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

by Robert Warr

‘My Lord, I do think that you wrong your son,’ my master continued. ‘Please come and examine the device and tell me honestly if you think that Herbert could have constructed such a mechanism.’

  My master ushered Lord Ballard into the cottage and explained to him how the device worked and showed him the intricate and painstaking craftsmanship that had gone into making the latch mechanism.

  ‘Do you think that your son could have made such a device?’ my master asked bluntly, when they had finished

  ‘No, Richard,’ Lord Ballard replied with a shaky, but relieved, laugh. ‘My son is a young man of many accomplishments but even I would never say that he was practical. In fact, he makes a great point of leaving that sort of thing to the servants.’

  ‘There is a possibility that someone made the device for him,’ my uncle said. ‘I think that such a scenario is unlikely but we will have to disprove it.’

  ‘Richard, that mechanism would have been easily within Fleming’s ability. Why are you so adamant that he did not commit suicide?’

  ‘For the simple reason that the doctor says that Fleming was shot dead several hours before Miss Cooper triggered the device. The lack of blood in the cottage also indicates that he was killed somewhere else.’

  Further conversation was curtailed as someone pushed past the constable at the gate. Instantly, the Spaniels started barking again but this time the noise was more threatening. Looking up, I was unsurprised to see that the Honourable Herbert had arrived.

  The young man glared at the dogs and gradually the racket subsided. It occurred to me that Pepper was probably not the only one of the dogs who had been cruelly treated by the newcomer. My master did not seem to believe him capable of murder but having seen the maid at Arlesford and knowing of Pepper’s injuries I decided that a judicious bite was in order, a big one.

  ‘Still wasting time Hastings?’ the young man sneered at the Dorset Inspector. ‘Everyone knows that Fleming killed himself. Had a fight with his girl and then set things up so that he would die by her hand.’

  There was something in his tone of voice that made me believe that he was excited by the thought of such monstrous cruelty. I felt cold when I realised that when Lord Ballard died, this man would have all these good dogs at his mercy.

  This thought so worried me that I stopped paying any attention to what the men were saying as I tried to think out a solution. I knew that there must be a way of resolving the dilemma. The wisest course would be to consult Fielding when we returned to London as it looked like being at least a three-bone problem.

  I was woken from my deliberations when I became aware of an appetising smell of meat and some kind of meal. Looking round, I saw a kennel maid carrying a pail enter one of the runs. From the rapturous welcome she received, it was obviously feeding time. Lord Ballard waited until she had finished serving the dogs before he called her over.

  ‘Mandy, I am right in thinking that Ben treated Pepper more like a pet than a working dog?’ Lord Ballard asked her kindly.

  ‘Yes, My Lord,’ she replied with a quite pretty curtsy.

  ‘Would you be kind enough to fetch him for me?’

  The girl bobbed again and disappeared into the runs emerging shortly afterwards with a very handsome Springer. I watched as the dog followed her across the yard and, if I had not already known, I would not have guessed that he was completely blind. Although blindness is a disaster for anyone, it is not as bad for us dogs as it is for you humans because we are not as dependent on sight. Our noses have always been our greatest asset and looking at his twitching nostrils I knew that the other Springer was building up an accurate scent picture of the yard.

  We all looked at the blind Spaniel while the girl approached. He was as I have already said a handsome dog with a rich shining black and white coat. Pepper, realising that he was the object of our regard, raised his head and struck a noble pose. In so doing, he showed his lesser breeding because you would never find an Arlesford Spaniel who was that vain.

  ‘You are sure that this will help, Richard?’ Lord Ballard remarked slightly dubiously.

  ‘It might not work, but I think that it is worth a try. If Pepper can follow Fleming’s trail we may find where the murder occurred and there might be something there that will identify the killer.

  ‘There must be hundreds of trails leading away from here that all smell of the murdered man,’ Hastings interjected. ‘How do you get this dog to follow the right one?’

