The Curious Affair of the Third Dog

by Patricia Moyes

  “Well, we’ve brought you this.” The girl unclenched a grubby fist, to reveal five shiny ten-penny pieces. “There’s one from each of us and one from Sandra but she’s still doing hers.”

  “Still doing her what?”

  “Her good deed for ten pennies. Hers is looking after her baby brother while her mum’s out and she’s not back yet so Sandra couldn’t come. Go on, take them,” she added encouragingly. “They’re for the animals.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Jane, taking the money.

  “And now can we see the goat?” It came out in a rush, and at once the chorus was taken up by the other three. “Please can we see the goat? Betty Humfrey and John Adams saw the goat and they only brought ten pennies between them.”

  “Oh dear,” said Jane. “I’m so sorry. The goat’s not here anymore.”

  “It was here yesterday,” said the tow-haired girl mutinously.

  “I know it was,” said Jane, “but we found out where it lived and its mistress came to collect it last night. It’s safely back home again now, so that’s good, isn’t it?”

  Four small, pouting faces indicated that it was far from good. Emmy wondered if they were going to ask for their money back.

  Jane said, “I’ll tell you what, though. If you go round to the police station and ask Mrs. Denning nicely, I expect she’ll let you see her new kittens.”

  “What color?” asked the smallest child—a dark-haired boy—suspiciously.

  “All sorts of colors. There are five of them—black and white and tabby and—”

  “Kittens aren’t the same as a goat,” remarked the gap-toothed girl, with remorseless logic.

  “And if you come back here after you’ve seen the kittens,” Jane went on smoothly, “you can collect your badges.”

  “Badges?”

  “Yes. To show you’re helping the animals. You can wear them to school.”

  This argument tipped the balance. “All right,” said the girl. And then, to the others, “Come on! Race you to the p’lice station!” The whole party took to its heels and vanished down the lane as suddenly as it had come.

  Jane pushed open the gate and led the way into the garden, to be once more surrounded—this time by a leaping, barking, welcoming canine chorus. “They’re sweet, aren’t they?” she said. “The kids, I mean. You’d be surprised how much money they collect—and it’s all their own idea. Yes, all right, boys—dinnertime soon. No, leave Emmy alone. Just shove them away, darling—they’re too affectionate by half. Here we are.”

  And so at last the two sisters were inside the house, and Jane showed Emmy into the small, cheerful spare bedroom and invited her to unpack before tea. Then they took a turn in the garden, accompanied by a bodyguard of assorted dogs and a dignified and unobtrusive escort of cat outriders, and Emmy picked flowers for her bedroom while Jane filled a trug basket with freshly cut salad and beans and parsley for supper.

  They were still having tea when the children turned up again—this time accompanied by Sandra, a serious and bespectacled eight-year-old. The kittens had proved a great hit, and there were high hopes that, if the mothers approved, homes might have been found for at least two of them. Badges and cookies were distributed, and the children were allowed a quick, respectful peek at the injured rabbit, which was convalescing in a comfortable box in the kitchen. Then it was time for Jane to go off to the station again to collect her husband.

  Emmy, left alone, stretched out luxuriously on the drawing room sofa and gave herself up to pleasant relaxation. She knew that she was not, and never would be, a countrywoman like Jane, but, for a bit, it was a marvelous change from the racket of the city. Small things and small creatures became suddenly and beautifully important down here, and time seemed to expand to accommodate the minutiae of existence. Emmy was happily indulging in such leisurely meditation when the telephone rang. She heaved herself up off the sofa and went into the hall to answer it.

  “Gorsemere 387.”

  “Mrs. Spence? This is Police-Constable Denning speaking. Sorry to bother you, but—”

  “It’s me that’s sorry,” said Emmy. “I’m afraid Mrs. Spence is out at the moment. This is her sister speaking.”

  “Oh.” P.C. Denning sounded taken aback, and a note of distress crept into his pleasantly burred voice. “Will Mrs. Spence be long, then? It’s rather important, you see.”

  “She should be back soon,” said Emmy. “She’s only gone to the station. Can I give her a message?”

  The voice hesitated. “Yes. Yes, if you would, madam. Ask her to ring the police station, would you? Tell her it’s about Harry Heathfield’s dogs. Tell her…” The country voice was obviously distressed. “Tell her it’s urgent, will you?”

