THE SOUND OF THE BARKERVILLES, by Robert Reginald

My dear packleader and -mate, Cn. Sheraton Bones, with whom it has been my privilege to run lo these twenty years, was curled up in his favorite lounge chair, seeming to read a copy of the London Canine News—but actually taking his post-supper nap—when a knock at our kennel door, at ccxxi-z Barker Street, suddenly brought his long face back into view, his dangling ears swinging out to either side of his head.

“See to that, Sniffson, would you, please?” he asked—and I happily complied.

“Message for Cn. Bones,” the whippet at the door said. I took the biscuit-gram from his paw. “Shall I wait for a reply, Sirrah?”

“If you would, please,” I said, and then walked over and handed my friend the missive.

He put his broad nose down to the trit and breathed in deeply. “Straight from the Telegraph Office,” he said. He looked at the letter-ciphers impressed into the hardened dough, and then snapped up the pungent bit in two bites. His long, almost serpentine tongue flicked up the surviving crumbs. Then he picked up the newsprint, which I had thought ignored, opened it wide, and slammed his paw down on a story on page three.

“Finally, Sniffson,” he said, again tapping the paper. “Finally, we have a challenge worthy of our intellect. It seems that Sirrah Rovero Barkerville’s Vermin-Meister has been murdered under mysterious circumstances at his estate in Barkshire. Since the human servants there have been implicated as possible suspects by the local constabulary, he would like us to make the trip north, and determine who is actually to blame—and why—in order to avoid a scandal. There have also been suggestions in the press that a legendary human fiend, a slayer of Doggés called the Barkside Slasher, may be responsible.”

“Where was the body found, Sirrah?” I asked.

“On the nearby moors,” he replied. “Apparently, it was terribly mutilated. Pieces of the corpus were…detached from the body.”

“No!” I said. “No! That would be a terrible outrage to all Doggédom, Sirrah, if true.”

“Indeed. There is some urgency, Sniffson, so please respond in the affirmative to Sirrah Rovero’s request. Let him know that we will take the eight o’clock electrotram from Doggone Station.”

This I accomplished, sending the whippet on her way, and then I went to pack our things for the short trip.

“Be sure to include your four-five,” my leader’s resonant voice bayed from the other room.

I did so.

* * * *

The transit service was, as usual, prompt and speedy, and we reached Barktown by nine P.M. As we exited our box, I drew in a lung full of the fresh air with a sigh of contentment, reveling in the olio of olfactory surprises. My nose wasn’t nearly as sensitive as my companion’s (indeed, there isn’t a Canine on Bossa-Terranova whose snout can match the incredible ability of this bloodhound’s nose), but still, my proboscis was almost overwhelmed with the combined odeurs of flora, fauna, and their collective excretory merde. I felt this tremendous urge to find the nearest patch of greenery and just, well, “roll in the spray,” as our feline flibbertigibbets might say.

But I was able to control my body before my packleader noticed the wandering of my sensibilities; I nuzzled up to his hindquarters, and then motioned to one of the human-servants at the station to pick up our two bags and follow on. Although the simian-folk do understand some basic verbal communications, their inability to grunt more than a few Canine sounds makes it difficult for us to convey meaning without including paw-gestures. These creatures can just be the most stupid and obtuse of animals, despite their relatively large brains.

An autocar had been sent from Barkerville Manor, and as we piled in, I marveled again at the luxury and efficiency of our vehicles. Even though our destination was several kilometers out in the country, our transit was smooth and swift. Sir Rovero was waiting for us at the door of his kennel-manse.

“Cn. Sheraton Bones,” he intoned, touching noses with my leader in a formal greeting of equals. Both of their tails were curled over their backs, wagging slightly. “Why, ’tis truly a pleasure to see you again, Sirrah. You greatly assisted my cousin, Lord Chatchasseur, in solving the mystery of the missing pussies some years ago.”

“Quite an intriguing puzzle, that,” my friend said. “As I recall, they were being snatched by the carnivorous pussy-willows that had been nefariously seeded on your relative’s estate by a rival Politi-Doggé—such plants being almost indistinguishable at first glance from their more benign cousins, the weepers.”

“Ah, yes, yes,” the Barkonet said, “an exemplary and certainly a unique solution; why, I cannot think of any other Doggé-Detective who could have penetrated to the heart of the matter so quickly. But, alas, I feel that we have a much more difficult situation here. The bayings of fear and outrage from the local population threaten to result in a wholesale massacre of the human-folk.”

