Constable Through the Meadow Read online

  ‘Ah, Rhea,’ he smiled, ‘Nasty night. Anything to report?’

  I detailed some of the duties I had performed since starting work at five and he expressed his satisfaction. Then, after signing my pocket-book to record this conference, he appeared to have an attack of benevolence.

  ‘Shocking night, Rhea.’ He regarded the deepening fog. ‘Where’s your next point?’

  ‘Nine o’clock, sir, at Waindale, then I’m off duty at ten o’clock at home for my refreshment break.’

  ‘With a long wet walk in between, eh? In that case jump in. I’ll give you a lift to Aidensfield, you can make your nine o’clock point there instead of Waindale. Then you can patrol your own village until refreshment time. I’ll inform Control of the change. It’s silly tramping these lanes in this fog.’

  For a moment, I wondered if some of my earlier protestations had had an impact, then I realised with horror that it would mean leaving my own car abandoned out here.

  And if I left my car here, it would mean a long walk back for it! Or, I might cadge a lift … As I dithered in my momentary indecision, he unlocked the passenger door and waved me in.

  ‘Come on, Rhea, I haven’t got all night.’

  As he issued his order in those curt words, all thoughts of refusing his offer evaporated and so, with my heart sinking at the thought of a long trek back here, I settled in the warm and comfortable front seat of his fine vehicle. He drove confidently and smoothly away and within quarter of an hour was dropping me in the splash of light outside the Brewers’ Arms in Aidensfield.

  ‘Goodnight, Rhea,’ he said, and vanished into the misty darkness.

  He left me standing in the pool of warmth outside the pub, so I went in, half deciding to regard this as an official visit when I might chase out of the premises any stray under-age drinkers, and half to see whether any of the Ploatby farmers were in. Maybe I could persuade one of them to give me a lift back to my car? But I was out of luck. The pub contained no one from that part of the dale and I had no wish to intrude upon the drinking-time of anyone else.

  By the time I’d chatted to some of the locals about crimes reported in the national papers, to others about the state of the weather, refused several offers of a drink and checked two youngsters for their ages, it was nine-thirty.

  A quick peramble around the village took the time around to ten o’clock and then I knocked off for supper. I had a grumble to Mary about the Inspector’s actions, but she didn’t offer much sympathy.

  ‘If they say foot patrol they mean foot patrol,’ she said with feminine simplicity. ‘You haven’t forgotten I need the car early tomorrow, have you?’ she added. ‘I’m going to see my mother and I must get some shoes for Elizabeth. She’s got a hole in hers.’

  I decided not to pursue the matter; I would endeavour to retrieve my car sometime during the remainder of this tour of duty. After all, when I resumed my work at 10.45pm, there would be a couple of hours left before 1am, and I might still beg a lift from some of the pub regulars. But when I looked at my points and predetermined route, I saw it took me well away from the local pubs. The short second half of my patrol took me through some lonely poachers’ territory, not villages.

  At the end of this marathon shift, therefore, I still had not recovered my car. Tired and footsore at 1am, I trudged into my little office beside the house and rang Eltering Police Station to book off duty. The duty PC wished me goodnight. Mary was in bed and had left a mug and biscuit on a tray; I would make myself a cocoa. But she needed the car first thing tomorrow …

  And there was no local officer performing night shift who might come to my aid … I daren’t ring Kit Clough at Falconbridge who was in possession of the official van. He’d completed a 2pm–10pm shift and was due out at 6am so he’d be fast asleep; I couldn’t rouse him for this and did consider rising early myself, to beg a lift from him as he began his tour. But I couldn’t guarantee he’d be free to do the trip – the Inspector might go out early to meet him or there might be some other commitment.

  It was my very own problem, so I crept out of the house and started the long, weary, wet and dark walk back to Ploatby to collect my car. I’ve never known such a long, foot-weary trail. In the pitch darkness and in thickening fog, I slowly made my way to Ploatby, the time ticking away and my energy being sapped at every step.

