“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 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 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 Landrover.”

  And he stalked away to his Landrover 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.

  After the introductory small talk and a brief chat about the quality of his latest acquisition of pigs, Ambrose asked:

  “Does thoo reckon to know owt about dogs, Mr Rhea?”

  “Not a great deal,” I admitted.

  “Oh,” he said, without further comment.

  “Something wrong?” I recognised the countryman’s hesitation to lead into the problem. He wanted me to take the initiative, and turned his head to look down upon the sleeping dog.

  “Aye, mebbe. Ah’m not sure.”

  “Something to do with Shep?”

  “It could be his age,” he said.

  Mrs Lowe next spoke up. “He’s twelve, you see, and he’s had a hard life.”

  “Is he lame or something?” I ventured, thinking the dog might have a form of rheumatism.

  “Nay, lad, nowt like that,” and Ambrose paused to drink from his cup. “I reckon he’s gone deaf.”

  “Deaf?”

  “Aye, deaf. Dogs do go deaf, thoo knows, quite young sometimes. But awd Shep’s getting on in years….”

  “Has the vet seen him?”

  “No, he hasn’t, and Ah didn’t feel like calling him all this way if it was nowt.”

  “He would tell you one way or the other,” I said seriously. “And he might be able to treat the condition.”

  Mrs Lowe spoke again. “You see, Mr Rhea, we don’t think he’s really deaf. We think he’s pretending.”

  “Pretending?” I almost laughed aloud. “Dogs can’t pretend; they can’t tell lies or be devious, can they?”

  “Ah reckon thus ’un is, Mr Rhea,” said Ambrose, who now seemed relieved that his wife had opened up the conversation by mentioning their private worry.

  “You must have a good reason for thinking that,” I put to them both.

  “Aye, we ’ave, Mr Rhea,” said Ambrose. “It’s not a sudden idea, like. Me and our missus have been watching Shep of late, and Ah’m positive he’s up to summat.”

  “Tell me more.” I sipped from my cup.

  “It’s like this,” he began carefully, speaking slowly with emphasis on the key words. “Ah’ve noticed, over t’ past few weeks, that when Ah tell Shep it’s time to start work, he just lies near yon door and never moves. We’ve both tried him ….”

  “Aye,” confirmed Mrs Lowe. “Ah’ve told him it’s time to fetch t’ cows in, or round up a few sheep, and he just lies there, never twitching an eyelid. We’ve had to kick him into life, you know. Clout him with a mop or summat, and then he’ll stir himself. Bone-idle he is.”

  “He could be deaf,” I said. “If he’s always been a good worker before …”

  “Aye, lad,” Ambrose raised a finger to emphasise the point, “but when oor missus tells him it’s dinner-time, he hears that all right! By gum, he does that! He’s up and at his dinner like a flash. We tried whispering, real quiet like, and he never missed a meal. Not once. But you try and tell him its milking time and he has to fetch t’cows in, and he’ll doze there like it would take a bomb to shift him.”

  “He thinks it’s time we got another dog, I reckon,” Mrs Lowe offered her opinion. “I mean, in human terms, he’s turned eighty, isn’t he? He should be retired and he knows it.”

  “Let’s see how he reacts now,” I suggested. “Will he behave like that while I’m here?”

  “He won’t dare do otherwise if he doesn’t want to be caught out!” and Ambrose Lowe put on a coat, took a crook from the corner and made all the noises he would have made under a normal excursion to locate sheep. Then he said, “Come, Shep, come lad.”

  I watched the inert form at the base of the door. The dog never moved, not even a flicker of an eyelid or a movement of an ear.

  “Shep, come on, time to get sheep,” called his master.

  Nothing.

  “It’s a rum soort of a gahin on.” I momentarily lapsed into the dialect of the area. “Is he allus like this?”

  “Aye, just now. Now Ah’ll get outside and pretend Ah’ve gone, leaving him there. Ooor missus will tell him it’s dinner-time and thoo see what he does.”

  I waited as the little drama was acted out. Ambrose left the farmhouse and made the normal noises for such an occasion. Shep slept on. Then Mrs Lowe began to prepare a dog’s dinner. She found his old enamel plate and opened the pantry door to produce some old bones and dog-biscuits from a tin. She placed these on the plate then put it on the floor, making a small noise. I saw Shep’s ears prick at the sound.

  “Come, Shep,” she said in a normal voice. “Dinner.”

  And he was on his feet in a split second. Wagging his long tail, he moved quickly across the floor and began to wolf down his meal, showing sheer enjoyment and every sign of fitness.

  This dog was certainly not deaf and he was most certainly not suffering from rheumatics. But could a dog feign deafness in order to avoid work? I doubted it. Surely dogs didn’t possess that sort of cunning?

  When he was midway through the meal, Ambrose returned and smiled at the active dog.

  “Well?” he asked me.

  I shook my head. “He heard Mrs Lowe all right. He must know when you’re going out to work, eh? By the noises you make. He just lies there, waiting for you to call him, then ignores you….”

  “He makes a good draught-excluder for yon door, and that’s about all he’s good for these days,” commented Mrs Lowe. “What can we do, Mr Rhea? He’s bone-idle—look at him. He’s getting fatter all the time and more and more lazy.”