“Perhaps that would not be such a bad thing,” I opined, before my leader hissed at me a low bark that meant, “Quiet!”

“Please tell us about it, Sirrah Rovero,” Cn. Bones said.

“If you’ll follow me, Gentle-Doggés, I will take you to the corpus,” he said.

He led the way through a maze of kennel runs and puzzle passages—quite interesting, really, and filled with mysterious but delectable smells tucked away in odd corners—until we reached the manor’s “cold room,” a cellar which helped preserve bovine-brods, man-steaks, and piggy bones, which were stacked in profusion on the surrounding shelves. We could see our breaths clouding the cold, dry air.

“What is that odor?” I hissed at my leader, in a low growl that the Barkonet could not hear.

“Ah, you noticed it too, Sniffson,” Cn. Bones said. “You should be able to identify it soon, if you try.”

But I could not, despite my best sniffing and whining. Then we came upon a scene that I would rather permanently displace from my mind’s memory.

Laid out on a slab was the stretched-out body of our poor dead brother, the Vermin-Meister, an Irish Hound-Doggé named Runnymede, who certainly didn’t deserve the fate that had been meted out to him.

“Doctor Sniffson, this looks to be your province,” Bones said, nodding at the deceased. “Sirrah Rovero, the good doctor saw service in the late Afghan War, and after we decimated those barbarous mutties, was sectioned back to the British Isles.”

“I treated many terrible wounds during that conflict,” I said, “but very few that matched the ferocity of what I see here.”

I pointed my right front paw to the area below and in front of the Canine’s anus. “As you can see here, Gentle-Doggés, the Sire’s sex organ has been ripped away from his body, and taken (or eaten) by the killer.” There was a gasp from the Barkonet.

Then I opened the deceased’s jaw, and motioned for the other Canines to draw closer. “The poor Doggé’s tongue is gone, bitten away, as are his ears. His eyes have been blinded, nose mutilated, and tail clipped. Every piece of the body that gave him his noble stature and dignity has been slashed asunder, as if the murderer was trying to diminish the Canine mystique itself. Why, this reminds me of what the Afghani natives did to some of their captives.”

“Do you see any similarity between the wounds?” the Barkonet asked.

“Only superficially, Sirrah,” I said. “I cannot explain this very well to a non-physician, but it almost seems to me that these wounds were not actually accomplished by a Doggé—the pattern looks somewhat different to me—although, to be sure, the biting and slashing did arise from Canine-like incisors and razor-sharp claws similar to those adorning Doggé mouths and paws. Also, the attacker appears to have been taller and more powerful than his victim, as curious as that may sound. As you know, the Irish Hound-Doggés are among the largest of all Canine tribes, being exceeded in size only by their Scottish cousins. They put us shepherds to shame.”

“Thank you, Doctor Sniffson,” Cn. Bones said. “And now, perhaps.…”

But Sirrah Rovero interrupted him, stating; “The hour is getting late, Gentle-Doggés, so perhaps you had best be shown to your rooms. You can resume your investigations in the morning. Did you dine before your arrival?”

“We munched on bits of kibbles during our trip north, Sirrah,” my packleader said, “and require nothing further other than a bowl of cold water, and a stop at the facilities, if you please.”

Sir Rovero barked out a loud command, and his MajorDoggo immediately appeared. “See to their needs,” he commanded.

“As ye howl, so shall it be done,” the Major said, and led us through another series of passageways, culminating in a stop at the potty-path, and thence to our den on the third floor. After asking further re our requirements, he left us in blessèd peace.

“These are quite, quite luxurious,” I said, swinging round and round in circles until I had settled down on the plush, padded bed, curled into a ball. “Perhaps we should acquire someth.…”

“Do you find this all a bit strange, Sniffson?” my leader interrupted.

“In what way, Cn. Bones?” I asked.

“I cannot say for sure,” he mused, “but something seems ‘off’ to me here. Well, let us sleep on it: perhaps we will learn more in the morning.”

* * * *

But morning came with a rude pounding on our den door.

“Cn. Bones! Cn. Sniffson! Come quickly!”

I tumbled out of my lair and staggered to my feet, no easy task when one has yet properly to stretch the kinks out of one’s backbone. In rare bad humor, I flung open the door.

“What?!” I demanded of the MajorDoggo.

