by W E Johns
Algy put a question. ‘How long are you likely to be away?’
‘I can’t say. That will depend on what we find — if we find anything. Having got the information we want about these strips, there’d be no reason why we shouldn’t come straight back home.’
‘You wouldn’t stay there?’
‘I wouldn’t think so; not at this stage of the proceedings. I could always ring up if we were likely to be delayed. I’ll let you know where we’re staying in Bodmin. Should the intruder come over you can call us and let us know.’
Algy went on. ‘There’s one thing about this that doesn’t line up with you being a couple of hikers. I imagine you won’t walk all the way from Bodmin to the moor. It’s a long way.’
‘Of course not.’
‘You’ll take the car?’
‘Yes.’
‘If you stop it beside the road anywhere near these strips, and then get out and start hoofing it across the heather it would knock on the head your pose of being ramblers.’
Biggles nodded. ‘You make a point there.’
‘Moreover, a stationary car on the road and nobody with it might start the local police making inquiries. You might even return to the car to find it had been towed away.’
Biggles considered the problem. ‘Perhaps it would be as well if someone else came with us,’ he decided. ‘Having dropped us off he could carry on and return to pick us up later. After all, one should be enough here to take care of things for the short time I reckon to be away. Ginger, you’d better come. I’m afraid, Algy, that means you’ll have to stand by the phone here.’
‘Okay. It’ll suit me to rest my feet instead of blistering ‘em route-marching through miles of dusty heather.’
Biggles rose, picking up the photograph. ‘All right. Let’s leave it like that. Ginger, you might bring the car round. We’ll slip home to get our kit and have a bite of lunch on the way to Cornwall.’
An hour later the police car was on the road.
Six hours later it was being parked in the garage of the hotel where Biggles and Bertie had already stayed the night.
They had travelled slowly over Bodmin Moor, which, of course, using the main road, the A30, they had had to cross on the way to their destination. Once, for a few minutes, without getting out of the car, they stopped to survey the landscape and reconsider the general picture. With one minor difference it was exactly the same as when they had last seen it; and there was nothing unnatural about the difference. Beyond the burnt strip a man with a dog, apparently a shepherd, was minding a small flock of sheep.
‘I can guess what he’s doing,’ Bertie said.
‘Tell us.’
‘He’s giving his sheep a feed of that new heather. Sheep, like the grouse-bird, are fond of heather when it’s short and sweet and tender and juicy.’
‘That’s a pity,’ returned Biggles. ‘If sheep have been trampling the stuff down we’re not likely to find much. I suppose the old stuff may have been burnt off for no other reason than to feed sheep.’
‘Quite likely.’
‘In that case it looks as if we’re wasting our time.’ Biggles drove on.
At the hotel, as they got out of the car Ginger said, ‘Shall we need the car again tonight?’
Biggles answered. ‘No. Not unless Algy rings up to say he’s had a signal that the intruder is over, in which case we’d go back to the moor and keep our eyes and ears open. You might call Algy to let him know we’ve arrived. Confirm he has our phone number here.’
‘Right away.’ Ginger went off.
CHAPTER 5
FIRST INSPECTION
THE next morning, after an undisturbed night. Biggles and his party were early at work. With sandwiches for the day in their haversacks, and Biggles with binoculars slung over his shoulder, they set off for the objective.
A little distance short of it, before reaching the higher ground. Ginger, who was at the wheel, at a word from Biggles brought the car to a stop. Biggles and Bertie got out quickly. The car went on, to get, and remain, out of sight. This meant going something like two miles, because the road was straight and open to the winds of heaven, that is to say, without any concealing trees or hedges, except an occasional clump of broom or gorse on one side or the other. This manoeuvre, of course, had been arranged before the start.
Ginger’s orders were to wait an hour before returning, Then he was to cruise back without stopping unless signalled to do so. This procedure was to be repeated until the others returned from their on-the-spot reconnaissance, which was not expected to take more than two hours at most.
