by Robert Warr
Mrs Harvey, a well-respected widow, had been engaged as the Reverend’s housekeeper and cook while her granddaughter had been employed as his maid. I noticed that Ben and Millie, two of the house pack, had also taken up residence with the retired cleric.
As you know, the Old Mill House stopped being used as a mill when the Rear Admiral built the Triple Mill. Although the wheel was removed when the mill was converted into a dwelling, the millpond and the sluices are still maintained as they form part of the head waters for the newer mill that stands about a hundred yards down stream.
The Triple Mill’s two undershoot wheels are still connected to milling equipment but the General has had the overshoot wheel converted so that it pumps water from a well to the water tower on Clerance Hill. The miller is Mrs Harvey’s son-in-law, which means that he is quite aware of anything that happens at the Old Mill House.
The General had also taken the precaution of telling the more prominent village residents that the Reverend Bullock had run into some trouble in London and they were to be wary of any strangers who asked after him. It was obvious that the General had taken every step to ensure the Reverend’s security without taking ostentatious measures that would have only generated unhelpful gossip.
Unfortunately, we were not at Arlesford when Williamson and an accomplice attempted to steal Tiger Moth and, although we went down to the estate the following morning, the local Policeman, John Stockman, had already dealt with the incident in an exemplary fashion.
It was on a Tuesday afternoon when two men who called themselves Harris and Williams arrived in the village and took rooms at the Arlesford Spaniel. Harris told the landlord that they were successful businessmen from London who had come down for a few days fishing. As they had rod cases with them, the landlord accepted their story at face value.
After the evening meal, the landlord introduced his guests to the water bailiff who accepted their fees and explained which stretches of the Arle they could fish. Although the men were pleasant enough and bought a pint for the bailiff he was surprised at how little they asked him about the river. As he remarked to the landlord later that evening these were the first anglers he had met who were more interested in the estate than the fish.
The landlord kept an eye on the two men, as he would for any of his guests, throughout the evening. The longer he watched them the more uneasy he became. For a start they were not interested in any of the fishing memorabilia displayed on the walls of the inn, not even in the plaster model of the record trout that the vicar had caught a few years earlier and all genuine anglers wanted to know where that monster had been landed. Although they spoke with the villagers, the pattern of the conversation sounded wrong. After a while, the landlord realised that although the two men were buying drinks for some of the villagers, there were none of the bursts of laughter that you expect to pepper relaxed conversation. The landlord became convinced that they were fishing for information.
On the pretence of sorting out a problem in the cellar the landlord took the girl who was serving drinks for him to one side and asked her if she knew what it was that so interested their guests. She replied with a laugh that Harris was asking after an old friend of his wife’s, a Reverend Bullock who had retired to the Arlesford area; fortunately she had remembered the old man who had moved into the Old Mill and had been able to point them in the right direction.
Remembering the General’s warning, the landlord quietly left the inn and went to the Police House where he told Constable Stockman of his suspicions. Our long-suffering policeman put his tunic on again and cycled to Arlesford House where he informed the General.
I am reliably informed by the house dogs that the General immediately sent several of the strongest servants to the Old Mill and had the Reverend Bullock and his household brought back to the big house on the grounds that an ounce of prevention is better than a pound of cure. Once his guests were safe, the General left the house and with the willing help of the Gamekeepers set up an ambush near the Old Mill.
Ben tells me that it was about four o’clock when the two ‘anglers’ made their appearance. The General waited until they had forced a window before springing his trap. I believe that it was a wild and quite nasty arrest with the Gamekeepers, who have come to like the Reverend Bullock, using unnecessary and quite reprehensible levels of violence to subdue the intruders.
Williamson, who gave his name as Williams, as if anyone would be misled by such a simple stratagem, was quite well armed and it is the General’s opinion that he intended to revenge himself on Reverend Bullock as well as stealing Tiger Moth.
The other man who called himself Harris turned out to be Nathaniel Holt, the proprietor of a well-known freak show. Both men were sentenced and sent to Dartmoor where they are enjoying long sentences with hard labour.
-----
‘Snuffles,’ I said when it was clear that he had finished speaking. ‘You said that Tiger Moth looked like a jungle cat but how exactly is she marked so that I will know her if she isn’t flying when I see her?’
My friend raised his head off his paws and looked at me for a few seconds while he considered my question.
‘It’s simple if you remember this little verse,’ he said eventually
‘With tiger stripes and leopard spots,
And markings like an ocelot’s,
A tail with seven lemur rings,
And soft and silky spotted wings.’
‘Come on, Snuffles,’ I laughed with simple pleasure and pulled myself to my feet. ‘I think that if we hurry we should get back in time for lunch and I do not want to keep my grandfather waiting for an answer.’
