Let Loose the Dogs

by Maureen Jennings

  “As a matter of fact, I wasn’t just out for a stroll. I am on a case.”

  “Is that so, sir? What kind of a case might that be?”

  “I’m a detective and, er, I have a private client. He’s lost his dog. That might not sound too serious to us, but he’s an older gentleman and very attached to the little creature.”

  Murdoch wasn’t comfortable lying, he never was, but he forged on, trying to sound as convincing as he could.

  “He claims that he knows the name of the man who nabbed the dog. This fellow came by offering to do some handiwork; then the next thing he and the dog had gone. Pouf! He, my client that is, is offering a generous reward, and I am of course only too happy to pay for a person’s time and information.”

  “What makes you think the dog is anywhere in this vicinity?”

  “To tell you the truth, my client is a man of the Fancy. He likes to gamble. He trained the dog as a darned good ratter. He is convinced that’s why this man stole it, so he could enter it in some matches. He’d heard that you could pick up a game or two at the Manchester.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I’m not trying to fish out information from you, believe me. I’m dead against the gambling laws. If grown men want to wager, why shouldn’t they?”

  Lacey shrugged. “It don’t matter to me.”

  He was panting a little with the burden of carrying his child. He pried her away from his chest and put her on the ground, but she clung like a limpet to his trouser leg, another thin wail came out of her. She was wearing a white hooded cape of rabbit fur that looked too big for her. Murdoch crouched down and tried to meet her eyes, but he had to talk to the back of the hood.

  “Hello. I’m sorry if I frightened you back there. I didn’t mean to.” There was no response, only a muffled whimper.

  Lacey scooped her up again. “She’s not afeard; she’s shy. Don’t get to see many strangers.”

  He didn’t speak until they were on the path, but Murdoch’s gesture seemed to have mollified him slightly.

  “When did your client lose his dog?”

  “A while ago. In the summer as a matter of fact. He’s been out of the country and hasn’t had a chance to look before. He said the man who took it gave him a name. Me, I doubt if it’s his real name, but he said it was. Merton, no that’s not right. Murdoch. Harry Murdoch.”

  He felt the shock that jolted Lacey, who frowned at him, trying to read his expression.

  “Is the name familiar?” asked Murdoch.

  “Might be. Was the dog a scrubby little grey terrier?”

  “I believe it was. He named him Havoc. Have you seen it around?”

  “I have that.”

  “With this man? He’s a tall cove, middle-aged. Thinning hair, brown eyes.”

  “The dog was in the possession of such a person. He’s not now.”

  “How so? Did he sell him?”

  They were almost at the top of the hill.

  “The man you’re talking about, this Harry Murdoch, he showed up here in August, but he murdered a man and if you want to talk to him you’re going to have to go to the Don Jail because he’s in there. The dog is being looked after by Mr. Newcombe, the innkeeper. He’ll probably be only too glad to get rid of him.” Lacey seemed in a hurry to end the conversation and quickened his pace. As they approached the tavern, he said, “We don’t open till five, but the missus will always find you a bite to eat. I’ll let her know. You can sit in the taproom if you want. Mr. Newcombe keeps a good fire going.”

  He pushed open the door, and they stepped into a small, dimly lit hall. There was a delicious smell of roast pork in the air. Lacey set Sally down and pulled back her hood. Murdoch glimpsed a pretty child with dark eyes and wavy hair, but she noticed he was looking at her and she averted her eyes in fear.

  “Come on, Sally. Don’t be so mardy. We’re going to see Maria.” Lacey’s voice was impatient, and Murdoch saw how the child withdrew from the harshness of it. “Go through there,” he said to Murdoch, indicating the door on the right. Then he hurried off down the hallway, almost dragging the little girl.

  Murdoch went into the taproom, which seemed to be the entire establishment. The plank floor was covered with sawdust, which smelled newly laid. Along both walls were wooden benches with tables in front of them, and at the far end of the room was a hearth that looked big enough to roast an ox in. The fire was blazing, and he headed straight to it so he could warm his cold hands. On the mantelpiece was a fancy black marble clock with a brass plate at the bottom inscribed with lettering he couldn’t make out. He pulled out his watch to compare the times.

