The Curious Affair of the Third Dog

by Patricia Moyes

  She heard the footsteps approaching, and closed her eyes, trying to pray. To pray for forgiveness, because she knew what she had done and why this was happening to her. To pray that she might atone with her life for the weakness which had led her step by step into the spider’s web of crime. The footsteps were closer now. Another minute…

  And then, suddenly, there were more footsteps, and shouting and another shot and then another. Amanda stopped praying abruptly and opened her eyes in time to see a bizarre sight. Within a few yards of where she lay, a police constable was grappling with a woman, fighting as though for his life and apparently getting the worst of it. This seemed curious to Amanda, until she realized that the policeman was, as it were, fighting with one hand tied behind his back. His right arm was clearly useless. She could also see that the woman was holding a gun, and that the constable’s whole strength, such as it was, was devoted to preventing her from using it, either on Amanda or himself.

  It flashed through Amanda’s mind—“He’s got one arm and two legs, I’ve only got one leg, but by God I’ve got two arms”—and despite the agonizing pain from her injured leg, she started dragging herself as fast as she could across the concrete. A moment later, and she had flung both arms round the woman’s legs, jerking them from under her. As she fell, Amanda had a glimpse of a shimmering purple and silver dress under a dark raincoat—then another shot went off, at random; the world seemed a melee of flailing arms and legs highlighted by exquisite pain—and then there were more people, people running, men in uniform. A voice said, “Are you all right, sir? I came as soon as I—”

  Another voice. “The young lady’s hurt. Better call an ambulance, quick!”

  The woman in the purple dress was quiet now, on her feet again, her arms pinioned by a burly, dark young man who was securing her wrists with handcuffs. A young, fresh-faced constable knelt down beside Amanda, and said, “How are you, miss? Is it bad?”

  “I don’t think so. Just my leg. I’ll be all right.”

  “The ambulance’ll be here in no time, miss. Just you lie quiet.” The policeman took off his blue serge jacket and wrapped it around and under Amanda’s shoulders. She lay back gratefully in its warmth, and closed her eyes.

  A moment later, she had them open again, as wide as they would go in astonishment. Because she could have sworn that she heard Henry Tibbett’s voice, and that it was saying, “Albert Pennington, I am arresting you for the attempted murder of Miss Amanda Bratt-Cunningham, and for conspiring in the murder of Lawrence Lawson. I warn you that anything you say will be taken down and may be used…”

  Another voice chimed in. “Got her, sir. In the other car park. Trying to make a getaway, by the look of it.”

  With an effort, Amanda turned her head toward the source of the voices, looked up—and decided that she had developed double vision. There, standing side by side, each held firmly by the arm of the law, were two women—both equally tall and blonde, both dressed in gaudy purple and silver.

  “I give up,” said Amanda aloud, to nobody in particular. “Better hurry up with that ambulance and take me straight to the nuthouse.”

  The loudspeaker system at Bunstead Stadium was efficient and comprehensive. Its disembodied voice reached even into the quiet confines of the staff car park. As gentle hands lifted Amanda onto a stretcher, and not-so-gentle ones propelled the prisoners into a Black Maria, the unseen announcer informed them boomingly of the winner, second, and third in the eight o’clock race. It added, “Here is an announcement. Number 4, Lady Griselda, will not be running in the next race, the 8:30. I repeat, Lady Griselda, number 4, has been withdrawn and will not run…”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE FORMALITIES SEEMED to take forever, although in fact they were expeditiously managed. The race program of the Bunstead Stadium wound its way to a close—as a matter of interest, the 8:30 race was won by the favorite, Lucky Strike—who was lucky indeed, for he would not have stood a chance against Marlene’s Fancy, alias Lady Griselda, had she been running against him. Her odds, which normally would have been astronomic, had shortened to fifteen to one after her surprise win of the previous day, but her backers would have stood to clean up a sizable fortune had the race taken place according to plan.

  Long after the last of the crowds had departed, long after the vast car parks were deserted, even after the canine competitors had been collected by their owners or trainers and driven away to their home kennels, Jane and Bill Spence sat with Pat Murphy in his office, waiting for a word from Henry.

