The Dogs Do Bark

By Jonathan Stagge

Introducing country doctor Hugh Westlake in a Golden Age mystery of seduction and murder set among a small affluent town.
 
As the town doctor for the village of Kenmore, Hugh Westlake spends most of his time making late-night house calls to overanxious patients and treating colds and the flu—until one bright winter morning. Riding with the hunt club, Hugh makes a grisly discovery: the headless, naked torso of a woman. The murder shocks the town and its upper crust society. Before long, the remains are identified as local woman Anne Grimshawe, who was notably missing from the hunt that morning, and who is pegged as a woman of loose morals by the local busybody.
 
Deputized by the local inspector, Hugh is drawn into the comings-and-goings of the hunt club members. While investigating his own friends, neighbors, and patients, he follows scurrilous rumors to evidence of amorous assignations, jealousy, and greed. Someone in their midst has something to hide—and the chase is on before a killer goes to ground leaving more victims behind . . .
 
“A nice fair play mystery that you can solve for yourself, and the story races along at an enjoyable clip with lots of variety and incident.” —The Passing Tramp
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: MysteriousPress.com Open Road
• Release date: Feb 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781504072908

Book preview

I

My bedroom windows face in the other direction. That’s why I didn’t hear them. That’s why the first hint of what was happening in Kenmore came to me in so oblique, so eerie a fashion.

At least, it seemed eerie to me then, for I was only halfawake, lulled in that drowsy state where one hears but does not interpret. The darkness in my room was deep. And that sound seemed to emanate from the very substance of the darkness—a thin, reedy voice chanting tonelessly:

"Hark, hark, the dogs do bark.

The beggars are coming to town. …"

That innocent nursery rhyme should not have worried me. I should have recognized the voice of my ten-year-old daughter. I should have remembered that her room was next to mine, and that, although it was almost midnight, there was nothing particularly strange in Dawn’s being awake. But, I repeat, I was tired and halfway into dreaming. A country doctor’s day can be exhausting—especially in wintertime.

Once again that small, uncertain voice trailed through to me. With the return of consciousness I awakened to my parental responsibilities. Slipping out of bed I hurried to the next room, planning to admonish my daughter for keeping such irregular hours.

But I didn’t admonish her. I didn’t say a word. Perhaps it was the strangeness of the tableau in front of me that kept me silent. Obviously, Dawn had not noticed my entrance. She was standing by the open window, gazing out into the night. I could trace her small pajama-clad silhouette with its untidy mop of hair. I could even make out the long ears of the wool rabbit she clasped against her breast. And her voice rose and fell, softly.

"Hark, hark, the dogs do bark …

As I listened, I heard them too—the Kenmore hounds. Distant but somehow ominous, their baying drifted in with the cold November air. It made a queer obbligato to my daughter’s singing.

And it surprised me. Of course, I had heard the pack bay before, on moonlit nights. But that night there was no moon. And the baying was different—angry, sharp, like the howling of savage beasts.

I switched on the lights. My daughter turned to face me, her tawny-brown eyes half-guilty, half-indignant. How absurdly like her mother she looked! How impossible to realize Paula had been dead five years!

And what, brat, I asked sternly, is the meaning of this midnight serenade?

Dawn carried the wool rabbit to the bed and laid it on the pillow with scrupulous care.

Oh, I was just singing, she said vaguely.

With no consideration for a poor, aging father who’s been trying to get a good night’s rest?

But you’re not particularly old, are you? My daughter gazed at me with disarming solemnity. At least, not exactly.

In any encounter of wills, Dawn always contrived to rout me.

I’m old enough, I retorted feebly, and enough of a doctor to know you’ll catch pneumonia if you stand around at windows in your bare feet.

Oh, I was listening to the hounds. My daughter sat down on the bed and looked very confidential. That’s really why I sang because—because there’s something funny about the way they’re barking. And I didn’t want The Rabbit to be scared.

