Constable on the Hill (11 page)

“Good evening, madam,” he spoke politely.

“Sergeant,” she said without smiling “I need help.”

“Certainly, madam.”

She was clearly a discerning person because she addressed herself to the sergeant, the senior officer present.

“Sergeant, I am the Honourable Mrs Allerston,” she
announced
, “and I live near Scarborough. I have been visiting a sick relative in Leeds and I left my little dog with some nieces here in Eltering. They don’t allow dogs in the hospital, you see, and I didn’t like leaving her alone in the car. So I left her
with relations. I have just returned to learn they have lost my dear Susie. My dear, dear little dog. She’s a Yorkshire terrier, Sergeant. They have searched everywhere, everywhere. And all to no avail,” the lady’s voice was beginning to crack and I could see she might lose control. “My dear little dog, so clever and well behaved. I have searched too, all over the streets and lanes, and there are such horrid people about. I cannot find her, Sergeant. I have to ask you – and your, er, gentleman here, if you could mount a search for her. With police dogs, maybe? They can follow scents, can’t they?”

Blaketon looked at me and, to my surprise, winked mischievously. “Madam, we shall be only too pleased to help.” He drew a pad of paper towards him and adopted a very serious attitude. “Now, perhaps you can describe your dog?”

“She’s very small,” began the Honourable Mrs Allerston, “and she has a long, dark coat with silky ears. She is five years old and has a blue ribbon tied in her hair, in a bow.”

“Ah!” he beamed with benevolence. “Then I believe we can help you. We have a similar dog in our dog house at this very moment.”

“Dog house?” she exclaimed. “My Susie in a dog house with all those other strays?”

“Madam,” he drew himself to his full and impressive height. “This is no ordinary dog house. It is
architect-designed
, and it is brand new. It was installed only last week, and it is full of lovely fresh hay. If this dog is your Susie – as I believe it is – then she is the very first occupant.”

That was perfectly true. She had been the
first
occupant, and the donkey had been the second. But I hadn’t got around to telling him of the donkey, and he had not reached the Found Property Register during his routine inspection.

“That is all right then,” she nodded towards me. “I presume this, er, dog house is well disinfected after each occupant? And I assume my Susie has been well fed and cared for during her stay with you.”

“Madam,” O.B. drew himself to his full height again. “We take great pride in the way we care for animals placed in our custody. That dog house is pine scented, and I will personally ensure that it is cleaned and disinfected to avoid diseases. But
as your Susie is our very first guest, there is no problem. She entered a virgin dog house.”

“My Susie is very delicate you see, and she must not be exposed to doggie diseases.”

“Madam,” he boomed. “I am sure your Susie has enjoyed her stay with us.”

“And you fed her? You didn’t answer that.”

“Police Constable Rhea fed her, Mrs Allerston. He gave her only the best of food that we possess and he tells me she ate like a horse. Isn’t that true, P.C. Rhea?”

“Perfectly, Sergeant,” I entered the spirit of the moment. “She ate like a horse.”

“That is most unlike my Susie. She has a very small appetite and is very particular about her food.”

“It must have been all the exercise and fresh air she’s had today,” he continued. “Now, madam, if you would sign for her and pay the cost of her upkeep, she will be returned to you in good condition. The cost will be five shillings. P.C. Rhea will be making out the receipt as I escort you to our dog house.”

She paid and I wrote out the necessary receipt. I did not go out with them, and he told me later what had happened.

He had led the superior woman to the impressive new dog house whereupon Susie had leapt and barked with happiness at the sight of her mistress. O.B. had unlocked the door and the Honourable Mrs Allerston had entered the structure to collect her prize. And then she had screamed in horror.

“Susie!” she had cried. “What have you been eating?”

The dog had yapped happily at the sound of her voice, and as the Honourable Mrs Allerston had emerged, ashen-faced, Blaketon had looked in.

The other occupant had done a whoopsie right in the centre of the floor, and the pile of donkey manure dwarfed the tiny dog. The Honourable Mrs Allerston did not wait for an explanation, but rushed from the station gently stroking her dog and talking to it in a very soothing manner.

