Constable in the Dale (A Constable Nick Mystery Book 5) Read online

  The pit was necessarily a long way from the village and from Patrick’s domestic quarters because the merest hint of warm weather made it somewhat mephitic. When the wind was in the wrong direction on a hot day, Elsinby’s patient villagers would get a whiff of the effluvium but as it was not much stronger than Patrick’s muckspreading activities, no one complained. Agricultural fumes of varying potency are generally accepted as part of rural life, and so the sewage pit remained to satisfy the needs of Alder Farm and the local fly population.

  It was a deep pit, very sensibly positioned, and it had been adequately fenced right from the moment of its construction; that fence was inspected by Patrick before his first intake of campers and he decided that it was adequate to deter children and adults from running headlong into his pit of feculence. He reasoned, in a typical countryman’s way, that if any children or adults were daft enough to climb over the fence, the very smell and appearance of the place would deter them from venturing further.

  Having established his site in what he considered a very professional manner, Patrick set about attracting some visitors. He advertised in papers local to the big cities and called his site The Garden of Ryedale. The little paths about the site were called Leafy Ways, the shed with the cold water tap was Water Lily House, the car park was Forget-me-Not (because he hoped people would never leave their vehicles unlocked — a nice touch, I felt), while the toilet block was appropriately named Meadow Sweet.

  Milk, eggs and vegetables could be purchased from Patrick’s wife at the farmhouse and he agreed to let them use the telephone upon payment. In all, it was a worthy enterprise, its only failing being that it did not have the blessing of the appropriate authorities such as the Rural District Council. They did not know it existed and Patrick felt that application for permission was a waste of time because it might be refused.

  Like the Council, I knew nothing of the Garden of Ryedale until I received a telephone call just after eight-thirty one Wednesday morning in June.

  “P.C. Rhea,” I announced.

  “Is that the policeman?” came the distant voice of a man who sounded worried.

  “Yes,” I acknowledged.

  “And is Elsinby under you?” the voice continued.

  “Yes, it is on my beat. Can I help you?”

  “Well, it’s my son and his wife. They’re in a caravan at The Garden of Ryedale Caravan Site and I want a message getting to them. I don’t know the name of the proprietor. I wondered if you could possibly deliver it for me — it’s urgent and it’s family.”

  The delivery of such messages was a regular feature of my work as a rural policeman, especially when so many isolated homes did not have a telephone. It was a worthwhile service because it brought me into close contact with the people in a helpful way. This particular call was destined to bring me into very close contact with the Garden of Ryedale Caravan Site and Patrick’s smelly sewage pit.

  My caller was a Mr J. C. Hicks, and his son was called Alan. Alan and his young wife, Jennifer, were caravanning there for two weeks, and the news was that Jennifer’s mother had collapsed in Birmingham. She was in hospital in a serious condition. I told Mr Hicks that I had never heard of the Garden of Ryedale Caravan Site, but in a small village like Elsinby it would not be difficult to find. I set off immediately, hoping to catch the young couple before they left on a day’s outing and said I would get Jennifer to ring Mr Hicks, senior, at a number I obtained from him.

  I told Mary where I was heading, and said I’d be back for lunch around twelve-thirty. I decided to spend the morning in Elsinby after carrying out this humane duty, but my first job was to find The Garden of Ryedale.

  This was comparatively easy because I simply called at Elsinby Post Office and asked Gilbert Kingston, the local postmaster, if he knew where I could find it.

  “Aye,” he said readily. “It’s on Patrick Hughes’ farm — Alder Farm, you know,” and he pointed in the general direction.

  “Is it a big site?” I asked, wondering why I hadn’t come across it before.

  “No, only half a dozen caravans. Patrick’s only just got it established, Mr Rhea. I think his first customers arrived at Easter.”

  “Thanks, Gilbert.” I smiled my thanks and left his premises.

