THE CURIOUS AFFAIR OF THE THIRD DOG
Patricia Moyes
FELONY & MAYHEM PRESS • NEW YORK
To my sister,
Barbara Nicholson,
who is the RSPCA representative in a village which is nothing like Gorsemere
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS A beautiful day in May, and the fresh sunshine of early summer danced over London, working that familiar magic that paves the dourest of the city’s streets with gold—or at least pinchbeck—and transforms parks and squares into enchanted gardens. Outside Buckingham Palace, severe, dumpy Queen Victoria became a fairy princess, as the sunshine dazzled off the white marble of her sugar-icing memorial, and in Trafalgar Square young lovers held hands beside the splashing fountains, lost in their private Arcadias.
The sunbeams were even making an impudent attempt to penetrate the dirt-encrusted glass vaulting of that most austere of railway stations, Waterloo. They had no real hope of success, but their influence was there in the light, bright clothes and laughing voices of the travelers. Not even the sonorous tones of the train announcer, alternating with a hideously blaring version of the Skaters’ Waltz booming over the loudspeakers, could disperse that lightness of heart and step which comes to London on the first real day of summer.
Emmy Tibbett felt it, as she stood at the open window of her compartment on the 1:45 P.M. to Guildford, Farnham, and all stations to Westmouth-on-Sea. She was aware of a ridiculous, heady excitement, out of all proportion to the occasion. After all, she was not off on any great adventure—just going to spend a fortnight in the country with her elder sister and brother-in-law. Women in their forties, she told herself, had no right to feel like ebullient schoolgirls at the end of the term; and even as this thought occurred to her, another part of her mind riposted—“And why not?”
Henry, her husband, had sacrificed his Wednesday lunch hour to come and see her off, and was now standing on the platform, afflicted by the distressing dumbness which always sets in at such moments. Everything necessary, and quite a lot that was not, had already been said; and still the train did not move.
“Give my love to Jane and Bill,” Henry said, for the third time.
“Of course I will.”
Silence descended again. Henry looked at this watch. “You should be off any minute now.”
“Don’t bother to wait, darling.”
“No, no. I’ll stay and see you off.”
“After all, I’m not going forever. We’ll see you at Gorsemere on Friday evening.”
“Barring emergencies,” said Henry.
“Don’t forget to ring and let us know which train you’ll be on so that Jane can meet you.”
“I won’t.” Another endless pause. Then doors slammed, a whistle blew, and the train began to move slowly out of the station.
Immediately, a host of vital instructions, as yet unspoken, crowded into Emmy’s mind. “Leave a note for Mrs Harrison about the laundry!” she shouted.
“What laundry?”
“And tell Madge I can’t lunch on Thursday!” But it was too late. The train had gathered speed, and was racketing out of the cavernous station and through the sunlit suburbs, heading southwest.
Henry smiled, waved—and then turned away with a small, affectionate sigh. He made his way to the Underground and embarked on the short but inconvenient journey which would spew him out above ground within walking distance of his office in Scotland Yard’s new building in Victoria Street.
***
As he sorted through the papers on his desk, Chief Superintendent Henry Tibbett reflected on the basic dreariness of his job. The glamorous cases, the ones which had brought him a certain celebrity and which people always wanted to hear about, were few and far between; many of them had arisen not in the course of his ordinary work, but because of the flair, which his colleagues called his “nose,” which so often prompted Henry to smell out something fishy in an apparently innocent situation.
Between these oases of interest and excitement stretched the deserts of routine: the domestic quarrels erupting into violence; the drunken brawls outside sordid public houses, which ended in the flash of a knife, the pounding of fleeing footsteps, and a body bleeding to death in the gutter; and, most boring and least savory of all, vicious squabbles within the criminal fraternity—a bunch of uniformly unpleasant characters who, by definition, resorted to violence more readily than other people.
In most of these cases, there was no element of mystery, no doubt at all about the identity of the killer. The distraught husband or wife seldom denied the crime. The scared, suddenly sobered-up youths were easily traced. And as for the avowed crooks, there was nearly always an informer ready to sell out an associate to the police, if the price was right.
Henry sighed, and thought wistfully of the classic murders of fiction: the aristocratic house party, neatly cut off by snow or floods to limit the number of suspects; the multiplicity of unlikely motives and opportunities; the tortuous investigations of the amateur sleuth; and the final dénouement, in which the murderer turns out to be the elderly, gentle maiden aunt—beloved by all, but unmasked as a subhuman fiend in the final chapter.
Gorsemere, now—the little Hampshire village to which Jane and Bill Spence had retired—that would make a good setting for just such a story. The aristocratic house party would have to go, of course—although there was that chap, Sir Somebody Something, who lived in a biggish house; but the village was certainly close-knit, everybody knowing everybody else. The only trouble was that people didn’t get murdered in places like that. Or if they did, it was a case of Joe Soap coming home drunk and hitting his wife harder than he meant to. No chance of a mystery. The whole of Gorsemere would know every detail long before the police were even called in.
At any rate, thought Henry, let’s hope none of them start murdering each other next weekend. He was tired, and looking forward to a couple of days of relaxation in the country—well away from London, well away from crime.
