The Plague Dogs: A Novel Read online

  And since, of sanity bereft,

  You can devise no better plan,

  To us, the only place that’s left,

  Come, lost dog; seek your vanished man.”

  “If I could just get all these thoughts up together,” murmured Snitter. “But I’m sleepy now. It’s been a long day—long night— something or other, anyway. How smoothly that grass moves against the sky—like mouse-tails.”

  Soothed and finally oblivious, Snitter fell asleep in the November sunshine.

  Lakeland shopkeeper Phyllis Dawson got a shock yesterday, tapped Digby Driver on his typewriter. (Except when signing his name, Digby Driver had seldom had a pen in his hand for several years past.) The reason? She found her dustbins the target of a new-style commando raid by the two mysterious dogs which have recently been playing a game of hide-and-seek for real with farmers up and down the traditional old-world valley of Dunnerdale, Lancashire, in the heart of poet Wordsworth’s Lakeland. The mystery death of tailoring manager David Ephraim, found shot beside his car at lonely Cockley Beck, near the head of the valley, took place while farmers were combing the fells nearby for the four-footed smash-and-grab intruders, and is believed to form another link in the chain lying behind efforts to pinpoint the cause of the enigma. Where have the unknown dogs come from and where are they hiding? Shopkeeper Phyllis’s contribution was doomed to disappointment yesterday when scientist Stephen Powell, hastening eighteen miles to the scene of the crime from Lawson Park Animal Research Station, arrived too late to forestall the dogs’ escape from the shed where they had been immured pending identification and removal. Are these canine Robin Hoods indeed a public danger, as local farmers hotly maintain, or are they wrongly accused of undeserved guilt? They may have an alibi, but if so the term is more than usually apt, for where indeed are they? This is the question Lakeland is asking itself as I pursue enquiries in the little grey town of Coniston, one-time home of famous Victorian John Ruskin.

  Well, thought Digby Driver, that’ll do for the guts of the first article. If they want it longer they can pep it up on the editorial desk. Better to keep the actual connection of the dogs with Lawson Park to blow tomorrow. Yeah, great—that can burst upon an astonished world as an accusation. “Why have the public not been told?” and all that. The thing is, what come-back have the station got? We know two dogs escaped from Lawson Park; and thanks to dear old Master Stephen, bless him, we know what they were being used for and what they looked like. And we can be certain—or as good as—that they were the same dogs as those that were raiding Miss Dawson’s dustbins. But that’s no good to the news-reading public. The thing is, have they been killing sheep and, above all, did they cause the death of Ephraim? What we want is evidence of gross negligence by public servants. “Gross negligence, gross negligence, let nothing you dismay,” sang Mr. Driver happily. “Remember good Sir Ivor Stone’s the bloke who doth you pay, To make the public buy the rag and read it every day, O-oh tidings of co-omfort and joy—”

  He broke off, glancing at his watch. “Ten minutes to opening time. Well, mustn’t grumble. I confess I never expected to fall on my feet right from the start like this. Drive down Dunnerdale and walk straight into the dogs and then into Master Powell looking for them. All the same, it still doesn’t grab the reader by the throat and rivet the front page—and that’s what it’s got to do, boy, somehow or other. Tyson—and Goodner—ho, hum! Wonder who that there Goodner used to be—might ask Simpson to look into that.”

  He strolled down the road in the direction of The Crown. The mild winter dusk had fallen with a very light rain and smell of autumn woods drifting from the hills above. The far-off lake, visible at street-corners and between the houses as a faintly shining, grey expanse, lay smooth yet lithe as eel-skin, and somehow suggestive of multiplicity, as though composed of the innumerable, uneventful lives spent near its shores—long-ago lives now fallen, like autumn berries and leaves, into the peaceful oblivion of time past, there to exert their fecund, silent influence upon the heedless living. There were bronze chrysanthemums in gardens, lights behind red-curtained windows and drifts of wood-smoke blowing from cowled chimneys. A van passed, changing gear on the slope, and as its engine receded the unceasing, gentle sound of babbling water resumed its place in the silence, uprising like heather when horse-hooves have gone by, A clock struck six, a dog barked, the breeze tussled a paper bag along the gravel and a blackbird, tuck-tucking away to roost, flew ten yards from one stone wall to another.

