The Curious Affair of the Third Dog

by Patricia Moyes

  Henry parked Bill Spence’s car, which he had borrowed for the trip, and rang the bell outside the forbidding black iron gate. An inspection grill shot open, enabling him to identify himself. At once, a heavy key turned in the lock, and the big gate swung open.

  “Well, well, Chief Superintendent Tibbett. Come in, sir, come in. The governor is expecting you.” The duty prison officer who greeted Henry could hardly have presented a greater contrast to his stark surroundings. He was a plump, jolly man in early middle age, with twinkling blue eyes and a smile like Santa Claus. Henry’s heart rose, despite the familiar, nauseating prison smell which was already assailing his nostrils.

  The prison officer relocked the gate carefully, and led the way across a bare courtyard to the administrative wing. He chatted garrulously as he walked. “It’s 657 Heathfield you’re interested in, I believe, sir? He’s settling down surprisingly well, considering. We had a bit of trouble with him at first—always happens when a man’s inside for the first time, and feels he’s been hard done by. Your old lag, now, he takes it in his stride, philosophical-like. Quite glad to be back, sometimes. They feel secure in here, you see,” added the officer, with perfect seriousness. “And then there’s this business of his dogs. Well, you can understand it, can’t you, sir? Some of the men here make pets of sparrows or rats—any animal they can find. Save bits of food for them. Yes, I’ve seen a Grievous Bodily Harm break down and cry when his release day came up, because he had to leave his tame sparrow behind and he didn’t think his cellmate would feed it proper.” The officer walked on in silence for a moment, and then said, diffidently, “I hope—that is, you’ll forgive me for asking, sir—but I hope your coming here doesn’t mean more trouble for 657. Like I said, I think we’re beginning to make headway with him, and I wouldn’t like to think—”

  Henry hastened to reassure him. “No, no. It’s just that he may be able to help in another enquiry I’m making—”

  “That’s what I was afraid of, sir,” remarked the officer gloomily. “Being a first offender doesn’t always mean it’s a first offense, does it? Only the first that’s been found out. Well, I’m really sorry about that. I was hoping 657 would be transferred to an open prison—seemed a suitable type to me. Just shows how wrong one can be.”

  “Heathfield isn’t under any suspicion, officer,” said Henry. “On the contrary. As a matter of fact, what I’m interested in is trying to trace that missing dog of his.”

  The officer brightened at once. “Well, that’s good news and no mistake. Buck him up like a weekend at Brighton, that will. Ah, here we are, sir. I’ll just tell the governor you’re here.”

  The governor was a bluff, upright, ex-military man, with a bristling mustache. He was clearly a just and efficient administrator—but, listening to him talk, Henry was aware of a sense of chill. When the portly prison officer had spoken about “men,” it seemed to underline the common humanity of the inmates and their guards; when the governor used the same word, it conjured up ranks of faceless units on a parade ground. As far as the governor was concerned, Harry Heathfield had been fitted neatly into a slot which read, “First Offender, not an habitual criminal, recommended as suitable for open prison.” Not a very interesting character. The governor could not imagine why Chief Superintendent Tibbett should wish to talk to the man, although naturally he had arranged it as requested.

  “As a matter of fact.” said Henry, “it’s about his dog.”

  “His dog?” repeated the governor, incredulously. He himself, with his aromatic tweeds and aura of grouse-moors, was obviously a dog enthusiast, if not exactly a lover, but it had never crossed his mind that an inmate of his prison could fall into the same category. Henry was glad when their short chat came to an end, and his friend the prison officer led him to a small, bleak room which had been set aside for his interview with Harry Heathfield.

  Heathfield, in spite of his drab prison overalls, looked very much as Henry had expected from Jane’s description. His weather-beaten face had not yet had time to acquire a prison pallor, and his brown eyes retained their sparkle, but he looked like a man still suffering from the effects of a severe shock—which, indeed, he was. It crossed Henry’s mind that he must have had a deep, if misguided, conviction that he was innocent and would be acquitted.

  “It’s kind of you to visit me, sir,” Heathfield said. He did not appear in the least overawed by Henry’s rank. “You’ll be a colleague of P.C. Denning’s, I wouldn’t wonder. There’s a fine man for you. It’s not his fault I find myself where I am, and that’s the truth. I daresay you’ll be setting about getting justice done.”