  I arrived at Alder Farm less than ten minutes later, and found Patrick working in the foldyard. He was an amiable man in his mid-forties with a head of thick grey wavy hair, and several days’ growth of beard on his face. His eyes were warm and brown, while his face shone with the ruddy colour of a man who spends his days in the open air. His clothing comprised a pair of heavy corduroy trousers, black wellingtons and a battered brown sweater with holes in the sleeves. On his head was a flat cap which went everywhere with him, and he had a heavy muck-fork in his hands.

  As I parked my motor-cycle against the wall of an outbuilding, he ceased his work and strode towards me, a big smile on his face.

  “Now then, Mr Rhea, thoo’s out and about early today?”

  “’Morning, Patrick. How’s life?”

  “Grand. Very pleasant, especially on a summer day like this.”

  He was right. The countryside was at its best, and the warm June breezes were filled with buzzing insect life and caressing sunshine.

  “Patrick, you’ve a caravan site they tell me?”

  “Aye, it’s down on Alder Carr. Nowt wrong, is there?”

  “No.” I knew nothing of any rules or regulations governing the establishment of such sites, for the enforcement of such rules and regulations were not within the scope of a police officer’s duty. I was ignorant of the fact that Patrick had never made formal application, and indeed, such a lapse on his part was no concern of mine.

  “Oh,” he said. “Down there then, Mr Rhea.” He pointed to a gate at the bottom of the yard and I saw the new track of rubble and gravel.

  “Thanks,” and to put his mind at rest, I explained the purpose of my visit.

  “Hicks? They’re in Primrose,” he informed me. “T’names are on t’doors and there’s a primrose on t’van.”

  “Primrose, eh?” and I decided to walk down his new road. It was very uneven, but within five minutes I was standing in the centre of his little site, looking for Primrose. I found it, and could see a young woman busy in the tiny kitchen. I approached and she noticed me; there was surprise on her face, then alarm. As I reached the door of her caravan, she had already opened it and was looking down at me with her pretty face creased in worry.

  “Mrs Hicks?” I asked.

  She nodded, drying her hands on a towel.

  I gave her the information I’d received from her father-in-law and she asked if I knew anything more. I said I did not, but felt sure Patrick would allow her to telephone her relatives and the hospital from the farmhouse.

  “My husband’s gone for a walk near the river,” she said. “I’ll leave a note in case he comes back while I’m at the farm.”

  She had difficulty finding a pen, so I loaned her mine and waited as she scribbled the message, then accompanied her to the farmhouse. Patrick was still forking in the foldyard and readily agreed to help, so we waited together at a discreet distance as the girl made her calls. She emerged from the house looking white and anxious.

  “It’s my mother,” she said. “She’s been taken into hospital. I must go to her, she’s critical. I’ll go back to the van for my husband…”

  Patrick smiled at her. “Look, luv,” he said kindly. “Just leave everything here if you want to be off. If you decide not to return to finish the holiday, let me know and I’ll knock summat off. You see to your mam, that’s your first job.”

  Smiling her thanks, she hurried back to locate her husband.

  “Thoo’ll have a coffee, Mr Rhea?” Patrick looked at his watch, “It’s gittin’ on for’lowance time.”

  I joined him and his wife in the large kitchen of their comfortable house. Mrs Connie Hughes was a large, angular woman with a mop of black hair tied back in a rough bun, but she was
kind and amiable. She produced a plate of cakes and a mug of hot, steaming coffee for us all. This kind of hospitality is enjoyed by all rural bobbies, and we chatted about life in the area, and about Patrick’s new venture. Connie said she enjoyed the companionship it provided because Alder Farm was a lonely place, especially when Patrick was at market or away on business.

  None of us could have known that at this precise moment, Miss Fiona Lampton was heading towards the farm on her hunter. He was a large chestnut horse called Apollo. If we had known, it would not have mattered a great deal because there was a public footpath through the bottom of Patrick’s land, not far from Alder Carrs, and it was regularly used by people on foot and by horse riders. The picturesque path twisted and turned among the trees beside the river banks, and would undoubtedly be used by visitors to The Garden of Ryedale.