  This is a right dump, thought Digby Driver as he crossed the bridge over Church Beck. I wonder how many Orator readers there are here? Well, there’ll be some more soon, if I’ve got anything to do with it.

  He entered the saloon bar of The Crown, ordered a pint and fell into conversation with the barman.

  “I suppose you’re not sorry to have a bit less to do during winter months?” he asked. “There must be a lot of work at a place like this during the holiday season?”

  “Oh, ay,” returned the barman. “It’s downright murder at times. July and August we get fair rooshed off our feet. Still, it’s good business as long as y’ can stand oop to it.”

  “I suppose in winter it becomes mainly a matter of looking after the regulars?” pursued Driver. “D’you de-escalate your involvement with catering for visitors at this time of year?”

  “Well, there’s always a few cooms by,” replied the barman. “We keep on a bit of hot food at mid-day, but not sooch a wide raange, like. There’s no Americans in winter, for woon thing, y’ see.”

  “No, that’s true,” said Driver. “How about the people up at Lawson Park? They bring you a bit of trade, I suppose?”

  “Not really so as ye’d noatice,” replied the barman. “Theer’s soom o’ them looks in for a drink now and then, but they’re not what ye’d call a source o’ regular coostom, aren’t those scientific gentlemen. Ah reckon theer’s a few o’ them thinks alcohol’s what’s used for preserving specimens,” he added humorously.

  “Ha ha, that’s a good one—I dare say they do,” said Digby Driver. “I suppose they get up to all sorts of new research projects up there. D’you think there’s much in the way of secret weapons they go in for—germ warfare and all that sort of thing? Makes you feel nervous, doesn’t it? You know, if anything were to get out and come down here—hell’s bells, eh?”

  “Ay, well, that were woon thing as coom oop at pooblic inquiry before they built t’plaace,” answered the barman. “Them as objected said there’d be element o’ daanger from infection an’ sooch like. Not that anything in that way’s ever happened so far. But Ah’ve heerd as theer’s parts of t’plaace kept secret, like, an’ no one to go in but those that have to do wi’ it.”

  “That reminds me,” said Driver, “d’you know a chap called Tyson?”

  “ ‘Bout forty,” answered the barman with a chuckle. “Two thirds of t’folk int’ Laakes is called Tyson, an’ hafe the rest’s called Birkett.”

  “Well, I meant a particular chap who works up at Lawson Park.”

  “Oh, old ‘Arry? Ay, Ah knows him reet enoof. He cleans out animals oop there—feeds ‘em an’ that. He’ll likely be in a bit later—cooms in for ‘is pint most evenings. Did you want to speak to him?”

  “Well, I’m a newspaper man, you see, and I’m doing an article on English research stations from the point of view of ordinary people like you and me. So a real, live chap like Tyson’d be more use than those scientists—they’d be too technical for the newspaper-reading public anyway.”

  “Oh, ay,” said the barman, unconsciously flattered as Driver had intended. “Well, if ye’ere going to be here for a while I’ll tell you if he cooms in, like. He’ll be through int’ pooblic yonder, but I’ll let y’ know.”

  “Thanks,” said Driver. “He certainly won’t be a loser by it.”

  “Mr. Tyson, I’m a man of business like yourself. I believe in being perfectly straight and plain. I want information for my paper about this business of the dogs
escaping and I’m ready to pay for it. It’s not a question of bargaining—there’s the money. Count it. I shan’t say you told me anything—I shan’t even mention your name. Tell me everything you know about the dogs and that money goes into your pocket and I’ve forgotten I ever had it.”

  The two had left The Crown for Tyson’s cottage, where they were sitting before the fire in the living room. Mrs. Tyson was busy in the kitchen and the door between was shut.

  Digby Driver listened closely to Tyson’s account of the escape of seven-three-two and eight-one-five, which corroborated and in certain particulars added to what he had already heard from Mr. Powell that morning.

  “You’re sure they went right through the entire animal block from end to end?” he asked.

  “Good as sure,” answered Tyson. “How?”

  “Weel, they’d knocked ower caage o’ mice int’ pregnancy unit and one moosta cut it paw ont’ glass. Theer were spots o’ blood reet through to t’guinea-pig plaace at t’oother end. Ah cleaned ‘em oop.”

  “But you still don’t know how they got out of the block?”

  “Nay.”

  Digby Driver chewed his pencil. This was maddening. The vital piece of information, if it existed and whatever it might be, was still eluding him.

