The Red Rover Society

by Allison Osborne

  He saw Irene cast a curious glance toward them before spotting something out the front windshield.

  “There’s our cottage,” she said. “Red roof and all. I do hope those terriers haven’t alerted anyone to our arrival.”

  Joe left the terriers, who’d kept up their barking until the car was out of sight, and pulled into the laneway of the cottage next door. He parked the automobile, and Irene immediately hopped out and crouched to the ground, surveying the scene. Joe did his best to keep up with her observations, and though he was getting better, he still wasn’t as good as her, or as fast.

  The cottage was small, about three rooms in total if Joe had to guess. A small shed sat at the top of the laneway, the door hanging off its hinges. Joe jogged to the shed and peered in, finding nothing but a flat floor covered in straw, and a few tools leaning against the inside wall.

  “Nothing in the shed but two shovels,” he said, making his way back to the front of the house. “No fresh dirt on them either.”

  Irene stood from the ground. “No sign of anyone here, and no fresh tire tracks.”

  Joe tapped his ear. “Also, silent. No barking dogs from inside the cottage.”

  “Go try the door.”

  Joe hopped up the cracked stone step and gave a sharp knock on the old wood. He wasn’t expecting an answer, and when one, indeed, did not come, he tried the knob.

  “It’s locked,” he called to Irene.

  She peered in the dusty window before jiggling the frame. The window slid up with ease, and Joe immediately panicked and rushed to her.

  “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Investigating,” she said, hiking her foot onto the sill.

  “Breaking and entering,” he replied flatly.

  She grinned and disappeared into the cottage. He sighed and went in after her, folding his tall body to fit through the window. Joe landed with a thump beside her in an abandoned bedroom.

  Straw covered the floorboards, and half a dozen blankets were strewn in the corner. Joe crouched and found a few tufts of red dog fur. Irene continued through the cottage, but Joe hung back in the room, his frustration and worry mounting.

  Irene returned within minutes, and Joe spoke immediately.

  “A dog definitely had pups here,” Joe said. “There’s even a food dish left.”

  “But there is no evidence that anyone actually lived here,” Irene said. “There is hardly any furniture and the kitchen cupboards are completely bare save for one can of old tomato soup. Did they just keep the dogs here to breed?”

  “Then sell them at a ridiculous price to rich folks with the right kind of money.”

  “Where are the dogs now?”

  Joe was too frustrated to answer her. It was nothing new to him, but it still made him furious. To own dogs just to breed them, without any loving companionship was cruel, and though he’d seen it before, he felt a bit sick with worry as to the answer to Irene’s question.

  “I’ve found a desk,” Irene said. “Come look.”

  Whether she saw his aggravation or not, she gently tugged his sleeve to get him to follow her. The rest of the cottage was tiny, and a wooden desk covered in dust was shoved in one corner.

  A blank notepad and pencil sat discarded on the wood, and Irene immediately picked up the pencil, blowing off the dust. She coloured the blank paper gently, and as she did, it revealed numbers and letters.

  “14 Underwood?” Joe attempted to make out the rest of the words but couldn’t.

  “Looks like it.” Irene ripped the paper off the notepad.

  That address clicked in Joe’s brain. “I know that address. It’s an animal shelter. Not the one I frequent, but one farther east.”

  He looked at Irene for some kind of answer, but she simply shrugged.

  “I know no more than you do at this point, Joe,” she said in a possible attempt to comfort him. “We shall visit the neighbour with the terriers. He may know something.”

  She snapped a couple of pictures while Joe headed out of the cottage and began towards the friendly little house next door. Irene quickly caught up to him, and they approached the front walk. The terrier pair greeted them in a loud flurry of barks as they came to the fence. Irene went to open the gate, but Joe stopped her.

  “Do you not remember anything I told you about terriers?” he exclaimed in frustration. “Their tails may be wagging, but that is a wicked and powerful jaw on those fluffy faces.”