  CHAPTER TWO

  JANE AND BILL were back at Cherry Tree Cottage within half an hour, and while Bill went off to have a shower and “get out of these damned town clothes,” Emmy delivered the police constable’s message to Jane.

  “I suppose he’s the husband of Mrs. Denning who has kittens,” Emmy remarked.

  “That’s right. The village policeman—a darling man. We work together a lot. Harry Heathfield, you said? Oh dear. Well it was only to be expected.”

  “What was?” Emmy asked.

  But Jane was already at the telephone, dialing a number. “Hello? P.C. Denning? Mrs. Spence here. I believe you wanted me…yes…yes…well, there wasn’t really any hope, was there?… Of course he must be, poor man…yes, I’ll go round there right away… tell him not to worry—that is, can you get a message to him?… Oh, good. Yes, I’ll see to everything…thanks a lot…goodbye for now…”

  Jane hung up and turned to Emmy with a smile and a resigned sigh. “No peace for the wicked,” she said. “I’m terribly sorry. I have to go out. And there’ll be three new arrivals to cope with.”

  “New arrivals?”

  “Dogs. Poor things. Lucky I’ve got a good supply of dog food.”

  Emmy, intrigued, said, “Do tell me, Jane. Who’s Harry Heathfield, and why wasn’t there any hope, and what’s it got to do with the village policeman?”

  Jane was pulling on a stout pair of rubber boots and thick leather gloves. “Oh, well—they rang him from the prison, you see.”

  “Who rang who?”

  “Look, Emmy—I must go. You can come along and help if you like, and I’ll explain it all in the car.”

  “OK. I’ll come.”

  Jane glanced critically at her sister. “I’m not sure that you’re suitably dressed,” she said. “You look a bit posh to me. I expect the poor things will tear us to pieces.”

  Emmy grinned. “Don’t worry. I never wear anything that I care about when I come to see you.”

  They both laughed, and went out to the car.

  “Now,” said Emmy, as she settled herself in the passenger seat, “for the third time, who’s Harry Heathfield and what about his dogs?”

  Jane frowned at the road ahead of her. “Poor Harry,” she said. “He’s such a nice man. Lives a couple of miles out of the village, on the Middingfield road. Everybody told him he hadn’t a hope, but he thought being drunk would be a defense.”

  “A defense against what?”

  “Sorry. I’m not being very lucid, am I? The fact of the matter is that Harry is in prison, and of course he’s in a state about his dogs.”

  “You mean—?”

  “His case came up today at the County Assizes. He’s been free on bail since the committal proceedings at Middingfield. He was convinced he’d get off. He can’t remember anything about it, you see.”

  “I don’t see at all,” Emmy said. “What did he do?”

  “Oh, he’s not a criminal,” said Jane, swinging the station wagon around a tight bend in the road. “It was only a motoring offense—but unfortunately he killed somebody.”

  “Driving while drunk?”

  “Apparently. I told you, he can’t remember a thing about it, but Bill says it was an open-and-shut case. He was on the bench
of magistrates that sent Harry for trial. And he does so love dogs.”

  “Bill?”

  “No, idiot. Harry. If I haven’t room for a stray, I can always get Harry to take it in for a day or so. That is, I could. I haven’t seen much of him recently. Anyway, Denning tells me that he was given a year in jail—and of course he’s desperately worried about his dogs. He left them chained up in the yard this morning, you see.”

  “Are they strays or—?” Emmy began.

  “Oh, Harry has his own mongrel bitch, Tessa. Had her for years. I’ll look after her myself till he comes out. Otherwise, he tended to accommodate a floating population, rather like me—Denning says there are three altogether. Here we are. Oh, lord. Listen.”

  Jane had pulled the car onto the side of the road, and Emmy saw that they were on the outskirts of the village. Houses were few and far between, but the car was parked outside a pair of ugly red brick semidetacheds, which would have looked more at home in a London suburb than isolated in the middle of the countryside. From the back of one of the houses, canine voices were raised in complaint—an ear-splitting mixture of wailing and barking.

