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

by Robert Warr

  ‘Come downstairs when you are ready sir,’ my uncle’s man said. ‘He’s waiting for you in the study. Cook repaired your shirt and washed the blood from it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said with genuine gratitude. The married couple who do for my uncle are priceless. The husband, Albert Short, used to be my uncle’s servant when he was an officer in the Indian Army. When my uncle came home to take up his police duties, Short accompanied him.

  I washed and dressed quickly and went downstairs to find my Uncle and two other officers talking in the study. They were drinking tea and eating bacon sandwiches, a couple of which I instantly appropriated. When we had finished our simple breakfast, my uncle led the way down into the kitchen where the rest of the raiding party was enjoying a similar satisfying meal. I gathered that the raiding party had mustered at my uncle’s house because there was a risk that the villains might be watching the police stations.

  My uncle made the introductions emphasising that as a result of my military experience I would make any decisions concerning the dynamite and any other explosives that we found.

  The plan was quite simple: we would leave Barker Street in three groups and head for Nocks. Most of the party would proceed quietly through the club and out through a rarely used back door into an alley that served the rear of most of the properties. While this party was assembling, two smaller groups would proceed on foot in both directions round the block towards the shop but would stop before they came into the view of any lookouts.

  After five minutes, my uncle would blow his whistle. Sergeant Allen, who had equipped himself with an impressive sledgehammer, would open the shop’s rear door as the two flanking parties moved in. While others searched the shop, I was to accompany my uncle into the cellar to secure the explosives.

  As my uncle spoke, I felt my natural trepidation fading to be replaced by a fierce excitement that I hadn’t felt since my rugby days.

  ‘One final thing,’ my uncle said with mock seriousness. ‘Would those of you carrying pistols please refrain from firing in the direction of the dynamite; I would hate to give the press another reason to laugh at the force.’

  The tension gradually mounted and it seemed hours later that I crouched in a noisome alley, my swordstick in my hand and waited for my uncle’s signal. There was the blast of a whistle and, almost simultaneously, a loud crashing noise as the backdoor gave way under Sergeant Allen’s first ferocious swing.

  ‘Come on.’ My uncle shouted and I followed him into the shop and through a kitchen into a passage that I knew from Snuffle’s description. Without thinking about it I opened the correct door and started down the cellar steps. From behind me on the ground floor I heard an exclamation of shock followed by a shot and the sounds of a fight.

  I rounded the turn in the stairs to see the cellar before me just as Snuffles had described it. It was lit by a weak glow that emanated from the low tunnel.

  By the tunnel mouth, a reel of cord was propped next to a solid looking clock that looked like it had come from the shop. There was something about the shadow cast by the clock that worried me so I motioned to the police officers to wait and then crept gingerly towards it.

  I knelt by the clock and examined it in the dim light. An old-fashioned lady’s flintlock pistol had been attached to the back of the clock and a wire led from the trigger into the clock. The end of the cord, which proved to be a quick fuse, had been placed in the muzzle of the pistol. The fuse had been securely wadded into place.

  With care I cut the fuse, and then with my thumb securely on the hammer, I raised the cover plate and blew the powder out of the pan. I then lowered the hammer fully, reassured that the primitive timing mechanism was disabled. I then crouched down and having called the officers on led the way into the tunnel.

  You might think that I was being unnecessarily courageous, or perhaps stupid, to lead the way into that tight space when there were fitter and stronger men who would willingly have gone first; actually, my actions were dictated by sheer cold logic. I was the only one in the party who was likely to have much experience of working in tunnels, I knew about explosives and my swordstick gave me invaluable extra reach, essential in a cramped space where both adversaries would face each other on their hands and knees.

  The touch of a paw against my calf told me that Snuffles had entered the tunnel immediately behind me; strangely reassured, I crawled forward.