  “Justice?”

  “Getting me out of here,” said Harry Heathfield succinctly.

  “I’m very much afraid—” Henry began.

  Heathfield went on, unperturbed, “I have to get out, you see, because of the hound. You haven’t come with news of her? No, or you’d have said so right away. I can’t make the people here understand, sir, and that’s the truth. She’s not only a valuable racing dog, but she’s a gentle creature and always been used to the best. She couldn’t fend for herself, Griselda couldn’t. I’ve just got to get out and find her.”

  Henry said, “I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that, Mr. Heathfield. You’ve been convicted of a serious crime.”

  “Don’t see how folks can say a man’s committed a crime when he can’t remember a blind thing about it,” muttered Harry, stubbornly.

  “But it’s Griselda I want to talk to you about,” Henry said.

  Heathfield leaned forward eagerly, his eyes sparkling. “You’ve news of her, then? She’s been found?”

  Henry shook his head. “I’m afraid not,” he said, “but I think I may have a lead on where she is. Tell me about her. How old is she, what’s her coloring?”

  “She’ll be twenty-six months next week,” Heathfield said. “Beautiful coloring. A lovely pale sort of beige, except for a white star on her forehead and white forefeet.”

  “I believe she has a proper NGRC identity card?”

  “That she does.” There was no mistaking the pride in Harry’s voice. “Owner, Mr. Henry Heathfield, trained by Mrs. Bella Yateley. It’s all there, official.”

  “But she hadn’t actually raced, had she?”

  “Well—only the once.”

  “I thought—”

  “It was like this, you see, sir.” Heathfield settled more comfortably into his hard chair. His hand went automatically to his pocket for his pipe, before he remembered and grinned ruefully. He went on, “Mrs. Yateley explained it all to me. The pups start their training at twelve months, and they can race for the first time at fifteen months. Well, she thought she had a proper winner in Griselda, so as soon as the bitch passed the fifteen-month mark, she entered her for a small race—some little track up north, it was.”

  “A flapping track?” Henry asked.

  “A what, sir?”

  “Never mind. So Mrs. Yateley registered Griselda and entered her for a small race.”

  “That’s right, sir. And Griselda was a big disappointment, it seems. She’d looked like a champion on the Hilltop track, but she hadn’t the…what Mrs. Yateley called the heart for racing. She’s an affectionate creature, and she’d do her best on the practice track, because Mrs. Yateley herself was there to encourage her. But at the meeting, with the other dogs and just chasing an electric hare—well, Griselda couldn’t see the point of it, and I must say I don’t altogether blame her. No competitive spirit, that’s what Mrs. Yateley said. Well, of course, Hilltop’s a commercial kennel, and they couldn’t keep a young dog that wouldn’t never do any good for them. They’d never turn out an old one, of course—not the Yateleys—but what it come down to was they had to find a home for Griselda, and that’s how I come to have her.”

  “And to be her registered owner?”

  “That’s it. To tell you the truth, sir, I’ve got plans for Griselda. Call it castles in the air, if you like—but once I get out of here
and get Griselda back—well, why shouldn’t she race again? Not in the big league, White City and all that—but at some of the little meetings. It’s always been my ambition, see?” Harry shut his eyes, and dreamed. “The winner was Mr. Henry Heathfield’s Lady Griselda, trained by Mrs. Bella Yateley… Sounds good, don’t it?” He opened his eyes. “That’s why I’ve got to get out of here and find her. She’d never have run off. The other two was there, weren’t they, when Mrs. Spence went round? Tess and Ginger. So why wouldn’t Griselda be? I’ll tell you why. She’s been nicked, that’s what. I suppose you don’t believe me, like all the rest.”

  “On the contrary, Mr. Heathfield,” said Henry, “I think you are probably quite right. I’d like to try to find Griselda for you. Will you help me?”

  “Help you? You’re darn right, I’ll help you, sir. But what can I do, stuck in here?”

  Ignoring this, Henry said, “Since your take-over of Lady Griselda was so formal, did you get any sort of a paper from Hilltop Kennels—a receipt, as it were?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. All written out proper. I had to send it to the NGRC, and they returned it to me after they’d altered the identity card.”

