The shed in which Harry Heathfield had housed Lady Griselda was not a particularly attractive place, but it was functional and well built. The concrete floor ensured dryness, and Henry noticed that Heathfield had installed a broad wooden bench, raised off the floor, similar to those in Simon Yateley’s kennels and clearly intended as a dog bed. There were, however, several things that struck Henry as curious. For one, although there were traces of straw on the bench, the major part of the dog’s bedding had disappeared. For another, the bench was littered with miscellaneous items like flowerpots and garden implements, which appeared to have been taken from a pile of such things stacked in a corner of the shed, and carefully strewn about the bench. It was as though somebody had made a hasty attempt to obscure the fact that there had ever been a dog in the shed.
One piece of evidence, however, had proved impossible to remove. This was a long, lightweight and new-looking chain, which was bolted securely onto an iron ring in the wall above the bench. The ring was slightly askew, and it looked very much to Henry as though somebody had attempted to wrench it out of the wall and failed. The other end of the chain terminated in a springhook of the sort usually found on dog leads, and intended to clip onto the animal’s collar. Here was definite proof that Lady Griselda had neither slipped her collar nor broken her chain. She had been deliberately released—by someone who had then tried to obliterate the traces of her occupancy of the shed, but had not had enough time to do the job properly.
Henry returned the house key to Mrs. Donovan, and drove slowly back to Cherry Tree Drive. As he went, he tried to reconstruct in his mind the movements of the unfortunate Lady Griselda. It seemed at least a possibility that Larry Lawson had been on his way to steal the greyhound when he met his death. Steal, or perhaps substitute. Heathfield had only recently acquired the bitch, and might not have noticed the difference, if the substitute had been sufficiently similar in appearance. Heathfield—who had been kept away from his home and plied with drinks by Major Weatherby and his friend, so as to leave the coast clear; Heathfield—who, by a nice piece of irony—had then driven drunkenly into the wall and killed Lawson.
Had Lawson already switched the greyhound for a substitute when he was killed? Had the real Lady Griselda fled, terrified, into the darkness after the accident—leaving Heathfield to cherish the substitute from that day until his imprisonment six weeks later? Whatever the truth, the fact remained that the greyhound bitch, fawn with a white star and forefeet, which Harry Heathfield had left in his shed when he went for trial, had been stolen. Stolen during the day of the trial, when Mrs. Donovan was either in court or, as she put it, up the biscuit factory.
It also seemed a reasonable assumption that one or the other of the dogs had been kept for a couple of days in the garden shed at 18 Sandown Avenue, disturbing Nanny’s rest and causing her to complain to Mummy. It infuriated Henry to think that the bitch might well have been in the shed when he first visited the house, and had been whisked off in the blue van by Shorty Bates under Henry’s very nose. Where was Lady Griselda now? How much did Marlene Lawson know? And who had shot Red Dicky Marsh? Questions buzzed like angry bees in Henry’s head, and he did not know the answers.
It was shortly before eight that Henry arrived back at Cherry Tree Cottage, with a pre-prepared excuse for his lateness hovering on his lips. He need not have worried, however. The pale blue MG sports car parked outside the gate told him that the Spences had a visitor, and the latter’s identity was made plain by the fact that Tess, Ginger, and the other dogs were accompanied—indeed, overshadowed—by the huge, leaping figure of Wotan when they rushed to the gate to greet him. Sure enough, Amanda Bratt-Cunningham was drinking sherry in the drawing room, talking earnestly to Jane about her home-grown produce stall for the village fête. Henry was duly introduced, and noticed with some gloom that Emmy was being drawn, inch by inch, into the discussion. Remembering an earlier and disastrous fête in East Anglia, he hoped that she might at least be spared the Fortune Teller’s Tent and the Lucky Dip.
Bill Spence, Henry noticed with sympathy, had retired into the garden, where he was making a pretense of weeding an already immaculate flower bed.
“Sorry I’m a bit late, Jane,” Henry remarked.
