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

by Robert Warr

  Realising that all hope of stealth had been lost the General brought a hunting horn to his lips and, standing on the terrace, blew something that sounded more like a cavalry charge than a hunting call. Bedlam ensued. The peace of the night was banished as a cacophony of barks, bellows, howls and shouts, interspersed by hunting calls from those who like the General had horns, erupted from the maze.

  I pitied the poor villagers who found themselves in the maze and could see, in my mind’s eye, the approach of twenty or so Spaniels, compressed by the hedges into a heaving carpet with many bright flashing eyes. I think this sight must have led to a sudden unearthly scream from the middle of the maze. From my vantage point, I could see some of the hedges start to move violently as if a sudden unstoppable rush of water was flowing past their stems.

  A figure suddenly came through the top of the hedge nearest the house and tumbled to the ground. As he got to his feet, I could see that it was a young man, his clothes rather rent and tattered probably by his passage through the hedge. He shook himself and started running towards the safety of the house but, seeing the General on the terrace, checked and turned towards the lake and the shrubberies.

  With a crackling noise, a Spaniel came through the hedge in much the same place as the young man; first one dog, followed closely by two more and then, as that part of the hedge gave way, a seeming torrent of them. The dogs looked up, saw their prey fleeing across the lawn, and with happy barks the pack launched itself in pursuit.

  As the first dogs reached him, the young man turned at bay, terror plain on his pale features. It looked as if he expected to be torn to pieces and for a second I was horrified by what I might witness.

  The Arlesford Spaniels, with the probable exception of Snuffles, have never been taught to attack anyone or have ever experienced the need, thus a running man is not quarry but more a toy to be enjoyed. The first dogs in their exuberance started jumping up and I saw the man stagger and then fall to his knees before with a last despairing scream he was enveloped in dogs.

  It is a curious thing that when they play Spaniels have a tendency not only to run round each other but also over and under, on rare occasions seeming to form a ball of playful animals. With all of them wanting to play with the man, they quickly formed a spherical heaving mass around him. I had just realised that I was looking at the largest Spaniel ball that I had ever seen when it started moving slowly away from the house.

  The lawn at Arlesford slopes gently down from the house to the lake and I realised that the ball was very gradually rolling down this slight incline. As dogs came out of the rear of the ball, they turned and launched themselves back into it accelerating the motion. The frenzied sphere was travelling quite quickly when it came to the edge of the lake and rolled into the mud and water.

  If I had believed the dogs to be excited earlier I was proved wrong as they really forgot themselves and started chasing each other, the man and any sleeping waterfowl all round the lake. Less than a minute later Richard arrived and offering the man his hand hauled him from the lake. I have never seen anyone more thankful to be arrested.

  That was over half an hour ago and the Thompson men are still extracting Spaniels from the lake. Glancing from my window, I can see James by the lake with my struggling and very dirty Clara in his arms. Both dog and man are very wet and covered in mud. They are also both very happy and I ache with jealously that I am not with them.

  The Case of the Flying Cat

  MY grandfather and uncle waited patiently as I read my father’s letter for the third time and then sat staring at the empty fireplace at Arlesford. Eventually I put the letter down and turned to face my relatives. I tried to think of a clever quip that would simultaneously display my great sangfroid and incredible maturity, unfortunately a mumbled ‘Er hum’ was the best I could manage.

  ‘James, I know that your father’s letter and my decision are a lot to accept instantly,’ my grandfather said, taking pity on my tumbling thoughts. ‘Why don’t you take Snuffles for a long walk, throw some sticks for him and smoke a pipe or two. Then when you come back we will discuss your decision over lunch.’

  I started to say something but realising that I needed time to think thanked him for his courtesy and calling to Snuffles left the house and headed towards my favourite stretch of the Arle where I intended to sit and ponder.

  I wandered along the bank and threw a few sticks into the water for my companion, a simple activity that always brings me to a state of easy tranquillity. After a while I sat down, loaded my pipe and leaning contentedly against the trunk of a willow watched the world pass by.