  Fiona Lampton was a very horsey lady approaching forty summers, and she had a private income. This allowed her to indulge in her passion for keeping horses and she had several, but it had never attracted a husband for her. If her money was attractive, her horsey appearance and demeanour could be a little off-putting for anyone not closely associated with the pastime. Not even horsey men appeared to find her romantic.

  Due to having considerable periods of spare time, therefore, she found herself involved in lots of village affairs at Aidensfield where she lived in a cottage, and one of her passions of the moment was conservation of the countryside. She had become involved with many groups who worked to keep the countryside free from all that would destroy it; she happened to believe that caravans were a growing menace, which explained her presence near Alder Carrs that morning. It seemed that when word of Patrick’s enterprise reached her ears, she had decided to carry out her own inspection before deciding what action, if any, she should take.

  And so it was that Miss Fiona Lampton aboard Apollo approached The Garden of Ryedale just as I was enjoying a coffee with Patrick and his wife. At exactly the same time, young Mrs Hicks was running about, urgently trying to trace her perambulating husband who was somewhere in the same vicinity.

  The precise sequence of events is not very clear, but having talked to all the participants, I believe they occurred rather like this.

  Mrs Hicks, knowing that her husband was likely to be away for another hour or so, resorted to a device they’d employed while camping in tents. If one of them wished to attract the attention of the other, while away, they would seize the frying pan in one hand, and a large tablespoon in the other. By thumping the bottom of the frying pan with the spoon, considerable noise can be generated, and this can be reinforced by persistent shouting. Young Mrs Hicks therefore decided to adopt this husband-tracing technique by standing on the top of one of Patrick’s rocky outcrops on Alder Carrs, and clouting the frying pan for all it was worth. She reasoned that the sound would carry to all comers of this peaceful glade.

  There is no doubt it seemed a good idea at the time, particularly as the din did reach the ears of the wandering Mr Hicks. He recognised the urgency of his wife’s summons, and at the time, had been standing on a high boulder in the wood, stretching his neck to inspect a nuthatch’s nest high in a dead tree. Upon hearing the significant tones of the frying pan, followed by his wife’s call, he had leapt off the boulder, crashed through the broken twigs and rubbish, and then galloped out of the trees towards the woodland path.

  In so doing, his movements were rather noisy; it was somewhat akin to an elephant dashing through the jungle, and he was shouting too. The noise startled Miss Fiona’s nervous mount. She had difficulty controlling Apollo during those hectic moments, and he almost got away from her; he jumped and bucked with alarm at the crashing noises and raucous human voice which came out of the trees, but managed to work his nervous way along the path. Fiona had him under control, a tribute to her skill.

  But just as Miss Fiona had calmed the anxious beast, horse and rider turned a bend and there, in full view, was Alder Carrs; at that moment, the horse saw Mrs Hicks standing aloft on a pinnacle of granite and belabouring the frying pan for all she was worth. She was shouting too, and behind was the crashing in the wood. These curious noises and waving arms were all too much for the nervous Apollo.

  He bolted. Ears laid back in terror, he opened his powerful legs and moved across the land as if his heels had wings. Aboard, Miss Fiona shouted, kicked and hauled on the reins but Apollo was having none of it. He wanted to be free from these weird noises and sights and no amount of horsemanship would persuade him to remain.

  Unfortunately, his flight path led towards the tidy fence which surrounded Patrick’s sewage pit.

  Rather as one would expect from Pegasus, the legendary winged horse, Apollo soared over the fence quite heedless of the pervading smells. Just as Pegasus had kicked Mount Helicon to create the fountain of the Muses, so Apollo kicked the surface of the stinking pond to create a fountain of the messes. But unlike Pegasus, Apollo was not able to fly across the waters. He landed in the middle with Miss Fiona still on board and he immediately sank amid a colossal spray of foul-smelling effluent.

  When the evil spray settled like the canopy of a parachute, it enveloped both horse and rider as they sank into the horrible depths; Apollo began to fight for his survival, while Miss Fiona clung to his neck because there was nothing else to cling to and besides, she couldn’t see anything due to the coating of slime which bathed her face. She lay along his broad back and shouted, as he fought to climb out of the slurry.