The three women barely looked up. “That’s OK,” said Jane. “Now, Amanda, the thing we’ve got to decide is whether you can combine your vegetable stall with Mrs. Pickworth’s homemade jams, or whether she should go in with Lady Drake’s cakes and pastries. I should have thought—”
Henry did not even bother to ask if he might use the telephone. He went into the hall and looked up the number of Hilltop Kennels in the telephone book. A moment later, he was talking to Bella Yateley.
“It’s about Griselda,” Henry said. “Can you tell me the name of the track where she ran her one and only race?”
“Of course.” Bella sounded surprised. “Doblington. In Yorkshire.”
“It’s what you call a flapping track, is it?”
“Oh, no. It’s under NGRC management. Quite a swish affair.”
“You mean it’s a proper stadium?”
“Oh, very much so. There’s a lot of brass about up there, as the natives say. I can remember Doblington ten years ago,” Bella added, “when it wasn’t much different from our open-air track at Hilltop. But now—NGRC recognition, a new stadium, a restaurant, two bars. They do themselves well up there.”
“Which means,” said Henry, “important races and important bets.”
“I told you, there’s a lot of money about. Why are you so interested, anyway?” Henry thought he could detect a slight tinge of anxiety in Bella’s voice.
He said, “Oh, it’s just an idea. I’m trying to find Griselda, you see.”
“In that case, more power to your arm. But I can’t imagine you’ll find her in Doblington. We only took her up there once, for the race. She must surely be somewhere in the Gorsemere district.”
‘I wonder,” said Henry. “Anyhow, can you give me all the details—the date and time of the race, and which dog won, and so on?”
Bella laughed. “That’s a bit of a tall order, after all this time. The best thing you can do is call Doblington.”
“I still need to know at least the date of the race. Mrs. Yateley—”
“Bella, please.”
“Bella, can’t you find me that information from your own records?”
There was a perceptible hesitation from the other end of the line. Then Bella Yateley said, “I don’t think Tommy’s gone home yet. He might remember. Hold on.”
Henry held on. From the drawing room, Jane’s voice floated out, serene and confident, telling Amanda not to pay the slightest attention to what the Reverend Mr. Thacker had said. There were going to be two home produce stalls. From the garden, the gentle whirring of the lawn mower indicated that Bill Spence had grown tired of pretending to weed, and was now pretending to cut the grass instead. At last, Bella’s voice came on the line again. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“Not at all,” said Henry politely. “I thought you were remarkably quick.”
“Well, luckily Tommy happened to remember. She ran at Doblington in the 2:30 race on June 18th last—that’s almost a year ago. They call it the Novices’ Silver Collar—a sort of imitation of the Catford Gold Collar, I suppose, and run over the same distance, 440 yards flat. Open only to dogs who haven’t raced before, as the name suggests. Poor Griselda came last—I can remember that for myself. As to which dog won, I can’t help you, but Doblington should have it on record.”
Amanda Bratt-Cunningham departed at half-past eight, accompanied by Wotan, who sat beside her in the passenger seat of the tiny car, looking like Falstaff riding in a perambulator. Jane and Emmy promptly fled to the kitchen, and a quarter of an hour later a very creditable supper was ready. Afterward, over coffee, Jane said, “I heard you calling Bella Yateley. Any news of Griselda?”
“Not for the moment, I’m afraid,” Henry said, “but I’ve a great favor
to ask of you, Jane. May I use your telephone?”
Jane’s eyebrows went up. “Of course. You’ve been using it all day.”
“I know. But this time I want to make a long-distance call. To Doblington in Yorkshire.”
Henry was in luck. There was a race meeting at Doblington Greyhound Stadium that evening, and a helpful girl from Directory Enquiries soon had Henry connected with the Racecourse Manager’s office. After a certain amount of secretarial stalling, Henry at last found himself speaking to the Manager himself—a Mr. Pomfret, whose rich Yorkshire accent came rolling down the wire.
“Last June? Novices’ Silver Collar? Ay, so ’appen I do remember. Well, ’twere the first race she wun. Marleen’s Fancy. Proper little champion, that bitch. Gone on to great things, as yew’ll know. ’Oo owned ’er? ’Ang on a tic, I’ll luke it oop. ’Ere we are. Winner, Mrs. Rose Bertini’s Marleen’s Fancy, ten to wun. Thank you, sir. Glad to ’ave bin of assistance.”
