The Dog Megapack

by Robert Reginald

At this Cn. Bones intervened. “Was this his normal working period?”

  “No, Sirrah,” the Major responded. “He should have been abed. He normally labored during the afternoon and early evening hours.”

  “Then let us see his living quarters, if you please.”

  The MajorDoggo looked over to the Master of the house, who nodded his head.

  We followed him to a secondary kennel set off to one side of the manse, and thence into one of the several large den-rooms. The groundskeeper had been assigned a nondescript, very plain, very well-worn rug along one side, with a small shelf on the wall above his sleeping-area to hold his personal effects. There were almost none to see.

  “He was not murdered here, either,” Cn. Bones quickly concluded. “Where else could he have been?”

  “Why, I do not know,” the Major replied. “He was free to wander the grounds on his own time.”

  “Very well. You will arrange, with Sirrah Rovero’s approval”—the Master, who was lurking several yards behind us in the doorway, grinned his acquiescence—“to question the staff, one by one. The good doctor and I will need a private room with at least two doors to conduct these interviews.”

  “I can arrange these sessions to begin in about an hour, if that would be satisfactory, Sirrah,” the Major said.

  “In the meantime, I believe the break-the-fast meal is about ready to be served, if you will join us in the dining-area,” Sirrah Rovero interjected.

  That sounded wonderful to me, and I indicated such. My leader just shook his long-eared head and said, “An army marches on its tummy, eh, Doctor?”

  I could not argue with him.

  The beautiful Bitch I had seen at the murder-scene was waiting for us on one side of a long table, together with several other relations of the Master of the House. They were introduced as Ladee Bahalya Barkerville and Hon. Curly Barkerville, younger sister and brother of their leader; and Cn. Toton de Barquereville, a distant cousin from the Frenchy branch of the family, who had been visiting his British relatives for some months now. All made a small obeisance before the honored guests of their Sirrah-Master.

  “I apologize for my sister,” Sirrah Rovero said. “We usually have better manners here, but her condition developed suddenly, sooner than it should have—and with all of the other upset that has occurred these past few days, we could not follow our usual routine.”

  I was greatly disturbed by the presence of the beauteous young

  Doggée, whose blatant sexuality constantly threatened the equilibrium of our gathering. When I normally would have focused on the poached duck eggs-on-pork-o’-bacons, the delectable kittens-on-a-stick (some of them still wriggling), the birds-for-a-song (always a treat), and the lamb fries-well-fried, I was distracted over and over again by a laugh, by a grin showing the perfectly propotioned incisors, by the swish of an over-the-back tail, by…just the scent of incipient love, love, love.

  “Get control of yourself, Old Doggé,” my companion hissed in my ear, giving me a lick of strength, and I straightened up and remembered the soldier I had been in the Wars. But it was one of the hardest (ah, that word) things that I have ever had to do. I would have rather faced the Afghans again.

  * * * *

  Later that afternoon, we proceeded to interview the staff, one by one—and then the servants. But in each case, Cn. Bones asked the same basic queries, concerning their whereabouts at the time of each crime, their relationship or acquaintanceship with the deceased, their assessment of the victims’ characaters—to which we received the several standard replies. Underneath it all, of course, he was evaluating each suspect with his remarkable nose, considered one of the most discerning in all the British Isles. It was said that Sheraton Bones could detect the passing of a cocqueroache ten rooms away.

  In any case, when we had finished with the staff interviews, and we were alone once again, my packleader sighed and drooped his tail down between his legs. I wanted to go over and sniff and lick his butt in consolation.

  “Nothing,” he finally said. “No smell of blood, no odor of the guilty conscience. Nothing!”

  Then we asked to see the human-drudges, of which there were perhaps fifty working the estate, mainly doing very mundane chores under close supervision. We were led by the MajorDoggo to their separate quarters away from the kennel-manse complex (thus removed so that their pervasive body odor [it truly raised a great stench] would not disturb more civilized folk).