Dawn’s relationship with The Rabbit was far too mystical to be affected by reason or reproof. I was about to retreat, vanquished, to my room when the telephone downstairs started to ring shrilly. There is nothing more depressing to a weary doctor than the sound of the telephone at night.

Damn, I said testily.

My daughter looked shocked and reproving. Then she broke into an exasperating giggle and said:

There goes your good night’s rest, Daddy.

I stumped downstairs and answered the phone. I heard the shrill, petulant voice of Louella Howell. Oh, was that Dr Westlake? Would I come at once? Something terrible had happened, and she couldn’t sleep a wink. She was sure it was her heart. Growling that I’d be round right away I slammed down the receiver.

Louella Howell was one of the richest and by far the most exasperating of my Kenmore patients. Terrible things were always happening. Frightful diseases were always smiting her in the middle of the night. But there was seldom anything the matter except a permanent neurasthenia brought on by lack of exercise, too much candy and a morbid curiosity into her neighbors’ private lives. Mrs Howell had been a spoiled belle some twenty-five years before and had never gotten over it. As her long-suffering doctor it was my job to cope with her tantrums.

I thought twice about going out that night, but finally my sense of professional duty got the better of my fatigue. After all, Louella Howell had succumbed to a slight attack of grippe some weeks ago and was still convalescing with a trained nurse. It was just conceivable that something was wrong.

Throwing on some clothes, I gave my daughter a final, stern injunction to go to sleep and went out to the garage for my car.

As I drove off, the hounds, over at the Kenmore Hunt Club, were still baying. But I was too conscious of the physical discomforts of that freezing November night to give them a thought.

By the time I reached the Howells’ I was in the vilest of tempers. But Rosemary Stewart opened the door to me, and the very sight of her banished my irascibility. In her plain blue negligee Mrs Howell’s niece looked even more stunning than usual. There was something about those wide-set gray eyes and the way the shiny black hair curved back from her forehead. In the old days when my wife was alive she used to say that, if ever I fell again, it would be for a clear-eyed brunette who looked like an angel and rode to hounds like a devil. Dear Paula! She had known my little weaknesses so well.

And she might have been describing Rosemary Stewart who was spending the winter with her Aunt Louella and her Uncle Cyril. It was not a visit I myself would have relished, but Rosemary was crazy about horses and hunting. I suspect that our excellent hunting in Kenmore just about counteracted the disadvantages of a neurotic aunt and a henpecked uncle.

Too bad to bring you out so late with the hunt meeting tomorrow, Dr Westlake, she said as she shut the door behind me. I don’t think there’s anything really the matter with Aunt Lulu.

And she was right, of course. We entered the bedroom to find Aunt Lulu sitting up against the pillows, wearing a pair of scarlet silk pajamas which were far too young for her plump figure and far too gay for the role of pathetic invalid which she was doing her best to play. I could tell from the gleam in her eyes that my sleep was being sacrificed merely to one of her midnight whims for gossip.

Immediately I was engulfed in a flood of garrulity. I heard all about the terrible thing that had happened. This time, it was the trained nurse I had sent her—Susan Leonard. Really, the girl had been disgraceful. At first she had seemed nice and quiet. Religious, too. Every Sunday she’d walked all the way to the Catholic church in Ploversville. But the quiet, religious ones were the worst! Aunt Lulu’s too-blonde hair nodded emphasis to this profound commentary upon life. Would I believe it? That very morning she had caught the hussy making up to Cyril!

Cyril was Louella Howell’s husband—a placid, portly individual who, so far as I knew, had never looked at anything more seductive than a mare or the bitches of the Kenmore pack. But for years now Aunt Lulu’s neurasthenia had taken the form of believing her husband a Casanova. I let her rattle on, contemplating the soft curve of Rosemary’s neck and the straight, vital profile.

Yes, Aunt Lulu was exclaiming with very healthy indignation, I caught them almost—almost red-handed. Of course I threw Nurse Leonard out of the house immediately—immediately. Then she seemed to remember that she was sick. She clutched at her stout breast and moaned. It’s been a terrible shock, Doctor. I know it’s brought on another attack.