This was merely a simple precaution against attracting the attention of anyone who might be watching the area with which they were concerned. There were other cars on the road, most of them travelling at high speed and without stopping, there being no reason to do so except in the case of a breakdown. Later in the day a car might stop for a picnic lunch by the roadside, but that was not likely to happen at this early hour.
When Biggles and Bertie were ready to leave, seeing the car coming they would “thumb” a lift, which would account for the car stopping. All this was on the off-chance of a watcher keeping an eye on the road for anything unusual. It might be that they were being over-cautious, as Biggles stated when the arrangement was being made; but he held the view that the visits of the intruder, should this be its objective, must have been organized by a man who would take every possible precaution against his plan going wrong. He convinced that if the moor was being used as secret landing ground there would have to be at one man on the ground to carry out part of the operation.
With the car disappearing in the distance Biggles and Bertie walked a little way along the road to higher ground, actually close to the spot where the constable been murdered, as this gave a wider view of the moor. Here they sat, backs to the road, to make a preliminary survey of the ground in front of them before walking across it. There was no apparent change in the landscape except that the shepherd and his sheep were no longer there; or, at all events, they were not in view.
‘Apparently sheep don’t graze here all the time,’ remarked Biggles. ‘I suppose they’re only driven from time to time for a free feed.’
‘You know, old boy, I found myself thinking about that last night after I’d gone to bed,’ Bertie pensively.
‘You mean the sheep? What was there to think about?’
‘It struck me there was something a bit odd about it. Only a detail, I must admit.’
‘What’s odd about sheep on a moor? On most moors you will usually find sheep.’
‘I’m not thinking about the bally sheep. It was the dog that somehow seemed wrong.’
‘Where you see a shepherd you will always see a dog. And there are a devil of a lot of dogs in the country, of one sort or another.’
‘True enough. But a lot of them are specially bred and trained for one particular job. The sheep dog is one of them. He comes from a specialized strain. He inherits from his mum the knowledge of what he’s expected to do. That makes him easy to train. I mean to say, a foxhound is bred to hunt foxes and nothing else. If he went after a rabbit he’d be ticked off. Pointers and setters are trained to point game, although some do it by instinct. The job of a bloodhound is man hunting — that sort of thing — if you see what I mean.’
Biggles looked at Bertie curiously. ‘Well? What about it?’
‘The sheep dog we saw on the moor yesterday wasn’t like any sheep dog I’ve ever seen. Nowadays they’re mostly a sort of collie.’
‘What breed was the one we saw here yesterday?’
‘I don’t know. It was too far away. But I can tell you this. It was no ordinary sheep dog.’
‘I imagine any dog can be taught to look after sheep.’
‘Probably. But why should a farmer in this part of the world use anything but the right sort? It’s his business. The wrong sort of animal might do more harm than good, chasing the wretched sheep from hell to breakfast.’
‘What did this particular dog look like to you? Make a guess.’
‘Well, if you’re asking me to guess, the dog we saw yesterday reminded me of a German breed of guard dog. I forget its name.’
‘You don’t mean an Alsatian?’
‘No. Nothing like it. The dog we saw was brown — a kind of chestnut colour. The type I’m thinking of is more like a small, lightly built mastiff. I once knew a feller who had one, but it bit so many people he had to get rid of it. Most sheep dogs are friendly.’
‘Hm,’ murmured Biggles. ‘This is interesting. We’ll keep it in mind,’ he smiled. ‘This is where you can teach me a thing or two.’
‘It’s my line of country, old boy.’
‘That’s what I thought. That’s why I brought you along. Try to spot something else. Now we’d better start walking,’
Bertie gave the moor a final comprehensive scrutiny through the glasses, ‘Not a soul about,’ he announced. ‘We have the place to ourselves.’
‘Provided the ground is level.’
‘What is that supposed to mean? You can see the ground is level.’