“There…there has been another murder,” he said. He seemed to be having great difficulty keeping control of himself. “In one of the runs in the garden. Master Sirrah says to come quickly!”

“Very well,” I said. “We will join you in a moment.”

But my leader was already almost dressed even as I turned to rouse him. He adjusted his catstalker hat with the tail down the back, and looked at me for my approval. I went over and licked him in and around one ear. The left ear.

By the time we reached the scene of the new slaying, most of the household had joined us: Sirrah Rovero’s family, his staff, his servants, and even a few of the human-creatures. The stench of blood nearly overwhelmed my senses, until it was completed subsumed beneath another odor. I swiveled around and riveted my gaze on a pretty Bitch in a rich Chez Chienne d’Amour dressing-gown standing to one side by herself.

“Why, she…she…”—but I could not gasp it out, I was so shocked. It simply was not done!

“…She lies in estrus,” Cn. Bones said in an undertone. “Yes, I know, Doctor, that would not be allowed in the big city, where decorum must prevail over all else, if Doggés are to retain their sanity; but in the countryside they sometimes operate under a different set of rules. Control yourself, Sniffson: you have work to do!”

Indeed I did, and my packleader’s admonition chastened me sufficiently to turn to the task at hand. The victim was a young Sire of perhaps five and twenty years. From his well-developed musculature, I would guess that he worked primarily outside. I said so to the assembled crowd.

“One…one of the groundskeepers,” The Major confirmed. “He supervised a small crew of human-drudges.”

At that moment, the Master-Sirrah of the house himself appeared, and ordered most of those present to leave. I do not think that he wanted them to hear the more gruesome details of the murder.

“What can you tell us, Doctor?” Cn. Bones asked a few minutes later.

“The Sire’s corpus lies deep within the rigor mortis; I would say he has been dead about four hours, perhaps a bit longer,” was my judgment. “He was mutilated in the same way as the first body. If you would give me a hand…?” I motioned to one of the staff. With his help, I was able to roll the body over on its back.

“He was killed somewhere else, and moved to this location after rigor had set in. How was he discovered?” I asked the Master.

Sirrah Rovero looked to the MajorDoggo for a response.

“Uh, Sirrah, the first crew on site for the morning shift stumbled across the corpus about a half hour ago.”

At this Cn. Bones intervened. “Was this his normal working period?”

“No, Sirrah,” the Major responded. “He should have been abed. He normally labored during the afternoon and early evening hours.”

“Then let us see his living quarters, if you please.”

The MajorDoggo looked over to the Master of the house, who nodded his head.

We followed him to a secondary kennel set off to one side of the manse, and thence into one of the several large den-rooms. The groundskeeper had been assigned a nondescript, very plain, very well-worn rug along one side, with a small shelf on the wall above his sleeping-area to hold his personal effects. There were almost none to see.

“He was not murdered here, either,” Cn. Bones quickly concluded. “Where else could he have been?”

“Why, I do not know,” the Major replied. “He was free to wander the grounds on his own time.”

“Very well. You will arrange, with Sirrah Rovero’s approval”—the Master, who was lurking several yards behind us in the doorway, grinned his acquiescence—“to question the staff, one by one. The good doctor and I will need a private room with at least two doors to conduct these interviews.”

“I can arrange these sessions to begin in about an hour, if that would be satisfactory, Sirrah,” the Major said.

“In the meantime, I believe the break-the-fast meal is about ready to be served, if you will join us in the dining-area,” Sirrah Rovero interjected.

That sounded wonderful to me, and I indicated such. My leader just shook his long-eared head and said, “An army marches on its tummy, eh, Doctor?”

I could not argue with him.

The beautiful Bitch I had seen at the murder-scene was waiting for us on one side of a long table, together with several other relations of the Master of the House. They were introduced as Ladee Bahalya Barkerville and Hon. Curly Barkerville, younger sister and brother of their leader; and Cn. Toton de Barquereville, a distant cousin from the Frenchy branch of the family, who had been visiting his British relatives for some months now. All made a small obeisance before the honored guests of their Sirrah-Master.

“I apologize for my sister,” Sirrah Rovero said. “We usually have better manners here, but her condition developed suddenly, sooner than it should have—and with all of the other upset that has occurred these past few days, we could not follow our usual routine.”

