Constable in the Dale (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 5) Page 15

  “You ain’t a phone!”

  “Try t’Post Office!”

  And so the pair of them tried to bring about an air of calmness and efficiency as they worried what to do next. As Arthur tried to find a bucket, and as Sam rushed off to telephone the fire brigade, I noticed the pall of smoke rising from behind the village street.

  At first, it meant nothing special. The folk here lit many fires in their gardens to burn their rubbish, and this fire had all the indications of such a blaze. There was the thick grey smoke coupled with the scent of burning vegetation, and even from my vantage point in the street, I could see that the seat of the fire was well away from the houses.

  It was only when Sam came rushing out of the gate, shouting, “Fire,” that I knew something was wrong.

  “What’s up, Sam?” I asked.

  “Fire, Mr Rhea, in Arthur’s garden. Send for t’Brigade, sharp.”

  “What’s on fire?” I asked.

  “Grass,” he said, “but it’s blowing towards his henhouse!”

  I was tom between two immediate courses of action. At that moment, I knew nothing of the history of this event, nor did I know the geography of Arthur’s garden, but I recognised the alarm on Sam’s face.

  “Right, Sam, I’ll fetch a fire engine. You go back and try to put it out.”

  The nearest fire brigade was a private one at Maddleskirk Abbey. It was run by the monks for the protection of their own premises and it comprised one Green Goddess and lots of pipes, all staffed by an enthusiastic band of monks who donned firemen’s uniforms for the occasion. They liked nothing better than a local opportunity to practise their fire fighting craft. Besides, they’d be there a good half-hour before the part-time Ashfordly Brigade, and those minutes could be vital if Arthur’s henhouse was at risk.

  I rang the Maddleskirk Abbey Chief Fire Officer, otherwise known as Brother Laurence, and gave him brief details.

  “Lovely, Mr Rhea, we’ll be there in a jiffy.”

  I marvelled that Brother Laurence had been selected as Chief Fire Officer, when his namesake, St Laurence of Rome, was invoked by religious folk everywhere to protect them against fire. St Laurence was roasted alive on a gridiron to suffer a martyr’s death, and I hoped Brother Laurence would not come to a similar fate in Arthur’s henhouse.

  I hurried back to the scene and entered Arthur’s garden through his small gate.

  The two old men were using everything possible to extinguish the running fire which threatened the henhouse. The hens, in the meantime, had been cast out of their run, and the gate had been opened to permit entry by the fire brigade. I ran to them, grabbed a spade and started to beat the glowing grass, hoping to kill the flames. It was like fighting a forest fire — the tall grass was riddled with new seats of flame, and as fast as we put out one tongue, another erupted elsewhere. The three of us were kept busy, but it was no good. The running fire, fanned from behind by the strong warm breeze, had crept along the back of the part we were tackling. Those flames were concealed by smoke and vegetation, and were already licking the creosoted walls at the rear of the henhouse. None of us noticed them until it was too late.

  Suddenly, the henhouse was roaring as the flames ate into the wood which was so richly fuelled for them; the dry timber, with its creosote coating, was a gift from the gods, and the blaze roared across that rear panel in a split second.

  “Arthur!” I shouted, but it was too late. The ferocity of the blaze was frightening, and as we stood back from the searing heat, Brother Laurence and his fire-fighting monks arrived at the scene. To their credit, they had responded with remarkable speed, and were completely professional in their approach, but the fire had gained a firm hold. They managed to save part of the floor, and a couple of nesting boxes. The rest was burnt to the ground.

  “Sorry, Arthur,” apologised Brother Laurence unnecessarily. “We couldn’t do a thing.”

  “Nobody could have done more,” Arthur sounded dejected, but he spoke the truth. “It was all Sam’s fault!”

  “My fault?” cried Sam. “I didn’t light a pipe and lay it in that grass!”

  “What’s this about a pipe?” I asked, and it was then that the story came out. Brother Laurence chuckled over the yam, and said he’d found the exercise extremely valuable for his team; real fires, produced in real places under real circumstances, were far better for his men than those created artificially for training. He thanked Arthur for his fire, retrieved all his equipment and drove away through the little gathering of spectators.

