Moondog and the Reed Leopard

by Neil Mach

  ‘Aye, you could. But never in two hours. And your back will be ruined for a week.’

  ‘Go on then, ten it is. But you’re a thief and a scoundrel...’

  ‘Aye sir, and you are a rogue...’

  The white-haired man gave a loud hoot, so Moondog joined in with the laughter. He pushed his head back to show white teeth. The old man shook Moondog’s hand to seal-the-deal before he took him to the tool shed to find a pick.

  *

  Later that day, while Moondog rested on his pick and wiped his brow with a neckcloth, the white-haired man came to him with a cup from his flask.

  ‘That’s good of you sir, and tea is it?’

  ‘Black with sugar.’

  Moondog took a sip. ‘Very good. My complements. Might I ask you a question while you’re here?’

  ‘Of course, go on.’

  ‘That plot yonder. What is the crop? Only, I have been trying to figure it out.’

  ‘That guy, he grows rye. He sells the grain commercially too. He takes it to places around this parish. I think the health food shop takes some of it. So do the Chinese when they come…’

  ‘The Chinese, they come here?’

  ‘To look over crops. They like good organic vegetables, you see. And they purchase the man’s rye.’

  ‘Well, there’s a thing. Do the Chinese buy from you?’

  ‘Berries and leaves.’

  ‘You don’t say… But what’s the crop I see on his patch? It’s never rye, surely. It looks more like an herb from here. Near where the rows of rye will sprout…’

  ‘That’s aromatic mugwort that is. The Chinese go mad for it. That’s why he grows it. They use it to flavour soups and cakes.’

  ‘Well, I never heard of such a thing. But I have heard of wormwood. The Saxon’s used it for charms and spells…’

  ‘Same thing. The actual name is Artemisia. It’s an invasive weed if you’re not careful. That’s why he grows it on the edges.’

  *

  Moondog met Hopie at the cold-water standpipe in the council allotments just after noon. He had filled his flask with cool waters from the tap.

  ‘Swithland-spring mineral water,’ he told her. ‘Remarkably pure and medicinal,’ he added. ‘And it would probably cost a pretty penny if you bought it from the health food shop. I wonder if these old guys know that they sprinkle holy water on their brassicas and beets.’

  ‘You look happy...’ Hopie commented. She squished her eyebrows and rubbed her chin, ‘Er; I thought we were going to a meeting?’

  ‘We are. Why? What would you rather do?’

  ‘Nothing. There’s nothing I’d rather do. But I dressed-up all posh in a work suit. I put on elegant shoes and have a fancy bag. We’re not going on another assault course, are we?’

  ‘No, we are going to a meeting. Might I say that’s perfect attire for the meeting, Hopie.’

  She smiled. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying — but you look crap. You’re covered in mud and draffy. You like you have been dragged upside-down, and through a hedge backwards...’ She viewed his green military trousers, smock-type jacket, and muddied boots. She also noticed he’d taken his nose ring out though he hadn’t combed his bouffant hair.

  ‘Why, thank you.’ He spread his arms out with a satisfied smile, then screwed the top onto his water-flask to put it into in his duffel bag.

  ‘It wasn’t supposed to be a complement…’ she muttered. But he ignored her and started to wander away. She had to run alongside with anxious strides. ‘Where are we going?

  ‘To meet this guy. I want you to do something for me when we get to his gaff. You can say no, of course. But it would help if you could act sort of official...’

  ‘Official? How do you mean official?’

  ‘Do you carry a police pass? A card with your name and picture on it? And the word Police? ‘

  Only the staff-card I use each day to get in the station... That’s all I have...’

  ‘Good. Do you have that card with you? Does it have the word police on it?’

  ‘It does, and a crest. It’s here in my purse.’ She tapped her smart handbag.

  ‘Good, when we introduce ourselves to this guy, you go first? Yeah? You okay with that?’

  ‘I suppose. What do you want me to say?’

  ‘Introduce yourself for, give him your name. Say you’re from the police and that you’re currently working with me. Flick your card — he doesn’t need to study it. Just flash it then tuck it away quick in your purse...’