I produced my stethoscope and made a few desultory passes at the scarlet pajamas. As I knew only too well, Aunt Lulu’s heart was as strong as that of old Elias Grimshawe’s prize bull. I hinted as much and tried to escape.

But my luck was out. While I was making my examination Rosemary had crossed to one of the many closed windows and had thrown it open. Very faintly, the distant howling of the hounds wafted in to us. Aunt Lulu pricked up her ears and shivered.

Listen, Doctor—the hounds! Dogs barking at night. It’s a sound of death.

Come, I said briskly, you mustn’t be morbid.

But Aunt Lulu had already determined to be morbid. She enjoyed playing Cassandra.

Death! she repeated, and her voice sounded as muffled and hollow as the baying of the pack. I’ve had a strange feeling lately, Dr Westlake. A feeling that there would be death in Kenmore.

I showed no interest, making a mental note that I would charge double for this interview on Mrs Howell’s next account.

"And if there was to be a death in Kenmore, she went on darkly, I could make a pretty good guess who it would be. Anne Grimshawe!"

Really? I said impatiently.

That girl’s headed for trouble, all right, Dr Westlake. You mark my words. And it’s not just with that Scandinavian farmer, Berg. Oh no. There isn’t a man in Kenmore who doesn’t know far more than he ought to about Anne Grimshawe.

I might have known this was coming. Aunt Lulu’s little scandalmongering monologues always ended with Anne Grimshawe. The daughter of our most prosperous and most puritanical farmer, Elias Grimshawe, Anne had been running a bit wild and was extremely popular with the fox-hunting males of Kenmore. Her success was a cruel and constant reminder to Aunt Lulu that her own days for hunting both the fox and the male were over.

First, Louella Howell was saying avidly, first it was Francis Faulkner—no, don’t interrupt me, Rosemary. I know how they’ve been seen sneaking around the country together at strange times of day and night. And then there was Tommy Travers! The fine Englishman who’s so noble and considerate to his crippled wife! Don’t you be fooled! You’d be surprised if you knew some of the things I know. She picked a large piece of candy from a box at her bedside and then, remembering the occasion, put it back again hurriedly. Why, I don’t even trust my husband with that girl. I’ve heard how she’s been smirking and smiling at him at the meets.

She leaned forward, endangering the tight-waisted scarlet pajamas.

Sooner or later, something’s going to happen to Anne Grimshawe. And perhaps it’s happened already. She smiled mysteriously. Only this morning the cook told me Anne hasn’t been seen around for several days. I always said she was the type of girl who’d disappear and never come back.

Rosemary’s eyes met mine in a rueful smile. I was beginning to realize just how dearly the poor kid had to pay for her hunting and the rumored possibility of an inheritance from her aunt.

Aunt Lulu, she protested mildly, you’re only tiring yourself. And there’s no point in keeping Dr Westlake out of bed just to talk about the Grimshawes.

Oh yes, you’ll stand up for the Grimshawes all right, Rosemary. From deep in her overfed face Mrs Howell’s beady eyes flashed at her niece. She’ll tell you Anne’s an angel with a halo, Dr Westlake, just because that brother of hers, Walter—

Aunt Lulu!

—Walter Grimshawe. Louella Howell repeated the name with obvious relish at her niece’s discomfort. I know what’s been going on between you and Walter Grimshawe, Rosemary. It’s no good pretending. And I can give you a word of advice. Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. Of course, I’m only your aunt, and I’m sure you young people think you know everything these days. But that Walter Grimshawe’s as bad as his sister—just out for what he can get. He knows I’ve been very sick; he figures I’ve left you something in my will and—

That’s absolutely ridiculous. Rosemary swung round, her lips very pale. How—how can you say such beasdy things?

It was high time, I felt, for me to put an end to this nonsense. After administering a couple of aspirin and assuring Aunt Lulu that I would procure her a very hideous and very respectable nurse the next day, I took my leave.

Rosemary came down to the front door with me. We stood together in the hall.