  The proposal that my Grandfather had put to me no longer seemed to be such a vast undertaking and I realised that as a Thompson I could make only one decision if I wanted to retain my self-respect. I smiled happily, as I realised that I would have something meaningful to do with my life rather than just fulfilling my sinecure as an Inspector of Coastal Fortifications.

  ‘You look remarkably happy,’ Snuffles said as he lent himself companionably against my legs, both of us unmindful of his damp fur on such a gloriously hot summer’s day. ‘I perceive that you have come to a decision.’

  ‘Yes my old friend I have, although I don’t think that I had any real choice in the matter,’ I laughed happily at the world. ‘The General is very good at organising things.’

  ‘He would not have made you the offer, James, if he was not convinced that you are the right man for the job.’ My friend paused thoughtfully for a few moments then continued, ‘well, if not exactly the right man for the job at least a promising puppy who, with some intensive training, may prove to be barely adequate.’

  Stung by this unwarranted attack on my character I started up only to see that Snuffles was laughing at me. I also realised that he was right and there was a lot to learn but I would have the best of teachers. There would be time enough, however, to think on the future at lunch.

  ‘Snuffles, my father casually mentions a Reverend Bullock in his letter, is he the retired clergyman who is living in the Old Mill House?’

  ‘Indeed he is,’ my companion replied with a lifting of the ears. ‘He was an unexpected responsibility that your Grandfather dealt with earlier this year. I don’t suppose you want me to tell you his story?’

  At my eager assent, Snuffles settled himself comfortably and began.

  -----

  Our association with the Reverend John Bullock began late one very wet April evening when there was a frantic knocking on the door of my master’s Barker Street house. We heard Short answer the door and from the sounds, he let someone in and told them to wait in the hall. Moments later Short came into the library.

  ‘Begging your pardon, Sir,’ he said bluntly. ‘We have a visitor and I think it would be better if you came into the hall.’

  Short having been my master’s servant in the army is a competent and very sensible man of proven ability. When he makes a suggestion, my master has found that it is usually common sense to comply.

  We followed Short into the hall where an elderly man conservatively dressed in a long coat was sitting slightly hunched over in a chair, his right hand pressed against his ribs. On the ground beside him there was a black leather Gladstone bag. A raincoat and a wide brimmed hat were on a stand dripping water onto the neat tiles of the floor.

  Two scents arrested my attention instantly, that of blood and that of a strange cat. Our visitor heard us enter the hall and raised his head, then started to stand. It was with a mild shock that I saw that he was wearing a dog collar and that his right hand was shiny with fresh blood. This situation looked interesting since it is not everyday that a freshly injured clergyman turns up on the doorstep of the country’s finest detective.

  My master rushed to the elderly man’s side and eased him back into the chair. It was obvious that, as well as being in quite a lot of pain, he was suffering from the cold and wet.

  ‘Let’s get him into the kitchen,’ Short suggested practically. ‘It�
��s the warmest room in the house and Cook is a very experienced nurse.’

  ‘Good Idea. Go and warn her whilst I help our guest.’

  My master helped the elderly man to his feet but not before the clergyman had reached down with his left hand and clutched the handle of his bag with what looked to me like a despairing grip. Our visitor could walk although he was obviously unwell, and we made it into the kitchen without mishap.

  The elderly man sighed gratefully as he was helped into a chair by the fire and sat placidly while the Cook put a large kettle on the stove and started sorting out bandages and ointments from her store.

  ‘Well, Reverend. From the way you are holding yourself and the amount of blood on your clothes I’d say someone had knifed you,’ she said coming over and looking at our guest. ‘It’s a real disgrace that scum should think to attack a man of the cloth like that. If you will allow the Inspector and Short to help you remove your jacket and shirt we will see what needs doing.’

  ‘No, please,’ the elderly man said weakly brushing off my master’s hand.

