Let Loose the Dogs Read online

  THE MURDOCH MYSTERIES

  Except the Dying

  Under the Dragon’s Tail

  Poor Tom Is Cold

  Let Loose the Dogs

  Night’s Child

  Vices of My Blood

  A Journeyman to Grief

  For Iden, as always

  And Caesar’s spirit, ranging for revenge,

  Shall in these confines with a monarch’s voice

  Cry “Havoc,” and let slip the dogs of war;

  That this foul deed shall smell above the earth …

  — from William Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar

  AUGUST 1895

  Chapter One

  HE REMEMBERED THE MATCH VIVIDLY. After that-after he had fallen by the bridge – he had no recall and only knew what had happened from the statements of witnesses at his trial. The day had been oppressively hot, the sky heavy and dark with a threatening storm. Inside the barn it was stifling, the air thick with the smell of blood and the stink of the rats. The dogs were going wild. Tripper, the innkeeper’s black-and-tan bitch; the two white pugs that belonged to the Craigs; and a squat, brindle bulldog, who was there for the first time, were all tethered to the rings that ran along the wall. All of them were barking nonstop, their eyes dilated, saliva flooding from their mouths. He had shouted with the others all through the matches. They all had, even the Englishman who made such a point of being unruffled. Delaney had Flash in his arms and was having a hard time holding on to him, he was squirming so much, wanting to get back into the ring. Everybody knew this terrier had won unless Havoc got more kills. The stakes were high as they always were at Newcombe’s matches, and Harry had put down a lot of money, every dime of what he’d saved over the summer. He was glad he’d drawn the last run because the later dogs were always more ferocious.

  “Havoc up! Last dog. Flash the one to beat with forty kills,” Lacey, the ring-keeper, called out. He released a cage of rats into the pit. They were dull brownish grey and fat from their summer feeding. At first they stayed close together, noses twitching, dazzled by the light. Lacey stirred them up with his crooked stick, then he shouted again.

  “NOW! LET LOOSE YOUR DOG.”

  Harry dropped Havoc into the ring. Immediately the terrier pounced on three rats in succession, killing each one with a single bite and a violent shake that broke their necks. The rest started to run, circling the small walled pit. Some tried in vain to climb up the smooth sides. For the next, long ten minutes the dog pursued them, biting, shaking, and dropping one after the other. The men took up the count, calling out the number of hits.

  “TWENTY-TWO … TWENTY-THREE … TWENTY-FOUR …”

  One of the rats twisted up and gripped the dog on the nose with its razor teeth, but Havoc wasn’t deterred, running on until finally he slammed against the wall crushing the creature and it dropped to the floor. Several of the other rats tried to huddle in a corner, but Lacey banged on the side of the pit wall to get them going. The terrier killed all of them. The chant got faster, driving him on. His muzzle was crimson, his coat flecked with blood and spittle.

  “THIRTY … THIRTY-ONE …”

  Briefly, the little dog seized one of the corpses.

  “Dead un! Leave it!” yelled Harry, and Havoc obeyed. The brown-and-white feist that belonged to White almost broke his leash in his attempts to get over to the ring. As if sensing what was at stake, all of the other dogs grew more frantic and shrill until it was hard to hear anything at all.

  “… THIRTY-SIX …”

  The dog captured another one, almost tossing it out of the ring.

  “… THIRTY-SEVEN.”

  Lacey was watching his big brass clock, which was on the ledge where everybody could see it. His hand was at the ready, clutching the rod to strike the gong beside him.

  Suddenly the terrier stopped, panting hard. He looked toward the ring of spectators. Harry yelled.

  “Go on … Get ’em. Go on!” But the dog didn’t move.

  “TIME!” Lacey sounded the gong. The match was over.

  “Pick up your dog,” he called out.

  “It was a cheat. My dog was stopped. We could have won.”

  “Please pick up your dog now, sir,” repeated Lacey.

  “Don’t be a sore loser, Harry. It was fair and square,” said Delaney, who was across from him.

  Harry turned on him in fury. “You’re a cheating liar. You did something, I know it. We could have won.”

  He reached over into the pit and snatched up Havoc, who yelped at the roughness of his grip. Normally Harry would have felt bad at hurting the dog, but now he was too angry to care and he thrust him into the wooden carrying box.

