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Authors: Nicholas Rhea
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anger and frustration. As I parked the motor-cycle, 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 motor-cycle 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 thehouse. 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
“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 motor-cycle 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 thehouse. 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
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