***
On the train, Emmy relaxed and gave herself up to pleasurable anticipation. She was fond of her elder sister, Jane, and her brother-in-law Bill. She considered them with affection as the wheels thudded rhythmically down the iron way.
Jane Blandish had met and married Bill Spence during the Second World War, an unbelievable thirty-plus years ago. Bill was in his early thirties then, and had left his father’s farm in Dorset to join a famous infantry regiment. He had been commissioned just before the wedding and sent overseas just after it. Emmy still had the wedding photographs somewhere—Jane in a square-shouldered, short-skirted suit and a ridiculously perched hat with a veil, clutching a posy of carnations and gazing up adoringly at Bill, who looked ill at ease in his new khaki uniform. Emmy herself stood behind Jane, beaming complacently in trim Air Force blue, with the two stripes of a corporal on her arm—it was before she had become an officer in the WAAF. The two sets of parents were sharply contrasted—the London-based Blandishes as chic as wartime shortages would allow (Emmy remembered how her father had wanted to unearth his morning suit and top hat and been thwarted by an outraged Jane), and the Spences, bluff and four-square, exu
ding an aura of wide acres and newly ploughed earth. The whole group had the air of slightly frenetic gaiety which characterized such occasions in wartime. The shadow of the swastika hung over all of them.
Ironically, the uniformed members of the Services—Emmy and Bill—had survived. So had the elder Blandishes, who had resolutely refused to leave London, even during the worst of the bombing. But in 1943, a low-flying German sneak raider, bent on destroying a south-coast radar station, had made a mistake and dropped its bombs on the Spences’ quiet Dorsetshire farmhouse. They had both been killed as they sat eating their lunch in the big, red-tiled kitchen.
After the war, Bill had come home to what was left of the farm. He and Jane had worked hard to rebuild the farmhouse and get the land working again. Jane—blonde and pretty and vivacious and apparently a city sophisticate—had taken to country life like a duck to water. Soon she was even more the complete farmer’s wife than her late mother-in-law had been. She had always loved animals, and before long she had her own small poultry farm and would tramp out to the cowsheds at night to help to deliver calves, while her kitchen frequently harbored ailing newborn lambs, not to mention the numerous cats and dogs endemic to a farm.
Well, all that was long ago. Now, the greatly enlarged farm was being run with computerized superefficiency by Giles and Hamish, the Spences’ two sons. Their young daughter Veronica, born after the war, had long since moved to London, where she continued her successful career as a fashion model, in spite of the fact that she was married and had a baby son of her own. Emmy smiled as she remembered how determinedly Jane had refused to be shocked by an enormous photograph of Veronica on the Daily Scoop fashion page, eight months pregnant and showing off the latest thing in maternity wear.
“I must confess, though,” Jane had said to Emmy on the telephone, “that I’m relieved we’ve moved to Gorsemere. People here are very much with it—we’re on the edge of commuter-country, after all. I can’t think what they made of it back in Dorset.”
For Jane and Bill, feeling that it was rather late for them to learn the new tricks of modern farming, had handed the farm over to the younger generation and retired to a comfortable, red-roofed, white-painted cottage in the village of Gorsemere, in Hampshire.
Retirement is supposed to present all kinds of problems—too much leisure, lack of interests, and so forth. As far as Emmy could judge, it had brought nothing but happiness and fulfillment to the Spences. Bill, a keen golfer, was working hard to reduce his handicap. He was also a lay magistrate, a member of the Parish Council, chairman of the Gorsemere Wildlife Conservation Society, and secretary of the local gardening cub. Too much leisure was not his problem.
As for Jane, she still had her house to run, which is a full-time occupation, especially with a man around the place all day. In addition, as well as her voluntary charitable works in the village, she had what she proudly called her job. This was the position of full-time, salaried representative of the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. Her telephone was the busiest in the village.
It was shortly after three o’clock when the train pulled into Gorsemere Halt. Emmy was the only passenger getting off at the station. Soon—between five and seven o’clock—the London trains would be disgorging their dark-suited hordes of commuting businessmen, and the little station yard would be full of comfortably opulent cars driven by comfortably opulent wives meeting their husbands; now, however, Jane’s slightly battered green station wagon had the place to itself. Jane herself was just climbing out of the car as Emmy, lugging her suitcase, emerged from the station.
“Darling—so sorry I’m a bit late… Mrs Denning’s cat has had kittens again and she kept me for hours on the phone about finding homes for them…why she can’t have the animal spayed, I don’t know…here, give me that case…” Jane kissed her sister briefly on both cheeks, and then opened the back of the station wagon and swung in the heavy case with the practiced ease of a countrywoman used to hefting weighty loads.
“You’re looking marvelous, Jane,” said Emmy sincerely. “Retirement suits you.”