  We interviewed them in groups of about a dozen, using the Master-Grounds-Doggé to assist with the questioning. But their responses, if anything, were even more laconic than those of the staff.

  “Still nothing, Sniffson,” my leader said. “I did find several curious undercurrents with a few of them, some distinction in blood or race, perhaps, but nothing that I can make any sense of. Did you notice the warblings that a few of them made to each other, when they thought our attention had wandered? I wonder if that is their own method of communicating amongst themselves.”

  “Doctor Hunterchaser’s study of the human species clearly indicates that they lack the proper vocal apparatus to generate intelligent sounds,” I noted.

  “Yes, but I have often wondered if the Doctor somehow misinterpreted certain elements of his research in order to reach a particular conclusion,” came the reply. “It seems unlikely to me that a people who are able to follow the simple commands of Canines should be wholly without the ability to express themselves in some fashion amongst each other.”

  I allowed that I could not believe that such a careful experimenter as Doctor Hunterchaser—and one so highly regarded by his peers—could have been so mistaken in his judgments after having applied such a lengthy series of intelligence tests to these less-than-civilized creatures. Cn. Bones just shook his well-eared head in response.

  * * * *

  Welladay, that left only the Barkerville family proper, and we interviewed them individually in one of the drawing-rooms after a brief, awkward, and relatively uncommunicative tea.

  We began with the Leader of the Pack, Sir Rovero himself. He was a Canine of perhaps five-and-forty years, with a distinguished, slightly graying muzzle, a complete set of teeth, and a strong musculature, despite his middling-age.

  “How long had you known Vermin-Meister Runnymede?” my packleader asked.

  “Actually, he had served the Kennel all of his life. His Sire and GrandSire had previously indentured themselves to mine, so they had become almost part of the family. He was the last of his line. I do not know what we will do without him.”

  “What were his duties?”

  “He was tasked with making certain that the estate remained inviolate. Canine intruders were either escorted to one of the nearby villages, or arrested if caught poaching and delivered to the County Sheriff. Human intruders were hunted down and summarily executed, the remains being shipped to the canning factories.

  “He was also responsible for computer and internet security, and for arranging for the maintenance and installation of external and internal lights, cameras, and alarms. We have a great many valuable objets d’art here, artifacts that have been collected by my Pack over a great many generations. Some would sell in selective underground markets for millions of pounds.”

  “Had the Vermin-Meister reported any recent problems to you?”

  “He did indicate a recent concern over a possible anomaly that he had noticed, without being specific. He said he wanted to investigate further before turning the matter over to me. Since he was completely reliable in such matters, I left it utterly to his discretion, as I always did. After his death, I and my siblings briefly examined his personal papers, his computer, and his notes—but we found nothing that seemed to be relevant to his inquiries, if he had actually made any.”

  “What about Groundskeeper Dinero? Did you know him?”

  “I recognized his face, of course, and I remember approving his hiring about a year ago; but to tell you the truth, Sirrah, I never had anything but the briefest
of encounters with the Doggé, merely exchanging the common courtesies when I took my afternoon stroll in the gardens. He was appropriately respectful, and seemed always to be diligent about his duties.”

  “Which were…?”

  “Uh, my younger brother Curly supervises the outside staff through the Master-Grounds-Doggé, while the inside staff reports to the MajorDoggo, who then reports to me. You would have to ask him. And my sister is the one who recommends changes in the interior manse décor, or to the layout and selection of plants and flowers amongst the gardens themselves. She has a much more artistic nature than the rest of us. Indeed, she has recently been recommending and making substantial alterations to the outside appearance of the estate.”

  “When specifically did this start?” my leader asked. I was puzzled at his interest in the greenery, since he had never before evinced that curiosity in my presence previously.

  “About two months ago, I think, with the onset of spring.”

  “Certain press accounts have mentioned the Barkside Slasher in connection with the Vermin-Meister’s death.”

