The Curious Affair of the Third Dog

by Patricia Moyes

  “The driver,” said Mr. Thacker primly, “seemed an unprepossessing young man. He looked at me in the strangest way—as though he suspected me of some criminal intent.”

  “I really can’t help it if you don’t like the driver’s face, Mr. Thacker. I didn’t choose him.” Bill, having negotiated the dangerous topic of the sewing machine, was back in his stride again.

  Under this attack, Mr. Thacker immediately crumpled and became humble. “Of course not, Mr. Spence…pray don’t think that I meant any…nothing could be further from…most delicious sherry…must really be going now…all my sympathy to the dear lady…trust you will have good news soon…” Mr. Thacker bowed himself out.

  It was perhaps fortunate for Bill Spence’s peace of mind that he was not in a position to follow the clergyman down the lane, round the corner, and along the road which led past the police station; or to hear his cheerful greeting—“Good morning, Mrs. Denning! Busy in the garden, I see!”—for Mr. Thacker believed that a soft answer turneth away wrath, and that one should turn the other cheek, even to a nonconformist.

  Half-past twelve. Bill Spence, with a prodigious sigh of relief, had escaped from Cherry Tree Cottage on the stroke of noon, and was now happily leaning his elbows on the saloon bar of the White Bull, with a pint of the landlord’s best bitter in front of him, and his good friends Simon and Bella Yateley on either side of him. Ex-Squadron-Leader Paul Claverton was busy behind the bar, mixing Simon’s second pink gin, and the four of them were discussing Gorsemere’s burning topic of conversation—the shooting of Chief Superintendent Henry Tibbett.

  Jane was at Gorsemere Halt, using the public telephone to call Emmy, to announce her arrival and ask to be picked up and driven home. Emmy, her sewing job completed, was answering her sister’s call, and promising to be at the station as soon as she had completed a few errands around the village. Constable Hawthorn was awake and feeling peckish. Henry, his plans securely laid, had taken a sleeping pill and was slumbering peacefully. Amanda Bratt-Cunningham, out walking Wotan, had stopped in a leafy lane for a brief chat with the vicar, who had just left the bedside of an ailing parishioner, having finished up her grapes. Sir Arthur Bratt-Cunningham was driving home from Middingfield, after a morning of dispensing justice at the Magistrates’ Court. It was a quiet, uneventful, typical summer’s day in an ordinary English village.

  Jane, looking as elegant as ever despite an overlarge sweater and borrowed slacks, was in high spirits as Emmy drove her back from the station.

  “It went like a breeze,” she said. “No trouble at all. I attached myself to a huge family party who were leaving the maternity ward after their first glimpse of a new baby—they were all so excited and talking at once, I don’t think they even noticed me, and I’m sure nobody else did. How did Henry manage last night? He looked to me as though he was having trouble with those shoes. Oh, by the way, I’ve a message for him from the doctor. He says to remind Henry that he only took the plaster off against his better judgment, and that he’s to stay in bed for at least two days and not—”

  “You can save your breath,” said Emmy. “I’ve managed to keep him in bed so far, but this evening he’s going off on some adventure or other, and nobody can stop him. And while we’re on the subject, there’s a policeman asleep on your bed. I thought I’d better warn you.”

  “A policeman? That sounds very reassuring.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t know he was a policeman,” Emmy amended, “because he’s in what you might call civilian clothes. Not to mince words, he’s in his underpants.”

  “Good heavens,” said Jane mildly, her eyebrows only slightly raised. “Why?”

  “Because,” said Emmy, “I’ve pinched his trousers. And his jacket.”

  “Oh,” said Jane. “I see. Well, thanks for telling me.”

  Emmy took her eyes off the road for long enough to exchange a fleeting glance with her sister, and they both grinned. Ever since nursery days, they had had a pact—often difficult to honor—that they would never demand from each other any explanation of even the most bizarre facts. Jane was playing the game according to the rules.