  ‘None of that now, Sir,’ Cook said briskly. ‘I know what I’m about. Not only was I a nurse when younger, but I’ve dealt with the Inspector’s injuries oftener than I care to recall.’

  ‘No, please,’ our patient said again, waving his hand at his bag. ‘Make sure Tiger Moth’s not hurt first.’

  My master knelt down and opened the Gladstone bag. He reached in and gently removed a small spotted cat who chirruped gently as he laid her on the hearth. She looked around anxiously, but having seen the elderly man sitting nearby, sat down and curled up in front of the fire.

  ‘She seems to be perfectly fine,’ my master laughed helping our visitor off with his jacket. ‘Although a little bit damp and, from the bagginess of her skin, slightly undernourished although I suspect that is a side effect of her long voyage.’

  ‘You must be Inspector Thompson. I am so glad to have found you,’ the elderly man replied as his waistcoat was removed. ‘How did you know that we have come a long way?’

  ‘Simplicity itself,’ my master replied with a laugh. ‘You have a deeply pronounced tan that only years living in the tropics achieves. That, coupled with the luggage label on your bag that reads Bombay to Portsmouth, suggests a recent long voyage. The air holes punched in the bag indicate that your cat has travelled with you.’

  By this time, my master and Short had removed our guest’s upper clothing and revealed a nasty gash on the left hand side of his chest. Cook stepped forward and closely examined the wound having cleaned the worst of the blood off.

  ‘Inspector, in my opinion someone has stabbed this man,’ she said in a matter of fact tone that belied the anger I could scent emanating from her. ‘I think they intended to stab to the heart but something caused them to miss and the knife turned on a rib and ripped through the skin. It is a nasty wound but not nearly as serious as it looks.’

  My master looked quickly at the wound and then stepped back so that Cook could get on with the serious work of treating the cut. He walked over to the dresser, removed a bottle of brandy, poured a generous measure into a cup and brought it over to the patient. I half expected the elderly man to refuse the drink but he drained it without complaint.

  The cut was obviously going to need more than bandaging but the elderly man bore Cook’s treatment stoically as she first thoroughly cleaned and then deftly stitched the wound shut. While Cook was working, my master sat on the end of the table and told the visitor how he had met Short while they were both serving in India. He spoke of the places that he had served and some of the people he had met.

  When Cook had finished our guest was helped into one of my master’s old dressing gowns. Having put away her medicines Cook started bustling round the stove preparing ‘good sweet tea to fight the cold and shock.’

  ‘I know that you must be very tired but I would like to hear what happened to you,’ my master said as he pulled up another chair so that he sat facing our guest across the hearth. ‘For a start, I do not believe I caught your name.’

  ‘My apologies, Inspector,’ our guest sounded embarrassed. ‘I am John Bullock and until I retired I was serving my church as a minister in India.’

  ‘As you surmised, I am Richard Thompson and these good people are Mr and Mrs Short who do for me.’ My master smiled reassuringly at our guest, ‘could you tell me what happened to you and how you fortuitously ended up coming to this house?’

  ‘If you feel that you are too tired at any time just tell the Inspector,’ Cook admonished as she bustled over with a saucer of warm milk for Tiger Moth. ‘Your story could easily wait on the morrow.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Short,’ Reverend Bullock replied sounding rather tired. ‘I think that I might sleep better if I told my story tonight, then if anything untoward happens someone else will know the truth.

  ‘As to why I came to you Inspector when I was in trouble? That is the easiest of questions to answer. I met your brother Colonel Frederick just before I left for England. He told me that if I should ever require help I should contact either you at 221 Barker Street or your father at Arlesford House.’

  ‘Why would my brother think that you needed help?’

  ‘Simple, Inspector, I told him about my treasure and he wisely said that what gives me simple pleasure would be seen as others as a quick way to a large fortune.’

  ‘Your treasure?’ My master leaned forward and smiled. ‘From the way you speak I do not think that you had ever viewed it as having a financial value. What is it? Some Indian artefact or other?’