  My next duty was to complete a Fire Report, and I decided to write this one off as “Accidental — No suspicious circumstances”, for I dare not include the fact that Arthur had deliberately laid his glowing pipe in the grass to see if it would destroy the henhouse. That could raise all kinds of questions from Sergeant Blaketon, so I simply wrote that hot ash had accidentally fallen from his pipe into the grass, and the wind had fanned it into a blaze which had swept towards the tinder-dry henhouse. The value was about £25, as near as I can remember, and no lives were lost. The hens were without shelter for several days afterwards, and laid their eggs all over the place, but the incident provided Aidensfield with a lovely talking point.

  It would be eight or nine weeks later when I popped into the Brewers’ Arms and saw the irascible pair at a window table.

  “That fire wae all your fault, Sam,” Arthur was saying. “If you’d never doubted me, it would never have happened.” “Doubted you? What do you mean? You did the first one with your pipe, and you did the second in exactly the same way! What’s it got to do with doubting?”

  “Friends aren’t supposed to doubt each other,” Arthur was saying. “If you’d believed my word, I wouldn’t have lit that pipe and put it where it could fall over…”

  “Arthur, you old sod, you set fire to your own henhouse and it’s no good blaming anybody else.”

  “When that grass grows again,” he said, “I’ll show you…” “Then we’d better get Brother Laurence standing by right from the start!” laughed Sam. “It might be your own house that goes up in smoke next time!”

  “My house is too well built for that sort of fire to catch hold!” said Arthur.

  “It’s not!” argued Sam. “Fires can burn stones and bricks,” and I left before they could dream up any more of their dangerous schemes.

  *

  Police Constable Michael Sealifant transferred to the Eltering Sub-Division of the North Riding Constabulary from Birmingham City Police because he was sick of urban grime and suburban attitudes. He wanted to find himself, to be close to nature, and to live in a countryside free from pollution and the threat of the atomic bomb.

  In those days, the transfer of individuals between police forces was fairly common, especially at constable rank, but if higher ranks wished to transfer to fill a vacancy in a new force, there was opposition on the grounds that the incoming man of rank was denying a local man promotion.

  But when constables made application, they were favourably looked upon because there was always a shortage of men, especially those with experience, and it was felt that officers with police experience in other areas could bring untold benefits to our small force.

  And so it was with Police Constable Michael Sealifant, aged 29, married with two children. His parent force wrote a glowing account of this man and his potential, but such reports are always regarded with suspicion on the grounds that if he was so good, why did they want to release him? When someone writes a glowing report about a man wishing to leave, it is usually done to make sure he goes. Even so, we accepted P. C. Michael Sealifant into our bosom, and the Chief Constable allocated him a rural beat house near Eltering. It was in a village called Fellerthorpe, which lies on the edge of the moors and is graced by wide open spaces, moorland sheep, summer visitors and winter tempests.

  Because of its remoteness, no one in the North Riding Force wanted the beat, and so the house had remained empty for seven or eight years. But young Mike, in his desire
for rural bliss, reckoned this was the answer to all his dreams. He looked at the house, liked it, and said he would accept the posting.

  For the Chief Constable, it represented an additional man, albeit in a very remote area; the beat had remained vacant for all those years simply because it was more important to have officers where there were people who might need them, and not wasting away in the hills. Because Fellerthorpe beat was so remote and unwanted, the Standing Joint Committee had threatened to sell the police house, and this would mean more acres to be supervised by fewer men. The Chief Constable was naturally opposed to this, and because other officers declined the post for domestic reasons (and no one blamed them), P.C. Michael Sealifant was the answer to a Chief Constable’s prayer. It was Ben Jonson who talked of “Service of some virtuous gentleman”, and here was a virtuous gentleman who wished to be of service.