  “Oh, the hoary myth dates back hundreds of years, but has no basis in reality that I have ever been able to determine. Besides which, the News-Doggés got several of the details wrong. The human-creature responsible for the outrages supposedly wore the body of a Doggé, and so could pass amongst the Canines unnoticed.”

  “How was that possible?” Cn. Bones asked.

  “Well, of course it cannot possibly be true,” the Master-Sirrah said. “Who ever heard of such a thing?”

  “Then how was he stopped?”

  “According to the legend, a bullet through the heart ended his life, and changed him back into his original form. But, all this is just so much poopycock!”

  “Thank you for your time and consideration, Sirrah Rovero.”

  Once he had departed, my packleader said to me: “I think I will take a short break before we proceed to our next interrogatory, Sniffson. Please arrange for the younger brother to be here in half an hour.”

  “Where will you be, Cn. Bones?” I asked.

  “Taking a stroll in the gardens.”

  * * * *

  I took the opportunity of the pause in our activities to refresh myself and use the poopy-mat, after having notified Hon. Curly Barkerville of the new interview time. On my way back to the drawing-room, I once again encountered the Ladee of the House, the Bt. Bahalya Barkerville, and renewed my utter fascination with her obvious charms. The scent of love was definitely in the air, and if it had not been for my military training and personal decorum, I could have had her then and there—nor did I have the sense (and I have always been fairly savvy about such matters) that she would have fought my impertinence beyond the merest hint of a protestation.

  But…I simply nodded my head as we passed in the corridor, all too closely.

  Our next “guest” was the younger brother and current heir of Sir Rovero. He was a younger, perhaps better-made, and more handsome version of his sibling, vigorous in his youth, a prime example of the Scottish Wolfe-Hound. I guessed him to be about five-and-twenty years of age. Once he was seated, we exchanged pleasantries until my leader appeared, some five minutes later, slightly out of breath.

  “I do apologize for the delay, Hon. Curly,” Cn. Bones said. “I was…detained.

  “Now, I will ask you the same questions that I put to your Sirrah. How did you know Vermin-Meister Runnymede?”

  “He was part of this household for all of my life. I cannot remember a time when he was absent. Intially, he worked under the aegis of his father, Sire Galahat, and following his death, succeeded to the position that he held at the time of his death.”

  “Your brother suggested that the Meister had been worried about something possibly affecting the security here in recent months, but that he never actually informed Sirrah Rovero of the nature of the problem. Were you aware of this?”

  “Not until my brother told me and my sister after Sire Runnymede’s body was found. We then assisted Sirrah Rovero in examining the Vermin-Meister’s records—the Ladee Bahalya is particularly adept with the computational-devices—but we found nothing unusual. He did not appear to have left any records documenting his concerns.”

  “What was your opinion of Sire Runnymede?”

  “Hmm, I…we were not close. He was always a bit gruff and cold to me, making it quite clear that he reported to my brother—and to my father before him—and not to me. He was older than me by perhaps fifteen years. He seemed completely devoted to his work.”

  “Did he have any personal connections?”

  “You mean, family connections?”

  “Personal,” my leader said.

  “Well, his littermates had mostly died young, I understood, and once his parents had passed, he had no other relations other than distant packmates.”

  “What about relationships with Bitches?”

  “I was not aware of any personally, but I probably would not have been, given the natural coldness that lay between us. In reality, I had very little to do with him—as little as possible, to tell you the truth.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Well, as I have already said, he did not seem to have any affection for me, and the feeling was mutual, I must say. We did not share any friends or acquaintances, nor is it likely we ever would have, considering our respective places in society. To me he just was an employee of the Kennel, nothing more.”

  “What can you tell me about Groundskeeper Dinero.”