  “That’s ten minutes fast, sir,” said a voice behind him. “I keep it that way because my customers tend to linger.”

  Murdoch turned around. A stout man in a publican’s leather apron was standing in the doorway. Physically he resembled a jovial Friar Tuck, but the expression in his eyes was anything but benevolent.

  “I understand you’re in search of a dog?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  The innkeeper stepped closer. Lacey was behind him, and Murdoch could see that he was holding an iron poker in his hand. He wasn’t smiling either.

  Chapter Eighteen

  NEWCOMBE WHISTLED AND IMMEDIATELY a small dog trotted out from behind the Chinese screen that was across the corner of the room by the fireplace.

  “This is Tripper,” said Newcombe.

  The dog was black-and-tan coloured, smooth coated, and her full dugs indicated she was suckling a new litter. There was a high-pitched chorus of squeals from behind the screen as her pups protested her absence.

  “Say hello to our guest, Trip,” said Newcombe.

  The dog approached Murdoch and began to sniff at his trouser cuffs. He decided not to move and waited until she had finished her inspection. She walked all the way round him then came in front, sat, and offered her paw. Newcombe laughed with delight, and Murdoch saw with relief that Lacey lowered his poker.

  “She’s accepted you,” said the innkeeper. He clicked his tongue at the dog, and she turned and jumped into his arms, licking his face as if they’d been parted for months. He held her close against his cheek, crooning to her.

  “How’s my girl? How’s my little mother?”

  The question seemed to remind her of her duties because she wriggled free, jumped down, and hurried off, disappearing behind the screen.

  “D’you want to see the pups?”

  Murdoch nodded. Lacey was still at the doorway, but the tension in the room had lightened considerably. Newcombe moved aside the screen sufficiently for Murdoch to see the basket where Tripper was lying on her side while four puppies rooted at her teats, sucking vigorously. She looked up at the two men, but their presence didn’t seem to disturb her and she gave another polite wag of her tail.

  “She’s a good mother is Tripper. This is her third litter. Big one this time. These dogs don’t usually have more than one or two at a time.” He replaced the screen. “We’ll let her get on with it. She likes you,” he added, and Murdoch felt absurdly pleased.

  “She’s a Manchester terrier, I take it. And you’ve named your tavern after her.”

  “One and the same.” He indicated the bench closest to the fire. “Come and have a seat. Would you be hungry?”

  “I am indeed, and that smell makes me salivate.”

  The innkeeper nodded to his man. “Bring him a plate, Walter. He’s all right.” Lacey left and Newcombe turned back to Murdoch and held out his hand. “I’m Vince Newcombe.” He spoke in an English dialect of some sort. Not Cockney but like that.

  “Williams, at your service.”

  “Is that your real name or one for now?”

  Murdoch was taken aback. “I, er …”

  “Come on, sir. I’m no green fool, neither is my man. You’re after telling us some kind of whopper. Walter thought you was a nark, but I always trust Tripper when it comes to being a judge of character. Never fails. She can tell if a man is lying
, and she can smell fear a mile off.”

  Aware of how he felt when the two men had first come into the room, Murdoch considered Newcombe’s faith in his dog was misplaced, but he just grinned.

  “Walter tells me you’re a private detective and you’re looking for a stolen dog, but that don’t make sense. Nobody would wait four months to go looking for their dog. Besides, Harry Murdoch was here more than once with that feist. He didn’t steal it.” He laid his forefinger along the side of his nose, cocking his head. “I know what you are. I knew the minute I clapt eyes on you, you weren’t no frog. Thems a shifty lot. I can always tell them. I bet you’d be with the newspaper. The man you mentioned, Harry Murdoch, was convicted just two days ago. The papers are probably after stories. You’re a newspaper reporter.”