‘There is no need to hurry then,’ Snuffles said smugly as he headed towards the river for a quick swim. ‘He already knows that you will agree.’
‘How?’
‘He asked me what you would decide,’ Snuffles replied over his shoulder. ‘As you are a decent, straightforward puppy there never was any real doubt.’
An Understanding?
An extract from a letter to Mr and Mrs Fraser of Boston, Massachusetts, written by their daughter, Isobel, in London.
PA, I was very pleased to receive your recent letter and I am very glad that you have forgiven my outrageous childishness and are willing to allow me to come home. Your letter has left me in something of a quandary because I do not want to appear to be ungracious. I do not think, however, that I should hurry to return to Boston at the moment.
I discussed my problem with Great Aunt Emily and she agreed with me that it would be quite impolitic of me to remove myself from British Society at a time when we both feel that I have good prospects.
Sir Henry Thompson has informed the family that he is starting to feel his age and he, therefore, wants to pass on the day-to-day management of Arlesford to a younger man, while he concentrates on his Spaniels. Everyone expected the he would name Frederick, but his son has declined the honour and does not intend to return from India. This means that it is James who will inherit Arlesford on the death of his grandfather.
Yesterday James made a special trip up from Arlesford, ostensibly to have tea with his Aunt Mary. As he was leaving the house, James asked me if I would mind if he wrote to you, Pa. I believe that he has another question in mind.
You Can't Keep a Good Dog Down
THE dog's howl cut through my sleep and had me instantly awake. I opened my eyes and made out a dark shape standing on my bed. Totally disorientated, I flailed out with my hand and managed to hit the light switch. The light revealed a large Springer Spaniel standing on my bed.
'It's only a Spaniel,' I muttered as I allowed my head to sink back into my pillows. As I closed my eyes, I reflected on the folly of allowing a dog to sleep on your bed the night after watching a horror film.
I felt a cold nose touch my ear and squirmed away from it. Then at a range of less than an inch, the dog howled again. I sat bolt upright with my hand clapped to my ear and waited for the ringing to stop. I suddenly remembered that
I didn't have a dog. I glanced towards my bedroom door and saw that it was open. Sometime in the night, someone's dog had entered my room.
I live alone and I knew that I had locked all the doors and windows before going to bed. How had a dog entered my house? The implications of this question brought me fully awake because there had been a spate of vicious late night robberies on country properties in my area, robberies where the victims had been treated with incredible brutality.
The dog nudged me with his head and whined. I instinctively put my arm round his shoulders. My hand touched a medallion hanging from his collar so I looked to see who he was. The medal was simply inscribed with 'Snuffles’ written on the obverse and 'Thompson, 221 Barker Street' on the reverse.
I got out of bed and put on my dressing gown as I pondered the problem of the dog. There wasn't a Barker Street anywhere in the area so he had to belong to a holiday maker. The dog seemed to be quite eager to be let out so I had every hope that he knew his way home.
I was reaching under my bed for my slippers when I clearly heard a voice. The voice was muffled and had a strange growl to it. 'Where’s the safe Granny?' It said, 'Tell me or my friend will have to ask, and he isn't nice'.
My heart seemed to freeze. The owner of the voice had to be browbeating my neighbour, and for me to be able to hear him he must have been really shouting.
My neighbour, Mrs Brewer, is a widow in her eighties. She lives in an old farm house, which along with a few old outbuildings is all that remains of Mere Hall Farm. My cottage, once tied to a farm worker's job, is situated to one side of her front drive. There is easily one hundred yards between our dwellings and I am by far her nearest neighbour.
I entered my spare bedroom and peered through the window. The lights were on in her house and there was a strange van parked in the yard. Forgetting the dog, I ran back to my bedroom and scooped up my telephone.
The emergency switch board answered on the third ring and I was transferred to the police with commendable efficiency. I quickly passed on the pertinent information and I was told that a car would be there within fifteen minutes.
Fifteen minutes seemed to be a very long time. Mrs Brewer is a frail old lady and I knew from my visits to her house that she did not have much of value. If the people in her house were the ones responsible for the recent attacks then she was in trouble. What could I, should I, do?
The Spaniel's quiet barking from downstairs brought me out of my musings. Dealing with him gave me something to do while I wrestled with myself. I must admit I was scared. I also knew that I had to do something. The simplest thing to do was to go downstairs.
The dog was standing scratching at the back door. I unlocked it and let him out. I fully expected to see him run off down the lane back to whichever campsite or hotel he had come from, but he ran a short way up the drive towards Mrs Brewer's house. He then stopped and looked back at me. Without any conscious thought I left the safety of my cottage and went towards him. As soon as the dog saw that I was following, he raced on towards the house.
It is probably only a side effect of adrenaline, but that night was strange. All my senses were at their sharpest. I could hear the faint rustling of birds in their nests but I think that the two of us were soundless as we raced up the drive.