I was greatly disturbed by the presence of the beauteous young
Doggée, whose blatant sexuality constantly threatened the equilibrium of our gathering. When I normally would have focused on the poached duck eggs-on-pork-o’-bacons, the delectable kittens-on-a-stick (some of them still wriggling), the birds-for-a-song (always a treat), and the lamb fries-well-fried, I was distracted over and over again by a laugh, by a grin showing the perfectly propotioned incisors, by the swish of an over-the-back tail, by…just the scent of incipient love, love, love.

“Get control of yourself, Old Doggé,” my companion hissed in my ear, giving me a lick of strength, and I straightened up and remembered the soldier I had been in the Wars. But it was one of the hardest (ah, that word) things that I have ever had to do. I would have rather faced the Afghans again.

* * * *

Later that afternoon, we proceeded to interview the staff, one by one—and then the servants. But in each case, Cn. Bones asked the same basic queries, concerning their whereabouts at the time of each crime, their relationship or acquaintanceship with the deceased, their assessment of the victims’ characaters—to which we received the several standard replies. Underneath it all, of course, he was evaluating each suspect with his remarkable nose, considered one of the most discerning in all the British Isles. It was said that Sheraton Bones could detect the passing of a cocqueroache ten rooms away.

In any case, when we had finished with the staff interviews, and we were alone once again, my packleader sighed and drooped his tail down between his legs. I wanted to go over and sniff and lick his butt in consolation.

“Nothing,” he finally said. “No smell of blood, no odor of the guilty conscience. Nothing!”

Then we asked to see the human-drudges, of which there were perhaps fifty working the estate, mainly doing very mundane chores under close supervision. We were led by the MajorDoggo to their separate quarters away from the kennel-manse complex (thus removed so that their pervasive body odor [it truly raised a great stench] would not disturb more civilized folk).

We interviewed them in groups of about a dozen, using the Master-Grounds-Doggé to assist with the questioning. But their responses, if anything, were even more laconic than those of the staff.

“Still nothing, Sniffson,” my leader said. “I did find several curious undercurrents with a few of them, some distinction in blood or race, perhaps, but nothing that I can make any sense of. Did you notice the warblings that a few of them made to each other, when they thought our attention had wandered? I wonder if that is their own method of communicating amongst themselves.”

“Doctor Hunterchaser’s study of the human species clearly indicates that they lack the proper vocal apparatus to generate intelligent sounds,” I noted.

“Yes, but I have often wondered if the Doctor somehow misinterpreted certain elements of his research in order to reach a particular conclusion,” came the reply. “It seems unlikely to me that a people who are able to follow the simple commands of Canines should be wholly without the ability to express themselves in some fashion amongst each other.”

I allowed that I could not believe that such a careful experimenter as Doctor Hunterchaser—and one so highly regarded by his peers—could have been so mistaken in his judgments after having applied such a lengthy series of intelligence tests to these less-than-civilized creatures. Cn. Bones just shook his well-eared head in response.

* * * *

Welladay, that left only the Barkerville family proper, and we interviewed them individually in one of the drawing-rooms after a brief, awkward, and relatively uncommunicative tea.

We began with the Leader of the Pack, Sir Rovero himself. He was a Canine of perhaps five-and-forty years, with a distinguished, slightly graying muzzle, a complete set of teeth, and a strong musculature, despite his middling-age.

“How long had you known Vermin-Meister Runnymede?” my packleader asked.

“Actually, he had served the Kennel all of his life. His Sire and GrandSire had previously indentured themselves to mine, so they had become almost part of the family. He was the last of his line. I do not know what we will do without him.”

“What were his duties?”

“He was tasked with making certain that the estate remained inviolate. Canine intruders were either escorted to one of the nearby villages, or arrested if caught poaching and delivered to the County Sheriff. Human intruders were hunted down and summarily executed, the remains being shipped to the canning factories.

“He was also responsible for computer and internet security, and for arranging for the maintenance and installation of external and internal lights, cameras, and alarms. We have a great many valuable objets d’art here, artifacts that have been collected by my Pack over a great many generations. Some would sell in selective underground markets for millions of pounds.”

“Had the Vermin-Meister reported any recent problems to you?”

“He did indicate a recent concern over a possible anomaly that he had noticed, without being specific. He said he wanted to investigate further before turning the matter over to me. Since he was completely reliable in such matters, I left it utterly to his discretion, as I always did. After his death, I and my siblings briefly examined his personal papers, his computer, and his notes—but we found nothing that seemed to be relevant to his inquiries, if he had actually made any.”

“What about Groundskeeper Dinero? Did you know him?”