‘I agree that’s how it looks from here, but in open country one can never be sure. A fold in the ground, even a slight depression, can hide a crowd as long as they all keep their heads down. I’ve seen it happen. Even so, that needn’t concern us. We’ve as much right on the moor as anyone. Let’s press on.’
They moved off at a steady pace towards the objective, which was, of course, the burnt heather suspected of being a strip on which a light plane could land. This was no more than a suspicion. The present excursion was to ascertain, if possible, if the ground being used for that purpose.
It was a fair day, sunny, with only a light breeze although some threatening-looking clouds rolling from the south-west suggested these conditions might not last.
‘I have a feeling we should have brought our macs,’ remarked Bertie. ‘This is no place to be caught in a storm.’
Still without seeing any signs of life, except a soaring buzzard high overhead, they reached the blackened area without encountering such a depression as Biggles had thought might occur. They stopped to examine the ground at their feet.
‘What do you make of it?’ Biggles asked the question.
‘Not much, old boy. But I can tell you this. The heather here was burnt when it was bone dry. Note that the fire has burnt to ground level; sticks and everything. On a grouse moor they’d say this was good burning.’
‘Then heather doesn’t always burn like this?’
‘No fear. On a stiff breeze, if the ground is wet, a fire can sweep through taking off only the tops. They flare up like tissue paper. I get the impression that this fire was started deliberately when the heather was in perfect condition for the job.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No. That’s all.’
‘Then let’s walk the length of it. The bare ground, having been exposed to wind and sun, has dried out pretty hard, but it might still show wheel marks.’
Moving a few yards apart to cover more ground they walked the length of the strip, stopping where the long heather started, no great distance from what apparently were the ruins of an abandoned mine. They found no wheel tracks, or anything else of interest.
‘No luck,’ Bertie said.
‘If there were tracks they could have been brushed out by someone who didn’t want them seen,’ mused Biggles. ‘Or sheep could have trampled them out. Sheep have been on here. Let’s try the young stuff. We may have better luck there.’
They moved on the adjacent strip. It was about the same width and ran parallel. The ground had a covering of bright green fresh young heather from six to nine inches high.
‘This wouldn’t be too bad for landing on,’ observed Biggles.
‘Not at the moment,’ agreed Bertie. ‘But given the right sort of weather from now on it will grow pretty fast, and soon be long enough to make landing risky.’
‘This patch was once burnt off?’
‘Definitely.’
‘And this new growth. How long would it take reach this stage?’
Bertie looked doubtful. ‘It’s hard to say. That would depend on the weather and the nature of the ground. Only a man who knew the moor could answer that. I can only say this. Whether this strip was burnt to graze sheep, or make a landing strip, it’ll soon be too long for either. Perhaps the chap who burnt the first strip wants to have another patch ready.’
‘I take your point. That’s what it looks like. I’m no expert on heather but I can see you could be right. Tell me this. If a plane landed here surely it would crush the heather and show marks?’
‘It might crush the heather but it wouldn’t stay crushed. Heather is tough and springy. It doesn’t break off. It bends, and it doesn’t take long to get on its feet again. Any marks would soon disappear. Look behind you and you’ll see what I mean. Sheep have been on here, as you can see where the stuff has been nibbled, but they haven’t left any tracks. We’re walking in it, but we’re not leaving any marks either. You can see the stuff straightening itself again behind us.’
Biggles stood with both feet together and put his weight on them. Then he stepped aside. The heather sprang erect, showing practically no mark. ‘I see what you mean,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I had someone with me who knows something about heather or I’d have missed that point. Good work.’
