“It’s the only black Labrador in this village,” he said firmly, letting me draw my own conclusion.
“I’ll have words with him,” I promised. “You’ll be prepared to let us prosecute if necessary?”
“I’d be happy to see the dog destroyed first,” he said firmly. “If he does that, I’ll not worry about him going to court. I just want the dog stopped.”
“Fair enough.”
A prosecution under the Dogs (Protection of Livestock) Act of 1953 could not proceed without the written consent of either the Chief Constable, the owner of the livestock worried or the occupier of the land where it happened. Accordingly, I obtained a written statement from Mr Fairclough which I wrote in my notebook, and incorporated his willingness to authorise proceedings, if the dog was not destroyed.
Having attended to both that matter and the massive tumbler of whisky, I adjourned to the village and walked to Valley View. It was an old cottage with Yorkshire sliding windows and a rough rustic porch overgrown with honeysuckle. There was a green front door and green woodwork, but the door was standing slightly ajar. I knocked.
“Come in,” called a voice from the depths. “First on the right.”
“It’s the policeman,” I announced as I pushed open the door.
“It’s about time you called to see me,” he said even before I entered the room. “Your predecessor always popped in when he was passing. Made himself a coffee and one for me too. Regular caller, he was.”
I pushed open the door of the living-room and found Mr Chapman before the cosy fire. A black Labrador lay curled at his feet, wide-awake, and its dark eyes watched me as I entered the room. It flapped its tail on the fireside rug as I walked in, then closed its eyes.
“He likes you,” said the man. “Sit down, Officer.”
He was reading a heavy volume on the History of World War I and placed it on his occasional table to greet me.
“Sidney Chapman,” he said. “Forgive me not getting up. I leave the door ajar so I can shout at visitors.”
“P.C. Rhea,” I introduced myself and shook his hand. “I’m fairly new here.”
“I knew we’d got a fresh bobby and was hoping you’d pop in. I like company, you see, being stuck here all day. I lost the use of these legs eight or nine years ago. Car accident — I’m lucky to be alive, they tell me. Look, if you want a coffee, the kettle’s in the kitchen . . .”
He was a neat man in his middle fifties, I reckoned, with a head of sleek hair which was neatly trimmed. His face was narrow and sharp, with prominent cheek-bones and just a hint of pallor. He wore spectacles and seemed an intelligent man. I wondered how he’d earned his living before the accident. He was cheerful and affable and I liked him immediately.
“No thanks,” I said, “but I’ll get you one . . .”
“No, I’ve just had the electricity meter reader in, he had a coffee with me. Thanks — but next time . . .”
“Mr Chapman.” Sorrowfully, I had to notify him of the unpleasant purpose of my visit. “I’m afraid I’m not here on a social visit. It’s business.”
“Oh dear, something wrong?” he looked at me with concern.
“I’m afraid so. I’m sorry we have to meet like this, but there’s been a nasty case of sheep-worrying at Grange Farm, Mr Fairclough’s place. He tells me a black Labrador has been wandering around his fields.”
“But Nero wouldn’t harm a fly!”
At the sound of his name, the dog’s head rose and his ears became alert as his eyes scrutinised the man for signs of further activity. His tail thumped the rug as he waited for developments.
“Has he been out this morning or this afternoon?”
“No, Mr Rhea, he hasn’t. I can swear to that.”
“Your front door was open — could he have gone out without you knowing? Maybe sneaked out for ten minutes and back again before you realised it?”
He thought carefully, then shook his head.
“No, I could swear to it. I’ve been here all morning, and he’s been with me. He never leaves me, Mr Rhea, unless our Ian takes him out for a run. He’s my sole companion during the day . . . he’s not a killer.”
“Do you mind if I examine him?” I hated to imply that I didn’t accept his word.
“No, of course not.”
I approached the waiting dog and noticed his brown eyes upon me, but a word from Mr Chapman kept the animal on the floor. As I touched the broad top of his head, he rolled over onto his back, with his legs in the air and I obliged by tickling his stomach. He lay there, tongue lolling out and those dark, trusting eyes upon me as I quickly surveyed his underparts and legs. They were clean — there was no sign of mud or blood. I was pleased.