  ‘I have used Snuffles in a similar fashion several times and I have found that he normally follows the more recent trace, probably because it is stronger. We also know that the gamekeeper asked him to patrol Drayman’s Wood last night, so if you can point us in the right direction Lord Ballard, I think we will essay a trial.’

  Waiting only for Inspector Hastings to retrieve the lamps that he had so prudently placed in the carriage, we set out in the direction indicated. As we walked, I explained to Pepper exactly what my master was hoping to discover and he obligingly started to check the path. After a few false casts, which I believe were merely showmanship, Pepper suddenly barked quietly and nose to the ground started dragging my master after him.

  Once we arrived at the wood the trail meandered almost randomly through the trees and we stopped several times where boot marks and flattened grasses indicated that young Fleming had paused. At first, these stops puzzled me before I realised that they gave a concealed view of the paths into the wood.

  Suddenly, on the air, there was the unmistakable smell of human blood; I barked loudly and led the party along a small game track that seemed to lead towards it. The path dropped into a small valley and the blood scent suddenly became much stronger so I turned across the path stopping my master before he could disturb the crime scene.

  As the dusk was really starting to steal the light from under the trees, the three officers examined the ground with the aid of their lanterns. After a half hour of searching my master stood erect and beckoned to his colleagues to join him.

  ‘It seems obvious to me that an unknown assailant hid here,’ my master gestured towards a flattened area of bracken, at the top of the slope that was concealed from the path by a thin screen of brush. ‘He fired as Fleming climbed out of the valley and hit the young man directly in the chest. As the victim was hit, he convulsively caught at this hazel breaking off a branch before falling backwards and sliding part of the way down the slope.

  ‘The body was left in that position for some time, probably because Fleming was still barely alive and his assassin waited until he was dead and had stopped bleeding You can see where the blood flowed and how it puddled at the bottom of the slope.

  ‘There are marks in the soil near where the body must have lain that indicates that the killer knelt for a while before picking young Fleming up. I would say that the murderer was a strong man as he seems to have had no difficulty climbing the bank carrying the body’

  ‘I agree with you up to that point.’ Hastings interjected, ‘How did you come to your conclusion about his strength?’

  ‘A logical conjecture having looked at the ground,’ my master replied with a self-deprecating smile. ‘Young Fleming was not a small man but the murderer carried him easily, probably over one shoulder as he also had two shotguns to manage. If you look at the faint marks caused by his boots you can see that he climbed the slope with good length strides and there is no evidence of any slipping.’

  My master and Hastings moved a little of the way down the path and enjoyed a pipe and discussed the case. While the two inspectors were involved in these important tasks, Sergeant Allen quickly sketched out the murder scene and paced out the range at which the killer had fired.

  Pepper came and sat beside me, I tried to engage him in conversation but he seemed to be lost in thought. I decided to respect his silence and settled down to wait patiently for my master. I was lost in my own thoughts when I heard a sniff and then felt a breath of air as Pepper brought his muzzle up to my ear.

  ‘
Will your master catch the killer?’ he barked softly.

  ‘Yes,’ I answered full of a deep certainty. ‘He always tries to build a picture of a criminal in his head. Not only of their physical being but also of the emotions and motivations that drive them. Then he examines the people involved in the case until a suspect matches his mental image. Once he has a suspect he checks to confirm that they had the means, the motive and the opportunity to have committed the crime.’

  ‘Then he arrests them?’

  ‘No, Pepper. He then proves that they, and only they, committed the crime.’

  ‘There must be times when you, with your sense of smell, know who the villain is,’ Pepper observed after a few minutes thought. ‘What do you do then?’

  ‘If he obviously isn’t going to solve the crime on his own I tell him what I know,’ I answered baldly enjoying Pepper’s little woof of shock. ‘Not directly dog to man of course but subtly. I wait until he’s asleep and whisper in his ear or talk to him from behind fences.’

  ‘Good!’ Pepper exhaled with obvious relief, ‘for a moment I thought I was talking to a complete fool.’