  A sharp whistle came from the house, and the dogs gave one last bark before hurrying to the front door. An elderly man exited the house and waved at them.

  “Hello there!” he greeted. “A bit blustery, but not too cold.”

  “No, sir!” Joe called. “These are fine-looking terriers you have.”

  The man approached them, a friendly smile on his withered face. “If you’ve come for a pup, they won’t be ready until near Christmas.”

  “You have a litter?” Excitement stirred in Joe. It had been years since he’d played with a litter of pups.

  “Sure do. Almost three weeks old.”

  “We aren’t here for a puppy,” Irene interrupted. “But we were hoping you could answer some questions about your neighbour? We’re private investigators from London and are looking for the man that bred two Irish Setters next door.”

  “Ah, him!” The man said in understanding. “Bit of an odd fellow, that one. Looked like he belonged in the middle of the city instead of out here. Came to live in that house in the spring with his two Setters. He didn’t bring much with him and seemed to be gone all day a lot of times. He asked me for advice when the mum was ready to have her pups, and then about weaning and that sort of thing. Seemed that this was his first litter. He stayed there for a few months after the pups had all gone to homes. Then about a month ago, he was gone and so were the dogs.”

  “Did anyone else frequent the house?” Irene asked.

  “Hm.” The man took off his hat and scratched his head through thinning hair. “A few people, yes. A young fellow with yellow hair. He seemed to come in when the city boy couldn’t. And twice I saw a lady visit after the pups had been born and sold off.”

  “A lady?” Irene pressed. “What did she look like?”

  “She was tall, for a woman,” he continued. “Light hair and a costly looking fur coat. Dark fur–black, I think. Sorry, but that’s all I saw of her.”

  Joe scribbled down the description in his notebook.

  “Thank you,” Irene said. “My colleague will write down our telephone number, and should anyone return to the cottage, or you remember something else, do give us a call.”

  Joe wrote down their number and ripped the strip from his notebook, handing it to the man.

  “I am a veterinarian,” he said. “Should you need my services, I would be happy to drive out here again and examine the puppies when this case is finished.”

  “Oh, that would be marvellous,” he said.

  They walked back to the Vauxhall, and Irene held her palm out for the keys. Joe handed them over, taking one last longing look back at the dogs staring at them from the front room’s window, round black eyes keeping a close watch.

  Once they were settled in the car, Joe sighed. “I’m worried this case is going to lead to something dismal regarding these Setters.”

  “As am I,” Irene said with a frown. “We shall go to the shelter and find out why this man discarded them in seemingly such a brutal fashion.”

  * * * * *

  The animal shelter at 14 Underwood Road shared a building with a recently added veterinarian practice. Joe and Irene walked into the small reception area, and the sounds of the clinic made Joe smile. Barking dogs in the back kennels, the smell of cleaner, and muted discussion from one of the exam rooms filled his ears and gave him a sense of homesickness. He missed his vet practice in Camden, but he was still unsure about returning to one full-time. He made just as much if not more money working with Irene anyway.

  “Watson?” A familiar vo
ice came from the open room to his left. His former assistant and friend Michael stepped out of the small office, jovial as ever, his round cheeks red with perpetual glee.

  “Michael!” Joe greeted him with a smile and an outstretched hand. “I didn’t know you’d returned from Edinburgh.”

  “Just got back a week ago,” Michael said. “I’m still settling in, but your name was at the top of my list to contact. Guess I can save my ink and paper!”

  Michael looked beyond him to Irene, furrowing his brow as if trying to figure out where he knew Irene from.

  “This is Irene,” Joe said, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “The one who needed a flatmate all those months ago.”

  Michael’s eyes widened in recognition. “Of course! I thought I knew her from somewhere. Well, I say, Watson! That worked out for you, didn’t it?”

  He gave Joe a wink, then turned to Irene. Joe immediately went to stop him, as Michael had a terrible habit of telling stories full of meandering tangents. Irene was usually civil with most people, but Michael’s boisterous personality would rub Irene completely the wrong way, especially in the middle of a case.