“You poor, poor darling,” she was cooing. “What did they give you to eat then? Was it awful? It must have been painful too.”

Sergeant Blaketon saw the funny side of this tale and
brushed aside my apologies for not informing him of the donkey’s stay in our showpiece. I recalled his words that Susie had eaten like a horse and I often wonder what that lady thought we had done to her little Susie.

Superintendent Arnold, the Divisional Commander at Strensford, kept a nondescript dog, a true Heinz-57 variety type mongrel whose predominant colour was black. It was hairy and had one lop ear, but in spite of its uncertain background, it was a happy little dog upon which was
bestowed
much love and affection, especially by Mrs Arnold.

Jimbo, the dog in question, loved to accompany its master upon his many supervisory perambulations and in its
undying
attempts to achieve this happiness, it would frequently dash from the house in defiance of the Arnolds. Jimbo seemed to know when the Superintendent was about to take a duty stroll about town; he also knew his master did not like his presence during those spells of police work. Jimbo would therefore rush out of the house and lurk in dark corners, waiting for his master to emerge, and once the
Superintendent
had left the house
en
route
to the office, Jimbo would secretly follow him at a safe distance. He would reveal himself only when it was too late to return him to the house and would then follow the Superintendent around the town, steadfastly refusing to return home. This caused intense
embarrassment
to Superintendent Arnold but it delighted the townsfolk, specially when the Superintendent tried to pretend the dog was not with him. The public considered that a full uniformed police superintendent faithfully attended by a disobedient and scruffy mongrel was something of a prize sight.

I was drafted into Strensford for a period of night duty when the town was suffering from one of its regular and acute shortages of men. Because I was not too familiar with the town and its maze of alleys and back streets, I was allocated office duty for the duration of my night shift. It was an old police station of decidedly Victorian origin, and the office in question was an elongated room with a wooden partition running its length at one side.

The partition created a corridor for the public, and they told their tales of woe through a little window which had been built into it. On the inside of the window a counter ran the length of the partition. It had a sloping top formed by lots of desk lids. The space beneath the high counter was enough to accommodate the lofty stools and long legs of the
policemen
who sat there to minister to the public and to listen to their tales of human misery. The desks accommodated their paper work.

At the left-hand end of the wooden corridor was the entrance to Superintendent Arnold’s office. Whenever he was supervising the night shift, he would stalk majestically along the corridor, poke his head around the end of the wooden partition and ask, “Anything doing?”

I was perched on one of those tall stools at eleven o’clock that night when I heard the unmistakable footsteps of an approaching policeman. He was heading towards the office. I waited and saw a figure pass the hatch and then the solemn features of Superintendent Arnold peered around the end of the partition and asked, “Anything doing?”

“No, sir, all quiet,” I gave the traditional response, but he didn’t withdraw his head. His eyes were glued upon
something
beneath the counter, something just beyond me. I looked down. There, lying blissfully asleep in the corner, almost out of sight, was a little black dog.

“That bloody dog!” he snapped. “It’s followed me down again!”

At that time, I did not know of his perpetual battle with his dog, and merely said, “Really, sir?”

“You’re not one of the regular constables, are you?”

“No, sir. I’m P.C. Rhea from Aidensfield, helping out.”

“Ah, well, that dog is a bloody nuisance, Rhea. It persists in following me around the town, and dodges out of the house when it knows I’m on the way down here. It will follow me all around the town now, most embarrassing. It must be taught a lesson, once and for all. It must be taught that it must not follow me out of the house and it must not follow me around the streets.”

And with that, he strode into the office, sailed right past me and seized the dog’s collar. He hauled it towards his office.
The little dog, awake by this time and somewhat bewildered by this sudden turn of events, planted its feet firmly upon the wooden floor and refused to move. But Superintendent Arnold was a strong man. Gritting his teeth, he tugged and pulled the stubborn animal towards his office and eventually reached the door. He dragged the whimpering dog inside and slammed the door behind them. The dog was then subjected to what we might call the ‘carpet treatment’ – in other words, it was given a severe telling off.