“I recognized his face, of course, and I remember approving his hiring about a year ago; but to tell you the truth, Sirrah, I never had anything but the briefest of encounters with the Doggé, merely exchanging the common courtesies when I took my afternoon stroll in the gardens. He was appropriately respectful, and seemed always to be diligent about his duties.”

“Which were…?”

“Uh, my younger brother Curly supervises the outside staff through the Master-Grounds-Doggé, while the inside staff reports to the MajorDoggo, who then reports to me. You would have to ask him. And my sister is the one who recommends changes in the interior manse décor, or to the layout and selection of plants and flowers amongst the gardens themselves. She has a much more artistic nature than the rest of us. Indeed, she has recently been recommending and making substantial alterations to the outside appearance of the estate.”

“When specifically did this start?” my leader asked. I was puzzled at his interest in the greenery, since he had never before evinced that curiosity in my presence previously.

“About two months ago, I think, with the onset of spring.”

“Certain press accounts have mentioned the Barkside Slasher in connection with the Vermin-Meister’s death.”

“Oh, the hoary myth dates back hundreds of years, but has no basis in reality that I have ever been able to determine. Besides which, the News-Doggés got several of the details wrong. The human-creature responsible for the outrages supposedly wore the body of a Doggé, and so could pass amongst the Canines unnoticed.”

“How was that possible?” Cn. Bones asked.

“Well, of course it cannot possibly be true,” the Master-Sirrah said. “Who ever heard of such a thing?”

“Then how was he stopped?”

“According to the legend, a bullet through the heart ended his life, and changed him back into his original form. But, all this is just so much poopycock!”

“Thank you for your time and consideration, Sirrah Rovero.”

Once he had departed, my packleader said to me: “I think I will take a short break before we proceed to our next interrogatory, Sniffson. Please arrange for the younger brother to be here in half an hour.”

“Where will you be, Cn. Bones?” I asked.

“Taking a stroll in the gardens.”

* * * *

I took the opportunity of the pause in our activities to refresh myself and use the poopy-mat, after having notified Hon. Curly Barkerville of the new interview time. On my way back to the drawing-room, I once again encountered the Ladee of the House, the Bt. Bahalya Barkerville, and renewed my utter fascination with her obvious charms. The scent of love was definitely in the air, and if it had not been for my military training and personal decorum, I could have had her then and there—nor did I have the sense (and I have always been fairly savvy about such matters) that she would have fought my impertinence beyond the merest hint of a protestation.

But…I simply nodded my head as we passed in the corridor, all too closely.

Our next “guest” was the younger brother and current heir of Sir Rovero. He was a younger, perhaps better-made, and more handsome version of his sibling, vigorous in his youth, a prime example of the Scottish Wolfe-Hound. I guessed him to be about five-and-twenty years of age. Once he was seated, we exchanged pleasantries until my leader appeared, some five minutes later, slightly out of breath.

“I do apologize for the delay, Hon. Curly,” Cn. Bones said. “I was…detained.

“Now, I will ask you the same questions that I put to your Sirrah. How did you know Vermin-Meister Runnymede?”

“He was part of this household for all of my life. I cannot remember a time when he was absent. Intially, he worked under the aegis of his father, Sire Galahat, and following his death, succeeded to the position that he held at the time of his death.”

“Your brother suggested that the Meister had been worried about something possibly affecting the security here in recent months, but that he never actually informed Sirrah Rovero of the nature of the problem. Were you aware of this?”

“Not until my brother told me and my sister after Sire Runnymede’s body was found. We then assisted Sirrah Rovero in examining the Vermin-Meister’s records—the Ladee Bahalya is particularly adept with the computational-devices—but we found nothing unusual. He did not appear to have left any records documenting his concerns.”

“What was your opinion of Sire Runnymede?”

“Hmm, I…we were not close. He was always a bit gruff and cold to me, making it quite clear that he reported to my brother—and to my father before him—and not to me. He was older than me by perhaps fifteen years. He seemed completely devoted to his work.”

“Did he have any personal connections?”

“You mean, family connections?”

“Personal,” my leader said.

“Well, his littermates had mostly died young, I understood, and once his parents had passed, he had no other relations other than distant packmates.”

“What about relationships with Bitches?”

“I was not aware of any personally, but I probably would not have been, given the natural coldness that lay between us. In reality, I had very little to do with him—as little as possible, to tell you the truth.”

“Why was that?”