  Murdoch shook his head, preferring to keep as close to the truth as he could. “No, I’m not.”

  Newcombe looked as if he was prepared to argue the point. “You’re sure about that?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “There’s no dog owner, I gather?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t think so. I’ve got the dog myself. There wasn’t anybody else to take of it. But he’s a lot like his master is the pity, as mean as a snake. Bit me twice, almost killed one of the puppies when it wandered too close. I’m thinking of getting rid of it. I was just waiting to see the result of the trial.”

  Newcombe got up, went behind the screen, and emerged with one of the puppies. He put it on the floor, and it moved unsteadily towards him. He took a spindle of rolled paper from the mantelpiece and started to wave it under the puppy’s nose. The little terrier pounced on the paper, and Newcombe jerked it out of the way just in time. “Hey, my fellow, a chip off the old block, aren’t you?” He dragged the spindle again but this time he wasn’t fast enough, and the pup grabbed it and tossed it into the air. Newcombe looked over his shoulder at Murdoch.

  “Well, are you going to come clean? You’re not a nark. You’re not a reporter. What are you then?”

  “I really am a detective, but I’m working in a private capacity. I’ve taken on a client who wants it proved conclusively one way or the other that Harry Murdoch was guilty.”

  “Ah, working for the family, are you?”

  “Yes, you could say that.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Anything at all that relates to the case.” He grinned. “What Tripper’s assessment of Harry was? What’s your opinion? Anything.”

  Newcombe sat on the hearth bench and bent over his own round stomach to play with the pup, dragging the spindle in front of him making growling noises. Murdoch waited.

  “This investigation? Are you planning to do it honest? You’re not just interested in smearing somebody else’s good name, I hope. Throw dirt to confuse things.”

  “There is no point. I just want to know conclusively if Harry Murdoch murdered John Delaney.”

  “The twelve good men and true who sat on the jury said he did. What are you going to find out that they didn’t?”

  “Perhaps nothing, but at least I’ll have tried.” “For the family?” asked Newcombe, giving him a disconcertingly shrewd glance. “Yes, for the family.”

  For the second time, the innkeeper offered his hand. “Shake on that. I like loyalty. What have you got if you don’t have family? By the way, is your name truly Williams?”

  “Close enough.”

  “Ask away.”

  “I’ve read the record of the trial, and I know what happened, or what was said to have happened. Like I said, I’m interested in your own opinions.”

  “My opinion is that the man is guilty. He got himself drunk and lost his temper. I know I shouldn’t say this, seeing as I earn my living as an innkeeper, but I’ve seen men take their liquor in every kind of way you can imagine. Some old codgers become sweet and loving as babes when they’re full. Nocky farm lads become philosophers; lawyers act like fools. Men who in daily life are affable as can be turn into savages who’ve forgot every Christian principle they ever knew. They’d cut your throat soon as look at you.”

  “Would you consider Harry one of that sort?”

  “I would. When he’d got to drinking, he was ready to pick a quarrel with the good Lord Himself if He was by.”

  “And when he wasn’t drunk?”

  “Can’t say he stayed sober long enough for me to tell. Quiet I suppose. But it’s interesting that you say you’re working for his family. We did have a long chin back in April. I like to get to know my customers. I knew he was a widower and that he’d been a fisherman out East, but he never mentioned any family.”

  Murdoch couldn’t resist. “He didn’t talk about a son? Or a daughter?”

  “Never said a word. Acted like he was all alone in the world, but he does have relations, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  Newcombe teased the puppy again. Murdoch let that go on for a while.

  “What about John Delaney? What kind of drinker was he?”

  “He never took too much that I saw.”

  “You don’t seem to have a category for that.”

  Newcombe checked to see if Murdoch was making fun of him. “No, I don’t.”

  “You’d describe him as a good man then. Without any enemies?”

  Murdoch registered the second’s hesitation in his host. “None that I’m aware of. He paid his debts when he had them without bellyaching. He’s got a good little feist though, so he rarely lost a match.”

