trust you prevented him from administering it.’
‘Of course, sir,’ Sergeant Yates said with a smile. ‘I told him that I needed written authorisation from you. “More than my job’s worth,” I said when he got pushy. When he said that I was disobeying your precise instructions and that you would be annoyed, I told him to go and fetch you so you could tell me yourself.’
‘Well done, Sergeant,’ Inspector James said with obvious approval. ‘What did he do after that?’
‘Well, sir, he left the room and I heard him go next door. About a minute later he came back out into the corridor and I heard the landing door open and close.’
‘Good man,’ my master said, and the sergeant positively beamed. ‘Keep up the good work. I am arranging that the hotel’s own doctor will come in and examine the patient. He will be accompanied by Mr Crow, the manager. Another man, Dr Wareham, a colleague of Mr Carmichael’s, will also look in. I do not want them left alone.’
‘Very good, Sir.’
We returned to the lobby and my master went over to Mr Crow.
‘Have you seen M. Ducroix recently?’
‘Yes, Inspector. He went out just before you finished talking to Dr Wareham. He asked where you were and I told him you were talking to Mr Carmichael’s friend and I could interrupt you if it was urgent. He laughed and said to tell you, if you asked, that he was meeting a friend at a club and would be back in about three hours.’
‘Thank you, Mr Crow.’
With that my master and Inspector James strode across the lobby and out of the hotel’s entrance, where he called the commissionaire over to him.
‘Mr Crow tells me that M. Ducroix, a small French gentleman, left the hotel a few minutes ago. Did you hear the instructions he gave to the hansom driver?’
‘I recollect the gentleman, sir. He asked me to whistle for a cab, but when it arrived he changed his mind and said he would prefer to walk on such a fine night.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘Towards the park, sir.’
Your uncle pressed something into the commissionaire’s hand and strode down the steps on to the pavement. The two detectives looked in both directions but there was no sign of Ducroix.
‘Andrew, I’ve let him slip through my fingers,’ my master sighed. ‘While I was talking to Dr Wareham our quarry made good his escape. I don’t think we will find him quickly.’
I was dejected by this news and let my head droop despondently, sighing. I could see the promised weekend at Arlesford disappearing, as my master would devote himself to catching the villain. A faint, cloying scent of flowers caught my nose and for a second I could not place it. Then I remembered; it was Ducroix’s cologne. I sniffed again; there was a definite scent on the breeze. Helpfully, I pointed and then trotted a few yards up the road before looking back at my master.
‘Richard, I think your dog has a scent!’ Inspector James shouted excitedly.
With that encouragement, I barked and then, remembering what I was about, put back my head and howled in a way that would have intimidated a blood hound.
‘Good boy,’ my master said. ‘Find him!’
The scent was faint and I lost it twice for a few moments as the wind shifted. Fortunately, I regained the trace and soon came to the park. The gates are closed at dusk, but my nose told me that our quarry had clambered over this barrier.
The fence here is about four foot high and topped with those faux spear-heads that are supposed to keep the adventurous at bay. It isn’t a hard jump, but those points would hurt a dog if he fell on them. Duty is duty, however, so I controlled my apprehension and trotted a few paces back towards my master. Turning, I ran full speed at the fence and jumped, clearing the obstacle with mere inches to spare.
By the time I had found the trail again, the men had vaulted the fence and were by my side. With a happy woof I set off again.
Only a minute later I saw the figure of Ducroix strolling in front of us, swinging a small bag in his hand.
‘Stop, Monsieur Petit!’ my master shouted.
The fugitive took one look over his shoulder and started running. As he ran, he threw the bag away from him hoping, I think, that we would waste time searching for it.
‘Snuffles! Fetch him down!’ your uncle ordered before blowing several loud blasts on his police whistle.
I accelerated, concentrating all my energies on catching Ducroix. If you ever do this yourself, it is quite important to ensure that the fugitive does not turn on you with a knife. Accordingly, I timed my approach and jumped, catching his right wrist between my teeth. Moments later, he was on the ground and the Inspectors had him in control; a few minutes later a constable who had been summoned by the whistle joined us.
Leaving the other two to control Ducroix, my master walked back along the trail, obviously looking for the bag that Ducroix had thrown away: I trotted back with him and after a few minutes snuffling, retrieved it and brought it triumphantly to your uncle.
We went to the local police station, and, once Ducroix had been locked in a cell, your uncle discussed the case with Inspector James. Apparently, my master had immediately doubted Ducroix’s suggestion that the assailant had been hiding behind the door, as he would have been visible in the mirror as the doctor crossed the room to Mr Carmichael. There was a chance, however, that the doctor had had eyes only for an obviously wounded man.
During his conversation with Dr Wareham, your uncle had realised that Mr Carmichael was not delirious when he spoke about the theft of his calf and that, by simple deduction, Ducroix must have been the villain.
My master then opened Ducroix’s bag. Inside, wrapped in a piece of linen, were the small bronze statuette and a stick-like object that smelled of old leather. This stick was apparently the mummified lower leg of a young calf.
