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

by Robert Warr

  ‘All our villagers are going to be quite middle class by the time Sir Henry finishes,’ I observed with a laugh.

  ‘Why shouldn’t they be?’ my companion retorted. ‘If you insist on good accommodation as a right why can’t they enjoy the same privileges? Or are you inherently better because you were born into a moneyed family?’

  ‘That’s rather a political question for a gun dog,’ I observed with a delighted chuckle. ‘You are of course completely right. Given my advantages, I have no doubt that any number of them could be successful in polite society. One good thing about the growth of this middle class will be a reduction in the amount of crime.’

  ‘I doubt that very much,’ Snuffles growled.

  ‘Oh my dogmatic Spaniel,’ I chided him. ‘Surely even you can accept that as more people become relatively affluent the amount of petty crime will drop. If you can afford to buy your bread why steal a loaf?’

  ‘Naïve pup,’ my companion snapped. ‘Many people steal just because they can. The only difference with the new middle classes is that their crime tends to be a bit more interesting because they have more opportunities.’

  I snorted loudly and started to get up.

  ‘I see you don’t believe me. If you sit back I’ll illustrate my point with a recent case that your uncle solved.’

  Snuffles settled his head comfortably on his paws and began.

  -----

  This case took place at the beginning of last autumn. If you remember, although the nights were really starting to draw in, the days were still quite lovely as we enjoyed a little summer of St Martin. Life, in short, should have been very good.

  Some prominent cases had taken longer to solve than the press expected and their uninformed, but very vitriolic, editorials about the police had convinced the Home Secretary that he had to be seen taking some action. He therefore decided to ‘order a review into the workings of the Metropolitan Police and most especially the detective office to identify the causes of their inefficiencies.’ It is enough to make you weep considering that the vigilance of our office had saved that odious man from a particularly damaging scandal.

  Mr Johnstone, a senior Civil Servant, was therefore appointed to look into the policing of London. The Commissioner decided that it would be a good idea if an experienced police officer accompanied him, ostensibly to smooth his way. As soon as this idea was mooted the press changed tune and called for ‘the best detective at the Yard’.

  As a direct result we spent most of that enjoyable autumnal weather visiting police stations all over the metropolis while my master kept explaining to the Civil Servant that it was impossible to set targets for detectives. There was no way that anyone could expect each burglary to be solved in a day or every murder in less than a week. The two of them, detective and bureaucrat, had been having this same argument for over a week when it came to a head one misty morning south of the Thames.

  ‘Thompson, I know you are well regarded by the press and I will admit that you have been very good at catching criminals,’ the Civil Servant sneered over his pince-nez. ‘You are however a complete amateur, with no idea of proper procedure.’

  ‘Now just look here…’ my master began, but he was interrupted as the Civil servant raised an admonitory finger and began speaking over him.

  ‘Inspector, I don’t want to insult you as you are undoubtedly the best detective we have,’ the odious man paused, ran the tip of his tongue over his lips then continued. ‘I took the precaution of reading up on some of your cases before starting this review and quite frankly to call you an amateur is no more than you deserve. You seem to solve some of your cases through such a combination of unknown informants and lucky finds as to completely stretch credulity. I believe that these handy coincidences are just there to disguise your fundamental problem.’

  ‘Which is?’ My master grated.

  ‘A lack of a coherent scientific system,’ Mr Johnston, stated pedantically. ‘You just do not know how to manage paper.’

  ‘Detection is not an exact science,’ my master retorted brusquely, thumping the desk with his fist for emphasis. ‘It is an art, an art that is about people who are notoriously hard to predict.’

  ‘You fail to see my point, Inspector, but I suppose you need to be shown a proof.’

  ‘What proof?’ your uncle stood up and towered aggressively over the smaller man. ‘All I’ve heard out of you so far is a lot of fatuous pontificating about things you don’t understand.’

  ‘If you feel that way, Thompson, I am just going to have to rub your arrogant nose in your shortcomings.’

  ‘How?’ my master asked in a deceptively pleasant tone of voice.

  ‘Simple, I will solve the next murder before you do,’ the beastly bureaucrat boasted. ‘My systematic method will soon rout your amateur approach. I reckon I can solve the next one in less than twenty four hours.’

  ‘Police work is not a game, Mr Johnstone and I will not treat any case in such a trivial manner.’ My master glared down at the other man, contempt heavy in his voice.

  ‘You are afraid, Inspector?’ the lesser man asked, snidely. ‘I would have thought that you would have risen to the challenge but I suspect that you realise that you are already beaten.’

  ‘Not at all,’ my master retorted, hot with an anger that I have rarely seen. ‘I remember, however, that the interests of justice require us to consider two lives; that of the victim and that of the murderer. We have to check everything carefully or we risk sending an innocent man to the gallows, something that I am loath to do.’

  With an incoherent oath the civil servant rose from his chair, pushed past your uncle and strode from the office. It didn’t take much imagination to see that there was trouble coming.

  The first fruit of this argument came in the shape of Sergeant Harris whom the odious Johnstone recruited as an extra adviser, an addition that I could see from my master’s scowl and the bureaucrat’s grin presaged even more conflict. As the growing tension on a summer day heralds an approaching thunderstorm so did the atmosphere in our little group get ever more electric.