  “What was Harry’s reason for killing him?”

  “Surely that’s obvious. He’d lost the match. He was close to winning, but his dog choked at the last minute. A brooder that man. Terrible sore loser. He started accusing everybody of cheating him. None of it true. I run those matches clean as a revival meeting. His motive? Aggrievement. It’s happened a hundred times before and will happen again as long as men are men. Dogs aren’t like that. You’ll never find a dog holding a grudge.”

  Murdoch headed him back to the issue.

  “As I understand it, Delaney wasn’t found for almost two hours. The accused man says he was passed out all that time. Didn’t come to until he was being arrested. Could somebody else have come down the ravine path, had a barney with Delaney, then scarpered off under the railway bridge to Yonge Street? It would be so dark and woody down there in August, nobody would have seen him. Or them for that matter. Doesn’t have to be just one person.”

  Newcombe pursed his lips. “I suppose that is a possibility, but I don’t know who that could be. Everybody who was here is accounted for.”

  “A stranger? Somebody who wasn’t at the match?”

  “Not likely is it? You’ve seen the trial record you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you must know that there was a whole pile of evidence against your man. As far as I’m concerned, he was proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, as they say.”

  He picked up the puppy, who had suddenly fallen asleep across his shoe. “Is that it then in the question department?”

  “Any personal opinions about the other men, especially Mr. White, who never appeared to give witness?”

  “Tripper liked all of them. Oh, she barked at Mr. Pugh at first but soon took to him after that. Mr. White struck me as a swell young man who would go to great lengths not to be mixed up with anything sordid. But I don’t see him as a murderer.”

  “Not even in the heat of a quarrel?”

  “In the heat of a quarrel I wouldn’t swear for any man. Scratch this pup and you’re not far from the wolf. We men aren’t that much different.”

  “And the others? The Craigs? Mr. Pugh?”

  “Good men one and all. Corinthians as Mr. Craig calls them.”

  “And none of them change character when they’re full?”

  But that joke had gone too far, and Newcombe frowned. “Moderate drinkers all of them. Mr. White, too. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see what’s keeping Walter with your meal.”

 
; The mantel clock began to bong out the hour. Halfway through it slowed down, wheezing like an old man. Newcombe walked over, took a key from underneath the clock, inserted it into the back of the clock and turned it a few times. With a great deal more vigour, the clock finished out its task.

  “In terms of this investigation, as you call it, you don’t have a lot of time, do you? The man’s due to be executed on Monday morning.”

  Murdoch was surprised by the intensity of his own reaction. “I know,” he said.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE INNKEEPER SOON CAME BACK carrying a big tray. “Here you are, and I want this plate licked clean.”

  Murdoch wondered if he should bark a response. There was a large plate on the tray, loaded with succulent pork slices dripping gravy. The potatoes and cabbage were an afterthought. Newcombe put the plate in front of Murdoch and plopped down a mug brimming over with dark beer.

  “The brew is homemade. It’s on the house.”

  He stood to the side of the bench, arms folded across his paunch, and watched with satisfaction while Murdoch tucked into the food with many appreciative noises. Lacey was right; this was the best he’d ever eaten, even surpassing Enid’s rabbit stew.

  “Speaking of dogs, you might be interested in these photographs.” Newcombe indicated the series of framed pictures that lined the mantelpiece. “This is Mr. Mahogany, my all-time champion. Died just last year at the ripe old age of thirteen. I put him to Tripper time before last. He was her grandfather, and I thought they’d produce a fine litter. Only two pups though, both stillborn. I suppose the poor fellow was too old.”

  Murdoch regarded the photograph, a black-and-tan dog, with ears pricked, head alert, looking out to the side of the picture.

  “He looks like the dog on your sign.”

  Newcombe was pleased. “I painted that sign myself, using Mahogany as a model. Turned out pretty good if I do say so myself. All my dogs are purebreds. I can trace Trip’s lines back through five generations. Best ratters you can ever hope to find. Here, look at this.”