  “And where’s this paper now?”

  “Back at my place, of course. In the kitchen drawer, I kept it, along with my pension book and suchlike.”

  “It would still be there?”

  “Far as I know. My married daughter’s keeping up the rent for me, and Mrs. Donovan—that’s the widow lady next door—she’s got the key and is goin’ in for a bit of a sweep-round once a week.”

  Henry took his notebook out of his pocket, tore a couple of pages out of it and passed them across the table to Heathfield, together with a pen. “Will you write there that you authorize me, Chief Superintendent Henry Tibbett, to enter your home and take away the receipt for the greyhound?”

  “You bet I will, sir.” Heathfield was already scribbling busily.

  “And on the other page,” Henry added, “you might write that you, as owner, authorize me as your agent to take possession of Lady Griselda at any time.”

  Heathfield wrote on the second sheet, and handed the two papers back to Henry. “There. I can’t tell you how grateful I am, sir. It was real good of P.C. Denning to send you along.”

  Henry let this pass. He said, “Now, that evening in the White Bull—”

  “I don’t remember—”

  “I know you don’t remember the accident,” Henry said, “but before that, in the bar…you’d never met either of the two gentlemen from London before?”

  “Never set eyes on them in my life, cross my heart, sir. Like I told the judge.”

  “And they deliberately sought you out?”

  “Well, I don’t know as you’d say sought out, sir. I was in my usual place near the fire, and they comes and sits down by me, and we gets into conversation.”

  “You’d been telling stories and singing songs before they came and sat with you, hadn’t you?” said Henry.

  Heathfield looked puzzled. “After they came over, yes, sir. They egged me on, like. Before, I was on my own.”

  “And you visited the White Bull regularly, and always sat in the same place?”

  “Well—yes, sir. I’d look in every evening for a pint or so after supper.”

  “So that anybody who wanted to find you of an evening would know when and where to look?” Henry persisted.

  Harry looked surprised. “Well…anybody from Gorsemere way, yes, sir. But these two was strangers, from London. Never visited Gorsemere before—they said as much.”

  “Do you drink a lot normally, Mr. Heathfield?”

  “That I do not.” Harry was indignant. “Anyone will tell you.”

  “Then perhaps you have a weak head for liquor?”

  Harry considered this seriously. “I’d say no, sir,” he pronounced at last. “I pride myself on knowing when I’ve had enough.”

  “And yet, on that evening, you passed out completely—having first stolen and driven away someone else’s car?”

  Harry shook his head, as if trying to free it from a swarm of bees. “That’s what they say, sir—so that must be the fact, mustn’t it? But…well…I can’t believe it myself, and that’s the truth. I just can’t believe it.”

  Henry smiled at him. “Well,” he said, “don’t be too downhearted. There may be an explanation, and if there is, I’ll try to find it. Meanwhile, there’s something more important to find.”

  “You mean Griselda, sir?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  ***

  It was nearly half-past six when Henry left the prison, but since his route took him past Harry Heathfield’s house, he decided to pay a call on Mrs. Donovan and, if possible, collect the receipt for Lady Griselda. Just before seven o’clock he parked the station wagon outside the pair of gaunt semidetached houses on the Middingfield road, and rang Mrs. Donovan’s doorbell. He saw the corner of a white lace curtain flick quickly back as he was inspected from the inside, and a moment later the door was opened.

  “Yes?” said Mrs. Donovan. She stood on the threshold of her house, square and suspicious, wearing a grubby flowered apron over a shapeless brown skirt and blouse, no stockings, and ancient bedroom slippers. She added, “I was just having my supper.”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Donovan,” said Henry. “I’ve brought you a note from Mr. Heathfield.”

  At once, Mrs. Donovan’s face broke into a wide, friendly smile. “Mr. Heathfield? You’ve seen him?”

  “Yes. I’ve just come from the prison.”

  “You’ll be from the Welfare, I daresay?”

  “No. No, as a matter of fact, I’m a policeman.”

  “Oh, you are, are you?” Mrs. Donovan’s attitude changed abruptly. “Well, I hope you’re proud of yourself, after what you done to poor Mr. Heathfield. A real gentleman. It’s a shame, that’s what it is.”