  Around ten o’clock they were joined by Emmy, who had accompanied Amanda Bratt-Cunningham to the hospital, and was glad to be able to report that she was in no danger, and was now sleeping the sleep of the gently tranquilized. However, as to where Henry was, or exactly what was going on, Emmy was not able to enlighten them. All she knew was that Albert Pennington, improbably dressed in a purple and silver lamé gown and blonde wig, had been arrested; that Mrs. Bertini and her daughter were “helping the police with their enquiries”; and that, predictably, Major George Weatherby had vanished at the first sign of trouble like a drop of morning dew under the sun’s first rays. Emmy also reported that Henry had put through two telephone calls to Gorsemere—one to P.C. Denning and the other to the Spences’ house—but she had no idea of what had been said. She did not know where the Yateleys were.

  On this point, Pat Murphy was able to throw light. “Simon and Bella? They’re round at the kennels, waiting to see if anybody arrives to pick up Lady Griselda—or whatever her real name is. If, as we strongly suspect, nobody turns up, then they’ve very sportingly agreed to take her back to Hilltop and care for her until this business is cleared up.”

  Sure enough, it was not many minutes later that Simon and Bella arrived in the office, accompanied by the paddock steward leading a beautiful beige-colored greyhound bitch, with a white star on her forehead and white forelegs.

  “Just as we thought, Pat,” said Bella. “Every other hound claimed but this one.” She fondled the bitch’s ears, and was rewarded by a prodigious yawn. She added, “You may look like Griselda, but you’re as different as chalk from cheese when it comes to temperament. I hope you’re not as lazy on the track as off it. Does anybody know who she is, by the way?”

  Emmy said, “I only got a garbled account from Henry, but I think her name is Marlene’s Fancy.”

  There was a short silence, as significant looks were exchanged between the Yateleys, Murphy, and the steward. Emmy said, “Have I put my foot in it, or something? I’m very ignorant about greyhounds. I just heard Henry mention the name.”

  Murphy said, quickly, “No, no, Mrs. Tibbett, of course not. It’s just that…” He looked at the steward, who nodded. “Marlene’s Fancy is way above the class of the runners in the 8:30 here. She’d have licked the pants off them. She’s never run here, of course—always been up north. I knew she was beige and white, but—”

  Bella said, “I’ve never seen her before, either. But of course I know her by reputation.”

  And Simon added, “By God. Of course. Anybody who cottoned onto the fact that there was another bitch, virtually identical to look at, but a lousy runner…”

  Murphy said, with a touch of ice, “Somebody did cotton on, Yateley. And since Lady Griselda was born and bred at your kennels, it looks very much like an inside job.”

  “Now, look here, Pat—” Simon began, blusteringly.

  “I’m not accusing you of anything,” said Murphy—a patent misstatement; the whole incident had reflected badly on the Bunstead Stadium and on Murphy personally, and he saw his chance of getting a little of his own back. “I’m merely pointing out that somebody at Gorsemere who knew both greyhounds must have given the tip-off.”

  “Or somebody up north who knew Marlene’s Fancy—” Bella began indignantly, and then stopped.

  Murphy smiled, not a very friendly smile. “It won’t do, will it, Bella dear? Marlene’s Fancy is a well-known, up-and-coming runner. Plenty of people
know her or have seen pictures of her. Lady Griselda, on the other hand—”

  “Wait a minute.” Simon was interested, and had forgotten to be angry with Murphy. “If the two bitches are the same age, Marlene’s Fancy may well have run her novice race up at Doblington, at the same time as Griselda.” He turned to his wife. “You took Griselda up for the Novices’ Silver Collar, didn’t you, darling? Can you remember?”

  Bella shook her head. “I couldn’t get away,” she said. “I’ve always wondered if Griselda mightn’t have done better if I’d been there—on the practice track, she’d race her heart out for me, and nobody else. But I absolutely had to go to Wimbledon with Black Prince that evening. It was Tommy took her up to Doblington.”