  ‘That seems fine. What then?’

  ‘I will introduce myself. And I’ll do all the talking from then on. You won’t have to say another word — just nod and hum. Like you know what I’m talking about. But generally, look as if you agree with everything I am saying.’

  ‘I think I can manage that.’

  ‘Great.’

  Cyril Calcedon

  They arrived at the door of a bungalow. Moondog had explained that it belonged to a guy named Cyril Calcedon. Not that the name meant anything to Hopie. She smelt burnt toast and cheap coffee leaking through the man’s letter box.

  A man answered the door. She guessed he must be in his seventies with a bald forehead, a messy salt and pepper moustache, and thin glasses with metal frames. He was dressed in a blue pin-striped shirt, open at the collar, a stylish blue cravat, and a blazer. She noticed he had a wing-shaped badge on the lapel of his jacket.

  ‘Hello, how can I help?’ he said with a polite smile. ‘Just to let you know, before you ask, I’ve already given. I don’t trust organized religions, so don’t try to sell me The Watchtower.’

  ‘Er, good morning sir, my name is Miss Sopgood. I’m from the local police.’ She zapped her staff-card across his face at approximately the speed of light. He could barely focus on the thing before she snapped it away in her bag. Then she began to introduce Moondog, who had turned his body completely so faced away from the man. ‘Er, Mister Moondog?’ she called.

  Moondog turned back and gave a hearty smile: ‘I’m sorry, good morning, Mr. Calcedon. I saw a Honey Buzzard sailing over there. Did you see the bird?’

  ‘Really? No, I missed it. But I sighted a Cattle Egret near Groby, last week. Do you know the place? Are you a birder mister, er? I didn’t catch the name…’

  Moondog ignored the query and continued, ‘I am facilitating the police with an enquiry, but I’m not an officer myself. I’m a keen environmentalist and a consultant for Natural England. Perhaps you have heard of me? ‘

  ‘I think I have... What did you say your name was?’ The old man stepped away from his welcome mat to give them both a probing stare, and when he was satisfied, he opened the door wider and allowed them to enter his house.

  ‘Do you mind if I take off my boots at the door?’ Moondog asked. ‘They’re covered in mud. I inspected a habitat this morning.’

  ‘Of course. Might I offer you coffee?’ The man shuffled through his little house. ‘Actually, I’m making toast. Want some?’

  ‘No, thanks!’ shouted Moondog from the hallway. ‘I prefer tea if it’s all the same...’

  *

  By the time the old man re-appeared in the living room with mugs of milky tea, Moondog and Hopie had positioned themselves at his dining room table.

  ‘Sugar, for both?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ they responded synchronously. They gave each another a smile of recognition. The old man looked at their mutual body language and nodded his approval.

  ‘What do you have there?’ he asked before he shambled away again to fetch his reading glasses. Moondog had produced an old-fashioned scroll from his bag.

  ‘I wanted to show you a map. I need your advice...’ replied Moondog, lifting his voice so the old man could hear.

  Calcedon took a seat beside them. ‘You want my advice, did you say?’

  ‘You are the chairman of Sapcote and Burbage wildlife group, right?’

  ‘For my sins...’

  ‘Natural England is very pleased w
ith your efforts. Your group is considered one of the strongest in the district, in fact, it’s considered the shining star of the County...’ Moondog moved his head forward, to whisper the next words, ‘Some groups in neighbouring counties are wayward. Get my meaning?’ He winked.

  ‘Well, yes. It’s kind of you to be complementary about our little society, formed in 1981 — so relatively modern...’

  ‘You’ve chaired the group since 1981? Amazing.’

  ‘I joined the group in 2001. I became chair in 2007 for my sins. Before that, I was the senior partner in a law firm. When I retired, we moved here to Hugh-Lupus for peace and quiet. Maybe that was a mistake. It’s a bit too quiet, you see. I wasn't ready to go to seed, so I got involved in local wildlife... and the Lawn Bowls Association.’

  ‘You do a magnificent job. You live alone, Mr. Calcedon?’