  “How much d’you know about the work of Dr. Goodner?” he asked suddenly.

  “Nowt,” replied Tyson promptly. “Theer’s noon knaws owt about it but ‘isself, without it’s Director. He works in special plaace, like, an’ it’s kept locked, is yon. Ah doan’t have nowt to do wi’t”

  “Why d’you suppose that is?”

  Tyson said nothing for some time. He lit his pipe, raked through the fire with the poker and put on some more coal. Digby Driver remained silent, gazing at the floor. Tyson got up, picked up his cap from the table and hung it on a peg behind the door. Digby Driver did not even follow him with his eyes.

  “It’s Ministry o’ Defence, is that,” said Tyson at last.

  “How do you know?”

  “Yon Goodner were talking to me one day about disposal o’ beeästs’ bodies, an’ Ah seen letter in’s ’and. It were Ministry-headed paaper, like, marked ‘Secret’ in red.”

  “Is that all you saw of it?”

  “Ay.”

  There was another pause, while the hounds of Digby Driver’s questing mind cast back and forth on the scent.

  “Where is Dr. Goodner’s special laboratory?” he asked.

  “Int’ cancer research block,” answered Tyson. “Separate part, like, with it oan door.”

  “Could the dogs have gone through it?”

  “Nay, th’ couldn’t—not in theer; but they went through cancer block reet enoof.”

  “Why’s Goodner’s place there, d’you suppose? Any special reason?”

  “Ah cann’t saay, unless happen it’s rats. Aall’t rats are kept int’ one place while they’re to be used. Joost black separate from brown, ootherwise all int’ one plaace, tha knaws.”

  Digby Driver started. Then, instantly recovering himself, he bent down to scratch his ankle; straightened up, looked at his watch, lit a cigarette and returned the pack to his pocket. Negligently, he picked up the ashtray and pretended to study its design.

  “Does Goodner use many black rats?” he asked carelessly.

  “Black and brown. Black moastly.”

  “No other animals?”

  “Soomtimes moonkeys. And a reet nuisance it is, is that.”

  “Oh-why?”

  “Every time he wants moonkey it has t’ave full disinfectant treatment—theer’s noan to be owt on it, he says. Doosn’t matter how clean it is already, if he wants it, it has t’oondergo total disinfestation process and remain in sterile condition while he taakes it over.”

  “But that doesn’t apply to the rats?”

  “Nay.”

  “I see,” said Digby Driver. “Well, thank you, Mr. Tyson. I shan’t mention this talk of ours to anyone, and you needn’t either. But it’s been most helpful. Good night.”

  FIT 7

  Wednesday the 10th November

  N

  eed information urgently rat and flea-borne diseases also background one Goodner ex-German wartime scientist employed A.R.S.E. prospects story excellent Driver.

  “Oh, hooray!” said Mr. Skillicorn, rubbing his hands. “Izzy wizzy, let’s get busy. Desmond, dear boy, with any luck this is going to break big.”

  “There’s a lot could go wrong with it,” replied Mr. Simpson, shaking his head. “A lot!”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I hope I’ll be proved wrong, Quilliam. It’s just that I’ve got such an incurably suspicious mind, you know.”

  Thursday the 11th November

  “—And then there’s this,” said the Under Secretary, picking up a press cutting, “which you may already have seen. It may prove entirely negligible, but I don’t much like the look of it. A little cloud out of the sea, like a man’s hand.”

  “I’ll advise the Parliamentary Secretary to prepare his chariot.”

  The Assistant Secretary sighed inwardly and tried to assume an eager and co-operative air. The two of them had already spent an hour in discussing three matters on which the necessary action could have been decided in as many minutes. If ever there was a case of Parkinson’s Law, thought the Assistant Secretary morosely—only there ought to be a corollary in this case. “Work expands in direct proportion to the loquacity of the senior officer responsible for it.”

  Outside, in Whitehall, evening was falling and over Horse Guards Parade the sunlit air was flecked and alive with starlings’ wings. By the thousand they flew in, whistling, strutting, chuckling to one another on the jutty friezes of the Government offices, their pendent beds and procreant cradles. The light reflected, from their glossy plumage, swift, glancing greens, blues and mauves. O happy living things! No tongue their beauty might declare. “I wish my kind saint would take pity on me,” thought the Assistant Secretary, taking the press cutting which the Under Secretary was holding out to him. Whatever it might be, he ought already to have seen it himself, of course—it was he who ought to have drawn it to the Under Secretary’s attention, not the other way around. The Under Secretary was making this point by the act of refraining from making it.