But its treatment did not end there. There followed the distinctive sounds of someone beating the dog. The
Superintendent’s
voice was admonishing it very loudly and very clearly, and his words were accompanied by the unmistakable sounds of a severe thrashing. The dog was howling loudly and this continued for what seemed an age, but in reality it was only a few minutes.

Finally, the door of Superintendent Arnold’s office burst open and the pathetic figure of the little dog was hurled through the air to land near my feet. It wore a highly surprised look upon its tatty face, and its long black hair was considerably ruffled.

The Superintendent also looked ruffled.

“That isn’t my dog, P.C. Rhea,” he said, blushing furiously as he shrank back into his office.

It wasn’t. This one belonged to a local sergeant. Arnold’s own dog was still at home, sleeping soundly.

Claude Jeremiah Greengrass was always in trouble with the police. He had a formidable list of petty convictions, most of them acquired through blissful ignorance and carelessness, rather than by evil intentions. He was not a criminal in the strict sense of the word. He was just a bloody nuisance.

A small, pinched sort of man, he looked like an elf or an ex-jockey, and lived alone at Elsinby. He was brown-skinned due to a life in the open air, and earned his living in what I considered a dubious manner. He had no job, and performed small services for anyone who would pay. He gardened, washed cars, painted and decorated and cleaned out stables.
Everyone liked him, but no one trusted him. He was
certainly
light-fingered as his convictions testified.

Claude Jeremiah had a lurcher called Alfred. He had acquired this poacher’s friend from a pal who had gone to live in the city. Claude Jeremiah had really done it as a favour, but nonetheless, took his duties and responsibilities very seriously. He set about training Alfred to the standard
required
of a domestic dog. He wanted him to stay, sit, heel and lie instantly at his word of command.

To accomplish this part of Alfred’s training, he took him for long walks in quiet places where man and dog could become deeply acquainted with one another without the minor distractions of everyday life.

In Maddleskirk Wood, there is a small lake. A footpath runs around its shores and a number of cottages overlook the path. For Claude Jeremiah and Alfred, the place offered untold possibilities. It offered more for Alfred than it did for his master, for the area was full of scents, sounds and interesting creatures. It was while walking along that path that the trouble began.

Claude Jeremiah told me how Alfred had started to crawl through a hole in the hedge and how he refused to return in spite of his master’s shouted commands. By the time Claude Jeremiah had reached the point, Alfred had gone through the hedge and there were the sounds of alarmed twittering from behind the shrubbery. The twittering burst into
panic-stricken
cries accompanied by the urgent flapping of many wings.

Claude Jeremiah had located a garden gate and had rushed through to find Alfred inside an aviary, thoroughly enjoying himself as he chased hundreds of budgerigars. The budgies weren’t very happy about it, however, because Alfred ran, barked and jumped among them, causing them to crash against the wire netting in pathetic attempts to escape the excited dog.

One fell to the ground and Alfred seized it in his mouth, gripping it tightly and viciously shaking the poor creature just as the irate owner rushed from his house. Claude Jeremiah was, in the meantime, seeking an entrance to the enclosed area but found none, and suddenly found himself staring into
the florid and angry face of a large, powerful budgie breeder. He had begun to apologise, but the man had said, “He’s killed one and look at all the others! Battered, bruised and terrified out of their minds! All my years of work …” and the upset breeder was fitting a key into the lock of the door of his aviary as Claude Jeremiah shouted, “Sit, heel, lie down,” all to no avail.

Once inside the cage, he cornered Alfred and after
removing
the dead budgie from his mouth, began to beat the wilful dog.

“I’ll pay,” he had said.

“You will that!” the angry fellow had shouted, looking around at the discarded feathers which still floated in the air. “Get yourself and that bloody animal out of here before it does any more harm. It’ll take ages for them to settle down. And give me that dead one.”

“He got in through a hole in the hedge,” Claude Jeremiah had bleated, pointing to the hole in the netting.