The two men left me in Inspector James’ office while they questioned Dr Ducroix- or Monsieur Petit, as I should properly call him. My master was away for over an hour, and somewhat bored, I found myself idly chewing something that I should not have touched. Fortunately, neither of the Inspectors noticed my misdemeanour when they returned.
Early the next day Mr Carmichael was recovered enough to talk to your master and confirmed that Ducroix had assaulted him.
After the trial, my master returned the artefacts to Mr Carmichael, who was rather upset that something, probably rats, had gnawed at one end of his mummified calf bone whilst it had been in police custody.
-----
Snuffles stretched himself and looked me straight in the eye.
‘While we are on the subject of your American cousins, I thought that Isobel Fraser was a very acceptable girl.’
‘I agree, Snuffles,’ I replied: ‘she was very pleasant. If I had not already met Lady Victoria, I might be tempted to pay some attention to that young lady.’
‘Lady Victoria has a beautiful face, but a hard heart,’ Snuffles said with a small growl.
‘My good dog,’ I replied in the condescending manner that Snuffles hates, ‘you may be very intelligent, but you have absolutely no insight into women.’
Snuffles growled and, realising that I had gone too far, I decided to change the subject.
‘What did you think about the mummified calf leg?’
‘Very dry,’ he replied.
The American Embassy
Extracts from
the journal of Miss Isobel Fraser, written for her sister Lucy in Boston.
LUCY I have received an invitation from the American embassy to attend a reception, and as Aunt Emily and Uncle Graham have to be out of town that week, Aunt Mary has agreed to chaperone me.
As far as I can ascertain, Ambassador Bayard holds semi-regular soirees to which he invites all prominent Americans who happen to be in London. I may be slightly cynical but I expect my invitation has more to do with Pa’s money than my own poor accomplishments.
Whatever the reason for the invitation I am looking forward to spending an evening in the company of my fellow Americans, although I will probably be homesick afterwards.
I have a gorgeous green silk gown that I will wear to the reception. I asked the couturière for an off-cut of the material that I will send to you with this extract from my journal.
-----
Last night we went to the United States Ambassador’s reception and I enjoyed myself immensely although I must admit that in certain ways it was also quite a humbling experience. I will try to convey my major impressions to you in the order that they occurred.
Aunt Mary seems to change when she dresses formally and ceases to be the grandmotherly gossip whom I have come to love, becoming instead;, a very formal and slightly intimidating great lady.
We arrived at the Embassy to find ourselves only a small part of a glittering throng who were alighting from their carriages and being directed into the building. Our Ambassador, who incidentally is the first to Great Britain, is a charming man called Thomas Bayard. He asked to be remembered to Pa who he knows from his days in Delaware.
I was introduced to several eligible young men, most of whom seemed to be in the early stages of exciting diplomatic careers. One of them, a serious man called George Ashton, asked whether I would object to his calling some afternoon. I hope that he does because, though he is rather formal, he is very good company. Aunt Mary seemed to approve of him.
Another young man, Henry Thorn, was a totally different proposition. According to him, he is the eldest son of a very rich merchant in New York and could buy anything he wanted. I have never seen such a man for boasting. When he wasn’t bragging about his prospects, he made an effort to be extremely witty and charming. However, Mr Thorn is best taken in minuscule doses and he soon became both forward and odious.
I found him steering me towards some French windows, against my better judgement I must admit, and was shocked when he refused to unhand me. I was about to risk a scene when Aunt Mary intervened and with a few quiet words routed him. Once we were alone she described him as a ruthless adventurer.
Lucy, I suddenly saw similarities between Henry Thorn and John Hutchings and realise that I have probably been a naïve young fool. Is the reason that I have not heard from John that Aunt Emily is intercepting his letters or merely that he has not written, preferring to concentrate his efforts on another impressionable young woman? I hate to say it, but I think Ma and Pa were right.
The Case of the Dorset Murders
I had just opened the front door when one of those intense summer storms started. It seemed as if the first crash of thunder had torn open the clouds, releasing torrential rain.
‘I am not going out in that; I’d drown before we reached the park,’ I said to Snuffles, who was staying with me while my uncle was abroad.
Returning to my study, I made myself comfortable. The dog followed me in and, after looking mournfully at the water pouring down the windows, settled himself on the hearth rug.
‘As we seem to be stuck inside wasting all this glorious water,’ Snuffles began, ‘I think I will tell you about the Dorset murders to pass the time.’
-----
It was a particularly hot June and my master and I had travelled down to Wareham in Dorset one Thursday morning to investigate a brutal double murder. As usual, the local county force had called in Scotland Yard when they discovered a body in suspicious circumstances.
On Tuesday morning, whilst checking his lobster pots, a fisherman from Swanage had discovered a body caught in rocks beneath Ballard Point. He had recovered the body and taken it straight back to port.