  Harris was an ageing man who had passed the examination for sergeant at a relatively young age but just did not have the talent to become an inspector. If he had accepted his lot, he would probably have made a very good officer who might, through sheer diligence, have been promoted. Unfortunately, he felt slighted and became ever more obstinate and irascible as he saw those he felt were less talented promoted over him. This attitude of course destroyed any hope he had left of preferment.

  When people like your uncle were brought straight into the force as inspectors by Director Vincent they became the personal targets of his animosity. I could see very well that he was the perfect assistant for Mr Johnstone and I once more started pondering whether I could bite first in my master’s defence.

  Two days later we were all sitting in the inspector’s office of a new police station, snarling at each other in our accustomed manner, when the desk sergeant knocked on the door and announced that there had been a murder.

  ‘Oh good,’ Mr Johnstone exclaimed, leaping to his feet in excitement. ‘Thompson, this is where I prove that you are nothing but a bumbling amateur.’

  ‘Mr Johnstone,’ my master replied with an icy politeness. ‘For the last time, I warn you that I will brook no interference with a murder case. You would be well advised to leave matters to the police.’

  ‘Mere pompous bluster, Thompson,’ the bombastic bureaucrat replied. ‘You know that you cannot compete with me and are forced to resort to pathetic threats, veiled though they are.’

  ‘Believe what you will, it makes no difference.’ My master said dismissively before turning his attention to the resident inspector. ‘Now Graves shall we hear what your fellows have to tell us?’

  The story was quite simply told although Mr Johnstone’s annoying cross-questioning slowed matters up. It is my belief that everything he asked was designed not to aid our understanding of the proble
m but to highlight possible inefficiencies in the constable’s performance of his duty.

  Constable Howard had been patrolling his beat, which runs through a development of those new buildings euphemistically called villas, when a cry caught his attention. Looking around he saw a middle-aged man shouting and waving a stick to attract his attention.

  The constable walked over to the man who told him that he had just come home and had called for his wife. She had not replied and the cook said that she hadn’t seen her all afternoon. A quick search of the villa had revealed that the bathroom door was locked and there were no sounds from within. As he was somewhat lame, the man implored Constable Howard to open the door.

  Howard tried the door and confirmed that it was locked. Crouching down he determined that there was no key in the lock and noticed that some water had trickled under the door. There was also a strong smell of blood. Deciding that the matter was urgent he applied himself to the door and with three hefty kicks managed to break the lock.

  He entered the room and saw that the bath was full of a red liquid some of which had slopped over the sides wetting most of the floor. Constable Howard also observed that the window was slightly ajar and that there were bloodstains on the wall and sill that were starting to darken as they dried.

  There was no sign of a body. The colour of the water led constable Howard to assume that the victim had bled to death in the bath before the, nearly completely exsanguinated, corpse was pushed through the window. A dressing gown and some other clothes were piled neatly on a chair confirming that someone had been bathing.

  The constable ushered the man and an elderly woman, whom he thought was the cook, out of the room, observing as he did so that the bathroom key was hanging from a piece of string from the inside door knob.

  The cook was in a state of near collapse so the two men helped her to a seat in the hall before the constable went to the front door and blew his whistle. When another policeman arrived, Howard left him in charge of the villa and returned to the station to summon assistance.

  Constable Howard informed us that the man who attracted his attention was a Mr Arthur Beresford, a respected local ironmonger, who lived at the villa with his wife Mary, one maid and a cook.

  All things considered, the young constable had done very well indeed having taken the time to note most of the important details of the crime scene, to my master’s satisfaction and Mr Johnstone’s obvious vexation.

  The next step was obviously to go to the villa and inspect the crime scene in person so we all trooped down in two four wheelers; Inspector Graves with Constable Howard to do the investigating, Mr Johnstone and Sergeant Harris to criticise and your uncle to glare at Mr Johnstone. I also attended to support my master and to do any necessary barking.

  I will not bore you by recounting in detail our visit to the villa but will summarise the initial investigation. It suffices to say that at times the conflicting interests of the attending parties threatened to turn a serious process into a burlesque farce.

  Outside the bathroom window was a small border containing lavender bushes and some climbing roses. Some of the bushes were flattened and the ground around them had been disturbed. There were some traces of blood on the plants and it was easy to conclude that a body had been pushed through the window. I sniffed the disturbed ground but all I could smell was a heavy lavender scent, which later transpired to have come from bath oil rather than the plants. This odour was so over powering that it masked any other scents that might have been left by the killer.

  A path ran alongside this border down towards a back gate that opened onto a small mews. There were some physical signs, such as lavender leaves and small splashes of blood to suggest that the body had been carried down the path. At the back gate, the trail went cold leading the detectives to presume that the corpse had been loaded onto some type of vehicle. Local enquiries uncovered no eyewitnesses although a domestic in one of the neighbouring villas remembered hearing a van leaving the mews at about three o’clock.