  Jane jumped out of the car. “Tessa!” she called. “It’s all right, old girl. Here we come!”

  The door of the second house opened, and a middle-aged woman with a kindly, work-lined face came out.

  “Are you from the cruelty people?” she demanded.

  “Yes,” said Jane.

  “Oh, thank goodness you’ve come. Those poor creatures—I’ve rung the police. I mean, it isn’t right, is it? It was bad enough having to give evidence, and now poor Mr. Heathfield’s been sent to prison.”

  “So I hear,” said Jane briskly. She was obviously not keen on being drawn into a lengthy conversation.

  “Well, I don’t care what anybody says, I call it a shame,” remarked the woman belligerently. “A nicer gentleman you couldn’t hope to meet, and I told the judge so, evidence or no evidence. The best next-door neighbor a widow woman could have. And now those poor dogs with nothing to eat—”

  “Well, you needn’t worry about the dogs anymore,” said Jane. “We’ve come to take them away.”

  “You’re not going to—? I mean…have them put down, like?”

  “No, no. I’m taking them to my house. Then I’ll find homes for them until Mr. Heathfield can have them back again.”

  “It’s very good of you, I’m sure,” said the woman. “Ever since I got back from the court, they’ve been barking and carrying on something dreadful, poor dumb creatures. I told the policeman—”

  “Yes, yes, you did quite right.” Gently but firmly, Jane extricated herself from the conversation and led Emmy around the corner of the house and down the narrow, fenced-in alley that led to the backyard.

  The yard was small, but meticulously neat and cleanly swept. There was a lean-to shed whose open door revealed a workbench and gardening implements. There were also two dog kennels, warmly lined with straw, outside each of which stood a bowl of water and an empty feeding dish. A long chain was firmly fixed to the interior of each kennel, and each chain terminated in a frenziedly barking dog. The larger—a shaggy black mongrel with a beautiful head—recognized Jane at once, and the barking changed to yelps of welcome.

  “Good girl. Good old Tess.” Jane fondled the mongrel’s ears. “Just a minute, now…let’s get you off your chain and onto this lead… Emmy, love, will you take her? She’s gentle as a lamb, just a bit boisterous. Thanks. Now, what about you, old chap?” She addressed herself to the second dog—a biggish, nondescript terrier who cowered in snarling fear as Jane approached him. She knelt beside the kennel and let the dog sniff her hand; soon, reluctant but at least partially reassured, he allowed her to detach his chain and clip a lead to his collar.

  Jane stood up. “Well, we’d better get them into the car.”

  Emmy said, “I thought there were three dogs.”

  “So did I—P.C. Denning said three, but he must have made a mistake. There are obviously just the two.” Jane put her head briefly into the shed. “Nothing there, and the house is all shut up. No—this is the lot, and I must say I’m not sorry. I’ve got enough on my plate as it is.”

  They led the dogs down the alley and to the front of the house. Mr. Heathfield’s next-door neighbor was still in her front garden, spinning out to impossible lengths the chore of sweeping her doorstep. She smiled briefly. “There you go then,” she remarked approvingly. “Poor Mr. Heathfield. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. I was only saying to my married daughter—” She broke off. “Where’s the other one?”

  “What other one?” Jane already had the back door of the station wagon open, and was propelling Tessa’s posterior through it.

  “Why, the third dog.” The woman, still carrying her broom, came down to her garden gate. “Three dogs, Mr. Heathfield had.”

  “I can assure you,” said Jane, a little tartly, “that there are only two dogs.”

  “But—”

  “Mr. Heathfield used to take in stray dogs and keep them for a few days until he found homes for them,” Jane added firmly. “Tessa was his only regular pet, you know.”

  “But there was the new one…”

  “So we’ll be getting along. Good girl, Tessa. Sit. Now, Emmy, help me with this chap. In you go, boy. Right. Now we’ll be off.”

  Emmy climbed into the car and shut the door. Jane switched on the ignition, and the engine roared into life. As they drove away, the woman was still leaning on her garden gate. She was saying, “But there was a third dog…”

  In the car, Emmy echoed. “But there was a third man…”

  “What’s that?” Jane’s eyes were on the road.

  Emmy laughed. “Sorry. I was just quoting from the film. You remember…Harry Lime. He was the third man.”