  “He was a good Doggé. I was the one who hired him, after Groundskeeper Digsalot left us to become Head-Grounds-Doggé at East-Kenneltown Estates; he was highly recommended by his previous employer, who was a classmate of mine at Oxbone University. And he certainly fulfilled his promise here. He was always a hard worker, always cheerful, always willing to make recommendations about improvements in our farming and gardening practices.”

  “Indeed,” my leader said. “Then he must have collaborated with your sister in conducting the recent renovation of the grounds.”

  “Oh, yes! They worked very closely together. During the past few months, they performed wonders in improving the previously archaic layout of the greenspaces.”

  “Did you see him often?”

  “Every day, actually. Although the Grounds-Doggés actually manage the workcrews, I still try to make at least one circuit of the gardens and our own farm at least once during the afternoons, so that I know generally what is being done. Also, I am briefed by the Master-Grounds-Doggé each morning; he often takes me out and shows me some specific development.”

  “Do you know anything about Sire Dinero’s personal life?”

  “I understood that he was seeing someone, but he never told me who the person was. And the Master-Grounds-Doggé simply was not interested in such things.”

  “Thank you for your assistance, Hon. Curly.”

  “I hope I was able to help.”

  Again, we took a half hour break to refresh ourselves, before tackling the third member of the family, the Bitch-Ladee Bahalya.

  * * * *

  The young Doggée was about two-and-twenty years of age, and—irrespective of her personal condition—was a true beauty. Every little thing about her was “just right,” just perfectly proportioned. It was as if the best elements of the members of the House of Barkerville had all been synchronized in one delectable being.

  But we could not help but be affected by the unctuous perfume that continually assailed us from her nether end. Even my dear leader, I noticed, was constantly being forced during the interview into involuntary yawns of nervousness.

  “How did you know the Vermin-Meister?” Cn. Bones asked the Doggée, trying to keep his tongue from lolling out of his gaping mouth.

  “Ha, ha! I knew the VM from the time I was a small child, since he and his family had been attached to this Kennel for generations. Gad, I hate tradition. He was a cold, stern man, always looking for enemies to attack, always will
ing to exercise his borrowed authority to the fullest. I once saw him round up and execute a group of the humans who’d accidentally strayed across our unmarked boundary line—a line that I’m quite sure they had no way of understanding.

  “He was a rigid, opinionated de’il: he’d make no exceptions to anything, and no one, in his mind, was too high to fall. If he’d found fault with any one of us, I’ve no doubt that he would’ve gone straight to my brother, shouting, ‘J’accuse!’”

  “Sirrah Rovero said that he was bothered in his last days by a problem related to security.”

  “If he was, he surely didn’t tell me. He didn’t tell anybody anything except my old brother, who was was the only one, in his lofty judgment, who could give him any direction. No one else counted in his universe. Vile man! He should have been replaced years ago.”

  “Were you aware of any personal relationships he had?” Cn. Bones asked.

  “That nasty creature? Who’d want him? No, I’m quite sure, Sirrah, that he walked his path alone. No one here will miss him, either, other than perhaps my brother.”

  “The Master-Sirrah said that you assisted him in going through Sire Runnymede’s records following his death.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I was specifically asked to search his bone-drive and email messages for any indication of that supposed investigation he was conducting. I found nothing of interest. All of his work, all of his queries, related to ongoing matters, most of them minor. There weren’t any surprises there.”

  “What about Groundskeeper Dinero?”

  “I’d met the young Sire on several occasions, and asked him to do small favors for me. He’d sometimes bring me trits from the kitchen—stewed bones and such—and particularly now, in my, uh, agitated condition, well, he could never do enough for me.” She guffawed at the thought.

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Why, this morning, Sirrah! He was lying stone-dead on the sward.”

  When she saw the look on my leader’s face, she said: “Oh, you mean—alive. Well, I guess that was, uh, last night. He wanted to show me something outside, he said, but I was, well…I just was so tired. A Bitch needs her beauty rest, you know. He was always coming and going, going and coming. You know?”