The Mysterious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time

"Oooh…it's a LOVELY quiet cul de sac! You'll love the privacy. And the neighbors are all long term residents - quite like a family, really!"

As Charles Carson stared at the light of the streetlamp on the ceiling of his bedroom, he gave serious thoughts to tracking down his estate agent and browbeating her until she resigned and moved to Barbados.

"It would be a public service," he muttered, cringing as the incessant, high pitched bark of his neighbor's dog drove into his eardrum like a toothpick wielded by an enthusiastic preschooler. "Such intentionally specious claims deserve an uncompromising response."

He gripped the blanket over his chest tighter and his eyes bulged as a new barrage of barks was flung into the depths of the night. Never in his life had he hated a dog as much as he did at that moment.

"Unless my neighbor's backyard is being overrun by Mongol hordes, there is simply no excuse for this. WHY doesn't the woman put that creature inside? Is she utterly indifferent to the fact that some have to work tomorrow?"

While it occurred to him that he might have some sort of inkling about his neighbor's state of mind has he made any effort in the last six weeks to get to know her - or any of his neighbors, for that matter - he brushed that realization aside in favor of swearing under his breath at her when the next series of yaps began.

"This is absolutely unacceptable!" he finally roared, kicking aside his covers and charging from his rumpled bed. Snatching his dressing gown from the back of the chair, he stomped down the stairs towards his front door. Pausing only to shove his bare feet into his gardening boots, he stalked grimly to his neighbor's front porch.

Her porch light was on, cheerfully illuminating the bright blue of her door. He lifted his fist to pound on it, then paused as he tried to remember her name.

"Missus, er….Mrs. Ewes? No…that's not it…Mrs. Huge…?" He wracked his brain fruitlessly, trying to recall what he'd thought he'd heard when she'd passed the time of day with the council worker fixing the sidewalk. He remembered her strong Scots accent…and that she usually had several bangles on her arm when she'd wave at him while he pulled out of his drive, sparing her a quick jerk of his hand as he was usually already planning out his lecture in his head on the way to school. He seemed to remember that the painted toenails peeking out from her sandals very nearly matched the blue of her door the day she was out watering her herbaceous border…

And if her bloody dog would shut up for just TWO SECONDS, he might be able to remember her bloody name.

With a growl of frustration, he hammered on her door, his fist keeping unconscious cadence with the yaps of that horrid beast. Assuming that she had to be sleeping the sleep of the dead not to realize that her dog was about to combust in the garden, he was taken aback to have the door open in his face so quickly.

Standing in her own dressing gown, she looked at him curiously with a wide awake expression. Clearly, this was not a woman who had been sleeping. Charles' mouth fell open to begin delivering a blistering complaint, then shut again as he still couldn't remember her name, then opened again as the dog started back up, shrill barks emanating from behind her house.

"Yes?" she finally asked, quirking her eyebrow at the speechless man with tousled bed hair and bristling eyebrows. "Can I help?"

"Can you help?" he repeated uselessly. "Can you help?!" A few inarticulate growls followed, and her eyebrow quirked higher. "Missus…..Missus…um, Madam, you can do something about that bloody dog! Immediately!"

"I can do something about that bloody dog? What are you—"

"Allowing that animal to remain outside and create such a horrific din is hardly the behavior of a member of a civilized neighborhood and shows no consideration for others," he informed her in a low roar. "I don't understand how the other neighbors haven't brought you before the law about this, but I can assure you that I will have no compunction doing so if that is what is required to achieve a minimum of peace!"

"It's Mr. Carson, isn't it?"

"Yes it is, and that will be the name at the top of the police complaint!" He looked down at her, noticing that her feet were bare and her toenails were a metallic green. For some reason, the sight of them made him even more irritated, if that were possible. An uptick in volume of the shrill barking made him wince and continue speaking. Unadvisedly.

"I was sold this neighborhood on the basis of it being a quiet, peaceful neighborhood of older residents who were like a family," he informed her imperiously. "It is clear that not all families have the same standards when it comes to consideration!"

"Are you quite finished, Mr. Carson?" she asked in a level voice.

"Er…I, well, yes." He drew himself up imperiously. "Yes I am."

"Good."

And with that, the door was slammed in his face.

Elsie Hughes felt the rattle of the door on it's hinges through the soles of her feet and a satisfied smirk played about her lips. The bloody nerve of her uncommunicative, unfriendly, stern visaged neighbor who couldn't even be arsed to say hello of a morning as he drove off to where ever he drove off to….