“Can I open his mouth?”
“He won’t bite,” said the owner with confidence.
I gripped the dog by his jaws and opened his mouth, pressing the flaps of skin away from his sharp white teeth and clamping my hand over his tongue. There was no blood and no wool adhering to his mouth area. The dog was as clean as a whistle. This was no killer.
“Well?” he asked.
“Clean,” I said.
“Does that mean he’s innocent?” he asked.
“It means I’m sure he is, Mr Chapman. I understand that a black Labrador has been roaming those fields, unaccompanied, and yours is the only one in Thackerston.”
“Yes, he is. But he’s not been out this morning. I’d swear to that in a court of law.”
“Thanks. I’m obliged.” I made as if to leave his home.
“Mr Rhea, I’m not one to hold this against you — you are doing your job, and I respect the law and all it stands for. You’ll call again?”
“I will, Mr Chapman, and under better circumstances next time.”
When I informed Fairclough of my actions and decision, he almost burst a blood-vessel.
“P.C. Rhea! You are failing in your duty if you believe that rubbish! Of course he’d say the dog hadn’t been out! He would, wouldn’t he? It would go home covered in blood and dirt, so he’d clean it up! Of course he would, anybody would, if only to check the dog for injuries . . . it’s a natural action . . .”
“I’m sure it was never out of that house during the times your sheep were attacked,” I stood my ground. “A cripple couldn’t wash a dog clean, not a dog that size and not as clean as that one. I even had its mouth open — it was clean too. No wool about the teeth, nothing. That dog didn’t worry your sheep, Mr Fairclough.”
“So what happens now? What does the law propose to do about my sheep?”
“I’ll report this to my superiors,” I said, “and our men will keep observations. If you see any dogs on your land, perhaps you’d let me know.”
“I’ll shoot the bastards first,” he said. “I can, can’t I?”
“You can shoot a dog actually in the act of worrying sheep, or one which you know has been worrying them and is about to renew its attack. You can’t shoot one which is running away afterwards.”
“Why not, for God’s sake?”
“It might not be the culprit, not if it’s only seen running away. It could be another innocent dog.”
“Aye, well, we all know the way to get round that, Mr Rhea. Now look, if any of my sheep are damaged again, I’ll be in touch with your Chief Constable and I’ll tell him of this conversation. I know that dog killed my sheep. It’s your job to prove it.”
He was building up for a shouting match, so I left him. There was little point in continuing the argument. I could understand his view, but I was convinced Mr Chapman was telling the truth. I could not ignore the fact, however, that Nero might have sneaked out through that open door. Chapman could have cleaned up the animal too. It was quite possible, but I couldn’t work on surmise. I needed absolute proof.
For a week there was peace, and then, one Sunday morning, my telephone rang. It was Fairclough again and he was extremely agitated.
“Mr Rhea? That dog’s been back. One sheep attacked and torn this time.
The flock terrified out of their wits . . . get yourself right down to Chapman’s and see that dog of his. It was seen again.”
“What time did this happen?” I asked.
“Between ten o’clock and half-eleven.”
“I’m on my way,” I told him. It was quarter to twelve.
Fairclough was parading up and down his farmyard as I entered, and his face was a picture of anger and frustration. As I parked the motorcycle, he marched across with eyes blazing and in a foul mood.
“It’s that bloody dog again, Mr Rhea, one of my men saw it.” He pointed to a clump of distant sycamores. “It went over there — he gave chase but lost it. A black Labrador — that black Labrador, the one you cleared last time. It’s it, right enough.”
“I’ll see Mr Chapman straight away,” was all I could promise.
I left my motorcycle in his farmyard as I intended returning, and found the cottage door open as before. I knocked, shouted and was bade enter.
“Mr Chapman? It’s P.C. Rhea.”
“Come in, Mr Rhea.”