  “I do assure you, Mrs. Donovan,” said Henry, “that I had nothing at all to do with Mr. Heathfield’s arrest or trial. I’m trying to help him.”

  Mrs. Donovan sniffed unbelievingly, but she said, “Well, I suppose you’d better come in.” She led the way into a dark hallway, and from there to a cheerless, seldom-used front room. “What’s all this about a note, then?”

  Henry produced Heathfield’s note from his pocket and handed it to Mrs. Donovan. She read it in silence, and then said, “Well, I suppose it’s all right. It’s certainly his writing. It’s true enough I’ve got the key, though I’ve not been able to get in to have much of a dust around. I’m out at work all day, you see, up the biscuit factory in Middingfield. You’ll have to take the house as you find it.”

  “Please don’t worry about that, Mrs. Donovan. I only want to collect a paper about the dog, as Mr. Heathfield says in his note.”

  “The key’s in here somewhere.” Mrs. Donovan pulled open a drawer in a hideously ornate dresser, and began rummaging in its recesses. “So they never found the poor dog? A shame, I call it.”

  “No—she hasn’t been found yet,” said Henry. He added, “When did you last see her—the greyhound?”

  “Let’s see—ah, here’s the key, like I said—yes, it would have been the morning poor Mr. Heathfield went off to the police court and never come back. He was feeding the dogs in the backyard like he always did, and I had a word with him over the fence, ‘Best of luck, Mr. Heathfield,’ I said. ‘I’m ever so sorry I have to give evidence,’ I said, ‘but I’ll do my best for you.’ ‘Don’t you worry. Mrs. Donovan,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you back here this evening.’ And then they sent him to prison. I had to go straight to work from the court, but I knew something was wrong when I got back here, and all the dogs was barking and yelping, poor dumb creatures, and no sign of Mr. Heathfield. So I telephoned P.C. Denning, and he told me what happened.”

  “And you didn’t see the greyhound that evening?”

  “No. I mean, I thought she’d be in the shed, like he always left her if he had
to go out. And then the Cruelty ladies came, and said there was just the two dogs. The poor thing must have escaped and run off.”

  “Well, we’re hoping to trace her,” Henry said cheerfully. “Thanks for the key, Mrs. Donovan. I’ll let you have it back in a few minutes.”

  As it turned out, Henry need hardly have bothered Mrs. Donovan for the key. Harry Heathfield’s front door was secured by the flimsiest sort of lock, which any enterprising amateur housebreaker could have opened, given two minutes and a sheet of Perspex. Inside, the house was depressing. It was immediately obvious that Mrs. Donovan’s good intentions had not been translated into action. The place was exactly as Heathfield had left it the previous week, sublimely confident of being back by the evening. Unwashed crockery in the kitchen sink showed that he had eaten a good breakfast before going off to court. A pair of comfortably worn slippers waited, somehow pathetically, beside the deep, tattered armchair in front of the cold gray ashes in the fireplace.

  Henry did a quick tour of the little house. Upstairs was a small bedroom with an unmade bed, and a scatter of clean but threadbare clothes; a cluttered bathroom with worn linoleum on the floor and an old-fashioned gas geyser above the stained enamel bath; and, at the back overlooking the yard, a bleak little room which must have been intended as a second bedroom, but was full of the junk of an attic. Downstairs, the sitting room, a cramped cloakroom, and a good-sized kitchen completed the accommodation.

  In the drawer of the scrubbed kitchen table, Henry found the most precious documents in Harry Heathfield’s life. His old-age pension book; discharge papers from the Pioneer Corps in 1946; a tattered certificate, dated 1931, which showed that Henry Albert Heathfield had married Elsie Phyllis Baker. Pinned to this was another certificate stating that Mrs. Elsie Phyllis Heathfield had died of bronchial pneumonia in 1962. There was a sort of scroll proclaiming that Henry Heathfield had taken second prize for tomatoes at the county Horticultural Show in 1965; and a Post Office savings book showing a balance of some ten pounds. There were no other documents of any sort whatsoever. Henry sighed, and went downstairs and out of the house. He locked the front door behind him, and walked around to the backyard.