  I traversed the length of the tunnel unchallenged and soon reached a small chamber. Standing I looked hurriedly around. A lantern stood to one side on a pile of rubble. In front of me was a brick wall through which a hole had been driven. The fuse ran through this gap and into the darkness beyond.

  I looked through the hole into a much larger space beyond. There was another faint light that seemed to be partially masked by some type of free-standing shelving. I could hear the noise of something scraping across a stone floor followed by the faint susurration of quiet conversation. For a moment, I was disorientated then I realised that I was looking into one of the Nocks' wine cellars. The faint light must be coming from a partially open dark lantern on one of the wine racks.

  As I waited for my uncle to join me Snuffles agilely jumped through the hole and disappeared around one of the racks. I nearly called him back but realised that he probably knew what he was doing.

  My uncle arrived and glanced through the hole. A few seconds later he stood and placed his mouth close to my ear. 'Let three of my men through before you enter the cellar.' His voice a mere thread of sound, was normally pitched, so it lacked a whisper’s betraying sibilance. 'Leave the villains to us, if possible, and just make sure that the explosives are safe.'

  I nodded my acceptance and watched my uncle and three of his men clamber through the hole before I started after them. It must have been the stiffness in my wounded leg that caused me to be clumsy but I dislodged a loose piece of brick that fell with clatter on to the floor.

  'Patrick, why are you here?' A cultured American voice asked, 'have you spotted something outside?'

  I used the second’s grace while he waited for an answer to crouch behind one of the racks. I reached cover not a moment too soon because the light brightened and a beam of light was turned onto the hole.

  'Patrick?' The voice asked again a concerned note now apparent. The light bobbed as the man moved a few paces forward for a better view. A metallic click sounded loud in the cellar and my uncle's voice rang out.

  'Stay exactly where you are,' he ordered. 'You are under arrest.'

  There was a bright flash that illuminated my uncle standing with a pistol extended; I saw him flinch as the sound of a shot echoed round the chamber. The chamber was lit again as my uncle fired, once, twice and again. In the flashes I saw O’Neil stagger forward, his gun flying from his hand and then he collapsed to the ground.

  The darkness that followed was more intense than before. Our eyes had not yet readjusted before an eldritch scream echoed round the chamber, a scream that started as a baritone and ended as a falsetto shriek.

  Confidently I stood up and walked forward, pausing only to pick up the lantern that O’Neil had dropped. I rounded the wine rack to see the last of the villains lying on the floor, moaning softly, his right wrist tightly grasped by his left hand. Behind him was a large pile of dynamite, already fused and on the floor a Vesta was burning itself out.

  Snuffles looked at me and wagged his tail, ‘He was about to light the fuse,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t really think I had any alternative.’

  ‘Good boy,’ seemed to be the only appropriate response.

  -----

  It was several days later before Snuffles and I were alone together and I could ask him what had happened after I had returned home.

  ‘We had a very exciting time.’ Snuffles said, a burr of satisfaction in his voice, ‘my master shot the gun out of O’Neil’s hand and then put a bullet through his leg. As it wasn’t the one I bit, I can only commend your uncle on his marksmanship.’

 
‘My uncle arrested them all?’ I asked with a certain amused satisfaction, having heard from Aunt Mary that three of the villains had gone to the hospital; the forth, the lookout, had fired at Sergeant Allen and had ended up at the undertaker’s. A direct hit from a large sledgehammer tends to be very hard to shrug off.

  ‘Those that were left,’ Snuffles agreed, wagging his tail. ‘Our problems began when O’Neil claimed that one of the policemen had stolen a purse full of gold sovereigns.’

  ‘What happened?’ I asked, intrigued.

  ‘The Commissioner ordered that all the officers involved, and their houses, were to be searched in the presence of the accused’s solicitors,’ Snuffles replied. ‘My master volunteered to go first, although no one even suggested that someone of his rank would have taken anything from a prisoner.’