  “Where somebody saw her,” Simon went on, “and realized he could pull a sweet swindle and clean up a packet.” To Murphy, he said, “Nobody came to claim Marlene’s Fancy—if it is her—but somebody must have delivered her here.”

  Murphy shook his head. “No,” he said. “She was sent here direct from Kevingfield, where she won the day before yesterday. As Lady Griselda, of course. Complete with identity card. If the same dog is raced twice in forty-eight hours,” he added to Emmy, in explanation, “the manager of the first track is responsible for delivering the card direct to the manager of the second track—it doesn’t have to go back to NGRC headquarters in between.”

  Emmy exclaimed, “Now I understand! That’s why Henry said it had to be tonight—”

  Murphy nodded slowly. “That’s right,” he said. “They—whoever they are—they let her win at Kevingfield, had it all entered on her card, and sent the bitch and the card straight here for what was to be the big killing, financially speaking. The fact that she’d won before made her record seem in order, and she was put in a race which she’d have won easily, but which wasn’t so far below her apparent form as to cause comment. Kevingfield’s a smaller track altogether, and they wouldn’t have checked as carefully as we would. If a complete outsider had won the second race of her career here, having come last in her first and only other one, we’d have smelt a rat. There’d have been an enquiry. And I dare say the NGRC would have cast a fishy eye on that identity card if it had been sent back to them between the two races.”

  “Wait a minute.” Bella frowned. “This can’t be Marlene’s Fancy. I read that she’s in whelp.”

  “I read that, too,” said Murphy. “Obviously, it was just a story handed out to the sporting press to account for the fact that she happened to disappear from the track at the same moment that Lady Griselda made her comeback.”

  “Then what about the real Griselda?” Bella asked, anxiously. “You don’t think they’ve—”

  Simon rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That would depend,” he said. “If things had gone according to plan, and they’d got away with the substitution, they’d need to be able to produce both dogs to keep the record straight for the future. But now that the lid’s blown off—well, the fewer greyhounds the better, I imagine, as far as the gang is concerned. They’ve simply abandoned Marlene’s Fancy, for obvious reasons, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t dispose of Griselda as fast as they can.”

  Jane burst out indignantly, “You mean that Henry’s prepared to let them murder that beautiful creature, just to expose a fraud and catch a few petty crooks?”

  “Not so petty, Jane,” said Emmy. “He had a good try at killing Amanda, and Henry seems to think there’s been one murder committed already.”

  “All the same—” Jane began.

  Bill said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jane. You’re just plain demented when it comes to animals.”

  And Bella added, “I do know how you feel, Jane, but what can anyone do? We’ve no idea where Griselda is—”

  “Oh yes, we have.” Henry, still in the uniform of a police constable, stood in the open doorway, with the sturdy figure of Sergeant Reynolds hovering in the passage behind him. Henry looked exhausted, and carried his right arm in a sling provided by Amanda’s ambulance crew; however, he sounded cheerful as he said, “Sorry to keep you all waiting. So there were no takers for Marlene’s Fancy? Just as I thought. Right. Let’s get going.”

  “Where to?” Jane asked.

  Henry looked surprised. “Back to Gorsemere, of course.”

  “But Griselda…you can’t just abandon her. You said you knew where she was…”

  “My dear Jane,” said Henry, “unless I am gravely mistaken, Lady Griselda is in Gorsemere. In fact, she’s back home, and she’s been there for some time.”

  ***

  So the convoy made its way back along darkened country roads to Gorsemere, but in a somewhat amended form. Sergeant Reynolds, together with the police car, remained at Bunstead Police Station, acting as a liaison between Henry and the various detainees. As might have been expected, Albert Pennington—who knew his rights as a citizen, in or out of drag—was creating maximum nuisance value, refusing to make a statement and demanding to see his lawyer. Marlene Lawson was displaying every bit as much stubbornness as Pennington, sitting on a hard chair in the charge room like a small, evil-tempered statue, her pretty mouth clamped shut and her dark eyes blazing with anger. Mrs. Bertini was having hysterics in the rest room under the kind but firm eye of a competent W.P.C. The local Bunstead force was doing its best, but not being in full possession of the facts, it was difficult for its members to feel in control of the situation. Sergeant Reynolds had been extremely reluctant to let Henry go back to Gorsemere without him, but had eventually bowed to discipline and common sense. At any moment, one of the suspects—voluntarily or involuntarily—might divulge some important information, and somebody had to be there to hear it.