  But I made it. Somehow, I managed to reach it and with a sigh of relief, opened the door and sank into the driving seat. For an awful moment, I thought it might not start due to the damp atmosphere, but it burst into life and carried me safely home.

  As I sank into bed just after two o’clock, trying desperately not to rouse Mary, she muttered, ‘Busy night? Working late?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, drifting into a blissful slumber against the warmth of her resting body.

  That night, I dreamt I was trekking to the North Pole in my sore, bare feet.

  3

  ‘Aye, marry, is’t; crowner’s-quest law.’

  Hamlet William Shakespeare, 1564–1616

  The romance and excitement of finding buried treasure was something fairly common in the countryside around Aidensfield. It happened to residents and visitors alike, and I become involved in many of these occurrences because of the fascinating and ancient law surrounding treasure trove.

  The reason for so many discoveries is that the district around Aidensfield is rich in historic ruins. They include castles, abbeys, churches and even battlefields and, over many centuries, these have attracted pilgrims and travellers both from our country and from foreign lands. Because those ancient visitors were careless like the rest of us, lots of them mislaid things like coins, swords, jewellery and other personal valuables, then through the passage of time these became buried in the earth. Many years later, due to the use of modern technology in the form of metal detectors, deep ploughs or sheer good fortune, these were found amid scenes of great excitement.

  One source of discovery was the humble footpath. Linking these establishments, and indeed linking the tiny villages between them, were footpaths and bridleways through woodland and along the banks of our streams and rivers. Those villages also boast origins which can be traced across the centuries, and in more than one case, evidence can be found in the village churches, some of which date as far back as the seventh century.

  For example, modern visitors can examine two tiny minsters; one can be seen at Kirkdale (circa AD 654) over whose doorway is a Saxon sundial, the most complete in the world, which bears the longest-known inscription from Anglo-Saxon times. The other is at Stonegrave (circa AD 757) and each gives some indication of the immense span of English heritage which is present in this beautiful area of Ryedale in North Yorkshire.

  This sense of history continues with abbeys founded some five hundred years later, such as those at Rievaulx and Byland, whose grandeur was reduced to ruin by the Reformation, while some four hundred years after their destruction more abbey-building took place at Ampleforth.

  Castles like those at Ashfordly, Eltering, Elsinby, Helmsley, Pickering and Gilling East add to the majesty of the locality, and it was to these places via remote villages and hamlets that travellers came. They have travelled these byways for many centuries, rich and poor, royal, noble and common, British and foreign. And in many cases, they lost their personal belongings, perhaps the odd coin or jewel, or even a goblet or defensive weapon.

  In the case of places liable to be raided either by villains or tax-gatherers, however, the people concealed their hard-earned wealth. They hid coins in the walls of castles and abbeys, up the chimneys of cottages and mansions, or buried them in earthenware jars in the gardens or fields. And, of course, many local folks lost the occasional coin.

  The result of all this is that the fields, woods, paths and gardens of Ryedale, and indeed the whole of England, are rich with buried treasure. Every year, thousands of pounds worth is discovered, some by accident, some by the use of metal detectors, some during road works or building construction and some by shee
r good luck. There are many recorded instances when ordinary people have suddenly found themselves in possession of a fortune – one example occurred when workmen were excavating the site of a new building at York University. They uncovered 2,880 Roman coins, while in 1966, a hoard of twelfth-century coins then worth £30,000 was found near Newstead Abbey in Nottinghamshire. Twenty years later, treasure-hunters at Middleham in North Yorkshire found a unique fifteenth-century jewel of gold with a sapphire inset. It was sold for £1,430,000. In cases of this kind, the rule is not ‘finders keepers’, because when certain treasure is found the law of England, with its curious provisions for dealing with treasure trove, steps in. And this is how the police and the coroner become involved.