Clearly, he had no idea about the situation with Fergus, and she wasn't inclined to explain a jot of it to him while he stood in high dudgeon on her doorstep, mouth probably hanging open to his chest that someone had dared shut a door in his face.

"Bloody, inconsiderate oaf," she muttered, turning from her door and heading back into her sitting room where her now cold cup of tea and her earplugs awaited her on the coffee table. "Him and his eyebrows can go piss right off."

She resolutely did not peek out her front windows to ascertain if he was still parked on her front porch. Rolling her eyes at the tea she hadn't been able to drink, she shuffled off to the kitchen, sighing when the barking kicked into higher gear.

"Poor wee beastie…probably confused with all the shouting and door slamming going on…"

As she was about to replace her earplugs, the distinct sound of knocking came from her front door again.

"Slow learner, are you? Well…" Elsie pulled her cell phone out of her dressing gown pocket and stalked back to her entryway. She could hear Mr. Carson's muffled voice through the door.

"Please….please….make the dog stop," he pleaded.

She opened the door holding the cell phone menacingly in one hand and Charles practically fell into her entryway. Elsie jumped back and stabbed three nines onto her keyboard.

"I'm one push from calling the police on you, Mr. Carson," she snapped at him. "If you know what's good for you, you'll get off of my porch, go back to your house, and invest in some bloody good earplugs!"

He gaped at her as her finger hovered over the "dial" button on her screen.

"You'd call the police on me?"

"I'd have done already if I didn't think it would get us off on the wrong foot as neighbors," she declared with a glare.

Charles let out a sudden, loud burst of laughter. "I think that ship has long sailed, Missus….um, Missus…"

"Hughes!" she barked. "You don't even know my bloody surname and you feel free to come over to my house in the middle of the night to threaten me with the police…"

"Exactly," he replied in a clipped tone. "So I would say that 'getting off on the wrong foot' is something of a moot point, wouldn't you?"

They stared angrily at each other, wincing in unison as the dog let off another fusillade of high pitched yaps.

"Hmph. Fine. Get on with you and maybe we'll start over again. Next year, perhaps."

"Mrs. Hughes…WHY will you not silence your dog?" he demanded, scrubbing at his face wearily. "Doesn't that racket bother you at all?"

"He's not my dog, Mr. Carson," she informed him impatiently, "something you'd know if you'd ever stuck your nose outside of your house in the last six weeks for longer than it takes to haul in your wheelie bins."

"I've been moving in and starting a new position," he huffed indignantly. "But that's neither here nor there right now—"

"Oh, isn't it?"

"Whose bloody dog is it?!" The clock in her sitting room struck one and he groaned. "God, I have to be at an early lecture tomorrow…"

She watched him grip his head as if was about to explode off of his shoulders and had the strangest urge to run her fingers over that little curl that was escaping at the front. With a sigh, she slipped her phone back into her pocket and motioned for him to follow her into the sitting room.

Charles staggered after her, noting that her dressing gown draped the swing of her hips quite nicely. He had barely ripped his eyes away from that fascinating sight when she turned back to give him a suspicious glare.

"Have a chair, Mr. Carson, and I'll try to explain."

Charles dropped heavily into an armchair with a grumpy expression. He wiggled his bare toes in his gardening boots and wished he could take the heavy, hot things off. At the thought of asking his hostess if she would mind, he tried to suppress a smile at her anticipated reaction.

"Probably want to paint them," he muttered under his breath, too low for her to catch.

She narrowed her eyes at him and sat on the sofa, tucking her bare feet up under her. He felt a stab of disappointment, which he hoped didn't show in his expression.

"It may come as a surprise to you, Mr. Carson, but everyone in this block is quite aware of the racket going on right now, and no one has any intention of calling the authorities—"

"They'd have to be stone dead in their beds not to be aware," he muttered, receiving a fresh glare in response.

"Would you rather be left to figure this out by yourself, Mr. Carson? It'll require actually getting out and talking to your neighbors."

"I have every intention of getting to know people in this neighborhood," he protested. "I've just been…busy."

"Mrs. Clarke left a lovely plate of biscuits on your doorstep two weeks ago when you didn't answer your door."

"I didn't hear the chime!" he objected loudly, declining to mention that he'd been in the shower at the time. "And I had no idea who left those biscuits."

"Well, now that you know, you can go thank her. She's two doors down, across the lane."

"I will, of course," he huffed. Another series of frantic barks echoed through the neighborhood. "Er…it's not her dog, is it?"

"No. It's not. And have you received any other welcomes to the neighborhood, Mr. Carson?"

"A few," he answered warily.