  ‘Brenda, my wife, is visiting a sick sister in Rutland. Probably be away for the month. Do you think the place seems untidy? I suppose it is, it needs a woman’s touch...’ He looked into Hopie’s eyes, but she sat motionlessly and impassionate in her managerial clothes. The old man took a sip from his coffee mug then cleared his throat. ‘So, what do the police want with my Society and me? I don't think we’ve ever had a bureaucratic visit before, not to my knowledge. I’d have to check the minutes, though.’

  ‘This is a sensitive issue. I hope you do not mind if I insist you keep our visit out of the register. You should not tell anyone about us being here. Is that understood? What we tell you is most confidential.’ Moondog explained.

  ‘Well, of course.’ Calcedon re-arranged his buttocks on the cheap dining chair and rubbed his hands along his thighs to prepare himself.

  ‘I will ask you a question. Are you aware of any wildlife crimes on your patch that have occurred during the last few weeks?’

  ‘Er, no.’

  ‘Mr. Calcedon, do you have links with local access forums? We might need to go onto land outside your jurisdiction.’

  ‘We have a representative on the panel....’

  ‘On the panel for the Quorndon heritage sites?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you the representative?’

  ‘Yes. For my sins. I like to keep busy.’

  Moondog unrolled the scroll: it was a 1:50 scale Landranger O.S. He unfurled the map across the table. Hopie looked at the wiggly crests of colours and the intricate little lines and thought they looked pretty.

  ‘Recognise this area?’ asked Moondog.

  ‘Just a minute, I need to get closer.’ Mr. Calcedon stood to turn the celling lights on before he leaned over the map. ‘Oh, yes. That’s Freemen’s Meadows. Not far from here. A good place to catch the sound of a Water Rail. We had a Night Heron roost there once. And Green Sandpipers take residence some years.’

  ‘It’s flooded most of the year, I suppose. Waterlogged?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you have a hide there? Ever visit?’

  ‘No, nothing permanent. We rarely visit, too boggy.’

  ‘A wetland habitat rich in sedges, would you say?’

  ‘I’ve only been there once or twice. Yes, it’s described as a poor fen...’

  ‘Access for dog-walkers and Sunday visitors?’

  ‘Hardly! The only sign of human activity comes from the tractor repair yard that’s adjacent. They sometimes come in and leave a mess. They make one hell of a din too with their transistor radios. They let off a load of smoke and fumes when they burn their oil.’

  ‘Perfect. That sounds perfect.’

  ‘Is it?’ He seemed confused. ‘Why is it perfect? The place is a wild, abandoned bog. Why could you possibly be interested in a place like that?’ Calcedon threw back his shoulders and licked his upper lip.

  ‘Now this is strictly confidential, yes? Do you agree?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘We have been collecting sightings, from good sources, and over a lengthy period and… well, I’ll cut to the chase, these reports suggest that a wild panther survives in that area.’

  ‘A panther?’ The old guy shouted.

  ‘Hush,’ warned Moondog. Hopie scowled too.

  ‘I’m sorry. What kind of panther?’

  ‘It could be a hybrid; we’re not sure. It’s the size and shape of an Amur. Are you familiar with the breed? I expect you are. You have a computer here? I can show you a picture on the laptop...’

  ‘I don’t get on with computers. I investigate nature the good old-fashioned way — a weekly trip to the public library. ‘

  ‘Do you know what a Reed Leopard is?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Do you know what a Reed Leopard looks like?’

  ‘Not off the top of my head...’

  ‘Well, I will put my neck on the line and say that’s exactly what we’ve got up there at Freemen’s Meadows. We think it’s exactly the right habitat for a Reed Leopard. You’ve got untouched stalk beds, plenty of rushes, grasses of many types, fringe plants, low lying shrubs, standing water, food sources, scrubby vegetation, shelter, the whole lot. We even have a photograph to prove it.’

  ‘You have? You’ve got a photograph of the leopard? I’d like to see that...’

  ‘Sorry, it’s with police files.’

  ‘Oh, yes. And why are the police involved?’ Chalcedon looked at them both and blinked.