As before, I found him in the cosy living-room with a warm fire blazing cheerily in the grate. And, as before, the big black Labrador lay at his feet, with its head on the hearth. It pricked its ears and thumped its tail on the rug, apparently its regular welcome to its master’s callers.
“It’s about the same subject as before,” I told him and he pointed to a chair.
“When?” was all he asked.
“This morning, between ten o’clock and half past eleven.”
“He’s not been out Mr Rhea, I swear it. He’s been here all the time.”
“The door was ajar,” I said. “He could have sneaked out — it would take only ten minutes to worry a sheep — less in fact. He lives very close to the farm.”
“Look at him,” and the unhappy man pointed to his dog. I crouched on my haunches to examine the animal and at my touch it rolled over and asked for its stomach to be rubbed. I obliged and at the same time examined its body for signs of blood and dirt. There was none. His fur was dry too, indicating it hadn’t been recently washed.
“Are you alone?”
“Sally’s in the kitchen, doing lunch,” he said. “She and Ian went out to church this morning. I was alone from quarter past ten until half past eleven, and Nero never left this room. I’d swear to this in court if necessary. You must believe me.”
“You were here every minute?” I put to him, quietly.
He paused and looked steadily at me. “No, to be honest, I wasn’t. I went to the toilet about eleven o’clock.”
“Upstairs?”
“No, out at the back. I can get there and back with my chair.”
“And, without wishing to be crude, how long did that take?”
“Five or ten minutes,” and I could see the sorrow growing in his eyes. Like me, he realised that Nero had had enough time to gallop out, worry a sheep and return to the house. It was highly unlikely, but it was possible. Practical policemen must always consider the possible. I knew, and Sidney Chapman knew, that Nero could be the culprit in spite of his cleanliness. Perhaps he’d licked himself clean, or maybe never got dirty.
I looked again at the magnificent dog. There was not a mark upon him to suggest he’d been chasing sheep within the past hour or so. In spite of Fairclough, I was convinced this was not the guilty dog.
“Is it nasty, this sheep-worrying?” Sidney Chapman asked me.
“It’s one of the most appalling things that can happen to an animal,” I said and, with no further ado, I provided a graphic description of the sights I’d witnessed. I stressed the emotional anguish and financial problems it presented to a farmer, and the continuing threat if the guilty dogs were not halted.
“But Nero couldn’t do that . . .” he said. “He couldn’t. He’s gentle and tame, a family pet. He’s my companion, my only real pal, Mr Rhea. When everyone’s out and I’m left alone, he’s all I’ve got. I know he hasn’t done this horrible thing. I know.”
“I believe you,” I said. “There’s nothing on Nero to make me even suspect him. But a black Labrador’s been seen near the attacked sheep, and he’s the only one around here. He’s the prime suspect.”
“Mr Fairclough wouldn’t make this up, would he? About it being a black Labrador, I mean.”
“No, he’ll be as anxious as anyone else to find the right culprit. If he blames the wrong one, the right one will return and continue its work, won’t it. He’ll not blame the wrong dog, Mr Chapman, that would be foolhardy.”
“I’d like him to call and talk to me,” said Mr Chapman, “perhaps you’d ask him to pop in?”
“I will,” I promised.
I honestly felt this would be a good idea and within minutes I was back at the Grange talking to Mr Fairclough. I told him of my visit and of my opinions, which he ignored, and I then invited him to visit Sidney Chapman. If he went now, I suggested, he’d see the dog for himself.
He agreed. He stomped away without a word and I decided not to intervene at this stage. If there was to be a prosecution, I would play my part, but I could never believe this dog was the worrier.
I do not know what transpired between them, but two days later I received a telephone call from Mrs Chapman. She rang from a kiosk and asked me to pop in to see Sidney when I was passing. I made a point of calling that same day.
In the same room beside the same glowing fire, I found him alone. He was clearly distressed and in a very emotional state.
“Mr Rhea,” he said. “I couldn’t bear the thought that my Nero might be killing sheep and lambs. I know he was not the guilty dog, I know it, but he could have been, eh? He could have sneaked out when my back was turned, or done it when he was out with Ian . . .”