The following morning, Henry contacted the headquarters of the National Greyhound Racing Club in London, where the helpful staff were able to verify the identifying details of Marlene’s Fancy. She was a bitch, now two years and two months old. She was registered as belonging to Mrs. Rose Bertini of Nelson’s Buildings, Battersea, London. Since her original success in the Novices’ Silver Collar race at Doblington, she had shown a remarkable record of success, winning races at NGRC stadiums all over the north of England. She had not yet raced in the south or the London area. She was described as being of an overall beige color, with a white star on her forehead and white forefeet. The last race which she had run—and won—had again been at Doblington three weeks ago. That was all the available information, and the charming young lady hoped she had been able to help Henry.
Henry thanked her, and hung up. Whether or not he had been helped, he felt, was a moot point. The description of Marlene’s Fancy tallied exactly with that of Lady Griselda. But Marlene’s Fancy was clearly a potential champion, whereas Lady Griselda had been—allegedly—given away to Harry Heathfield because she was hopeless on the racetrack. Had there been a substitution—and if so, how had it been arranged? Where were Marlene’s Fancy and Lady Griselda now? Above all, it was clear to Henry that his first move must be another interview with Mrs. Bertini and her daughter, the recently widowed Marlene Lawson. And another London visit which was, Henry realized, long overdue.
CHAPTER NINE
“BUT HENRY,” JANE protested, “I thought you were going to stay a few more days with us.”
“My dear Jane, I am going to stay, if you’ll have me. It’s just that I have to go up to London today. I’ll be back around suppertime, with any luck. Don’t bother to meet me. I’ll walk from the station.”
“But Emmy said…”
Henry said, “I’m not on holiday, you know.”
“Aren’t you?” Jane sounded surprised. “Well, you’re not exactly working either, are you? Down here in Gorsemere?”
“Yes and no. Anyhow, I shall be working in London today. So be an angel and find out when the next suitable train leaves.”
“I do wish all you men didn’t feel such a need to be mysterious.” Jane was running her thumb down a column of the railway timetable. “Amanda was saying last night…here we are, Gorsemere Halt 10:45, Waterloo 12 o’clock. That means you needn’t hurry—it’s only ten now, and I can run you to the station in five minutes.”
“What was Amanda saying?” Henry asked. He was not in the least interested in what Amanda had said, but he thought it prudent to divert Jane’s probing enquiries from his present activities. Gossip runs fast in a village, and he was anxious that Gorsemere should consider him to be on holiday.
“Oh…just wondering what you were doing down here, and why you were taking such an interest in Lady Griselda…”
“Blast,” said Henry. “Is she the only one who’s saying that?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” said Jane cheerfully. “We don’t get many sensations in the village, and the Harry Heathfield case was beginning to die of exhaustion as a topic of conversation. Now, you’ve revived it.”
“Look here, Jane,” Henry said, “will you please do something for me?”
“If I can. What?”
“Take every opportunity you can to drop into the conversation the fact that I’m taking a few days’ holiday down here, and that my only interest in Lady Griselda is that I’m tremendously keen on animal welfare.”
Jane’s eyebrows went up. “You are? To think I never noticed!”
“Tell them I’m a governor of the Battersea Dogs’ Home. Tell them anything you like—but do your best to deflate these rumors.”
Jane smiled. “So there really is a mystery,” she remarked. “OK, don’t look so suspicious. My lips are sealed, and I’ll tell everybody you’re just a holiday-making dog-lover. Only don’t blame me if they don’t believe me.”
In London, Henry went first to his office at Scotland Yard, and conferred with Sergeant Reynolds. The sergeant was able to come up with some interesting information, illustrated by photographs from the Criminal Record Office.