  ‘Did they find the gold?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course not,’ Snuffles replied, wagging his tail. ‘Canary found the purse in O’Neil’s bedding and appropriated it. I understand that she is whispering to her master as he sleeps that if he digs in the corner of the cellar he will find enough to open a shop out of town.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course she doesn’t know where out of town is but her pet has always wanted to live there.’ Snuffles paused and continued, ‘I do think that living in the country would help Sally make a full recovery.’

  ‘The money doesn’t belong to him,’ I observed in a somewhat prim tone. ‘If he finds it he should hand it in.’

  ‘Canary is doing her best to ensure that he suffers from no inconvenient ethical impulses.’ Snuffles raised his ears in a questioning manner, ‘who actually deserves to have this money: the anarchists, the government or the victims?’

  On reflection I found that I agreed with Snuffles. Every so often true justice and the letter of the law are incompatible.

  The Gift

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

  I was very glad when Uncle Graham announced that we had been invited down to Arlesford for the weekend; partly because I was tired and needed a chance to relax but mainly because I wanted to see James again.

  I must admit that I have viewed James in a new light after I heard about his confrontation with the Fenians. At first sight he comes over as a rather conceited but charming man; a bit of a dandy with no real substance to him. First impressions are sometimes very wrong. His leg injury limits his movements but he faced up to and beat off two thugs who attacked him in a dark alley.

  We were the first of the weekend party to arrive and I had determined that I would sit and read for an hour or two when Sir Henry asked if I would join him for a short walk in the garden. Needless to say I accepted his kind invitation with genuine pleasure.

  I was not surprised when we were joined by Ben and Tess, two of the ‘household pack’ which is the name Sir Henry gives to those of his older dogs who have retired to a life of idle luxury.

  It was a glorious afternoon for a walk and I happily listened to the General as he described the garden and its plantings. I had not realised that many of the more exotic shrubs had been sent back to Arlesford by the General’s father, a tradition that continues to this day among the younger family members.

  Our walk took us slowly along the side of the house and through the old walled garden with its orangery where the gardeners manage to grow fresh lemons and limes.

  I wasn’t surprised to see, when Sir Henry ushered me through a small door in the garden wall, that we were heading towards the old stables where he breeds his Spaniels. We went into the building and in no time at all I was standing in a run looking at a rather proud Springer and her litter of seven well-grown puppies.

  ‘This is Rosa,’ the General said, lightly knuckling her head. ‘She is one of Snuffles’ littermates, and as you can see one of the best Spaniels I have yet bred.’

  The dog looked at me and gently wagged her tail, obviously in full agreement with Sir Henry’s words.

  ‘Snuffles is one of my favourite dogs.’ Sir Henry said crouching down and picking up one of the puppies, ‘I really must thank you for your courage in saving him. I am most deeply obliged.’

  ‘You are very kind, Sir Henry. I wasn’t brave at all you know. Once I saw Snuffles I just acted.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ he said kindly passing me the puppy to hold. ‘I have discussed the matter with your uncle and he has agreed that I can give you a very special puppy as a token of my gratitude.’

  I looked at the little animal in my arms and saw that her coat was composed of patches of black, brown and white fur. She moved in my hands and her small tongue gently licked my fingers.

  ‘This one?’ I asked, with an almost incredulous joy.

  ‘Yes, my dear,’ Sir Henry said with a laugh. ‘What are you going to call her?’

  ‘Clara.’

  Murder in the Bath

  ‘WHAT’S wrong old boy?’ I asked Snuffles, with a certain amount of concern as he held a rigid pose with an expression of noble suffering on his face. ‘Is it bad indigestion or have you pulled your back?’

  Snuffles relaxed and turned an enquiring look on me where I was lounging by the lake at Arlesford smoking a cigar. With a slow deliberation he glanced around before looking back at me.

  ‘Was that remark addressed to me?’ He asked, ‘if it was I must assure you that not only am I in glowing health but I am also a perfect example of my breed.’