  Newcombe, who always had his eye out for trouble, who was always pouring oil on boiling water, came over to him. “Now then, don’t take on so. It was a fair match. Your dog got himself distracted. It’s happened to us all at some time or other.”

  He tried to place an arm on Harry’s shoulder to placate him, but Harry would have none of it.

  “It suits you to say that, Vince Newcombe.” He pointed accusingly at Lacey. “I had more time due to me. He cheated. I’ll wager he’s getting a cut of the take.”

  The timekeeper shrugged but said nothing.

  Again, Newcombe tried to soothe. “Walter’s honest as they come and never makes a mistake. Come on, let me stand you an ale. The match was won fair and square.”

  “I don’t believe that. Those rats looked half asleep to me. You probably smoked them.”

  The innkeeper wiped at his face. He was a living replica of the old-time monks, with his bald head and round belly. “Why would I do that? It’s all the same to me who wins.”

  “Not if he gives you a cut, it isn’t.”

  The man, Pugh, who had been running the bulldog, spoke up. He’d come on his wheel, dressed for it in a bicycle suit of brown tweed and matching cap. His beige leggings were stained with blood and dirt. His dog was useless, more afraid of the rats than they were of him. Pugh was as garrulous as a jackdaw.

  “You lost, sir. Your dog balked. Nobody was cheating you. Take your lumps and stop whingeing.”

  Delaney started to approach his opponent. “You’ve got a game little lad, there, Harry. It was a good match. Why don’t we shake on it like gentlemen.”

  He held out his hand. However, Harry turned away and spat on the dirt floor. “Hell will freeze over before I kiss the arse of liars and cheats.”

  For a moment, everything hung in the balance, and they all knew it. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw that Lacey’s hand was on the handle of the water bucket ready to douse them both if need be.

  “Tell me how I cheated you,” said Delaney.

  “You made some kind of sound. Something, I could tell the way he looked over. You’ve got a whistle I bet.”

  Delaney abruptly turned out all of his pockets, jacket and trousers. Harry thought they hung down like hounds’ ears.

  “Nothing, see. Will you be satisfied now?”

  At this point, his son moved in closer. He was big like his father but smooth chinned and soft faced. For a moment, Harry thought he’d have to take on both of them, but then he saw that the boy was afraid and needed to take comfort from his father rather than defend him.

  “He’s not going to buff down for you, Harry,” said Pugh. “Leave it now.”

  There were three other competitors in the barn. The Englishman, Craig, was the oldest man present. He looked ridiculously out of place in his suit of fine grey tweed, as if he should be in church rather than in a barn spattered with blood. He spoke up in an English accent as impeccable as his clothes.

  “Mr. Newcombe, this has been a most exciting evening, but it is damnably hot in here. I suggest we Corinthians set
tle our bets and all get on home before the storm breaks.”

  Harry glared at him. “You’re so eager to finish up here, aren’t you? I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re not in on it as well.”

  Even to his own ears, his words sounded slurred. He’d lost count of how many glasses of ale he’d tossed back, although he knew Lacey was keeping a close reckoning. Craig flicked at his moustache, which was waxed to such a thin point you’d think he’d be afraid of stabbing himself.

  “It might be a good idea for you to cool off outside yourself, sir.”

  Lacey made a slight movement, making it clear he was ready to assist if need be. James Craig stepped over, but unlike Philip Delaney, he was obviously ready to stand with his father. White wasn’t saying anything and didn’t look as if he would give any fight. Harry looked around at all of them, spat again, and picking up the box where he had put his dog, he left.

  Outside the coming storm had overwhelmed any light still lingering. He saw the lightning flash, and from habit learned at sea, he counted until he heard a crack of thunder. The storm was nearly here. He hesitated but he was consumed with thoughts of revenge: all his money gone, stolen from him. He turned toward the end of the road and the path that led down into the ravine, Delaney’s path home.

  It was darker as he descended, the trees thick and lush with leaves. He was about to cross the bridge at the bottom of the path, but he misjudged his step and tripped, striking his cheek hard against the railing. Cursing, he staggered further along, but he was too full of liquor and fell to the ground. Havoc barked at being jolted, but Harry had to find a place to rest. He crawled into the dense grass that was at the side of the path and lay down.