  Emmy said, “I’ll explain. His name is Hawthorn, and Henry’s idea is to…no, wait a minute, I’ll have to go back a bit. This is how it all started…”

  ***

  By one o’clock, Jane was in her own clothes again, and presiding over the kitchen. A substantial snack had been sent out to the driver of the police car, who staunchly refused all inducements to leave his post and come in for lunch. Constable Hawthorn, rigged out in a pair of Bill’s pants which, although the right length, were far too ample in seat and waist, was enjoying a preprandial beer in the drawing room. Emmy was carrying a tray up to Henry. And Bill Spence was making his way back to Cherry Tree Cottage on foot, having parted regretfully from the Yateleys in the pub yard, and refused their kind offer of a lift home, as he knew it would take them out of their way.

  Jane, Emmy, Bill, and Constable Hawthorn were in the middle of their meal when the telephone rang. Jane looked at Bill questioningly, and he said, “Yes, you’d better answer it. Just as well to establish as soon as possible that you’re here.”

  “OK,” said Jane. “Help yourselves to more, everybody.” She went into the hall and picked up the telephone. “Hello?”

  “Oh, Jane. It’s you. I’m so glad. This is Bella.”

  “Nice to hear from you. Bill said you’d been having a drink together.”

  “Yes, we’ve just got home. And found the most extraordinary thing.”

  “Really? What sort of a thing?”

  “Well…an envelope, actually, pushed into the letter box by the gate while we were out. Nothing at all written on the outside, and inside, a cutting from a sporting paper, with one item ringed in red ink.”

  Jane laughed. “You’re making it sound very sensational, Bella,” she said, “but is it so extraordinary? I mean, if it’s about greyhound racing and everybody knows how interested you are—”

  “But wait. I haven’t told you. The item that was ringed was the 8:30 P.M. race this evening at Bunstead.”

  “Bunstead? Where on earth is that?”

  “Oh, not too far from here. There’s quite a big track there—what we call a flapping track, not a NGRC stadium, but pretty posh. A proper indoor course and restaurants and everything.”

  “I still don’t see—”

  “One of the runners in the 8:30,” said Bella impressively, “is listed as Mr. Henry Heathfield’s Lady Griselda.”

  “But Bella…that’s not possible, is it?”

  “Of course it’s possible. With poor Harry in prison and certainly not able to see any racing papers, whoever stole Griselda must now feel sure enough of himself to start racing her. What he doesn’t know, of course, is that she’s just not a runner and will come nowhere—if she even bothers to start, which is doubtful. But the important thing is, Jane, that we know where she is. Or at least, where she’ll be this evening.”

  “So—what are you going to do?”

  “Go there, of course. Go there and get her back. We can keep her until Harry’s free—we’ve plenty of room in the old kennels. Only—Simon and I were wondering…”

  “Wondering what, Bella?”

  “Well, it’s going to be tricky. I mean, confronting these characters who’ve had the nerve to enter her for a race, and proving she doesn’t belong to them. So we thought…well, you did go to Harry’s house to fetch her on behalf of the RSPCA, didn’t you? You know she’s been reported as stolen? What I mean to say is—couldn’t you and Bill possibly come along with us this evening to Bunstead?”

  Jane hesitated. “I don’t know what to say, Bella. I’ll have to ask Bill. At the moment, we’re all so worried about Henry—”

  “Of course you are,” Bella said quickly. “And naturally you couldn’t leave Emmy alone. But perhaps she’d like to come along, too? She needn’t get involved in any of the business with Griselda, and it might be an amusing evening out for
her. Take her mind off things a bit.”

  “Hold on a moment,” said Jane. “I’ll talk to Bill.”

  Jane went into the dining room, closed the door behind her, and said, “Bella Yateley.”

  Bill looked up from his plate. “Does she—?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m damned,” said Bill. “Emmy, too?”

  “As an afterthought. Might amuse her and take her mind off her troubles.”

  “What did you say?”

  “That I’d ask you. She’s holding on.”

  “Well,” said Bill, taking a large, loaded forkful to his mouth, “give her a minute or so to think we’re discussing it. Then go and say ‘Yes, we’d be delighted.’ But you’d better explain that Emmy is going to the hospital with a police escort, so she won’t be able to join the party. After that, you can go up and tell Henry for me that he’s a ruddy miracle man. How on earth did he know what would happen?”