  ‘Was there any reason for your questions?’ I asked, a bit coldly

  ‘Yes, Snuffles,’ Pepper replied, wagging his tail apologetically. ‘The place where my master’s killer hid smells strongly and only of Jackson, the gamekeeper.’

  ‘I’ll think of some way to point my master in that direction.’

  I stirred as Sergeant Allen approached the two Inspectors and settled down again as he too took out his pipe.

  ‘Can you smell those lovely, decaying leaves?’ Pepper suddenly asked.

  I inhaled and nodded, as I smelt the intriguing scent of thoroughly rotten vegetation.

  ‘We are close to a small pond that has good mud and rotten leaves,’ Pepper said wistfully. ‘Ben used to let me swim in it even though I would sometimes get coated in good, smelly mud.’

  ‘Come on, show me!’ I barked excitedly, jumping to my feet. ‘A swim will do us good.’

  Wilfully ignoring my master’s clear commands to stop, I followed Pepper down a narrow path and soon found my self in a good, if rather small pond. While my friend stayed close to the edge, where he could still stand, I swam across the pond delighting in the feel of the cool water through my fur. I reached the far bank and was about to go back when I smelt the sharp unnatural smell of exploded powder.

  The smell was very faint and I thought that it was an old cartridge that some human had casually discarded when reloading their gun. It is a smell that one often comes across in woods and it was only idle curiosity that led me to sniff my way towards it. I stopped suddenly as I realised that there was an underlying scent of oil.

  I carefully moved towards the twin smells and realised that they were coming from a stick that lay partially in the water with about two inches resting on the bank. Something was definitely wrong. I sniffed the stick, caught the scent of steel, and instantly knew that I had found a gun. Putting back my head, I started howling, knowing that my master would come to me.

  Several minutes later, he carefully picked his way round the side of the pond and shone his light towards me. With a sudden exclamation, he knelt down and pulled the gun out of the water. It was an odd thing; most of the stock had been cut away as had much of the barrel to leave what was in effect a rather long and unwieldy, single barrelled shot pistol.

  ‘What has he found?’ Sergeant Allen called from across the pond.

  ‘A sawn-off, muzzle loading shot gun, probably about 20-bore,’ my master exclaimed. ‘From the way it was lying when Snuffles found it I would say that someone had attempted to throw it into the pond but had ever so slightly overthrown, so that just the tip of the barrel ended up on the bank. Who ever threw it away would have seen a splash and probably thinks that it is safely out of sight.’

  ‘Probably the murder weapon then,’ Hastings remarked with satisfaction as he came round the pond from the other direction. ‘I will have this pond dragged tomorrow just in case there is anything else to be found.’

  It was with a sense of satisfaction that we made our way back to the kennels. As we walked, the detectives discussed their plans for the following day. Although we had the murder weapon, it obviously belonged to a poacher and, for understandable reasons, they tend to be reticent about their guns.

  The two inspectors decided that the only way forward was to circulate a description of the gun in the hope that someone would identify it. Meanwhile, all the known poachers would be questioned about their activities on the night in question. It was frustrating to listen to their plans since I knew that they were barking up the wrong tree.

  The guilty man, being the gamekeeper, would of course be central to my master’s enquiries as the obvious expert on the local poachers. Mr Jackson would not initially be suspected; guilt, however, does place a man under tremendous pressure. It was, therefore, highly likely that he would do or say something that would trigger my master’s suspicions. One of the strangest things about police work is the fact that many villains are convicted through their own words or deeds. There is something about murder, perhaps a subconscious desire to be caught, that makes murderers, in particular, prone to this; they assume that their guilt is obvious and either confess or attempt to misdirect the investigation.

  It occurred to me that rather than telling my master of Jackson’s guilt, perhaps I could somehow tell the gamekeeper that the game was up. When a seemingly innocent man suddenly runs, it normally means that he is guilty of something.