Good night. My voice sounded elderly, but Rosemary’s quick young smile always made me very conscious of my almost forty years. Don’t take your aunt too seriously, will you? See you at the meet tomorrow.

Good night, Dr Westlake—and thanks. The gray eyes fixed mine for a moment. And, Doctor, please don’t believe the disgusting things Aunt Lulu said about W-Walter. It’s—

My dear, I haven’t believed a word your aunt said for the past ten years.

I smiled again, but somehow I did not feel like smiling. On one point, at least, I found myself agreeing with Aunt Lulu. Walter Grimshawe could very well be spared from the neighborhood for all I cared.

I shall never know what prompted me to drive home past the Kenmore Hunt Club. Possibly it was Aunt Lulu’s prophetic utterances; possibly it was my daughter’s anxiety for The Rabbit’s peace of mind; or perhaps it was the memory of my own moment of uneasiness when that quiet, childish voice had trailed through into my near-dreaming. At any rate, I deliberately chose that way, although it was almost a mile longer.

The hounds had stopped baying, but I was still strangely conscious of them as I passed the darkened silhouette of the Hunt Club and made toward the kennels. In my headlights I could see the pens looming vague and white near the edge of the road. I could see the hounds, too, moving like ghosts about their little yards.

Although small, the Kenmore Hunt Club was one of the most efficient and conservatively British institutions of its kind in America. Normally, the hounds should all have been inside the kennels at this hour—asleep. But they were very much awake. Every now and then I caught their low snarling above the noise of my car.

Heaven knows, there is nothing psychic about me, but after I had heard so much talk about them the sight of them, so wideawake, so restless, gave me a strange sensation. As an enthusiastic member of the Kenmore Hunt Club I knew the hounds as well if not better than most of my patients. But I could not understand them that night. The snarling and whining—just like the baying a short time ago—it was different.

I jumped out of the car and moved across the frost-harsh stubble to the dogs’ pen.

Hey, Nimrod, I called.

But my old friend was crouched in a corner. Instead of galloping up, he turned toward me a pair of eyes cold and baleful in the starlight—as though I had interrupted him at a kill.

Rollo! Good boy, Rollo.

But Rollo was preoccupied too—a gray, slinking shadow.

I heard the hard crunching of his jaws.

Perplexed, I moved along the wire fence until I was opposite the bitches’ pen. They, too, were restless and quarrelsome, as though infected by the dogs. Several of them hovered around the dividing fence, sniffing and scratching frantically.

Something must have got in, I told myself as I returned to the car. Probably a rabbit.

But that was a pretty slim explanation, and my vague feeling of uneasiness did not leave me.

Even after I had turned into the main road on my homeward journey, the melancholy yelping echoed after me through the cold night air.

II

It seemed only a matter of minutes before Dawn came into my bedroom and tugged me out of bed with the gleeful announcement that the morning was grand for the meet. I took a cold shower, found my riding habit and breeches and joined my daughter over the bacon and eggs provided for us by Rebecca, our general factotum. My horse and Dawn’s pony were already saddled for us by John, Rebecca’s husband and my combination stableman-gardener. It was still barely seven when Dawn and I started off through the early sunlight toward the Kenmore Hunt Club.

Saturday was the usual meet day. To me it meant a brief holiday from doctoring, and to Dawn a red-letter day. My daughter had abandoned the cradle for the saddle at a phenomenally early age and was, at ten, by far the most enthusiastic child rider in the district. Graybeards shook their heads at my allowing her to hunt, but, even if I had disapproved, it would have needed a stronger will than mine to keep her at home on meet days. Dawn had two passionate and unfeminine ambitions: the first to be master of the Kenmore pack, the second to win a gold cup for steeplechasing like the one which belonged to our friend and closest neighbor, Francis Faulkner.

Most of our fellow members had already assembled when we arrived at the club. They were cantering to and fro over the frosty turf, exchanging greetings and speculations upon the day’s sport. Dawn made a beeline for the hounds, who were scampering eagerly around the whips. As I watched them fawning on her and jumping ecstatically to lick her face I felt a little ashamed of my midnight forebodings. In the cold light of day there was certainly nothing sinister about those spruce, friendly creatures.

