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

by Robert Warr

  When we were out on the river Lieutenant Vaughn suddenly informed me that when we married I would have to dispose of Clara, as he was not going to have any dogs in his house. I protested only to be told that he was not prepared to discuss the matter. Appalled I looked round and saw James neatly rowing a larger boat that contained Lady Florence and two of the more elderly members of the party. I watched the way he rowed; the way his shoulders bunched with each powerful pull on the oars. I had not realised until that minute James was so strong. I think that you see the injury and are blind to everything else.

  Lieutenant Vaughn suddenly let out a curse, dug his oars deeply into the water, and pulled with such force that I had to grip onto the gunwale to stop myself falling. He had obviously seen me looking at James and had decided to make a point. I heard Lady Florence’s light, pleasant voice and looked round again just in time to see James take up Reginald’s challenge.

  I have never been in a boat race before and I must admit that it was exciting. Everyone in the other boats were either shouting or barking encouragement to one of the rowers. Although I encouraged Lieutenant Vaughn and urged him to win, I was not sorry to see James’ boat reach the edge of the picnic meadow a good five lengths in front of our own.

  The picnic meadow lies just within the Arlesford parkland and slopes gently down towards the river. The ground has been carefully sculpted with a half ring of low banks facing the river that provide some natural seating, these banks have been planted with camomile and the whole meadow is rich in wild flowers. Small trees have been nurtured to provide islands of shade even on the brightest days.

  The river widens at this point into a deep pool that is held back by a weir. In the summer, the amount of water flowing over the dam is reduced leaving a gentle relaxing background murmur. Below the weir the river is much shallower with a clear bank of gravel that I am told marks the centre of the ford after which the house is named.

  Part of the bank has been revetted so that boats can be easily moored. At the end farthest from the weir, the bank is lower and a gravel beach has formed that allows the dogs easy access to the water. The place is a little paradise and I felt my spirits lifting. Indeed, with sole exception of Lieutenant Vaughn, the whole party seemed to be more cheerful.

  A spectacular picnic had been laid out on tables under several of the trees. There were some chairs placed in small groups for the older folks while rugs had been spread on the grass by the river for the younger members of the party.

  It was left to Inspector Thompson to help me select my lunch from the myriad delights available because Reginald, in a fit of the grumps, had rudely helped himself first and then sat down on one of the blankets towards the edge of the circle. I was very tempted to leave him to his own devices and sit with some of the more vivacious youngsters but I reminded myself that I had asked for his inclusion in the party and I, therefore, had a duty to him. I also reflected that it was no wonder that he was out of sorts when most of the people present were being openly rude or ignoring him completely.

  It was thus with a slightly heavy heart that I sat down opposite him and started trying to make light conversation. After a few moments of scowling at me, he smiled and apologised for his rude behaviour, blaming his bad mood on the way he was being treated by the rest of the party. No one likes being cast in the roll of chief villain.

  He definitely made an effort to be sociable and included our immediate neighbours in the conversation. He soon had them smiling because, although most of his humorous remarks had a core of studied cruelty, they were very funny. When Reginald tries, he can be a devastatingly charming man and I could see several of the party, most notably the younger women, starting to treat him more favourably. I also enjoyed the looks of envy that one of the other girls kept directing at me.

  I think that the party would have been a success if Clara had not decided to help herself to a slice of cold meat from Reginald’s plate when he was seemingly concentrating on one of our neighbours’ anecdotes. He must have seen my puppy from the corner of his eye because, with a roar of rage, he leapt to his feet and scooped her up. Before I could comprehend what was happening he punted her into the deepwater by the weir. I struggled to my knees and caught at his arm only for him to knock me over backwards.

  As I fell I saw Snuffles race along the bank and then jump into the river. I was relieved because I could not see him letting my puppy come to harm. There was bedlam and I could hear the General telling someone to row out and help the dogs when a harsh, deep voice cut like a whip through the noise silencing everyone.

  ‘You unspeakable brute! How dare you assault a lady!’ James grated while using his cane to help himself stand up, ‘Vaughn you are a disgrace to your class, your sex and your country.’

  ‘At least I’m a whole man,’ Lieutenant Vaughn replied with a sneer moving towards the boats. ‘Sit down and be quiet or I will be forced to hit a miserable cripple.’

  The General barked something incoherent only for the dishonourable Reginald to remark that he was leaving anyway as he had endured as much as he could stand of ‘your common, Indian army inspired pleasures’.

  James dropped his cane and took two lurching steps towards Lieutenant Vaughn who, with an obvious contempt, went into a parody of a boxing stance. He was still laughing when James hit him with a rising right fist; just the one blow, but it was hard enough to lift Vaughn off his feet and over the edge into the water. My avenger swayed for a moment then caught his balance.

  ‘Someone please fish that creature out as he is polluting my river,’ the General ordered before asking in a more concerned tone, ‘Where are the dogs?’

  I looked at the river with a guilty start as I had forgotten Clara as the main drama had unfolded in front of me. Someone pointed and I saw a small bundle of fur go over the weir followed almost instantly by the strongly swimming Snuffles. There was a moment of stunned silence followed by a cheer as the dog was seen wading out of the river onto the gravel bank with Clara hanging from his mouth. He put the puppy down and we could see her staggering to her feet.