  But the more he fought, the more he sank, and the more he sank the more he fought. The slippery ooze threatened to remove Miss Fiona’s grip and its thick texture prevented Apollo from swimming through it. It was too fluid to provide any kind of platform and he sank until his feet touched the bottom. Only his head and neck showed, with Miss Fiona clinging to these life-saving parts of him. Gradually, he became very still; exhaustion caused him to give up the battle and he sensibly allowed things to settle about him.

  Miss Fiona dared not dismount; she could never swim through this mess and if she dismounted, she would sink over her head anyway. So she sat as still as a mouse, waiting. She wiped her eyes, her aquiline nose twitching at the awful stench that assailed her, and she began to shout for help.

  Fortunately, the couple who were the cause of Apollo’s sudden gallop were on hand to witness his sticky end, and they quickly sized up the situation. Mr Hicks shouted for Fiona to sit still and said he’d call for help.

  That’s how I became involved.

  Leaving the Hicks couple to rush off to Birmingham., Patrick rang the Fire Brigade and explained the situation, then we both went down to the sewage pit to see what could be done. There was nothing we could do, but the flies were having a super time, dive bombing and tasting the delicacies so fortuitously presented to them.

  “She’ll etti sit tight, Mr Rhea,” advised Patrick. “If she tumbles inti that crap, she’ll vanish for iwer.” Then he shouted, “Hold on, Miss Fiona. Sit tight. That awd gallower o’ thine’ll sit tight if thoo lets him… ”

  And so we waited for the Fire Brigade.

  The Fire Brigade, with the expertise of its members for coping with peculiar situations, is beyond compare and it seems that our local brigade were quite accustomed to rescuing cows which got into this sort of difficulty. When they arrived, it was a remark by Patrick that reminded me of this skill, when he said, “Thoo’ll be used ti gitting coos oot o’ spots like that?” His use of words did cause me to wonder about his opinion of Miss Fiona, however.

  The Fire Brigade team used equipment they had brought, and, with the grateful help of Miss Fiona, they attached a harness to Apollo, with a sling around his rump, and simply hauled him from the mess. He emerged with a hollow sucking noise, kicked his legs in delight, and whinnied his happiness. Fiona slid off him with a squelching sound, thanked the firemen from a safe distance, then mounted Apollo to ride home. She was accompanied by cheers from the gathered assembly, which now included some caravanners, and a fair selection of
flies and assorted muck-living insects which escorted her home in the form of a happy cloud.

  “Thoo’ll have a cup of coffee, you fellers?” suggested Patrick, and the firemen accepted. After swilling off the muck, they drank their coffee in his farmyard, and the senior man present said, “We’ll have to make our usual report about this.”

  The significance of that remark escaped both Patrick and me, but three weeks later it resulted in the Public Health Inspector visiting the farm to inspect this hitherto unknown caravan site. And he promptly closed it down until the sewage disposal arrangements were made satisfactory.

  As Patrick later said of Miss Fiona, “That bloody woman’s gitten a drastic way of doing things.”

  I had to agree.

  *

  It was George Eliot in Mr Gilfil’s Love Story who said, “Animals are such agreeable friends,” and this was personified in the partnership of Mr Aaron Harland and his dog, Pip.

  Aaron was a retired quanyman, a widower who lived alone in a terrace cottage at Thackerston. He kept the place as clean as the proverbial new pin, and in his retirement went upon long walks around the countryside. He was a friendly man, very quiet and thoughtful, and his round, clean face bore thick spectacles which always needed cleaning. I often wondered if he thought his home was covered in dust; he spent his life peering through it, and it occurred to me that this was probably the outcome of a life-time’s work in the dust of quarrying. Perhaps he thought the world was in a dust cloud.

  His dog, Pip, was a Jack Russell terrier, a small pert dog with a short tail and two black ears. Its coat was tough and wiry, and it stood little more than a foot in height.