On reaching the end of the drive, the dog swerved and ran into the barn. I followed and found him sitting by the shadow of some old hurdles. I turned back towards the house and was about to leave the cover of the barn when I seemed to hear a faint voice telling me to hide. I crouched down beside the dog just as a pair of men came out of the house carrying an old bureau. They placed the furniture in the van and then walked back to the house.
'The old bitch is hiding something,' one of them said. 'I'll ask her where the safe is once more. If she won't tell me, I'll cut her.'
'She's scared witless already, ' the second man replied. 'If you frighten her any more she'll die on us.'
'What does that matter?' the first man asked rhetorically. 'It isn't as if she had anything better to do.'
With that, they disappeared back into the house.
The dog gave another quiet bark. As soon as I looked at him, he leapt to his feet and started running towards the house. Unfortunately, as he left the barn he knocked against an old pitchfork, which started to topple. Fearful that the sound of something falling would attract the men I snatched the pitchfork up.
The dog paused at the front door and allowed me to catch up. Standing just outside the house I once more heard one of the robbers.
'You have ten seconds granny. If you haven't told me where your jewellery is by then, I’ll cut off one of your ears.'
With a growl, we entered the house. Whether the growl came from a human or a canine throat I could not tell you. Whomever growled spoke, I knew, for us both.
The dog raced down the passageway and vanished into the sitting room. There was a sudden scream and a pain-racked voice started shouting for help.
I entered the room to see Mrs Brewer tied to a kitchen chair. There were two men standing behind her. All three of them were staring at the third man who was trying to shake the dog off his right wrist. From the amount of blood running down his hand it was obvious that the dog had a very good hold.
The door from the hall entered behind the chair to which Mrs Brewer had been tied. No one in the room, therefore, noticed my entrance. The nearest man to me stepped towards the dog and raised some type of machete. I just could not let him strike down such a noble beast. I shouted, I forget what, it may just have been a wordless shriek of rage. There was a moment’s silence and then the machete armed thug spun towards me and slashed at my head.
All three of them were staring at the third man who was trying to shake the dog off his right wrist.
It was purely instinctive and I swear that I was just trying to ward him off, but the tines of the pitchfork sank into his chest and he sagged to the ground.
There was a moment of silence. Then in the distance we could hear the faint sound of a siren. The dog must have relaxed his grip because the man tore his arm free and ran, closely followed by his remaining companion. I made no move to stop them; I seemed to be paralysed by what I had done.
Once again the barking of the dog brought me to my senses. I saw him standing by Mrs Brewer's chair nosing at her bonds. Her wrists had been secured with an industrial plastic binder but I managed to cut through it with a small kitchen knife.
The dog went up to Mrs Brewer and, by placing his front paws in her lap, he reared up to lick her face. Mrs Brewer hugged him tightly and started crying.
'Snuffles,' she said. 'Thank you.'
There was something so touching about the scene that my eyes watered and I brought up my sleeve to dab the tears away. When I looked back, the dog had gone.
'Where is he?' I asked.
'He's gone back to his master,' Mrs Brewer said.
'Mr Thompson?' I asked, remembering the dog's medallion. 'Does he live near here?'
Mrs Brewer shook her head slowly.
'Lived, young man lived.' She said and noticing my puzzlement continued. 'Mr Thompson was my great uncle. He retired to this house from Scotland Yard, having been injured on duty. His elderly Spaniel, Snuffles, retired with him. I was a very young girl when I first came here and the Inspector told Snuffles to look after me.'
'How do you know it was the same dog?' I asked, privately thinking that Mrs Brewer was suffering from some kind of dementia.
'My great uncle was an artist.' She replied. 'He painted Snuffles several times. I have lived with those paintings all my adult life, so of course I know the dog.'
Seeing my scepticism, Mrs Brewer pointed at a painting on the wall. It was a good watercolour that clearly showed the same Spaniel nose to bill with a swan. I looked at the title and read. 'The Local Informant, 1895'.
At that moment, the police arrived.
The Local Informant, 1895.
About the Author
The Author was born in t
he South of Africa on New Year’s Day, a fact that was reported in the local paper. This was his last brush with any type of fame.
A good education was followed, eventually, by an engineering degree, and having tried the army and the police force (as a reservist in both cases), he went into the world of industry. This industrial career was mercifully cut short following an accident while playing cricket in India. As a part of his physiotherapy, he started writing again and found a satisfaction in fiction that no management meeting could ever match.
Having had animals all his life the Author lives in Bournemouth and is currently owned by a Bengal who graciously shares his time with a Labrador and a ginger tom.
Snuffles is loosely based on a wonderful Springer called Cassie who was the original snuffle hound.
More information on my work and the forthcoming novels can be found on my website at:
http://laughinglabrador.webplus.net
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