  We reached the kennels with the intention of returning to Dorchester for the night and Inspector Hastings was in the process of giving some final instructions to the men, he was leaving to guard the cottage, when a kennel maid approached us.

  ‘Begging your pardon, Sir,’ she said bobbing slightly to my master. ‘Lord Ballard’s compliments. He wondered if you and your colleagues would join him for a cold supper at the Inn.’

  ‘My thanks to Lord Ballard,’ my master replied giving the girl a coin. ‘Please tell his Lordship that we will join him directly.’

  ‘I must admit the thought of a bite to eat is rather appealing,’ Inspector Hastings enthused as the girl hurried away. ‘In all this afternoon’s excitement, I quite forgot about refreshments.’

  It was with good humour that we made our way into the village towards the buzz of noise that marked the inn. I noticed that my master was carrying the gun casually under his arm; having found a piece of evidence, he was not going to risk losing it.

  The inn was crowded and a fair number of men had spilled outside with their drinks. It was obvious that the events of the day were the major topic of conversation and most of the villagers were there willing to offer their own theories to anyone who would listen. It was a crowded heaving bedlam that became noticeably worse when we were spotted and the villagers started calling out questions to the inspectors.

  The landlord heard the racket and, emerging from the inn, escorted us through a common hallway and into a comfortable private parlour. Lord Ballard, who was seated by the hearth, rose and greeted us. My master propped the gun in the corner of the room and the men got down to the serious business of demolishing a fine cold supper.

  I looked around quickly and decided that his Lordship was probably the most likely of the men to respond to my begging. All it took was a small whine and a paw to the knee and he started automatically feeding me. It was good to see that some Spaniel had not neglected Lord Ballard’s training. It was an excellent meal with fine Dorset ham among other delights.

  The men discussed the case but Lord Ballard was unable to make any helpful suggestions although he did promise that he would ask his estate workers to co-operate with the investigation. He was examining the gun when one of the serving maids entered the room. She gasped loudly enough to draw our attention.

  ‘Isn’t that…’ she blurted out before stopping herself.

  ‘Do you recognise this gun?’ Lord Ballard asked, holding
it out for her to see it better. The girl paled but shook her head and backed away from the table.

  ‘Come here!’ My master ordered her and she reluctantly approached the table again.

  ‘I believe that you know who owns this gun and I want you to tell the Inspector.’ Lord Ballard’s voice had a new firmness and it occurred to me that he was probably a local magistrate experienced in handling reluctant witnesses.

  The girl shook her head again. Her mouth tightly shut as if, by muscle power alone, she could prevent herself from uttering a damning name.

  ‘You know who owns this gun,’ his Lordship spoke slowly but with an iron certainty. ‘You also know that we will catch him. I can only conclude that you are deliberately shielding him in the hope that he can make good an escape. I will ask you one more time. If you refuse to answer I will order your arrest and tomorrow morning I will commit you to the assizes as an accomplice to the murder of Benjamin Fleming.’

  At these last words, the poor girl’s eyes rolled upwards and she collapsed in a dead faint. Lord Ballard gently picked her up and placed her in a comfortable chair then rang the bell to summon the landlord.

  ‘Damn it, Richard,’ Lord Ballard said sorrowfully. ‘I just wanted an answer; not to scare the silly girl half to death.’

  ‘While you were questioning her she kept glancing, I thought, towards the door,’ my master observed. ‘At first I thought she was looking for a means of escape but it occurs to me that the owner of that weapon might be drinking in this inn and she wanted to warn him. Whatever we do, everyone in the village will soon know that we have this gun. I propose to try a very direct approach. I do not think that we have anything to lose and perhaps much to gain.’

  My master stood up and holding the gun casually under his arm led the way out of the parlour. To my surprise, he led us straight into the public bar, every eye turned towards us and the room quickly became quiet. Reaching into his pocket with his free hand my master produced a golden coin that he nonchalantly flicked into the air where it seemed to hang for a second, glinting, before falling back into his hand.