  As he spoke my companion struck another interesting pose. It was no doubt intended to look noble but it looked to me as if he had sat upon a particularly nasty thistle. There was something so ludicrous about his stance that I snorted with laughter.

  ‘I trust that you are not laughing at my final statement,’ Snuffles growled, while getting slowly to his feet. ‘If you are, there will be an unfortunate incident involving my teeth and your rear.’

  ‘Nothing of the kind,’ I reassured him hastily, remembering the damage that he could inflict.

  ‘Then why were you laughing? Was it, as I suspect at me, or have you been overcome by some previously unsuspected idiocy?’

  As he spoke my companion allowed his ears to drop, which taken with his very pompous delivery reminded me of a Punch cartoon of a judge and I started laughing again. My mirth was cut short when my companion started growling in a low fashion that promised much discomfort.

  ‘My most noble dog,’ I said hurriedly as Snuffles took a pace towards me. ‘You are without doubt the best of your breed: handsome, courageous, clever and witty. I could not conceive of a more worthy dog than your good self.’

  ‘These virtues cause you merriment?’ Snuffles inquired in a rather dangerous voice. I wasn’t out of the woods yet but at least he had stopped growling.

  ‘My mirth had nothing to do with either your character or your looks,’ I explained in a placatory fashion while reaching into my pocket for my silver cigar case. ‘The reason for my laughter was the ludicrous pose you had assumed. You looked in short like a Dowager Duchess meeting an unsuitable guest.’

  ‘I did not,’ my friend barked, stung anew by my remark.

  ‘If you would care to adopt the same pose again, I’ll show you what I mean.’ I offered while opening my cigar case.

  Snuffles gave me a withering look but adopted much the same position as before. It was perhaps even funnier, because his air of offended dignity added to the comedy, but I bit my lip. I carefully angled the open case until the change in his expression indicated that my companion had seen his reflection.

  This new expression triggered my laughter only this time he softly howled with me. After a while, we got ourselves under control.

  ‘Thank you, James,’ he said after a few more minutes. ‘But for your honest humour my pride would have resulted in me becoming a laughing stock. I would have been remembered as a figure of fun rather than the perfect example of an Arlesford Spaniel.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ I inquired with genuine curiosity.
‘You make it sound like you are being painted for posterity.’

  ‘But I am.’

  I glanced at my companion to see if he was making fun of me, but I could tell from the set of his ears that he was telling the truth.

  ‘Please explain,’ I asked. ‘It is obviously a great honour, but it is news to me.’

  ‘Sir Henry considers himself to be an enlightened and very humane man.’ Snuffles began, with a certain amount of pomposity. ‘How could he be otherwise, when he has dedicated his retirement to Spaniels?

  ‘Some months ago Arlesford was visited by one of the senior churchmen from Winchester who, on being shown round the estate, happened to remark that the dogs lived in better accommodation than most of the rural poor.

  ‘I think that the cleric’s remark stung Sir Henry because he spent most of the next week riding round the estate visiting his tenants. The household dogs tell me that he became quite introspective and after a long conversation with Lady Amelia went up to London for a few days.

  ‘Everything went quiet for a few weeks then Sir Henry announced that he was rebuilding all the estate cottages; this effectively includes the whole of Arlesford St Mary village. One of the buildings being replaced is the village tavern, which is being transformed from a dark and dingy one-room drinking hole to a modern inn with light airy rooms and some accommodation for visitors.

  ‘The villagers wanted to call the new inn The Thompson Arms but Sir Henry insisted that it be called the Arlesford Spaniel and has asked someone to paint me for the inn sign.’

  ‘It is right for the old man to think of his tenants’ living conditions.’ I mused, ‘but I will miss the quaint old-world charm of the village. I suppose that we will soon have neat rows of identical brick-built terraced houses?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Snuffles replied, throwing himself down on the grass by my side. ‘Sir Henry has taken great pains to ensure that the new village will retain its traditional charm. He is also building a water tower on Clerance Hill so that all the cottages can have running water.’