The body, according to the reports, was that of a gentleman. When found, his hands had been secured behind its back. Unfortunately, due to head injuries sustained in the fall and the actions of the local crabs, he was unrecognisable. The local police had found a wallet and pocket watch on the body and were confident that the deceased had been one Thomas Littleton of Fromebridge Manor.
The report also stated that when the police went to Fromebridge Manor they found the body of Richard Adams, Thomas Littleton’s only resident servant, who had been clubbed to death. There were indications of a violent struggle in the study and so it was assumed that Mr Littleton had been abducted and taken to his death.
We were met at Wareham station by Inspector Harris, from the Dorsetshire force. He was a big cheery man who looked more like a farmer than a police officer. I was delighted when he complimented me on being such a fine dog. I must admit I always like people who greet me properly, as well as my master.
Inspector Harris was a good organiser: while a porter took our bags out to a constable in a small trap, the Inspector ushered us back onto the train. Once we were back in the carriage, the whistle blew and the train started to move.
My master looked somewhat quizzically at Inspector Harris and back towards the platform.
‘I thought it would be better if you went straight to the murder site,’ Inspector Harris explained. ‘It is an easier trip if we take the train to Corfe rather than driving. I’ve told Constable Hardy to take your bags to the hotel.’
Inspector Harris ran through the facts of the case; as they matched the report that we had already received we learnt nothing new. It was obvious that the Dorset policeman was a good detective and I could tell from the way your uncle relaxed that this was going to be one of those occasions that we received genuine co-operation from the local police.
The trip from Wareham to Corfe is very short and we soon arrived in that historic town. The castle dominates Corfe and it is without doubt one of the most impressive ruins I have ever seen. From my own perspective, it seemed to be a dark and brooding place that cast a chill even on a warm summer day.
We walked out of Corfe around the base of the castle mound before passing under a railway bridge. A farm gate led us to a steep path that ran up onto the top of the downs. A nice brisk walk brought us to the edge of the cliffs from which Mr Littleton had fallen to his death. Inspector Harris told us that this was called Ballard Point.
‘This is a very long way to bring someone just to kill them,’ my master observed. ‘The killer left one body at Fromebridge Manor. Is it possible that he intended Mr Littleton’s body to be washed out to sea, making it seem that the master killed his servant and fled? In that case, why did the killer leave easily identifiable possessions on the body? The presence of his wallet and watch seems to rule out simple robbery, and the only other motive would appear to be revenge. Find someone with a grudge against Mr Littleton and you may have found his killer.’
‘I had reached the same conclusion myself,’ began Inspector Harris. ‘Unfortunately we know hardly anything about Mr Littleton’s past. About fifteen years ago, he purchased Fromebridge Manor and moved to the area. He was never really accepted into local society since he had amassed his fortune in trade.
‘He also had a reputation for meanness among the common people. He would use any excuse to avoid paying tradesmen. Whatever else happens, I doubt if there will be a crowd at his funeral.’
While my master and Inspector Harris were discussing Mr Littleton’s past, I decided to take a quick sniff around to see if I could find any trace of the killer. Often the faintest hint of a scent can be enough to identify a villain.
I was trying to work out from the faint scents how the tragic drama had occurred. I was beginning to come to the conclusion that two men had met on that headland. One man had w
alked along the ridge of the downs before sitting down to wait for the second man who had ridden up from the road. It seemed unlikely that this was the case and I was checking to ensure that I was trailing the right men, when I stopped in my tracks.
There are some smells that, no matter how faint, always catch one’s attention. Think of chocolate, just the merest smell and any self-respecting dog is at the lucky person's side, willing to share. There is one smell, however, that one always notices since it can mean either food or danger: the smell of blood. I sniffed again and caught the faint, unmistakable smell of human blood.
Instinctively I followed my nose and soon came to a collapsed rabbit hole under a bush. My nose told me that the hole had been stamped shut by the man who had ridden up to the cliffs. This was, I knew, very important. I sat down in front of the hole and howled. I must admit that I have trained your uncle very well. All I have to do is howl and he comes.
‘What is it, boy?’ he said as he approached. ‘What have you found?’
The Inspectors crouched down to examine the rabbit hole.
‘It took some effort to kick this shut,’ Inspector Harris observed. ‘I think we had better open it up again.’
That was my cue. Pushing between the two men, I started digging. The soil was still loose so it did not take me very long to expose the burrow. My master pulled very gently on my collar and I backed away from the excavation. Inspector Harris peered into the hole and then reached inside to remove three objects. We had found a shaped stone and a pair of gloves. All three of the items had the dark brown stains of dried blood.
Inspector Harris turned the shaped stone over in his hands. On the other side there was a small paper label glued to the stone. He carefully brushed away the loose soil.
‘Hand axe, Sussex Downs, 1837,’ Inspector Harris said reading the label. ‘I think this is part of old Doctor Elliot’s collection. He owned Fromebridge Manor before Mr Littleton. When he died there was no immediate family to inherit so the Manor was sold complete with furnishings.’