And certainly there was nothing about my neighbors to justify Aunt Lulu’s dark hints at death and depravity. Hardly anywhere, I reflected as I trotted around the field, could one have found more healthy, more basically normal a group of people.

I made my way first to the Faulkners. As always, they dominated the field—Clara, the richest woman in Colen so County, and Francis, its crack rider and Kenmore’s current master of the hounds. On her sturdy white mare Clara looked more formidable, more aristocratic and, if possible, plainer than ever. She reminded me of one of those indestructible hunting women in Punch. While Francis Faulkner, on the wild, temperamental Sir Basil, looked remarkably handsome and almost young enough to be his wife’s son.

The Faulkners made a striking contrast. And, at the surprising wedding three years before, many people had prophesied that the marriage of a young divorce and an almost middle-aged widow was doomed to failure. But, somehow, they were obviously meant for each other. They shared a passionate love of horse flesh and an equally passionate contempt for the nonhunting inhabitants of the world which, despite the difference in their ages, made them as one.

None of us knew exactly how they had met, but it was flippantly reported that, after the death of her millionaire first husband, Clara Conrad had scoured the country for the best rider in America. She had returned triumphantly from San Francisco with Francis who, though twelve years her junior, had lived down a difficult situation with dignity and took as good care of her money and stables as if they had been his own. He had become deservedly popular in a community which was normally suspicious of strangers.

As we chatted amicably about Hunt Club matters our other local stranger trotted up, bringing with him, as always, his own little bit of England. Tommy Travers had been in America almost twenty years, but not a fragment of the British veneer had chipped off. That day, with his drawled mornin’, his Bond Street hunting togs, his alert, terrier face, he might have stepped straight from the pages of Surtees. Like Francis Faulkner, he had been accepted with approval by Kenmore. We respected his ardent support of the Hunt Club and his devoted fidelity to his American wife, who had been tragically and permanently crippled by a hunting fall.

It passed through my mind how Mrs Howell had accused both Travers and Faulkner of extramarital relationships with Anne Grimshawe. It was ridiculous. Profitable patient or no, Aunt Lulu was a menace.

Well, Faulkner was saying, everything’s set. I guess we can start off.

Yes. Travers’ bright eyes surveyed the throng of horsemen and women. Pretty good showing today, what? Everyone’s turned out except Anne Grimshawe. Hope that old blighter of a father of hers hasn’t been putting his foot down.

At the mention of Anne’s name I felt a slight stir of curiosity. One glance around the field convinced me that she was not there. And I had never before known her to miss a meet. Although, or rather, because her puritanical father disapproved of hunting, she invariably put in an appearance. Her fair, mischievous face had always been well set off by her scarlet riding habit, and I used to think it excited and pleased her to be disobeying her father. That day, some of Aunt Lulu’s poison must still have lingered in my veins. I started to wonder what could have kept Anne away. I also found myself noticing that Travers had been the first to remark on her absence.

But at that moment Faulkner gave the sign to the whips and banished all my morbid speculations.

The hunt was up.

I cantered off, following the pack. It was a gay morning with a champagne sparkle in the air. My spirits were high as we moved across the white, frosty ground with the chill air sweeping around our ears.

The hounds were eager. Their white and tan coats gleamed with a fresh polish, adding to the vivid panorama of the frosty grass, the scarlet riding habits and the glossy sheen of the horses. Even the most ardent antihunters cannot deny the pictorial effectiveness of a meet.

We had swerved to the left in the Ploversville direction when a horse trotted up behind me, and I heard a clear, young voice calling:

How’s the hunting doctor this morning?

On a beautiful roan mare of her uncle’s Rosemary Stewart looked like a streamlined, twentieth-century Diana. She smiled and sent my feeling of elation soaring.

None the worse for your aunt, I replied. You look none the worse, either. Did she let you get some sleep?

Poor Aunt Lulu. Rosemary grimaced. "There was another scene