Bertie grinned. ‘Don’t mention it, old boy. Glad I can be useful sometimes — if you see what I mean. One man can’t be expected to know everything about everything, so to speak. It so happens that I used to do quite a bit of grouse shooting in Scotland, and where you have grouse you have heather. The birds live on it. Pretty poor sort of diet, you might think, but they seem to do all right on it. That’s where I learned to shoot. I mean to say, if you can pull down an old cock grouse whistling over at seventy miles an hour, jinking as he goes, you should be able to hit a thing the size of an aircraft.’ Looking past Biggles’ shoulder Bertie went on quickly with a change of tone: ‘Don’t look now, but here comes the shepherd, complete with dog, taking his baa-lambs for a stroll.’
Biggles’ expression changed. He frowned. ‘Where the devil could he have come from?’
‘Search me, chaps. He must have popped up behind us, maybe from one of those depressions you were talking about. Same dog, I think. If that’s a sheep dog I’m a bally Eskimo. I don’t care much for the look of it. I don’t think it likes us.’
On the pretext of turning his back to the breeze to light a cigarette Biggles looked round. Coming slowly in their direction a powerfully built man was bringing up the rear of a small flock of about a dozen sheep. Little could be seen of his face for it was almost covered by an old cloth cap above, pulled down over his ears. He wore a macintosh, with the collar turned up, gumboots, and carried a shepherd’s crook. The sheep grazed as walked. The dog took no notice of them. From manner it was more interested in the men. With its head held low, and the hair on its neck bristling, it was advancing towards them with a slow but purposeful step.
‘See what I mean?’ Bertie said softly. ‘When a trained sheep dog is doing a job it takes no notice of anything else.’
As the dog came nearer it showed its teeth.
Biggles shouted to the man: ‘Call your dog off. It looks dangerous.’
At a word of command from its master the dog, with backward glances, sullenly retreated.
‘What do we do?’ Bertie asked.
‘I don’t see that we need do anything.’ Biggles glanced at the sky, from which a few spots of rain were falling. ‘We look like getting wet. No matter. I’d like to know where this fellow suddenly appeared from. I can only think it must have been from behind those ruins. We have a look when he’s moved on a bit. If we’re going have a shower, and I fancy we are, we might find shelter there.’ Again Biggles looked round the sky as if they were discussing the weather.
The shepherd was still moving on slowly, apparently taking no notice of them.
They started walking towards them casually, but the rain quickened they increased their pace to quicker step and finally a trot. As Biggles remarked, this, in the circumstances, was natural; not that they needed an excuse for what they were doing.
They reached the old mine, for clearly that was what was, to find the sprawling brickwork covered more ground than they had expected. As the lower part of the crumbling walls were still standing they had to walk round them to find a way in, to get to the only shelter the place offered. This was a long low shed in the last stages of dilapidation, but at one end of it, for a matter of a few yards, some slates remained on what had been the roof. The only other conspicuous objects were the stump of a chimney stack, built of stone slabs, and a skeleton wooden structure which may have carried the winding gear over the pit.
Hurrying on, they came to what appeared to be the only gap in the walls. It had been half closed by two hurdles.
‘This must be where the old man came from,’ said Biggles as they went in. ‘Yes, this is it. He must spend some time here, judging from the quantity of sheep droppings.’
They walked across a trampled area of heather and tufts of coarse grass between heaps of fallen weed-covered brickwork to the end of the shed, the only place that promised shelter from the rain, which by now had increased to a sharp downpour. Under the remaining piece of roof some of the old bricks had been roughly arranged to form a seat; or that’s what it looked like, since there was no other apparent reason for it.
‘This must be where the shepherd sits to watch his sheep before he lets them out,’ surmised Biggles, seating himself. ‘I imagine he closes the exit with those hurdles.’ He looked around. ‘What’s that wire arrangement over there?’ He pointed to a length of galvanized wire netting, about five feet high, stretched on posts. It was under what apparently, from some rusting ironwork, been the winding gear when the mine was working.
‘Looks like a fence round the old shaft to prevent anyone from falling in,’ conjectured Bertie. ‘Or sheep, if it comes to that. I’ll have a look.’