  Mystery Dog Raiders at Large in Lakeland, he read. A report from the Orator’s Man-on-the-Spot—Digby Driver. He skimmed quickly down the item. With any luck, and if he could absorb the gist of it quickly enough, he could say that he had already seen it, but hadn’t thought it worth mentioning to his busy Under Secretary.

  “Yes, I did see this, Maurice, actually, but it didn’t seem to amount to a great deal. I mean, even if Animal Research were to admit that they’d let a dog or dogs escape, and even if one of those dogs had caused the death of this poor chap Ephraim, it’s still purely local in effect and wouldn’t be damaging to the Secretary of State, I would suppose.”

  “That depends,” replied the Under Secretary, looking down and making a minute and entirely unnecessary adjustment of the Remembrance Day poppy in his button-hole. “You see, the Secretary of State’s rather sensitive at the moment, on account of attacks in the House about finance.”

  “But how could this tie up with that?”

  “I’m not saying it does, but it might.” The Under Secretary suavely showed his teeth like an elderly sheep. “You’ll recall that a few years back we—or our predecessors—advised the Secretary of State to accept the principal recommendations of the Sablon Committee and that that meant, inter alia, approval of the Lawson Park project; and a good deal of money for it in the annual estimates ever since. Lawson Park’s always had its enemies, as you know, and someone may well try to argue that these wasters of public money have been negligent in letting the dogs escape. That could be embarrassing. It’s bad enough the station having been sited in a national park in the first place—”

  “Can’t see that. It doesn’t cause pollution or increase the flow of traff
ic–”

  “I know, I know, Michael,” said the Under Secretary in a characteristically testy tone, “but it’s a nonconforming user in a national park and as Crown’ development it attracted a deemed planning permission. That’s quite enough for the Opposition if the place gets itself into hot water. But look, I fear we shall have to call a halt now to these most interesting deliberations. I have things to attend to and so, I’m sure, have you.” (Good Lord! thought the Assistant Secretary, I can’t believe it!) “I’m seeing the Parly. Sec. tomorrow evening about one or two other things and while I’m about it I’d like to set his mind at rest on this, if we can. Have you got a reliable contact up there?”

  “Yes, more or less. Chap called Boycott I generally talk to.”

  “Well, could you please find out what their thinking is on this, and in particular whether they’ve had a dog escape and if so what they’ve done about it? We want to be able to say, publicly if necessary, that this Hound of the Baskervilles, if it exists, didn’t emerge from Lawson Park.”

  “Right, Maurice, I’ll see to that.” (Bloody old woman! What other Under Secretary would make a meal of a thing like this?)

  “You understand, I hope I’m going to be proved to be fussing unnecessarily, Michael. It’s just that I’ve got such an incurably suspicious mind, you know.”

  In the corridor, the Assistant Secretary paused to look out over St. James’s Park in the failing light. From high up in a great, bark-peeling plane tree a thrush was singing, and in the distance he could discern the pelicans on the lake, swimming one behind the other and all thrusting their heads below water at the same, identical instant. As often in moments of difficulty or depression, he began to repeat “Lycidas” silently to himself.

  “Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more

  Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere …”

  The mist was like an elastic, damp cloth over the muzzle, yet worse, being insubstantial and impossible to claw aside. For the twentieth time Rowf rubbed a paw across his face to wipe away a clot of the wet gossamer filling the grass for mile after mile. The muffled pouring of the becks sounded from both before and behind. There were no stars. There was no breeze and no movement of smells. There were only those scents that hung stilly in the mist itself and formed part of it—sheep and sheep’s droppings, heather and the lichen and fungus covering the stone walls. There was not a sound to be heard of any living creature, man, bird or beast. He and the tod were moving beneath a ceiling of mist, along passages walled with mist, shouldering their way through thickets of mist. Yet the mist, unlike honest trees, bushes and walls, placed no bounds upon uncertainty and error. Along a walled path you can go only one way or the other—right or wrong. But it is a strange path where even with a thought the rack dislimns and the walls are at once on all sides and nowhere at all, cut away before and closing from behind, apparently extending in one direction but in fact open in all.