  That was all he remembered.

  December 1895

  Chapter Two

  COUNTY OF YORK ASSIZES.

  JUSTICE FALCONBRIDGE PRESIDING.

  DECEMBER 2, 1895.

  STATEMENT OF SWORN WITNESS,

  PATRICK PUGH, BOOK AGENT.

  MR. GREENE, Q.C.: Mr. Pugh, will you tell the gentlemen of the jury, in your own words, what happened the night of August 4, 1895.

  PUGH: Yes, sir. After the ratting match, I went over to the taproom with Mr. Newcombe, who is the publican of the Manchester tavern. I sat chinning with him until about ten o’clock when there was a pounding on the door …

  MR. GREENE: One moment, Mr. Pugh. Even though the other witnesses will be giving their statements, it will assist the jurymen if you tell us what you recall about the movements of the other participants in the so-called match.

  PUGH: Movements?

  GREENE: What time did so and so leave for instance and with whom?

  PUGH: Right! The first so and so to leave was the accused …

  (laughter)

  JUSTICE FALCONBRIDGE: Mr. Pugh, this is a court of law. I will not tolerate such levity. I am inclined to charge you with contempt of court.

  PUGH: I beg your pardon, Your Honour, I was being literal. But as I was saying, the accused left first about half past seven or twenty minutes to eight. There was bad blood between him and the victim on account of he felt John Delaney had cheated him. In my opinion this was not the case, but he wouldn’t listen. After he’d gone, we settled up our wagers. Walter Lacey had totted them up so that was soon done. I myself was only paying out, not receiving, but with the exception of me and the accused, the others won something, even Mr. White. Not that he took in much, one dollar I believe …

  JUSTICE FALCONBRIDGE: Will you come to the point, Mr. Pugh. We don’t have all day to decide this case. I would like to go home for Christmas.

  (laughter)

  PUGH: I beg your pardon, Your Honour. Mr. Greene said I should use my own words, and there always seems to be a lot of them.

  (laughter)

  Sorry, sir. I wasn’t intending to be funny. Where was I? That’s all right, Mr. Greene, I remember. After the accused left, John Delaney followed. No wait, I tell a lie. He sent his son, Philip, off home first, then he collected his winnings, put them in his leather pouch, and left. He had won almost one hundred dollars. Shortly after, the Craigs and Mr. White left together.

  GREENE: How soon after Mr. Delaney was that?

  PUGH: I can’t say exactly because I wasn’t looking at the clock, not realising it would be important four months later … but my guess is it was no more than ten minutes or so. There was a threat of a storm brewing, and everybody wanted to get home before it broke. We didn’t realise a storm was coming, in more ways than one …

  JUSTICE FALCONBRIDGE: Mr. Pugh!

  PUGH: My apologies, Your Honour. After they had gone, Mr. Newcombe suggested we move over to the taproom where it was more comfortable, which we did, leaving Walter Lacey to clean the barn. We were together in each other’s sight for the rest of the evening until young Philip Delaney arrived saying his pa had not come home.

  GREENE: One moment, Mr. Pugh. You said you and Mr. Newcombe were in each other’s sight the rest of the evening, by my calculation a period of about two hours. Did either of you leave the taproom at any time, however briefly, even to – excuse me, Your Honour – even to make water in the outside privy?

  PUGH: I did, in fact, go out once to do just that. About nine o’clock. The clock was chiming. When I went outside I mean, not while I was …

  (laughter)

  JUSTICE FALCONBRIDGE: Mr. Pugh, this is a last warning. PUGH: Yes, sir. I was truly not trying to be funny. I am a literal man.

  GREENE: So you are telling the court that except for a period of approximately ten minutes, you and Mr. Newcombe can vouch for each other?

  PUGH: That is correct. He only left my sight just after I returned from the privy because Walter Lacey’s wife and child had come in search of Maria. The babe was ill, and Mrs. Newcombe is well known in the neighbourhood for her nursing abilities. But Vincent was gone for only four or five minutes at the most while he made sure the situation wasn’t serious, which it turned out not to be. The sick child, I mean …

  GREENE: Please be so good as to inform the gentlemen of the jury how long it would take to go into the ravine and back.