“Well, as I have already said, he did not seem to have any affection for me, and the feeling was mutual, I must say. We did not share any friends or acquaintances, nor is it likely we ever would have, considering our respective places in society. To me he just was an employee of the Kennel, nothing more.”

“What can you tell me about Groundskeeper Dinero.”

“He was a good Doggé. I was the one who hired him, after Groundskeeper Digsalot left us to become Head-Grounds-Doggé at East-Kenneltown Estates; he was highly recommended by his previous employer, who was a classmate of mine at Oxbone University. And he certainly fulfilled his promise here. He was always a hard worker, always cheerful, always willing to make recommendations about improvements in our farming and gardening practices.”

“Indeed,” my leader said. “Then he must have collaborated with your sister in conducting the recent renovation of the grounds.”

“Oh, yes! They worked very closely together. During the past few months, they performed wonders in improving the previously archaic layout of the greenspaces.”

“Did you see him often?”

“Every day, actually. Although the Grounds-Doggés actually manage the workcrews, I still try to make at least one circuit of the gardens and our own farm at least once during the afternoons, so that I know generally what is being done. Also, I am briefed by the Master-Grounds-Doggé each morning; he often takes me out and shows me some specific development.”

“Do you know anything about Sire Dinero’s personal life?”

“I understood that he was seeing someone, but he never told me who the person was. And the Master-Grounds-Doggé simply was not interested in such things.”

“Thank you for your assistance, Hon. Curly.”

“I hope I was able to help.”

Again, we took a half hour break to refresh ourselves, before tackling the third member of the family, the Bitch-Ladee Bahalya.

* * * *

The young Doggée was about two-and-twenty years of age, and—irrespective of her personal condition—was a true beauty. Every little thing about her was “just right,” just perfectly proportioned. It was as if the best elements of the members of the House of Barkerville had all been synchronized in one delectable being.

But we could not help but be affected by the unctuous perfume that continually assailed us from her nether end. Even my dear leader, I noticed, was constantly being forced during the interview into involuntary yawns of nervousness.

“How did you know the Vermin-Meister?” Cn. Bones asked the Doggée, trying to keep his tongue from lolling out of his gaping mouth.

“Ha, ha! I knew the VM from the time I was a small child, since he and his family had been attached to this Kennel for generations. Gad, I hate tradition. He was a cold, stern man, always looking for enemies to attack, always willing to exercise his borrowed authority to the fullest. I once saw him round up and execute a group of the humans who’d accidentally strayed across our unmarked boundary line—a line that I’m quite sure they had no way of understanding.

“He was a rigid, opinionated de’il: he’d make no exceptions to anything, and no one, in his mind, was too high to fall. If he’d found fault with any one of us, I’ve no doubt that he would’ve gone straight to my brother, shouting, ‘J’accuse!’”

“Sirrah Rovero said that he was bothered in his last days by a problem related to security.”

“If he was, he surely didn’t tell me. He didn’t tell anybody anything except my old brother, who was was the only one, in his lofty judgment, who could give him any direction. No one else counted in his universe. Vile man! He should have been replaced years ago.”

“Were you aware of any personal relationships he had?” Cn. Bones asked.

“That nasty creature? Who’d want him? No, I’m quite sure, Sirrah, that he walked his path alone. No one here will miss him, either, other than perhaps my brother.”

“The Master-Sirrah said that you assisted him in going through Sire Runnymede’s records following his death.”

“Yes,” she said. “I was specifically asked to search his bone-drive and email messages for any indication of that supposed investigation he was conducting. I found nothing of interest. All of his work, all of his queries, related to ongoing matters, most of them minor. There weren’t any surprises there.”

“What about Groundskeeper Dinero?”

“I’d met the young Sire on several occasions, and asked him to do small favors for me. He’d sometimes bring me trits from the kitchen—stewed bones and such—and particularly now, in my, uh, agitated condition, well, he could never do enough for me.” She guffawed at the thought.

“When did you last see him?”

“Why, this morning, Sirrah! He was lying stone-dead on the sward.”

When she saw the look on my leader’s face, she said: “Oh, you mean—alive. Well, I guess that was, uh, last night. He wanted to show me something outside, he said, but I was, well…I just was so tired. A Bitch needs her beauty rest, you know. He was always coming and going, going and coming. You know?”

Then she let loose a howl of derision. I lost any respect for her then—she obviously cared not a whit for the poor Sire, or for anyone else other than herself. I still lusted after her, of course—that was merely a physical response on my part—but I no longer, well, you know!