“I don’t think it was him . . .” I began.
“I’ve stopped it all,” he said, sniffing back unshed tears. “The vet came this morning.”
“The vet?” I cried.
“He took him away, Mr Rhea. It will be painless, he said,” and Sidney Chapman burst into a flood of tears. I didn’t know what to do, and took the line of least resistance. I left him to his misery.
I told Mary about it and we both felt deep sorrow for the poor man. In my heart of hearts, I could never believe Nero was the culprit, but Sidney Chapman had taken a wise course. He’d had the dog destroyed, and so removed the cause of any future aggravation.
Four days later, Fairclough hammered angrily on my front door. I was in the middle of lunch and found him spluttering furiously on the doorstep.
“That bloody dog again!” he said. “Less than five minutes ago . . .”
“Which dog?” I asked him.
“That bloody black Labrador of Chapman’s! Caught in the act! Two sheep this time, one dead. But I got the bastard, Mr Rhea. Both barrels. It’s in the Land Rover.”
And he stalked away to his Land Rover which was parked in my drive. I followed and, sure enough, there was a dead dog, a large handsome black Labrador. It had been killed by two blasts from a 12-bore gun and was a bloody mess around the head and neck.
“You’ve solved your problem, then?” I smiled at him.
“I have, and I want that man prosecuting. He ignored me.”
“Which man?” I asked.
“Chapman — it’s his bloody animal.”
“It isn’t,” I said softly. “He had his dog put to sleep four days ago, Mr Fairclough. His only pal, his only pride and joy. But because you said it was his dog he had it put down by the vet. This isn’t his dog.”
Deep among the hairy mess, I found a collar and there, hidden beneath a thick coat of fur, was the owner’s name and address. It was a newcomer to Elsinby, two miles away across the fields, a retired lady from Leeds.
“I’ll prosecute her for allowing her dog to worry your sheep,” I said.
“No.” He shook his head and I could see he was shaken. “No, there’s been enough damage. It’s over — I’ll seek compensation from the dog’s owner, that’ll do
me. I’ll go and see her now.”
And he turned and drove away, a sad and thoughtful man.
A week later, he presented a new black Labrador pup to Sidney Chapman. When I called to see him a few weeks later, it had its head on the hearth and its tail thumped the rug, but only for a second.
It jumped up and fussed over me with all the vigour of youth. “He’s called Caesar,” Sidney told me as I went to make the coffee.
* * *
Although my professional duties involved all manner of farm animals, I did involve myself with canine matters more than any other. It is true that dogs are an essential and integral part of village life, but the same could be said of cows, horses, pigs and sheep. I had to inspect small groups of these animals from time to time, either to count heads for record purposes or to see if I thought they had some disease that necessitated a veterinary surgeon’s attention. I found it strange that a policeman’s opinion was sought on such matters but invariably the problem was solved by ringing a vet.
It was one such problem that intrigued me at Cold Hill Farm, and it involved another dog. This was a cur, a common breed in these parts. They are used to guide sheep and are the hill farmer’s constant companion. They are black and white dogs, tough and intelligent little animals with a natural instinct for herding sheep.
The resident cur at Cold Hill Farm was an elderly dog called Shep and he belonged to Mr and Mrs Ambrose Lowe. He had endured a long and hard life on this remotest of farms, spending his years herding moor sheep into their pens and rounding them up for their quarterly count. Year in, year out, poor old Shep had done those tasks and many more. Now he was twelve years old and I think he’d made his own decision to retire.
The snag was that Ambrose wouldn’t let him retire. There was always a great deal of work to be done, always some pressing matter for attention. It was during a busy time that I called at the farm one Friday morning to check the latest intake of pigs for the stock register. As always, Mrs Lowe, whose Christian name I never knew, invited me in for a coffee and a sweet biscuit. As I settled at the rough kitchen table with the couple I noticed Shep asleep near the door which led into the back of the house. He ignored my presence.
CONSTABLE NICK BOX SET 1–5 five feel-good village cozy mysteries Page 46