  Inspector Thompson charged fully dressed through the ford, water spraying up around him, and then dropped to his knees by Clara. He ran quick gentle hands over her and, apparently satisfied, turned his attention to Snuffles who was holding his right fore paw clear of the ground. He patted his dog and then, scooping up my puppy, the three of them forded back to the bank and up the path to the meadow.

  Two of the other men had pulled Vaughn out of the river and dragged him to the General who looked him up and down before turning to me.

  ‘Miss Fraser, everyone here saw this miscreant assault you and your dog. If you want I will have him arrested and as a local magistrate I can assure you that the bench will not be swayed by his position.’ The General paused then added a telling ‘this time.’

  ‘No thank you, General Thompson,’ I replied. ‘I would not want any breath of scandal to be attached to Arlesford. Just get rid of him as he has no place among decent people.’

  A protesting and very dishevelled Lieutenant Vaughn was dragged away by two servants who I heard later took a great deal of pleasure in throwing him through the gates followed by his luggage.

  I took Clara from Richard, and having assured myself that she was alright, looked round for Snuffles who I saw limping pitifully towards Lady Amelia, his left front leg dangling in a most pathetic way. Richard, seeing my gaze laughed and shouted delightedly at his dog, ‘you were limping on the other paw you silly hound.’ Snuffles stopped and looked at his master before resuming his interrupted hobble, only this time he was favouring the right paw.

  ‘Some times I think he understands everything I say,’ Richard said reflectively and, glancing up, I saw a strange half smile on the General’s face.

  I will not detail my conversation with James but it will suffice to say that I made my peace with him and the rest of the weekend was far more to my liking.

  See No Evil

  I had come down to
Arlesford for a long weekend with my uncle, partly for the pleasure of my relatives' company but also for a chance to think about some of the problems that were starting to confront me. To be blunt, my work for the government was not very interesting and did not provide enough stimulation to satisfy my needs.

  I was not the type of man who is happy to occupy a mere sinecure and I needed to find a satisfying occupation. It was with these thoughts in mind that I set off with Snuffles for a small walk round the estate before supper. For the first time I understood why my uncle had decided to become a detective. He was doing something that satisfied his need to work and his high altruistic motives.

  Our walk led us, eventually, as it normally did, towards the kennels where my Grandfather continued the family tradition of breeding the best ‘Springer Spaniels that a gentleman could own’. It was from one of the litters bred in this converted stable block that my uncle had chosen the young Snuffles.

  I was somewhat dumbfounded when I emerged from the walled kitchen garden into a small lane expecting to see a paddock between the old stable block and myself, and was instead confronted by a newly raised bank that surrounded a field of kale.

  Even allowing for the fact that I had not been down to the house for some time it was a surprising development, as my Grandfather is always rather opposed to change.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked rhetorically. ‘Has the General become a gentleman farmer in his old age?’

  I should have known better than to air any question in Snuffles’ hearing because he replied in a rather superior manner.

  ‘No, he had it planted for Pepper.’

  ‘Pepper?’ I echoed, completely at a loss. ‘Who is Pepper?’

  Snuffles looked at me and slowly lifted his ears in a pitying gesture.

  ‘If we wander over to the fish pond, I will tell you the story of what the newspapers dubbed the Hazel Brook Horror, while you enjoy a pipe.’

  I followed Snuffles’ suggestion since I am always ready to listen to one of his tales.

  When we were both comfortably settled, he lowered his head onto his paws and began.

  -----

  Hazel Brook Cottage is one of the tied cottages on the King's Stone Estate near Winterbourne Somer in Dorset. It is a lovely tranquil place that is completely unsuited to be the location for one of the most unpleasant cases we investigated. The cottage was occupied by Ben Fleming who was the kennel master and assistant head gamekeeper on the estate.

  One particularly fine June morning, one of the dairy maids, Elizabeth Cooper, who was engaged to young Fleming, took a small measure of fresh milk to her fiancé’s cottage. She did this every morning between the first milking and the start of the day’s other activities while the other dairy maids were eating breakfast. As she opened the cottage door, she felt a slight resistance followed by a roaring explosion.

  The noise and her screams brought other people running from the dairy and into the cottage where they found Miss Cooper sobbing brokenly by a chair where her lover sat dead, in what was described as a ‘diabolical machine’.

  It looked as if the young man had chosen to commit suicide in a particularly cruel and nasty fashion. As his shotgun had been rigged to fire when someone entered the cottage, he had obviously decided to die by someone else's hand and most likely that of his lover.

  When Inspector Hastings came on the scene, he was told of a bad lovers' quarrel and was left to draw an obvious conclusion. He spent the morning walking round the cottage, kennels and some old stables, then to everyone's surprise announced that he was calling the Yard in as a murder had been committed. Leaving several constables on guard, he then arrested Elizabeth Cooper and having photographed the scene with his own camera, arranged for the body to be taken to Dorchester for a post mortem. He then returned to his office and sent a long telegram to the Yard detailing the case and summoning assistance.