  “How are you doing, miss?” He stuck his hand out. “Our Joe here is a sly fox for rooming with you, isn’t he?”

  If Joe had been drinking something, he would’ve spat it all over the vet practice.

  Irene smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I can think of many animals to describe Joe, but I can’t say a sly fox is one of them.”

  Joe stifled a groan, but Michael laughed. “Quite right.”

  “We came here with a purpose, actually,” Joe began, attempting to move the conversation along.

  “Vet services or a new addition to the family?” Michael asked.

  “We’re looking for two Setters that were brought in possibly a month ago. The female would’ve recently had a litter.”

  Michael snapped his fingers. “I know just the ones you’re asking after. Follow me.”

  He led them past the front desk and to the back kennels. A cacophony of barks and yips erupted at them from the various breeds housed in the cages. There were four in total, two medium-sized mutts, a small shaggy mix, and a shepherd. Joe ran his hand along the cages as they passed, and the dogs eagerly sniffed. Michael led them to the back storage room and began opening cupboards.

  “They were lovely dogs,” he said, clearly looking for something. “The male was a tad overweight, and the female was underweight, and they both had fleas but were otherwise healthy. Once we got rid of their fleas and started advertising them, they went quickly to a farm up north.”

  “Who surrendered the dogs?” Irene asked.

  “A young boy, barely a teenager.” Michael paused and leaned on the low counter, breathing hard, the search wearing him out. “They weren’t his dogs, he told us, and when we asked who they belonged to, he said he didn’t know. A man paid him ten shillings to bring the dogs in.”

  “Did you find it odd that these dogs were dropped off?” Irene questioned.

  Michael shook his head. “Not really. People became excited about owning pets again when the war finished, but a dog is still as expensive after the war as during.”

  He resumed his search and finally found whatever he was looking for. He produced something wrapped in a bundle of paper, setting it on the counter, and unwrapping the contents. A blue sapphire necklace on a silver chain, and a small statue a few inches tall, slid from the paper and onto the wooden counter.

  Irene immediately bent over the items. “This is African, I’m almost positive. But I don’t know where this necklace is from. These intricate designs look unique.”

  “What does this have to do with the dogs?” Joe asked, confused.

  Michael grinned. “Funny story. They came from the dogs.”

  Irene and Joe both looked at him in unison.

  “The dogs?” Irene repeated.

  “The female,” Michael nodded. “A few days after they were surrendered, we found those in her stool. We cleaned them and kept them thinking that if they were precious, someone would come looking for them, or try to retrieve them, but it’s been a month, and no one has claimed them. To be honest with you, we tossed them in the cupboard and forgot about them until now.”

  “Where would a dog get these from?” Joe wondered aloud.

  Michael shrugged. “We assumed from the previous owner. You know dogs, Watson. Some will eat just about everything.”

  “May we keep these?” Irene asked. “They may be important for our investigation.”

  “Anything for you, sweetheart,” he flirted with a sly smile. “Our Joe hasn’t looked this good in years. Got some meat on your bones, Watson, and a little pep in your step.”

  Joe’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and he glanced at Irene, but she didn’t seem to take Michaels words as anything more than chit-chat. Irene tucked the trinkets into her purse, and that’s when it apparently dawned on Michael as to what they were doing.

  “You haven’t turned private eye, have you?”

  “I have, actually,” Joe said and was ready for the laugh and retort from Michael. Instead, the man simply nodded and grinned.

  “You were always clever with that sort of thing.” He then turned to Irene. “If there was something tricky about an animal we treated, ole Doctor Watson here could figure it out lickety-split and make connections we struggled to see.”

  “He is quite clever,” Irene agreed. “I will admit to that. Now, we’ve taken up enough of your time, so we’d best be off.”

  She turned back toward the door, and Joe knew that was his cue to leave as well. As much as Michael was his friend, Joe was eager to get on with the case and figure out why on earth an Irish Setter had a necklace and a statue in her belly.