  Jane was not listening. She said, “These two will have to sleep in the shed where the goat was. Lucky they’re used to living in kennels. Sorry you’ve been let in for all this, Emmy.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Emmy staunchly. The ragged terrier, who seemed to have taken a fancy to her, settled himself more comfortably, half on her lap, distributing a liberal allowance of coarse ginger hairs over her trousers. Emmy bore him no malice, but was glad, all the same, that she was not dressed in her best.

  After supper, Amanda Bratt-Cunningham telephoned. For some minutes, she and Jane chatted about the Heathfield trial, for Amanda had happened to see Harry on the fatal evening, and so had been called briefly to give evidence. But really, Amanda was calling to reassure Jane that the Great Dane, whom she had christened Wotan, had settled down splendidly. Wouldn’t Jane and Bill come to Gorsemere House on Friday for lunch—and bring Jane’s sister, of course? Then they could see for themselves how happy Wotan was in his new home. Jane said they would be delighted.

  Mrs. Denning then rang to thank Jane for having found homes for two of the kittens—apparently both mothers had been agreeable, and Jane spoke long and earnestly to Mrs. Denning about the minimum age at which the kittens should leave their mother.

  Hardly had Jane resumed her half-cold cup of coffee than the front doorbell rang. The visitor turned out to be a fussy clerical gentleman, whom Jane introduced as Mr. Thacker, the vicar of Gorsemere.

  “I am so very sorry to disturb you at this hour, Mrs. Spence…oh, well, if you insist…yes, a cup of coffee would indeed be welcome…it’s about your RSPCA stall at the fête next week… I’ve just been to see Mr. Yateley and he…yes, with milk and sugar, please…he’s agreed to put on a greyhound-training demonstration…should be a great attraction…and it seemed to me that if you and he were to get together…”

  The result was that Jane and Mr. Thacker got together for a good half hour of technical discussion. At last, when the general outline of the canine contribution to the fête had been thrashed out, Mr. Thacker turned with a wide smile to Emmy.

  “Welcome to our little village community, Mrs. Er…” he beamed.

  “Tibbett,” said Emmy.

/>   “Mrs. Spence’s sister, I believe?… Such a very valuable new member of the parish…Mrs. Spence here, I mean…and Mr. Spence too, of course…”

  Bill Spence grunted, and retreated even further behind his copy of The Times. It was clear that Mr. Thacker came high on the list of people whom Bill could do without.

  The vicar turned to Jane once more. “You’ve heard about poor Harry Heathfield, I suppose?”

  Jane grinned. “I’ve not only heard about him,” she said, “I’ve got his two dogs in my shed.”

  “His dogs! Of course! I had quite forgotten them. Dear me, what will become of them, Mrs. Spence?”

  “Well,” said Jane. She glanced a little doubtfully toward Bill. “I…I thought I’d keep Tessa myself. Harry’s black mongrel.” The Times gave an indignant rustle. The addition of an extra member to the household was obviously news to Bill. Jane went on quickly, “The other is one of Harry’s strays. I’ll have to try to find a home for him. If you hear of anybody, Mr. Thacker…”

  “Of course, of course. I’ll do what I can. What sort of a dog is it, Mrs. Spence?”

  “Oh, a very nondescript sort of brown mongrel terrier—not very attractive, I’m afraid,” Jane said.

  To her own surprise, Emmy heard herself saying defensively, “But he has a sweet nature, Mr. Thacker. A most affectionate creature.” She remembered the ginger head resting trustfully on her knee in the car, the big brown eyes, the wagging banner of a tail. He had cowered away from Jane, but he had accepted her, Emmy, as his friend. It seemed the least she could do to stick up for him.

  Jane gave Emmy a quizzical look, and Mr. Thacker beamed. “I see you share your sister’s love of our dumb friends,” he said unctuously. “Even in the short time that she has lived among us, we have all come to rely on her. Anybody who finds himself in difficulties—like Harry Heathfield, for example—knows that he can turn to her for help. How happy the wretched man must be to know that his pets are being cared for! When such an unexpected calamity overtakes a man—”

  The newspaper rustled again, and from behind it came a distinct snort, and the word “Fiddlesticks!”