  Consequently, Henry was being driven back to Gorsemere by the police driver in the small saloon car in which Reynolds had driven from London, and which was capable of a turn of speed quite belied by its modest exterior. It had easily outstripped even the Yateleys in their Rover, on the back seat of which Marlene’s Fancy slept with her usual philosophic acceptance of whatever life might bring. She was an easy-going bitch, and asked for no more than two good meals a day, a warm dry kennel, and the occasional thrill of a race—although she had found from experience that she could outmatch her rivals without really trying, so the excitement was minimal.

  Some way behind the Rover, the Spences in their station wagon bowled sedately along, with little conversation. Bill was brooding on the unspeakable complications which his sister-in-law and her husband always seemed to bring into his life. And Jane was worrying about Griselda.

  Last of all came Emmy, on her own and driving cautiously, because the controls of Amanda’s MG were still unfamiliar. Amanda had pressed the keys on Emmy at the hospital and begged her to drive the car back; in fact, before the nurse arrived with her hypodermic full of sedative, Amanda had pressed something less acceptable on Emmy—her confidences, or, to be blunt, her confession. As she drove, Emmy pondered on what Amanda had told her, and wondered how much of it Henry knew, or had guessed, and what she should do about it. At least, certain mysteries were now explained, and Emmy felt confident that Harry Heathfield would soon be a free man, back in his little house with Tess and Ginger…and Griselda? Emmy wondered about that, too, and wished that she had put up more of a fight when Henry had issued strict orders that she was to go straight to Cherry Tree Cottage with Jane and Bill, and stay there behind locked doors until he, Henry, arrived. Henry was exhausted, and his right arm was useless. Emmy had great faith in and affection for Sergeant Derek Reynolds, but he had stayed behind at Bunstead. In Emmy’s opinion, the combined efforts of Constables Denning and Hawthorn would be a poor substitute. And so she worried.

  ***

  The village of Gorsemere at eleven o’clock on an early summer night was not exactly a hive of activity, but at least it still showed signs of life. Ex-Squadron-Leader Paul Claverton was putting up the shutters at the White Bull, and the last of his customers were still chatting and laughing in the pub yard. A few li
ghts burned in cottage windows, and in a few cars, a few smartly dressed commuter couples drove home to their ramblers on their new housing developments, having dined with identical couples in identical houses on identical developments on the other side of the village. By contrast, the road which wound up from the village green toward Hilltop Kennels seemed darker, lonelier, and more deserted than ever. There was no moon, and the tall hedges overshadowed the narrow lane like prison walls.

  As the driver swung the car around the final bend, the hedges fell back and the trees thinned out—and there on the open ground at the top of the hill Henry could see the buildings of the Yateley establishment, the low, whitewashed kennels clustered around the tall, ugly, red brick house. He also saw the stout wire fence, the padlocked gate—and the small blue van which was parked outside it. Henry told the driver to stop, let him out, and return to Gorsemere Police Station. As the engine noise of the departing car dwindled, silence came flooding back. Nothing stirred, no dogs barked—to all appearances, Hilltop Kennels were asleep. Henry walked slowly toward the gate and the parked van.

  A shadow detached itself from the darker recesses of the trees and came toward him. A square-cut, homely, reassuring shadow, which quickly resolved itself into P.C. Denning, uniformed and helmeted and pushing his ubiquitous bicycle.

  Henry stopped. Softly, he said, “Denning?”

  “That’s right, sir. Chief Superintendent Tibbett, isn’t it? Glad to see you, sir.”

  “Where’s Hawthorn?”

  “Back under the trees, sir, keeping watch. Like you said. We might join him, if you agree.”

  “Right, constable.” Henry glanced toward the blue van. “When did our friend arrive?”