  On the day of P.C. Sealifant’s arrival in Yorkshire, I was on duty. The section at Ashfordly was, for once in its lifetime, fully staffed, which meant I was given a motor-cycle patrol which embraced most of the sub-division. That area embraced portions of the Eltering Sub-Division which included Feller-thorpe beat. As was the custom in those halcyon days when a new constable arrived, one of the local men would be allocated to him to help unpack his belongings and generally settle him in. I was therefore told to report to the Police House in remotest Fellerthorpe, there to help the new constable unpack his furniture.

  Mike was a real live wire. He was as jumpy as the proverbial nit, always rushing into things and he wanted the pantechnicon unpacked even before its wheels had stopped tinning. I introduced myself when he paused for breath, and he said I could help with the heavy stuff, like wardrobes, the settee, his beds and so forth.

  He was a very tall, thin individual with a gaunt face and a sallow complexion, topped by a thin thatch of straw coloured hair. His long, slender arms operated rather like windmills, and he continually badgered the removal men to be careful with his crockery, or not to paddle on the bare floorboards. His wife, on the other hand, was a mousey girl who was rather plump, but very nice and open. She brewed copious quantities of tea for us, and managed to rustle up a meal as darkness descended around half past five. It was eggs, chips and peas, and it was gorgeous.

  Mick managed to halt himself for this break, and beamed at us all.

  “By Jove,” he grinned, his lean cheeks crinkling to show his good teeth, “this is the life. Look at those moors out there! Listen to the silence… and all that space for the children to play…”

  He went into raptures about the location of his new beat, and in some ways he was right. The house, a stone-built cottage-style structure of the last century, was not a standard police house, and possessed great charm and character. It was spacious, which might cause worries over heating it in winter, and it was very isolated. But Mike and his lovely wife, Angie, seemed totally content. Both were looking forward to their life in rural Yorkshire.

  I remained with them after the pantechnicon had departed, and helped them unpack much of the smaller stuff, assisting Mike to position things about the house while Angie bathed the two little boys. By nine o’clock that night, it looked more like home, and the blazing coal fire added a cheery dimension to the house. Showing considerable good nature, the inspector at Eltering had despatched a man over to Fellerthorpe every day for the previous two weeks to light fires in the house, so that it would be aired and cosy for the new arrivals. It was a nice thought, and I know Mike appreciated it.

  I took my leave at half past nine. With Mike and Angie at my side, I stood on the front doorstep and we all admired the tremendous views from his porch. In spite of the darkness, we could see the outline of the valley and the dotted lights of houses and villages below were like glow-worms.

  “God!” he shouted suddenly. “What’s that?”

  His long arm pointed excitedly to a huge blaze somewhere in the valley and a similar one over to the east.

  I laughed gently. “Binning straw,” I informed him. “When the harvest is in, modern machines leave lots of waste straw behind. It’s literally left in long rows in the cornfields and because recovery is so expensive and difficult, the farmers simply set fire to it. It’s an easy way to destroy it.”

  “There’s another one!” and Angie pointed across to the west, where a smaller fire flickered in the darkness.

  “You’ll see a lot of those this autumn,” I said. “Don’t worry, they’re all under control and they’re just one of the features of the countryside.”

  “I’ve a lot to learn about the countryside,” he said fiercely, “but we’re going to learn, aren’t we, darling?” and he put his arm around his wife’s ample waist. I left them standing at the door as they admired the glorious views from their lofty and lonely home.

  As I rode away on my Francis Barnett, I wondered how this couple would cope. Living in exotic, remote locations is not easy, especially in the winter, and winter was not many weeks away. It takes a hardened countryman to live without neighbours, shops and the other comforts of civilisation, and yet this man of Birmingham and his wife seemed determined to give it a try. I gave them credit for their determination.

  In addition, the house had not been lived in for years, and it was in need of maintenance. Although the fabric was sound, the exterior needed some paint before another winter and I knew the Police Authority would approve the work. They would probably decorate the interior too — the Chief Constable would exercise all his powers of persuasion and charm to effect these considerations for his new, isolated-beat constable.