"Would you be at all interested in knowing who has been trying to let you know they're glad you're here?"

Charles gritted his teeth and met her level gaze across the room. The memory of two cakes, a lasagna, and a lovely Shepherd's Pie floated across his mind. Somehow, he'd managed to not be home, or hear the door chimes for all of them.

Of course, he managed to not be home quite a bit.

"Your point is taken," he ground out through clenched teeth. "Would you be able to help me, Mrs. Hughes?"

"I might."

"You might…?"

"That all depends, Mr. Carson. Do you intend to be a part of this community?"

"I hope to," he replied with an exasperated sigh. "I'm just not the most…sociable person. My wife…" He paused as Elsie looked at him in surprise. "…ex-wife…was the one who managed what little social life we had."

"I see," she said thoughtfully.

"I doubt that you do. I've never lived in a neighborhood like this one. High end flats with a constantly rotating population of eager and obnoxious social climbing City centre dilettantes - that's the sort of place Alice wanted to live." At Elsie's encouraging hum, he continued even as one part of him was appalled that so much of his private life was spilling out in the sitting room of a woman who had shut her door in his face thirty minutes before. He noticed his leg bouncing in time with the dog's yapping and made himself stop.

"I'm not accustomed to neighbors who wave me off in the morning, Mrs. Hughes. Or neighbors that water my front garden when I forget to for three weeks. I've not had neighbors that cared to know anything more than my job and financial prospects since I was a boy. And I didn't appreciate it then, seeing as how our neighbors seemed to know everything I did wrong before I actually did it…"

Elsie snickered at that and nodded. "We're a bit like that around here. Let's just say, if you were hoping to have a discrete affair, good luck with that."

"What about an indiscreet affair?"

"That's changing the subject a bit, Mr. Carson."

"Well, I've certainly never had neighbors who had no problem with a dog barking incessantly all night and not speaking to the owners about it at least!"

"Ah. Now we're back to the point," she replied briskly, a smile lifting the corner of her mouth. A flicker of amusement crossed his face as well, making her wonder at just what point in the wee hours of the morning they'd stopped glaring at each other.

"The dog belongs to my back garden neighbor, Mrs. Crawley."

"Ah….so that's why I thought it must be in your back garden."

"He might as well be, once he gets going. My bedroom faces that back garden and I hear every bloody yelp Fergus gets up to."

"Then why…?"

"Mrs. Crawley is about 480 years old," she began. When his eyebrows flew up, she rolled her eyes. "I'm exaggerating a bit, but she's quite the elderly lady. She's got no family locally, so we all sort of take turns making sure she gets to and from the shops, help out with her garden…that sort of thing."

"Is she fit to live alone?" he asked doubtfully, glaring in the direction of the back of the house.

"She's sharp as a bloody tack…most of the time, and she'll draw blood as quickly as one too."

"Most of the time?"

"Yes, well…sometimes her meds get a bit mixed up. Every few months or so, she forgets to take them, then forgets she forgot…" She paused, watching his puzzled expression begin to reflect a dawning comprehension. "And then forgets she has a wee dog," she finished with a sigh. "Poor Fergus is let out for his nightly run, she forgets that she owns him, and goes to bed, leaving the poor beastie out all night."

"But how in the world can she not—"

"Hearing aides," she interrupted with a grin. "She turns them completely off at night."

"How is that safe?"

"Oh not to worry. As she informs everyone who brings up the subject, she has a great many locks on her doors and she never forgets those."

"So, let me get this straight…" he said as he lowered his brows angrily. "This…this…daffy centenarian occasionally locks her dog out all night to bark loud enough to raise the dead, and nobody does anything about it? For the love of God, why doesn't someone go and get the dog and bring him inside their own home for the night at least?"

"Oooohhh…how very clever you are, Mr. Carson," she said rolling her eyes. "No one around here has ever even considered such a thing in the last ten years."

"Mock all you like, Mrs. Hughes, but that does nothing to address the issue," he replied angrily.

"If you'd like to play the neighborhood savior, be my guest, Mr. Carson. Her back garden is unlocked."

"Fine," he snapped, rising to his feet. Elsie remained seated on the sofa, making no effort to hide her grin. "I'll fetch the dog inside and everyone will be able to get a few hours of sleep."

Elsie watched as he stomped through her house and exited out her back door. Shaking her head and giggling, she got up and walked to her kitchen to peer out of the window. As soon as he'd walked angrily through her back gate and slammed it, she put the kettle on and began rummaging through a little used cupboard.

"This has been a night…"

It only took fifteen minutes or so, and that was about ten minutes longer than Elsie had thought it would take. Charles' shouts were drowned out by a furious barrage of angry barks.