  Hopie was about to say something, but Moondog butted in, ‘Can you imagine what would happen if a story like this got out into the public domain? One half of the population would be too scared to put their kitty-cats out at night and would stop sending their kids to school. They’d demand the exotic creature is eradicated right away. The other half of the population, the trophy hunters, would come tramping all over your protected areas to trap the beast. So, of course, this is in the hands of the police.’

  ‘Yes, I see. It makes sense.’

  Moondog began to roll the map away and made shifting noises with his feet as if he was preparing to leave. ‘Did you finish your tea?’ he asked Hopie. She smiled and put down her mug.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Calcedon said.

  ‘Well, keep this under your hat. That’s the most important thing. I think I made my point.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And tell us right away if you have any sightings of a large beast. Of course, you’ll get reports of farm-yard animals and pets suffering mutilations et cetera... We’d like to know about all those. For the records.’

  ‘Mutilations?’

  ‘Didn’t I say? Sorry. A leopard is known to bite into the neck of his kill. Hugely powerful jaws, I’m sure you know all that. You should expect to find heads without corpses. The animal tends to drag away his meat, back to the swamp, to devour in peace. He habitually leaves the skull in place, it’s too heavy to take you see, and not enough meat to be worthwhile. We think he’s expanding his territory, actually...’

  ‘Good grief.’

  ‘If you hear of any such report, let us know immediately and tell the reporting party that the wildlife group is in contact with Natural England and we are fully appraised.’

  ‘Yes, right.’

  Moondog got up to leave. He shook Mr. Chalcedon by the hand and headed for the door. He retrieved his boots by the front. ‘Give Miss Sopgood your phone number. She will give you our contact information — the police station number. And one other thing, Sir...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Keep up the good work.’

  Moondog gave the man a friendly nod as he turned to leave.

  *

  Moondog and Hopie walked down the front path of the old man’s little bungalow. He looked into the distance again, as if he could see a bird. She tried to follow Moondog’s eyes but saw nothing ‘Honey buzzard this time of year? Not on your nelly,’ he commented. ‘The man’s a masquerader and a faker, gawd bless him...’

  ‘So, I’m sorry to sound thick, but if he’s a fraud, what was that all about? Why did you lead him on?’

  ‘He doesn’t kno
w much about nature that’s true. But he’s the most influential wildlife bloke in the neighbourhood. He’s a pivotal character on the local scene. Although did you see, he knew nothing about the big cat reports or the dog heads?’

  ‘I get it. Is that why you asked? Huh. Is that a good thing?’

  ‘It depends on what you want. Me I tend to think it’s a good thing because I’m on the look-out for preternatural occurrences. This proves, in my mind, that the reported phenomena aren’t wildlife related. Because if a big cat was marching about all over his local patch, cleaving heads off pets and clawing amorous couples, don’t you think Mister Calcedon and his band of amateur enthusiasts would be all over it? Yeah, of course, they would…’

  ‘So, what are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying we have to look at this from another angle.’

  ‘Do you think the Chief's testimony is true or false?’

  ‘I think your uncle’s photo is not worth a wet-wipe. But he’s a good guy, so you tell me. So why would he make things up? At this stage, we have no choice but to mark-things-up as a preternatural occurrence.’

  They arrived at the town’s main cross-roads. Moondog made a smacking sound with his lips and brought his hands to his hips. ‘I have a proposition for you. Say no if it doesn’t suit…’

  ‘Go on, what is it?’

  ‘I will treat you to another picnic. But there’s an asking price. What do you say?’

  ‘That would be incredible... but what’s the asking price?’

  ‘The price is: you need to get changed into rough gear. We’ll stroll back to your place, nice and steady, and you will get changed into country clothes. Because we need to get ourselves over to Freemen’s Meadows before he does.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know who exactly. Whoever Calcedon tells...’

  ‘I thought you warned him not to tell anyone...’

  ‘Yeah, I did. You don’t think he’ll be able to sit on this for long, though do you? It’s much too big and exciting. The big game hunters will pay handsomely for this kind of information. Frankly, I don’t trust the old guy…’

  ‘What did he do to annoy you? He’s just an old man…’

  ‘I don’t like charlatans. The man’s a phoney…’