  ‘Inspector, let me tell the story at my own speed, that way I will be sure to leave nothing out.’ Our visitor’s face lit up with a sudden mischievous grin, ‘and don’t worry, you will see my treasure.’

  It is a strange thing but whenever there is any mention of treasure humans always seem to start hanging on every word. For most of them I think the interest is purely financial, but for men like my master I think that treasures normally represent a historical puzzle and it is the love of knowledge, not wealth, that beguiles them.

  My train of thought and our guest’s narrative were interrupted by a sudden loud meow from outside the area door. Obediently, Cook turned away from the stove and opened the door so that Fielding could enter the kitchen. The cat who entered was not the usual impeccably turned out feline but rather one who looked like he had been thrown into the Thames. With a small compassionate noise, Cook reached for a towel that she reserves for his Lordship’s especial use and I watched with some amusement as Fielding submitted to her attentions.

  ‘Good prowl?’ I woofed mischievously.

  ‘No!’ he hissed, and, looking at the glare in his eyes, I decided not to press the conversation or my luck.

  Now I should have realised that there was going to be trouble but Fielding has always been a tolerant animal and has never shown any aggression to the various other cats who have come into the house or garden. Fielding turned towards the hearth and stopped dead. His ears went backwards and his claws extended.

  ‘My saucer! My milk! My fire!’ he yowled, hurling himself across the room towards Tiger Moth who was contentedly finishing the last of her milk. Short threw himself forward but just missed Fielding who clawed him in passing.

  The smaller cat turned towards the yowling monster, who was speeding across the kitchen towards her, obviously intent on mayhem. She crouched and sprang clearing her would be assailant with ease. As she leapt, the skin on her sides flared out and I heard the gasps of astonishment as her wings carried her safely to the top of the dresser. Fielding, head turned to watch her flight, collided noisily with the milk saucer and meowed once in acute embarrassment.

  ‘Tiger Moth’s my great treasure,’ the Reverend Bullock said simply into the silence, his voice warm with the affection he felt for his special, little cat.

  ‘Fielding, her pet came for our help,’ I barked sharply at my friend. ‘I’m surprised that you, a great champion of the weak, sh
ould react like that.’

  ‘I was in a bad mood and wanted to whack something,’ my friend admitted. With all the dignity he could muster looked up at the small cat and meowed a handsome apology before removing himself into the shadows under the dresser. The little cat chirruped in reply and, spreading her wings, glided down onto her human’s shoulder.

  The Reverend Bullock lovingly rubbed his cheek against the little cat’s side and smiled before continuing his narrative. ‘One evening about eighteen months ago there was a knock on the door of my study and my servant entered. There was, he said, a woman of the lowest sort who desired to see me. My servant would have taken it upon himself to turn the woman away except that she had a gift for me; a present that she would give only to me and would not entrust to a servant. I told him to show her in and with a very poor grace he ushered in a poor local woman.

  ‘My saucer! My milk! My fire!’

  ‘I had treated the woman and her children several years earlier when they had been very ill with one of the local diseases. The youngest child especially was very close to death when I intervened but within a few days all of the family were well on the road to recovery. I do not claim to have any great medical knowledge but I realised that with the mother’s illness, the family was not eating or drinking and they were in danger of dying from a minor ailment that anyone in good health would just ignore.

  ‘I tried to get one of the local women to nurse the family but they refused to help. I asked why and was told that the woman was not only of very low caste but was also unworthy as her husband had left her. As no one else would help, I took on the job of nursing the family myself and, as I said, they all recovered.

  ‘The woman asked me why I, a Sahib, was prepared to nurse her family and I explained to her about Christianity and told her that to Our Saviour the poor and meek are of equal worth to the most exalted. She listened well and soon after her family had recovered, they asked me to baptise them. I then arranged for her to be given a job at a larger mission station some twenty miles to the North, where there was a school for native children.