It appeared that Larry Lawson’s chief lieutenant had been Shorty Bates, the pseudo-house agent and driver of the blue van. The other members of the mob had been insignificant characters who had drifted off to attach themselves to new leaders after Lawson’s death. As for Bates, apart from the fact that he had a bad record, lived by gambling, hung around dog tracks, and kept dubious company, the police had no definite charges outstanding against him. He had naturally been a suspect in the shooting of Marsh, but had been able to produce a cast-iron alibi for the crucial time. He had, of all unlikely things, been at an evening session of a Blood Transfusion Center, donating blood.
“I know it sounds too good to be true,” Sergeant Reynolds commented, “but the fact remains that that’s where he was and he couldn’t have been at Runworth shooting Red Dicky at the same time. It does make one think that he might have known what was going to happen, and made sure of covering himself—but try proving that one.”
Red Dicky Marsh, currently hovering between life and death in the hospital, also had a henchman and confidant—an enormous West Indian called Robert Smith, commonly referred to as Calypso, or Cal. It was he who had been with Red Dicky at the time of the shooting. As his chief fell wounded, Cal had whipped out a gun and fired wildly at the attacker—only succeeding in winging the ultra-respectable Mr. Hudson, bank cashier from Runworth Common, who was treating his wife to an evening at the dogs. This had enabled the police to hold Calypso—much to his disgust—on charges of unlawful wounding and unlawful possession of a firearm.
“He may get off the wounding charge by pleading self-defense,” Reynolds said, “but I’m damned if I’m going to let him wriggle out of the unlawful possession. I’ve been after him for a long time.”
“You sound as though you don’t like the gentleman,” Henry remarked. “I never suspected you of color prejudice, Sergeant.”
For a moment, it looked as though Sergeant Reynolds might explode. Then he grinned. “I’ll take that sort of joke from you, sir,” he said, “but from nobody else. No, it’s the very opposite. If these small-time villains cheat and trick each other, and shoot each other, come to that, it’s no skin off my nose. But this Cal Smith—he’s mixed up in some very nasty rent and lodging rackets that hit his own people. They come over to this country, they’re honest, hard-working folk who just want a place to live—but they’re confused, they don’t understand our ways. So of course they’re delighted to find a fellow-countryman who’ll help solve their problems.” Reynolds laughed, bitterly. “Solve? He fleeces them of everything they’ve got, and then throws them out of even the miserable, dirty, overcrowded rooms he’s put them into. And so far, he’s skated through so many legal loopholes that we’ve never been able to nail him. Well, I’ve got him inside now—bail refused—and I intend to keep him.”
“So,” Henry said, “what it boils down to is that for the last couple o
f days, the remnants of Larry Lawson’s mob have been at large and free to operate, while the Marsh gang is to all intents and purposes under lock and key.”
“That’s about it, sir,” Reynolds agreed. “There’s none of Marsh’s small fry would make a move without Dicky or Cal.”
“And Weatherby? Was he friendly with Marsh? Does he know Smith?”
Reynolds shrugged. “You know the setup, sir. They all drink in his pub. He knows them all. Strictly as patrons of his Private Bar. If you ask me, Weatherby’s got no friends. He’s just a useful sort of character, available to anybody if the money is right and the risk minimal. The Byers case shook him badly. He must have thought this was a foolproof assignment—if it was an assignment. Supposing that drunk really did steal his car?”
Henry sighed. “I know. That thought keeps occurring to me, but I simply don’t believe it. Now, you’ve already told me there’s nothing in CRO on Mrs. Lawson or Mrs. Bertini. Is there anything else at all that might tie in with the case? There’s a link missing somewhere, you see. Frankly, I don’t believe in small-time villains who are so sentimental that they’d risk a murder rap just to avenge a dead leader—especially when there’s so little evidence that Marsh had anything to do with Lawson’s death. I want to know why Marsh was shot, Sergeant.”
Sergeant Reynolds shook his head. “I can’t think of anything, sir. Anything at all. All we know, it’s there on the file.”
“Where does Marsh live, when he’s at home?”
Reynolds consulted the dossier. “Wimbledon, sir. 128 Parson’s Drive. Very respectable neighborhood.”
“Married?”
“No, sir. He shares the house with Cal Smith—trust him to live in luxury.”
The Curious Affair of the Third Dog Page 11