It was true. Jane, in her fifties, had hardly a gray hair in her honey-blonde head, and—as Emmy acknowledged ruefully—she had kept her tall, slim figure apparently effortlessly, in contrast to Emmy’s continual running battle against overplumpness, Jane’s pale blue linen trouser suit was certainly appropriate for the country, but it was in no way reminiscent of a dowdy farmer’s wife. Her total acceptance of rural life had not obliterated her flair for wearing clothes to their best advantage, and Emmy knew that Jane, in old blue jeans and a T shirt, could look better dressed than many women who bought expensive clothes and contrived to make a mess of them.
Jane grinned. “It certainly does,” she said. “I’ve never been so busy in my life, nor has Bill. We both adore it. By the way, Bill’s sorry he couldn’t be here to meet you—it’s his turn today to sit on the bench and dispense justice to local drunks and erring motorists in Middingfield. How’s Henry? Have you seen Ronnie and the baby recently?”
The drive back to Cherry Tree Cottage, the Spences’ house, was pleasantly filled with exchanges of family news. Emmy gazed with deep pleasure on the gentle summer landscape of dappled fields, leafy woods, and flowering gardens. The village of Gorsemere itself was typically attractive without being in any way a showplace. The village green, with its Victorian stone horse trough and ugly but touching war memorial, could be duplicated in a dozen neighboring hamlets. The gray stone church dated from the nineteenth century, and was no architectural gem. The small houses around the green were mostly of pleasantly mellow red brick, with the exception of a row of hideous council houses built in the thirties of cheap, jaundiced brickwork. Even these, however, had been softened by the passing years, and their unregimented gardens, bright with rhododendrons and dahlias, helped to create an effect of pleasing smugness. The one building which had some claim to distinction was the White Bull—a black-and-white timbered structure, leaning at several interesting angles, which had been a coaching inn on the main London road in the old days when the latter passed through Gorsemere. London-Westmouth traffic now took the so-called New London Road, which was a mere two hundred years old.
Around the nucleus of church, inn, parish hall, and small shops, residential Gorsemere was in the process of spreading itself further into the countryside each year, as house-hungry Londoners found themselves forced to accept a longer and longer journey to work in order to be able to come home to space, fresh air, and a decent-sized garden of their own. Only Gorsemere House, the rambling and inconvenient home of Sir Arthur Bratt-Cunningham, Bart., had existed before the beginning of the twentieth century. A few other sizable houses, each in two or three acres of garden, had been built by well-to-do retired people before the First World War. The twenties and thirties had seen more building, with the houses and gardens shrinking in direct relation to the date of their construction; but it was not until the fifties and sixties that the real building wave had hit Gorsemere. It was difficult now to find an open field or cultivated farmland within several miles of the village. Cherry Tree Cottage was a product of this epoch in Gorsemere’s expansion.
“And just about the last of the decent houses to be built,” Jane had told Emmy when she and Bill had bought the place a couple of years earlier. “At least we have half an acre and the house isn’t jerry-built. You should see what’s happening now—great development estates of beastly little mass-produced boxes, about ten to an acre. We feel pretty safe, though, because the woods behind us are Crown Property and can’t be built over. Or so we hope. We’re keeping our fingers crossed.”
The station wagon nosed its way along the narrow road which had previously been known as Gurton’s Lane (because it led nowhere except to Gurton’s Farm) but which a hopeful Rural Council had rechristened Cherry Tree Drive. Outside the cottage, Jane pulled the car onto the grass verge.
“I won’t put her in the garage,” she said, “because I’ve got to collect Bi
ll from the station at five. Come on in.”
The garden of Cherry Tree Cottage was surrounded by a workmanlike wire fence, which Jane was—as yet unsuccessfully—trying to disguise with various creeping plants. The reason for this barrier was soon obvious, for as Jane and Emmy approached the gate, they were greeted by a cacophony of barking.
“What’s the state of the menagerie?” Emmy asked.
“Not too bad at the moment,” said Jane cheerfully. “Three assorted dogs, two cats, an injured rabbit, and a canary—apart from our own lot, of course.”
“I think you’re a miracle,” Emmy said. “I don’t know how you cope.”
Jane laughed. “This is nothing,” she said. “Up till yesterday I also had a Great Dane and a nanny goat. I’m thrilled about the Great Dane—his people couldn’t afford to feed him any longer and brought him to me, and I’ve found him a marvelous home. Amanda Bratt-Cunningham—Sir Arthur’s daughter—dropped in for coffee and fell in love with him. She collected him yesterday.”
“And the goat?” Emmy asked.
“Some children found it straying along the New London Road, of all places. I eventually traced the owner—a farmer from Upper Gedding, about five miles away. His wife kept it as a pet, and for milk, and some clot had left the farmyard gate open. She was nearly in tears of joy when she came to fetch it home. I must say she was welcome to it. I’d been keeping it in the toolshed next to the garage, and the place still stinks to high heaven. Bill’s furious. Hello, what do you lot want?”
Emmy turned to see that Jane, in the act of opening the gate, had been surrounded by a group of four small children who had apparently materialized out of thin air. The largest, a tow-haired girl of about nine with several front teeth missing, seemed to be the spokeswoman of the party. She gazed up earnestly and almost accusingly at Jane, and said, “Are you the cruel-to-animals lady?”
“That’s right,” said Jane gravely.
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