  The coroner generally concerns himself with sudden or violent deaths, so why does he supervise the laws on found treasure? The answer lies far back in our history and a little explanation is now called for: in dealing with several cases of this nature and to satisfy my own curiosity, I delved into the reason for this odd aspect of our legal system and discovered a fascinating trail of legal history.

  The first thing to remember is that treasure trove is defined as gold or silver, whether in the form of plate, coin or bullion, which has been deliberately hidden in the earth or in a house or in any other private place. This immediately rules out other valuables such as precious gems, bronze, pottery and glassware etc, unless these are set in either gold or silver. It also rules out gold or silver coins, plate or bullion which have been lost. The law on treasure trove does not concern itself with lost articles, but merely those which were hidden, however long ago.

  If the owner is not known, treasure trove belongs to the Crown, i.e. the State, but before being handed over, a decision must be made as to whether a particular item is or is not ‘treasure trove’, i.e. hidden treasure which has been found. This is the duty of the coroner who must hold an inquest (that is an enquiry) to determine whether or not the gold or silver object in question was lost or hidden. This can often be determined by the circumstances of its discovery. In very simple terms, a gold coin found under two inches of earth beside a well used footpath was probably lost. There is no clear evidence that it had been concealed, therefore it would not be declared treasure trove, and would probably belong to the finder or perhaps to the landowner.

  On the other hand, if a cache of gold coins was found in a leather bag or a container of some kind, perhaps buried beneath a tree or lodged up the chimney of an old house, then this suggests a past and deliberate concealment.

  These are the kinds of decision which must be made by the coroner, usually based on evidence obtained for him by the police. The reason for his involvement goes back to twelfth century at least, and possibly further. Once known as the crowner, the origins of the coroner are lost in time, but the office was mentioned in 1194 in Richard I’s Articles of Eyre. They provided for the election of three knights and one clerk as custodians of the pleas of the Crown. From this, the early coroners were known as Keepers of the King’s Pleas (Custos Placitorum Coronae) and their duties were to keep ‘the pleas, suits and causes which affected the King’s Crown and Dignity.’

  The task of an early coroner was really to record matters rather than determine them, but one of his jobs was to ensure that any ‘chance revenues’ were paid to the King. These included money from ‘the forfeited chattels of felons, deodands, wrecks, royal fish and treasure trove.’ In other words, the early coroner was little more than a tax-gatherer, although he did enquire into sudden deaths and did supervise the disposal of a deceased’s lands and goods. Indeed, his official interest in sudden deaths was then to ensure that the Crown received all its dues.

  The forfeited chattels of felons were the belongings of a man who had committed some felony (i.e. serious crime like theft or murder). If he was convicted, all his belongings were forfeited to the Crown and it was the coroner’s job to see that it was done.

  It is now easy to understand why the coroner had to enquire into every sudden death – it was to determine whether or not it was the result of a murder so that, when a culprit was convicted, the Crown would receive its dues. Deodands are now obsolete: these were the objects which had caused the death by misadventure of a person. For example, if a cart accidentally ran over and killed a man, the cart or even just the offending wheel might be declared deodand and forfeited to the Crown. In days of old when this happened, the King would donate the object to the church or to the family of the victim, so that money could be raised for the sufferers. This scheme was abolished in 1846 when it was feared that entire railway trains or ships might be forfeited!

  Wrecks at sea are now subject to their own procedures which were recently up-dated by the Protection of Wrecks Act 1973 and the coroner is no longer involved. So far as Royal Fish are concerned, it was Edward II who ruled that all sturgeon caught in British waters belonged to the sovereign and it was the coroner’s duty to make sure this was done. I know of no modern law which enforces these provisions, but the practice continues as a matter of courtesy and custom. These, plus treasure trove, were the chance revenues which had to be handed to the King; of them, only treasure trove legally remains, and even now, if objects are declared treasure trove, they must still be handed to the Crown. But now, of course, this means the British Museum.