"'l'll say this for the curmudgeon," she mused aloud as she watched her gate being flung open and Charles' large form staggering through it, "he's too stubborn to know when to quit."

Charles burst through her backdoor with no effort at dignity. Elsie covered her mouth with her hand to hide her wide grin at his horribly askew hair, deep red face, and furiously affronted expression. The bottoms of his pajama trousers were ripped and his dressing gown hung off of his left shoulder, dragging on the floor behind him. He cradled his bleeding right arm to his chest, which was heaving up and down - from fury or from exertion, she wasn't sure which.

"Are you hiding the wee dog under your shirt, Mr. Carson?"

His response was a series of sputtering, inarticulate growls. Glaring at her fiercely, he staggered to a chair at her kitchen island and awkwardly threw himself across it.

Elsie bit her lip to keep from laughing aloud and placed a fresh cup of tea in front of him. Ignoring his beetled brows and muttered grunts, she placed a bottle of whiskey next to the cup and gestured to it.

"I'd wager you could use a drop or two of that." Pouring her own tea, she watched out of the corner of her eye as he grabbed at the bottle with a resigned grunt and poured a generous measure into his tea.

"You didn't happen to mention that the damn thing is deranged and completely out of control," he said in a cold voice, after downing half of his cup all at once.

"Pfft," she scoffed. "He's got a bit of a temper, yes, but Fergus isn't dangerous so long as you're not charging into his garden in the dead of night when he's already upset and trying to collar him."

"A bit of a temper?! He's chewed off half my arm!"

"Oh shush. He's a tiny dog with a tiny mouth. He's not done as much damage as all that to your beefy forearm."

"Beefy? What?"

"Oh go on then. Let me have a look." Elsie extended her hand and snapped her fingers at him while reaching for the First Aid kit she had dug out from her cupboards while he was gone.

Eyes wide in astonishment at her tone, he acquiesced to her demand before he realized it, extending his shaking hand and allowing her to grasp it in her own. He watched the top of her head as she tsked over the wound and began dabbing at it with a damp cloth.

"This isn't much to make such a fuss over," she assured him, looking up at him through her eyelashes and enjoying the petulant frown on his face as he tried to determine if it was worth arguing about the extent of his injury with a woman who clearly had no sympathy for him.

"Do you really think my forearm is…beefy?" he asked suddenly.

Elsie flushed a bit, but ignored the question. "Now it's all cleaned up. I've put on some antibiotic cream and covered it with a plaster." She released his hand and began cleaning up. "Fergus has had all his shots, so you needn't worry that you'll begin foaming at the mouth…"

"That might make the next damn faculty meeting bearable," he mused.

Elsie snorted and pushed his tea cup towards him. He obeyed her silent command and finished the rest, enjoying the warmth that the bumper of whiskey provided in his exhausted and disheveled state.

"We've tried a great many ways to address the Fergus issue, Mr. Carson," she explained as she stood at the sink, washing her hands. "He's the only company Mrs. Crawley has, and she's a very conscientious pet owner most of the time. No one wants to see him taken away from her."

"I can understand that."

"Can you? She's a lonely woman who rarely wants to accept the help offered by neighbors she's known for over twenty years. She's proud, and dignified, and for a lunch mob of neighbors to show up on her porch and inform her that her dog is a bloody nuisance would just be wrong."

"I have no intention of doing that!" he sputtered indignantly. "But what do we do about this?"

She smiled broadly at his use of "we" and finished washing up. Turning to face him, she dried her hands on a tea towel and sized him up.

"We buy good quality ear plugs," she informed him gently. "We give Fergus a pat on the head when she has him out on the lead and stops to chat. We recognize that this is no one's fault and we make sure that new folks are informed about it…when we can actually catch them up for a chat."

He stared at her for a moment. Fergus was blessedly quiet for a change and the silence between them in the kitchen suddenly felt loaded with something he couldn't put his finger on. The clock in her sitting room struck the second hour. Elsie yawned and Charles smiled at the face she made trying to stifle it.

"Could Fergus be done for the night?" he asked.

"Doubtful. He'll gear back up again in a bit."

"How do you manage with no sleep the next day?"

"I have my own business," she said with a grin. "On Fergus nights, I just leave a message with my manager and they open the shop without me."

"Ah."

"Works well, actually," she continued, meandering through the kitchen to return to the front room as he followed behind. "Mrs. Crawley gets very upset when she finds Fergus in the yard in the morning. She's always convinced that someone tried to make off with him."