“Can you tell us anything else?” my leader asked.

“About what?” Her lip curled up over her incisors. In the end, she was a nasty little Bitch, after all.

* * * *

Cn. Toton de Barquereville was another interesting character. He was a Doggé of about forty years, and almost too well-dressed, if you know what I mean. A real dandy. Unlike his British relatives, he belonged to the Poodle Tribe. Tuffs of curly gray fur poked out from his leg- and tailpits. He asked that the Ladee Bhalya remain to help translate his words when necessary, since he did not speak English fluently.

“Did you know the Vermin-Meister?” my packleader asked.

“Non!” he replied.

“You had not encountered him at all?” Cn. Bones clearly was having trouble believing his response.

“Well, who of ze we would notice such a one? He was not—how do you say?—l’aristocrate. He was ze servant. So, he should serve, and not inject himself in amongst his betters, non?”

“Were you aware of any of his relationships?”

“Why should ze we pay attention to such things? Zhey are so beneath our notice.”

“What about the Groundskeeper Dinero?”

“Ah, we—that is, me—we had encountered ze ugly little Doggé once or twice, we think, wandering through ze beau gardens—zat is, we, not he—I had to shoo him out of ze way once. Pitiful bête!”

He knew—or would say—nothing else, even with the Ladee’s assistance.

* * * *

After the Frenchie had departed, I sat there with my leader for many minutes before he finally stirred. Then we heard the supper-gong, and made our way to the dining-room, after returning to our room to change and to add another element to my wardrobe.

The party was much more animated on this occasion; evidently, the mourning for the two dead servants was over, at least for this group. I could not say anything, of course, but inwardly I was filled with disgust at such actions of the wealthy classes. They took almost no notice of those who labored on their behalf. What they thought of us two, I have no idea, but I suspect it was little more than contempt. I remember the sorrow that I had felt in Afghanistan over the death of even the meanest growler, who had given his life on behalf of his country—on behalf of all these feeders at the bowl.

In any event, my leader gained their avid attention at the end of the meal, when he said: “If you will all now join me again in the drawing-room, together with the MajorDoggo, I think we can finally end this farce.”

When everyone was settled again, he began by saying, “This is one of the more interesting puzzles that I have been asked to solve, since there is no obvious solution to it without stretching one’s imagination, something I have been loath to do on occasion. In the past, I have been able to unravel many of the mysteries that I have been presented by sampling the scent of the possible perpetrators. Everyone leaves a trail of obvious guilt, even the most hardened of souls, when he commits an outrage of this type. Also, there are often traces of blood remaining—minute, to be sure—but discernible to the discriminating nose no matter how carefully the killer tries to wash them off.

“But in this instance, all of the possible villains, save for the presence of unlikely outsiders, were vindicated by my initial analysis. Only two of the human-folk bore a scent slightly different from those of their fellows, but they had no opportunity or reason to commit these crimes, and in any case, although I could not place the distinction in body odor, it was not a trace that pointed to guilt.

“It was only after a great deal of thinking that I realized the obvious: I could not distinguish the murderer’s skewed scent because it was submerged beneath another, much more distinctive miasma, the effect on all of us of the Ladee Bahalya’s unfortunate condition. Or was it unfortunate? Sirrah Rovero mentioned that the estrus had come upon her quite suddenly, out of cycle, and that the chaos caused by the killings had prevented them from properly sequestering her. What if, I wondered, what if she had deliberately brought this on herself to obscure the guilt of either her—or another?

“But was that even possible? Doctor Sniffson has lectured me time and again about his experiences in the late War, and the strange Holy-Doggés that he had encountered there, who seemingly possessed powers beyond the ken of ordinary Canines. I shall not enumerate these in detail, but two of them bear possible pertinence to this case: 1) that each individual has the ability to control the functions of his or her body to an extent that most Doggés in the West would utterly discount—but which has since been confirmed to some degree by our physicians; and 2), more fantastically, if we can believe such claims, that certain adepts can send their souls into another’s body, or even change their own bodies temporarily into the shape of another of similar size, including the shells of those of another species.

“This interested me, because of the local legend of the Barkside Slasher, who was, according to the old tale, a human who could assume the appearance of a Canine, and so pass among us unobserved. The myth does not state how this deception was ultimately uncovered.