  PUGH: That depends on whether you are a tortoise or a hare sort of person. A normal man or sturdy woman, walking at a normal pace, could go down and back in about twenty minutes at the most. Down to the bridge I mean, which is where I found Delaney. You could run it faster I suppose, but the hill is steep so unless you were an Indian you would be panting pretty hard by the time you returned. What I am saying is that Mr. Newcombe was not at all breathless when he rejoined me in the taproom. We sat and chinned some more. Mostly about dogs, of which he knows a lot. The clock was chiming again, this time striking out a quarter past the hour of ten o’clock. It has a funny sort of wheeze to it so it draws attention to itself, which is why I noticed so particularly. We heard Philip at the door, as I’ve already told you. No offence, but he’s a bit childish in his mind, and he was upset at his pa’s absence. I didn’t think there could be anything amiss. If we laid all the men end to end who’ve avoided going straight home after an afternoon at a betting match, the line would stretch down to the lake I’m sure. However, I said I’d walk back with him and take a look. I borrowed Vincent’s lantern and set off. The rain had stopped, but the leaves and ground were soaked so we got wet just walking down the path. There’s a little wooden bridge at the bottom of the path that spans the creek. Just past it, the path forks. One path runs up the hill to the Delaney house, the other follows the creek all the way through to Yonge Street. Philip said he was sure his father wasn’t anywhere along the path to their house, so I said, “Let’s take a look along here then.” In the back of my mind, I thought maybe Mr. Delaney had laid down for a little kip …

  GREENE: Had he been drinking liquor during the match?

  PUGH: I wasn’t paying much attention. Mr. Lacey was constantly bringing us refills, which he kept good track of, I might add. To my mind, Mr. Delaney wasn’t inebriated in the same way as the accused obviously was, but he may have had e
nough to make him want to lie down. I expected to find him fast asleep under a tree. Well, not too far down the path, oh about one hundred yards, I’d say, the light glinted on something pale floating in the creek. It was Mr. Delaney. He had got wedged in the rocks, he was on his back, and his hair and beard were flowing out like weeds all around his head. I say this because it is relevant, Your Honour. I did think at once he was dead. However, I have studied resuscitation of drowned persons, and I could but try to revive him. I put down my lantern and was about to jump down the bank into the water. At this point two things occurred. The grey terrier, Havoc, came rushing at me out of the bushes. He’s small but a fierce little thing, and he grabs hold of my trousers. I’m telling Philip to take hold of the cur, and he’s standing on the edge of the bank wailing that his father is dead. “No, he’s not,” says I. “Come and help me pull him out.” But he was incapable, so I spoke to him real sharp and told him to run as fast as he could to the tavern and fetch Mr. Newcombe. He did that, but the dog was still worrying at me till I had to kick it and he ran off. I slid down the bank and managed to pull on Mr. Delaney’s arm to bring him to the strip of sand that was at the verge. There I rolled him over onto his stomach preparatory to doing resuscitation, but as soon as I did, I could see terrible gashes in the back of his head. Deep, terrible gashes they were, to the point that I could see bone and brain. Turned my stomach. I thought I’d better leave him there until we could get a coroner to come take a look. I made sure he wasn’t going to be pulled back into the water and climbed back up the bank. I could hear the dog yipping away from somewhere down the path and decided to see what he was going on about. To tell you the truth, Your Honour, I was already doubting that Mr. Delaney had met with an accident. There aren’t any sharp rocks on the banks or even in the creek itself. Those wounds looked to me like they’d come from somebody bashing him from behind. I went to investigate the dog. I could see where the grass was flattened down a bit off to the north side of the path, and the terrier was in there. I went in only a matter of a few feet and came across the accused, who was lying on his side against a tree. The dog was barking and pawing at him, and for a minute I wondered if I was going to be encountering another corpse because he wasn’t moving. But I brought the lantern up right close, and he stirred and then opened his eyes. I noticed he had an abrasion on his right cheek just below his eye. “What’s a matter?” he asked, all slurred. “John Delaney’s dead,” I replied. I didn’t say anything about an accident or how he was dead, I just said, “John Delaney’s dead.” That seemed to wake him up. “Well, he got what he deserved, didn’t he?”