  Before we left London my master received a note from his superior telling him to clear up the case quickly as Lord Ballard, who owns King's Stone, had complained to the Home Secretary about 'heavy handed police incompetence'. This ‘instruction’ annoyed your uncle as he refuses to believe that justice should be for the personal convenience of the upper classes. His mood lightened considerably once we had left London behind and were travelling through the countryside.

  During the journey down, Sergeant Allen and my master discussed the outlines of the case as far as it was detailed in Hastings’ excellent telegram.

  Dorchester is, in its way, a perfect example of an English county town. There is a country sophistication, which, although mocked by some of the smarter Londoners, appeals to me. The people seem to be friendlier and more honest, although some would call them ‘simple’. Previous travels with my master had shown that the town is served by a good river with several very commodious swimming beaches, and the local bacon is without equal. I must admit that it was with a very contented tail wag that I alighted from the train, my mind focussed more on pleasure than duty.

  Sergeant Allen had arranged our trip with his usual efficiency and it was a simple matter to ask a porter to take our bags to our usual inn while we took a cab to the police station.

  As we approached the doors, we could hear that a loud argument was taking place in the station. ‘I know that voice’ my master said and, with a sudden quickening of interest, walked up the few steps into the building.

  A man in his twenties, and one of the local landed gentry by his clothing, was shaking a fist under the nose of a man at least fifteen years his senior.

  ‘I don’t care, Inspector,’ the young man shouted. ‘The girl is one of my father’s servants and I demand that you release her into my charge.’

  ‘That I can’t do, Sir,’ the older man replied calmly; his slow, even Dorsetshire accent seemed to irritate his interlocutor even more.

  ‘Of course you can man. Are you unaware of who I am?’

  ‘Yes Sir, I know that you are the Honourable Herbert Vasio, Lord Ballard’s heir. I also know that unless you stop waving your fist in my face I will arrest you for disorderly behaviour and you can explain yourself in court tomorrow.’

  ‘I am going to see my father, Inspector and after he has told the Chief Constable of your infamous behaviour to me I am sure that you will be removed.’

  With that threat the young man span on his heel so that he could stride dramatically from the station only to find that he was face to face with my master.

  ‘Richard!’ He cried stepping backwards in surprise. ‘Just the man I need.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Your uncle asked.

  ‘This bucolic idiot has arrested one of my father’s servants and I want her released.’ There was an arrogance about the young man that I found extremely distasteful. ‘He refuses to comply; as a Yard man surely you can order him to do what I require?’

  ‘Herbert, I assume that the girl in question is Elizabeth Cooper?’ My master waited until the young man agreed before continuing in a cold voice, ‘you seem to be labouring under several misapprehensions.

  ‘Firstly, just because you are the son of Lord Ballard you have absolutely no right to interfere in Inspector Hastings’ investigation. Secondly, if you, or your father, attempt to prejudice the Chief Constable against the Inspector I will be forced to remember your recent, infamous behaviour at Arlesford. Finally, I do not like bullies and if I see you ever threaten another police officer I will personally throw you into a cell.’

  The young man stood there for a moment, his mouth opening and closing like a stranded trout, before he muttered a curse and strode from the building in a towering rage. Seconds later I heard a horse squeal as he savagely kicked it into motion.

  ‘Inspector Thompson,’ the older man walked forward with his hand out. ‘Andrew Hastings, at your service.’

  My master introduced Sergeant Allen and myself. Once the pleasantries were completed, Hastings showed us through into his office and gestured for everyone to sit.

  ‘I am quite relieved that y
ou managed come down here so quickly,’ Hastings said casually filling his pipe. ‘I have already had a note from the Chief Constable as well as personal approaches from Lord Ballard and his charming son.’

  ‘What type of approaches?’ my master asked with a keen interest.

  ‘You were greeted with the son’s idea of diplomacy,’ the Dorset man said with a short laugh. ‘Lord Ballard sent me a note that said as the victim had obviously committed suicide there was no need to investigate the case.’

  ‘You doubt that Fleming killed himself?’

  ‘The blood pattern was wrong. Guns are common down here and I have seen several shootings, both suicides and murder, and the basic fact is that shotguns make a lot of mess. Blood flies everywhere in a characteristic spray pattern that can help in the solution of the case.

  ‘As soon as I saw the body I knew that this shooting was odd. Young Fleming’s chest had been blown apart but there was insufficient blood. I am quite convinced that he was already dead long before he was shot and I think that he probably bled out before he was put into that infernal device.

  ‘I left a Sergeant and two good men on duty, Inspector, but experience has taught me that crime scenes are somewhat vulnerable and the longer you wait the more likely it is that someone will have tidied up.’

  ‘Is that why your report states that you photographed the scene?’ my master asked, with professional interest, as photography is starting to be used by the City of London Police but has yet to be adopted by the Yard.

  ‘I always photograph the scenes of suspicious deaths and the corpses, both in situ and later at the mortuary,’ Hastings replied in a slightly lecturing tone. ‘Some of my colleagues and the local press accuse me of ghoulishness but I have found that photographs are very persuasive when you want to convince a jury.’