"They'd wind up in A&E for sure if they tried," he replied with a derisive snort.

"She comes over here first thing for a cuppa and a chat, so it's good that I can be home to convince her she doesn't need to hire a private detective."

Charles began to laugh, his exhaustion catching up with him. Without thinking about it, he sat down on the sofa next to her and rested his head in his hands, sighing heavily.

"It's been quite a night indeed," she agreed, as if he'd said so out loud. He gave her a sideways look and was struck by the sparkle in her tired eyes. "But you've solved the mysterious incident of the dog in the night time."

"Wasn't that a mystery because the dog didn't bark?" he asked.

"I'm too tired to remember," she replied with a smile. "Would you like to learn a bit about the neighborhood, Mr. Carson?"

He sat pensively for a moment before nodding. "That would probably be a good idea, Mrs. Hughes. Thank you."

In spite of the incessantly yapping dog, Charles was sure he dozed off at some point during their conversation. Things got a little fuzzy while Elsie was describing the ins and outs of Mr. Carlisle, his three ex-wives and current girlfriend, and the intricate time share they had worked out concerning the property.

When he suddenly snapped back into full awareness, it was because he'd slumped over on the sofa and leaned against Elsie's feet, which were tucked up under a throw. She poked at him with her toes until he shook himself and sat up abruptly.

"Terribly sorry," he muttered. "Perhaps I'd better be off home."

"It's nearly sunrise," she said in surprise. "How'd the night pass so quickly?"

Charles didn't think it had passed all that quickly, but realized in his grumpy, sleep deprived state, he'd be better off not arguing with her. Bending down with a groan, he scrabbled around to find the boots he'd removed at some point. While he shoving his feet back into them, he caught sight of his damaged pajama trousers and shook his head.

"I'll need a new pair," he muttered.

"A new pair of what?" Elsie asked, taking advantage of him leaning mostly off the sofa to stretch out her legs fully behind him.

"Pajamas," he replied sourly. "Fergus has put paid to this set."

"Well," she said, studying the damaged cuffs, "it could have been worse."

"I can't imagine."

"Fergus is quite capable of jumping as high as your backside," she replied smartly. "You're just lucky he went for your ankles instead, or the full moon would have been early this month."

Charles' neck and ears flushed at her cheeky tone. "I'd have had to borrow a pair from you then."

"My, my. You'd better be off home if you're thinking of getting into my pants," she replied immediately, trying and failing to look shocked and offended.

Charles opened and closed his mouth frantically for a moment then, wisely, shut it with an audible snap.

"And on that note," he finally replied in a horse voice, "I think I'll be heading home."

She walked him to her door and he secured his dressing gown belt a little tighter.

"And don't forget," she said as she reached out to open the door, "Mrs. Painswick made the delightful cream pie. She'd be thrilled to hear that you loved it, but she's a widow on the make for sure. So mind yourself."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," he replied, rolling his eyes. "I'll be quite careful."

"I should think we'd be on a first name basis by now," she said, raising her eyebrow at him. "Seeing as how you spent the night in my house and nearly wound up wearing my pajamas." At his booming laugh, she extended her hand to him. "I'm Elsie Hughes, your next door neighbor."

"Charles Carson, pompous ass," he replied, taking her hand in his and shaking it gently.

"Well…have a lovely day, Charles," she called as he began to leave.

"Oh wait," he said, spinning back to face her, "You never told me who made that incredible Shepherd's Pie."

"Oh, that was me. Glad you liked it."

"Well, thank you again, Elsie. For everything."

"You're welcome, Charles. You can return my pie plate at your convenience."

With a last smile, she shut the door. As she turned away to head toward the kitchen with breakfast on her mind, there was a knock at the door. She sighed heavily and rolled her eyes before throwing open the door.

"What is it, Charles?" she said, watching him shift nervously from foot to foot on her porch. "If you stand in my front garden wearing your pajamas much longer, we'll be answering some awkward questions."

"Would you have dinner with me sometime?" he asked, straightening his back and pulling restlessly at the front of his dressing gown.

"I expect I might," she said after looking at him thoughtfully for a moment.

"Good," he replied, nodding his head. Smiling awkwardly, he stepped off the porch and made his dignified way back to his own garage.

"Daft man," she muttered, smiling after him.

Fergus set up another round of frantic, tired barking as she shut the door. Elsie made herself some breakfast and dozed in her sitting room until Mrs. Crawley came banging on her back door. Charles ordered some high quality earplugs on-line and called in to the University to cancel his classes.

Another day in the lovely, quiet cul de sac had begun.