“But is any of it true? I believe that may be a kernel of reality in many such tales, if only one can scratch deep enough through the layers of dirty soil. Since my scent-ability was obscured, deliberately or not, by the coming into heat of the Ladee Bahalya, what other senses did I have, beyond my mental acuity and reasoning ability, to detect a falsehood in any of you?

I recalled then that the Cn. Toton had only appeared before me when the Ladee was at his side, thereby effectively obscuring his scent as well; and that he had specifically requested her presence during his interview this afternoon.”

“Why, this an outrage, a totalsome outrageousness!” the Frenchy-Doggé said. “And even if this furet-fantaisie were true, why would either of us slay these two servant-Doggés—indeed, why bother to kill even one of them?”

“Because, Sire Toton,” Cn. Bones said, “because they represented a threat to your existence.

“The Vermin-Meister was a naturally suspicious Canine. That was his function here, of course, to question every reality in order to protect the basic order of the House; but he enjoyed his work far beyond all reason, and pursued every clue that might explain any anomalous event. I do not know what triggered his interest in the pair of you—or just one of you—but something did, and once he had that bone lodged firmly within his mouth, he could not let it go. And the Ladee Bahalya knew him well enough to understand this about him, that he could not be bribed or seduced or led astray—by anyone. So, it follows that the Canine had to be removed.

“I suspect that you—Sirrah Barquereville—found some way to lure him away from the estate, out into the countryside where he would have had fewer resources to defend himself; and that there you both attacked him and brought him down, and then mutilated the corpus to pretend that his death was the result of the return of that legendary predator, the Slasher.

“Except that he was not so legendary, was he?

“And as for the Groundskeeper, the Ladee has admitted that the pup fancied her, even though (or perhaps because) her station was so much greater than his; and that she played with his feelings, as the rich and powerful are often wont to do. But his devotion did not make him stupid; and when he witnessed something that made no sense to him, he questioned it, and came back again and again to the issue, until finally he, too, had to be put aside. I think you committed that murder, Bitch Bahalya, perhaps with the assistance of Sire Toton.”

“I shall not sit here and tolerate myself to such a…such an…an insult to the honor of my Pack,” the foreign Canine said. “I shall retire to my room, and depart this place promptly on the morrow!”

“The MajorDoggé and Doctor Sniffson assure me that you will not!” Cn. Bones replied.

“So,” he continued, “which is it to be, Gentle-Doggés: the Ladee or the Toton? Or, just possibly, the both of you.

“I recalled then the conversations that I and Doctor Sniffson had with each of you this afternoon, and specifically what was said there. In speaking of the Vermin-Meister, Ladee, you twice called him a ‘man,’ something no true Doggé would ever consciously do. Most Canines look down upon the human-folk, although I believe that they are much smarter than they have generally been given credit for. You also spoke in a different cadence than the rest of us, all except your Frenchy cousin, of course; but his strong accent hid any faults of his diction. It was the sound of the Barkervilles that convinced me that you both were other than what you pretended to be; and that Cn. Toton had come here with the sole purpose of subverting the entire House of Barkerville—and perhaps thereafter many more of the most influential members of society.”

“But…that’s not true!” the Ladee said, and the Frenchy-Doggé also growled in protest.

“But it is,” Cn. Bones said. “Under the authority granted unto me as Doggé-Snipper-Extraordinaire, I hereby adjudge you both guilty of the crime of Canine-Murder, and condemn you to the ultimate penalty. Doctor Sniffson, perform thou thy duty!”

I pulled the revolver from my coat pocket, and calmly and methodically shot Cn. Toton—and then the Ladee Bahalya—through the heart. The Frenchy just…melted (I can put it no other way), reverting back to his original human-drudge form. I was appalled at the sudden revelation of this monstrous fiend in Canine flesh.

The young Ladee, however, retained her original form, and returned for a few seconds to her original sensibility; she had been perverted by the evil soul of the shapeshifter, who had somehow moved the consciousness of another human-monster into the shell of her body some two months earlier, shoving her own soul to one side.

“Forgive me,” she whispered, looking at her Master-Sirrah—and then she expired. Sir Rovero let out an involuntary howl of anguish, and was joined almost immediately by his brother—nor could they cease their mourning for a very long time.

Cn. Bones assumed that aspect of sad resignation that often came upon him at the end of his cases, particularly when he felt some sympathy with those who had first summoned him.

“I am sorry,” he said to no one in particular—but, sad to say, the two genuine Hounds of the Barkervilles neither heard nor understood his words.