  Upon the coroner declaring a discovery to be treasure trove, the goods will be handed to the British Museum who will then determine the current market value of the find. The finder will then be paid that sum, which shows that, in this case especially, honesty is by far the best policy. In recent years, many rewards totalling hundreds of thousands of pounds have been paid to lucky finders.

  The old common-law misdemeanour of ‘concealment of treasure trove’ has been abolished, but if anyone now finds treasure trove and does not declare it, they can be charged with theft under the Theft Act of 1968 and their find will be confiscated. No reward will be paid either. It is so much wiser to report any of these discoveries, both from a criminal liability aspect and from the nation’s need to conserve treasures which might otherwise be lost for ever.

  It is not the job of a coroner to determine ownership of any treasure found on private land or in private premises; if it is not declared treasure trove, it might belong to the finder or the owner of the land or occupier of the house, or indeed to anyone else. That kind of decision is a matter for the civil courts if there is a dispute and so, with this background in mind, I found it both interesting and simple to deal with people who found things in their homes, or in the fields and surrounding countryside. And the number and variety of things discovered was truly amazing.

  It is not easy to select the most interesting of the finds which occurred in and around Aidensfield – every one was fascinating in its own way. Mundane objects like old bikes, oil drums and even motor-car spare parts were constantly being located in the lakes, ponds and streams while our woodlands produced cast-off refrigerators, ovens, settees and a bewildering selection of household offal, most of which resulted from the actions of those ghastly people who dump their unwanted rubbish in the countryside. In our streams and waterways, old guns have been found too, and so have Victorian lemonade and beer bottles which are so desired by collectors. There were modern ones too, along with kettles and bedsteads, and in one miraculous case, a diamond wedding ring was discovered in a tiny beck. This was returned to the owner who had lost it several years earlier; she had reported the loss to the police, and our records turned up her name. Needless to say, she was delighted.

  But none of these objects was remotely within the scope of treasure-trove rules, neither was an antique flintlock pistol found in the thatch of a cottage, or a beautiful unmarked glass goblet which had been tucked into a hole in a wall, and then boarded over for a couple of centuries. Because our area had been colonised by the Romans, we were often told of discoveries from that era; items of pottery galore like bowls, plates and urns turned up, usually broken into fragments, although very occasionally a complete and fl
awless example would be found.

  These caused immense excitement, and although such finds were always of tremendous archaeological interest, they were generally not of police interest, nor was the coroner officially involved. Sometimes, however, we had to bear in mind the likelihood that any found object might be the subject of a crime – people did steal valuables and then dump them, but in most of our cases they were genuine discoveries from the distant past. Our procedures referred the finder to a local museum or archaeologist; sometimes, Roman coins would be unearthed and we had all coins examined by experts to determine whether or not they were struck in gold or silver; I don’t think we ever dealt with a gold or silver coin from Roman times, although I understand that the Anglo-Saxons made gold copies of some Roman coins – these are now very rare. Most of the Roman coins we dealt with looked a dull bronze colour with the head of an emperor crudely portrayed on one side with various inscriptions on the other. None was particularly valuable and there seemed to be so many different types.

  In one case, a very enthusiastic and slightly dishonest hunter discovered a hoard of Roman coins on private land and kept them; he was charged with stealing them from the landowner, as he had not obtained permission either to go on to the land nor to seek the coins. Some bore the head of the Emperor Septimus Severus who died at York around AD 211; this gave them a very local interest, but because they were neither gold nor silver, they were not treasure trove.

  There was a burst of tremendous excitement at Elsinby when a local farmer turned up an ancient sword. He was ploughing close to the stream which flows through this pretty place when he struck the long, stout metal blade. His fields occupy a patch of land beneath the castle walls where there are strong links between Elsinby Castle and the Civil Wars; it was a regular occurrence for Fred Pullen to find relics of this kind. He regularly turned up cannon balls, musket balls, buckles from belts and spearheads.