  Jane was back in the dining room within minutes. “That’s settled,” she said. “Bella wanted to drive us there, but I said we’d rather take our own car. So she and Simon are coming here for a drink at half-past six, and then we’ll drive to Bunstead in convoy.” She sat down at the table and resumed her meal. After a moment, she added, “I just hope Henry knows what he’s doing.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that, Mrs. Spence,” said P.C. Hawthorn cheerfully. “The chief superintendent is right on top of this case, believe you me.”

  “It’s all very well for you,” Bill remarked. “You’re not going to be where the action is.”

  Hawthorn flushed. “That’s the chief superintendent’s idea, sir. Not mine. I’d give anything to be there, you know that.”

  Bill grinned at the young man. “I know, Constable Hawthorn. And speaking personally, I wish you were going to be one of our party. I’d feel a whole lot safer.”

  ***

  At five o’clock, Emmy came out of Cherry Tree Cottage, escorted by the stalwart constable. Jane walked with them to the waiting police car. As the constable climbed into the front seat beside the driver, Jane said anxiously, “You’ll take care, won’t you, Emmy?”

  Emmy smiled, a strained smile. “I should be all right, with the strong arm of the law to protect me.”

  “I was going to say ‘Give our love to Henry,’ ” said Jane, “but if he’s still unconscious—”

  “Maybe he’ll come round while I’m there,” Emmy said. “He must be better, or they wouldn’t have sent for me.”

  The two sisters exchanged a quick kiss, then Emmy got into the car and it drove off in the direction of the London road. Jane was still standing in the lane, waving, when she became aware of a large, dark presence at her heels.

  “Why, hello, Wotan old man.” She bent to caress the great dog. “Where’s your mistress, then? Ah, there you are, Amanda. Giving him his evening run?”

  “Yes. I just thought—” For some reason, Amanda sounded nervous. “I was just passing…wasn’t that your sister, going off in the police car?”

  “Yes,” said Jane. “The hospital called. They say she can see Henry.”

  “Oh, I am glad. So he’s regained consciousness?”

  Jane allowed her brow to cloud. “I’m afraid not. They told Emmy he was better, and that she could see him, but she mustn’t expect him to talk or even to recognize her. I’m just so afraid that—”

  “Oh, Jane. You mean—they may have called her because he’s worse?”

  “I’m trying not to think so,” said Jane.

  A small item on the six o’clock radio news bulletin mentioned that Chief Superintendent Henry Tibbett was still unconscious in a London hospital after a shooting incident, and that his condition was reported as only fair. A man was still helping police with their enquiries, but no charges had been made as yet. This news item was listened to with varying degrees of interest in several houses in Gorsemere and in various districts of London. It also came through loud and clear on the radio of the police car.

  Punctually at six-thirty, the Yateleys arrived at Cherry Tree Cottage, accepted a drink each, and then suggested they should be on their way to Bunstead if they were not to miss the first race, which was scheduled for seven-thirty. Soon, the Spences’ elderly station wagon was following the Yateleys’ sparkling new Rover along the winding country lanes which led from Gorsemere to Bunstead.

  Some twenty minutes later, another car from Gorsemere took the same route. Meanwhile, from the direction of London, a nondescript blue van had already made the journey to Bunstead. By seven o’clock, three more vehicles worthy of interest were on the London-Bunstead road: an old but flashy Jaguar, with Marlene Lawson at the wheel and Mrs. Bertini—dressed in the style which she imagined suitable for the owner of a racing greyhound—in the passenger seat; a purring black Rolls-Royce, driven by Mr. Albert Pennington, who was set for another evening of slumming with his amusing chum, Major George Weatherby; and an inconspicuous green family saloon, driven by an ordinary-looking, square-set young man in civilian clothes, who was very much afraid that his face was too well known to deceive any but the most law-abiding patrons of Bunstead Stadium into thinking that he was there for an evening’s amusement. The more suspect characters there would recognize him as Sergeant Reynolds of the C.I.D.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BELLA YATELEY HAD not exaggerated when she described Bunstead Stadium as pretty posh. It was a large, oval structure surrounded by an acreage of car parks and outbuildings, and only the most knowledgeable of its patrons would have been aware that it was a nonregistered track. As far as Jane and Bill could see, it might have been Wembley or Romford.