  A careful search of the premises revealed no body and no obvious murder weapon. On being questioned, none of the villa's occupants could see anything missing, which ruled out a successful burglary.

  Mr Beresford said that he had left for work at his normal time of seven thirty that morning and had been in the shop until about two o’clock when he had left to make a few deliveries. He had returned soon after five to help his assistant shut up. The van, which is shared between several of the local businesses, is kept in a shed behind the shop where there is also stabling for the horse. The assistant, Tom Waring, lives over the shop.

  The cook, a Mrs Edith Morris, told us that Mrs Beresford had come to her in the kitchen just after lunch and told her that Mr Beresford wanted to have fish that evening; which exasperated Mrs Morris who had purchased chops when shopping that morning.

  As a result of this request the cook had had to go back to the shops and had left the house at about two. She said that she had called into a teashop for a drink and a gossip with a friend who she chanced upon. She returned to the villa some time around half past four and hearing no sound assumed that Mrs Beresford had gone for an afternoon walk. The first she had known of any trouble was when she heard Mr Beresford calling for his wife.

  The maid, a pert young woman called Jane Prentice, told us that she had prepared a bath for Mrs Beresford before she had left for her afternoon off. She left the house just before two and returned at about six thirty. It was Mrs Beresford’s regular habit to have a long bath on Jane’s afternoons off as she said she liked the sense of peace and tranquillity.

  When asked, Jane said that she had spent the whole afternoon at her mother’s house nearby. She also wanted to know when she could clean the bathroom, as she had to do it before she went to bed so that it was clean for her master in the morning.

  In short, we had a fascinating mystery that was obviously going to need a lot more investigating as we had no body, no murder weapon, no motive, no witnesses and no immediately obvious suspect. It looked like it was going to be one of our more interesting cases.

  It was approaching ten before we all left the house. Mr Johnstone and the odious Harris took their leave with the demand that we all assembled by eight the following morning. With the departure of the bureaucrat and his toady, the two inspectors decided to go for a late supper.

  While they were eating, they discussed the case and came to the conclusion that there were two reasonably likely explanations for the disappearance of Mrs Beresford. Firstly she might have been murdered by her husband and the body had been removed to frustrate the investigation. Alternatively, some unknown villain had seen the cook leave and spotting an open window had entered the property looking for something to steal but had been surprised by Mrs Beresford’s presence and killed her.

  In the first case, we knew that Mr Beresford had been away from the shop at the presumed time of the murder. What we had to do was to discover a motive and then secure any evidence against him. An examination of the van was clearly in order as well as painstakingly tracing his delivery round to see if he actually did have the opportunity.

  The second hypothesis looked rather weak because the removal of the body seemed to have been carefully planned and the inspectors could not see any logical reason why a sneak thief who had killed in the heat of the moment should court the gallows by burdening himself with a corpse.

  ‘The idiot, the unspeakably arrogant fool,’ shouted your uncle the following morning waking me from a short nap under the breakfast table.

  ‘Who, Sir?’ my master’s man, Short, enquired as he deftly served breakfast, ‘and what has he done?’

  ‘Johnstone, that egotistical lackey of the Home Secretary has not only made an arrest but has also got newspapers to report it. Listen to this.’

  There was a pause while your uncle flattened the paper then he began to read.

  ‘Missing body murderer arrested. It is indeed a rare thing for this newspaper to be able to repo
rt the arrest of a murderer before our readers are even sensible of the fact that a sensational murder has been committed. Which of our great detectives managed this feat of investigation? The answer shockingly is none of them. While Thompson, acknowledged by some as our best detective, was still flummoxed, Mr Johnstone, the high-ranking civil servant who has been reviewing the state of the detective force, solved the case in just eight hours. When asked why he had taken this somewhat melodramatic step, Mr Johnstone replied that he had to do something dramatic to “demonstrate the muddle and apathy that plague the police force” he went on to say that “although Thompson has a reputation for brilliance he is in fact a lucky amateur with no real talent for consistent logical thinking.”

  ‘This paper can reveal that Mr Arthur Beresford, of 57 Broadstairs Road, has been arrested for the murder of his wife Mary who was foully struck down while she was bathing.’

  My master threw the newspaper down and muttered a few choice Anglo-Saxon epithets. It was obvious that he was not in a very good mood and it occurred to me that the day was going to be very interesting.

  We arrived at the station in good time and found it seething like a disturbed anthill. Inspector Graves was, if it were possible, even angrier than your uncle. He ushered us into his office called abruptly for tea and then slammed the door before seating himself.

  ‘Richard, I’ve been here since four.’ He growled, ‘three and a half hours of good sleep lost because that arrogant bastard wants to show off.’

  ‘What exactly happened, Charles?’ my master said in a soothing tone.

  ‘Last night when they left the house, Johnstone sent a wire to several of the papers asking them if they wanted to witness the arrest of a murderer. They then sat in the Red Lion and waited for the hyenas of the press to arrive.

  ‘I heard from one of my constables who was drinking in the public bar that Mr Johnstone gave a short but inspired speech about the problems with our service before leading the whole pack of them to the villa. The odious Harris then arrested Mr Beresford and brought him back here.