  “Watson,” Michael said, walking them back toward the front door. “Before the weather turns foul for the winter, let’s have dinner. It finally feels like things are settling back to normal around this city, so monthly dinners with friends would seem like a wonderful tradition to start.”

  “That would be lovely,” Joe replied, feeling genuine excitement stir in his belly. “I shall pop by when this case is solved.”

  “Jolly good!” Michael boasted and clasped Joe’s hand. “There’s always a space for you here should you want to come back to animals, too. Don’t forget that!”

  “Thank you, Michael,” Joe said before following Irene out of the clinic. As they walked the block to where the automobile was parked, Irene spoke.

  “He certainly was an obnoxiously happy man.”

  Joe laughed. “He’s always been that way.”

  “He’s the one that told you to seek out Eddy, isn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Joe said, remembering that fateful conversation back at the beginning of June. Michael had overheard a conversation between Irene and Lestrade about flat hunting and assumed Lestrade was looking for the flat. Joe could still vividly remember the shock he felt when Irene spoke up about actually needing the flat and how sharing with Joe would suit her just fine.

  “I’m glad you have a friend,” she added. “Dinner out with him shall feel normal.”

  To anyone else, Irene’s words wouldn’t have meant anything more than was spoken, but Joe caught the hint of sullenness in her sentence. He knew she didn’t have many friends of her own, save for himself, Lestrade, and Lestrade’s sister, though Irene never mentioned her much. Perhaps she wished she did make an effort to befriend others. Maybe after hearing Michael’s words, she would reconsider the offer Lestrade continued to extend for dinner with him and his father.

  By the time they reached the car, she appeared to be over whatever mood she was feeling, and within minutes, they were headed back to Baker Street with their collected trinkets.

  * * * * *

  Joe turned the small statue over in his fingers as he sat at the dining table at 221B. Irene had mentioned that this was an African statue, and he was inclined to agree. He didn’t know much about Africa, but this
carved figure, with its tribal headpiece, appeared to have been brought back by a soldier serving out there during the war.

  Next to him, Irene studied the necklace. “This is real silver, and presumably a real sapphire. They are eerily similar to the items the Beauchamps had dotted around their flat.”

  “Mrs. Beauchamp said nothing about missing items, did she?” Joe asked, standing the statue up.

  “She did not,” Irene replied before grabbing the batch of photos from the pile she’d developed of the Beauchamp’s flat. Miss Hudson had eagerly perused them earlier, studying the carpet and furniture while scowling and wishing to be as rich as them before handing the lot back to Irene. “Nothing appears stolen or misplaced either. There are no missing gaps between these figures on any shelf.”

  “Perhaps they belonged to Mr. Barry,” Joe suggested. “This may not be the first items they’ve eaten, and he may have been simply fed up, which would be just ridiculous. Any dog in that situation would be under a good amount of stress. He’s lucky those items passed through the dogs without causing any harm.”

  Joe felt a touch of anger flare up. The case involving horses a few months ago had stirred up frustration in him, and this case was doing the same. Why couldn’t people leave animals out of their schemes and horrid plans?

  “Are we going to assume these items belonged to Mr. Barry?” Joe asked. “Or, perhaps the lady who visited him?”

  “The lady...” Irene stood and walked to their investigation board. She had written down all their clues so far and was attempting to connect them. She backed up until her thighs hit the couch and she sat sideways, legs hanging over the armrest. “We will go to the library later and see what information we can find on those artifacts.”

  “I am always keen for a trip to the library,” Joe nodded, his anger dissipating at the promise of a few new fiction novels.

  “I must think,” Irene said. “There was a particular blend of tobacco my father used to smoke when he was in deep thought. I don’t smoke a pipe, but perhaps I should purchase some of that tobacco to see if it assists me at all.”

  “When I travelled into the city with my father on occasion, the tobacconist used to give me free samples of tobacco to try to entice me to buy a pipe,” Joe laughed. “My father would encourage me to take all the samples offered to me so he could smoke them later.”