  The meeting was obviously a popular one, for the place swarmed like a cheerful, noisy anthill. As well as the steady stream of patrons flowing from their parked cars to the entry gates, a tributary of pedestrian humanity made its way up the road from the local railway station to swell the flood. Outside each turnstile, raucous-voiced men selling racecards shouted their wares under the arc lamps, while tipsters did their noisy best to persuade the public to part with twenty pence in return for an envelope containing the name of a guaranteed winner.

  As they walked toward the turnstiles, Simon explained to Bill that there were several different admission prices. It was possible to get in for as little as 10p, which entitled you to roam on foot on the unroofed, ground-level area surrounding the track. For this modest sum, you could also buy snacks in the buffet and drinks in the bars, and lose your money to the bookmakers like everybody else.

  A 25p ticket gave the additional privilege of admission to the first covered tier, thereby enabling you to keep dry if it rained, as well as the right to pay rather more for identical food and drink at a higher altitude; whereas the top price of 50p threw open the enclosed, centrally heated top story, with its luxury restaurant and cocktail bar, and its ranks of comfortable seats—steeply raked like those in a theatre—whence you could gaze down through a plate-glass partition, not only on the brilliantly lit oval of the track itself, but also on the lesser beings braving the elements down below. The possessor of a top-price ticket, Simon explained, could go slumming in the lower areas if he wished, but the 10p man was strictly forbidden to climb above his station. The Yateleys and the Spences agreed to do the thing in style, and bought four 50p tickets, together with racecards. Soon they were enjoying a drink and a sandwich at the plushy bar, consulting their cards and mapping their plan of campaign.

  The first thing to do was to make a formal check of the racecard: sure enough, there was the entry among the runners for the 8:30 race—the principal event of the evening. Mr. Henry Heathfield’s Lady Griselda, trained by Mrs. Bella Yateley. Bella and Simon then became involved in a somewhat technical discussion as to which official to approach and how to set about it, so that Bill and Jane were able to look around them and study some of their fellow-racegoers.

  It was Jane who first noticed the two women, and drew Bill’s attention to them. They appeared to be on their own, witho
ut male escorts. The younger one was strikingly attractive, with her fine features, deeply tanned complexion, and jet-black hair. She was slim and petite, and very elegant in a black and white pants suit, and she was also very cross. The object of her displeasure seemed to be her companion—a middle-aged, blowsy lady with improbably golden hair and too much makeup—who was startlingly dressed in a creation of brilliant purple liberally interwoven with glittering silver threads. The two of them were perched on stools at the bar, and they were quarreling in fierce, audible whispers.

  “No, you may not, Mum—just get that into your head. I don’t know why I ever let you wear that silly dress.” The girl was doing her best to keep a social smile on her face, but it was wearing thin.

  The older woman pouted. “I suppose you’re jealous, just because somebody gives me a present of something nice for a change. And I’ve a right. I’m an owner, aren’t I?”

  “No, you are not and you’ll kindly shut up before you get us all into all sorts of trouble.”

  “Well, I am, so there—and that being so, I’ve a right. She said—”

  “Heartless, I call it,” said the girl, suddenly switching her attack. “I’d have thought you’d have been more interested in what she told us about Larry and that woman. But oh no. Never think of me, only of yourself.”

  “That’s not fair, Marlene.”

  The girl slammed her empty glass angrily onto the counter. “For God’s sake, finish your drink and go and put your money on. That’s what you’re here for. Then I’ve a good mind to take you home.”

  “You can’t do that, and well you know it,” The older woman drained her glass with deliberate slowness, her little finger extended like a butterfly’s wing. Then they both got down from their barstools and made their way toward the betting windows.

  “Surely that woman can’t really own a greyhound, can she?” Jane whispered to Bill, much amused.

  “Oh, I don’t know. All sorts of unlikely people—” Bill broke off suddenly and said in a different tone, “Look. Over there. It’s them.”