Free Constable Around the Village by Nicholas Rhea

blames the wrong one, the right one will return and continue its work, won’t it. He’ll not blame the wrong dog, Mr Chapman, that would be foolhardy.”
    “I’d like him to call and talk to me,” said Mr Chapman, “perhaps you’d ask him to pop in?”
    “I will,” I promised.
    I honestly felt this would be a good idea and within minutes I was back at the Grange talking to Mr Fairclough. I told him of my visit and of my opinions, which he ignored, and I then invited him to visit Sidney Chapman. If he went now, I suggested, he’d see the dog for himself.
    He agreed. He stomped away without a word and I decided not to intervene at this stage. If there was to be a prosecution, I would play my part, but I could never believe this dog was the worrier.
    I do not know what transpired between them, but two days later I received a telephone call from Mrs Chapman. She rang from a kiosk and asked me to pop in to see Sidney when I was passing. I made a point of calling that same day.
    In the same room beside the same glowing fire, I found him alone. He was clearly distressed and in a very emotional state.
    “Mr Rhea,” he said. “I couldn’t bear the thought that my Nero might be killing sheep and lambs. I know he was not the guilty dog, I know it, but he could have been, eh? He could have sneaked out when my back was turned, or done it when he was out with Ian….”
    “I don’t think it was him….” I began.
    “I’ve stopped it all,” he said, sniffing back unshed tears. “The vet came this morning.”
    “The vet?” I cried.
    “He took him away, Mr Rhea. It will be painless, he said,” and Sidney Chapman burst into a flood of tears. I didn’t know what to do, and took the line of least resistance. I left him to his misery.
    I told Mary about it and we both felt deep sorrow for the poor man. In my heart of hearts, I could never believe Nero was the culprit, but Sidney Chapman had taken a wise course. He’d had the dog destroyed, and so removed the cause of any future aggravation.
    Four days later, Fairclough hammered angrily on my front door. I was in the middle of lunch and found him spluttering furiously on the doorstep.
    “That bloody dog again!” he said. “Less than five minutes ago….”
    “Which dog?” I asked him.
    “That bloody black labrador of Chapman’s! Caught in the act! Two sheep this time, one dead. But I got the bastard, Mr Rhea. Both barrels. It’s in the Landrover.”
    And he stalked away to his Landrover which was parked in my drive. I followed and, sure enough, there was a deaddog, a large handsome black labrador. It had been killed by two blasts from a 12-bore gun and was a bloody mess around the head and neck.
    “You’ve solved your problem, then?” I smiled at him.
    “I have, and I want that man prosecuting. He ignored me.”
    “Which man?” I asked.
    “Chapman—it’s his bloody animal.”
    “It isn’t,” I said softly. “He had his dog put to sleep four days ago, Mr Fairclough. His only pal, his only pride and joy. But because you said it was his dog he had it put down by the vet. This isn’t his dog.”
    Deep among the hairy mess, I found a collar and there, hidden beneath a thick coat of fur, was the owner’s name and address. It was a newcomer to Elsinby, two miles away across the fields, a retired lady from Leeds.
    “I’ll prosecute her for allowing her dog to worry your sheep,” I said.
    “No.” He shook his head and I could see he was shaken. “No, there’s been enough damage. It’s over—I’ll seek compensation from the dog’s owner, that’ll do me. I’ll go and see her now.”
    And he turned and drove away, a sad and thoughtful man.
    A week later, he presented a new black labrador pup to Sidney Chapman. When I called to see him a few weeks later, it had its head on the hearth and its tail thumped the rug, but only for a second.
    It jumped up and fussed over me with all the vigour of youth. “He’s called Caesar,” Sidney told me as I went