  Another problem was the garden. Its years of neglect had turned it into a veritable hayfield. Long, tough couch grass had rampaged across the garden to conceal paths, rockeries and agricultural patches alike. It had been joined by many other prolific grasses and weeds, making the garden into a tough, thick wilderness. It would need a completely new start.

  I didn’t envy Mike in his dream house.

  Three days later, just after lunch, Sergeant Blaketon called me into his office, and he seemed very fierce when he rang me. It sounded as if I was in trouble.

  I drove down to Ashfordly, parked the machine, obeyed all the rules of parking and knocked on his door. My heart was thumping.

  “Come in,” came his loud, angry voice.

  “Good morning, Sergeant.” I knew that the tone of his voice demanded the utmost respect from me, but I did not know what I had done to aggravate him.

  “Rhea,” he said very slowly, “what in the name of God did you tell that new man?”

  “New man?” I spoke stupidly because I had not the remotest idea what he was leading up to.

  “The chap with the funny name who’s just come to Fellerthorpe.”

  “P.C. Sealifant,” I said.

  “Yes, what did you tell him?”

  “Well.” I was flannelling because I did not know the drift of his questioning. What on earth had the fellow done? Got lost? Gone out to work without telling the Sub-Division? Fallen off his motor-bike?

  “Go on, Rhea.” Blaketon’s voice was ominous.

  “Just ordinary things about his work in the countryside,” I tried to sound confident. “How to meet people, what the folks up here are like, what they expect of police officers, how to check a stock register and renew a firearm certificate…”

  “Go on, Rhea,” he ordered me.

  “Well, Sergeant, I can’t remember precise things. I mean, there’s not a lot you can say when you’re humping heavy furniture about.”

  “What about straw-burning?” His dark eyes bored into me. “Straw-burning?” This remark baffled me.

  “Yes, Rhea, what did you tell him about straw-burning? That is what I asked.”

  “Nothing,” I said, and then I remembered our final conversation on the doorstep. “Oh,” I halted, then continued, “just before I left him, he spotted several fires in the valley, around Eltering mainly. He thought something was on fire, so I explained what was happening.”

  “
Ah, so you did tell him about straw-burning?” He sounded triumphant.

  “I only put him right about it, Sergeant. I explained what the farmers were doing with their waste straw.”

  “You did, eh? Precisely what did you explain to him?”

  “Just that when the harvest is gathered in, the modern machinery leaves behind a lot of waste straw. For economical reasons, and practical reasons, it is disposed of by fire.” “That’s all?”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Did you, or did you not, explain the technical ways of actually setting fire to the straw?”

  “No,” I almost shouted, still wondering what had happened. He slumped back in his chair and scowled at me from beneath those heavy black eyebrows.

  “Rhea,” he said in a voice loaded with resignation, “that new man’s a bloody liability.” It wasn’t often Sergeant Blaketon swore.

  “Why?” I had to ask the question and did so hoping it would lead to some form of clarification.

  “You know that confounded garden of his, at Fellerthorpe?”

  I nodded and recalled the profuse growth of waste grass and weeds.

  “He decided the best way to clear his garden was to set fire to it, just like the farmers did with their straw.”

  I felt like laughing, and did not know what to say.

  Sergeant Blaketon continued, and I could see the beginnings of tears of mirth in his eyes, accompanied by the start of a wide smile on the comers of his mouth. “Rhea, that bloody man did just that. But do you know how he got it going? He poured petrol on the grass and down the path… petrol! And then he threw a match into it.”

  “Sergeant! You’re joking…!” I found myself laughing and he was roaring with laughter too, tears running down his face.

  “I’m not joking, Rhea! I wish I was. He had saturated his garden with petrol… I mean… the whole lot went up like an explosion… whoosh… all on fire… ” He was holding his sides now, and laughing until it hurt. “Door frame, door, kitchen window… the stuff had dribbled out of his can, you see… from the house… all the kitchen’s gone… he’s lost his hair, eyebrows and most of his clothes… what a bloody mess, Rhea… what a bloody mess… the kitchen’s gutted… ”