CONSTABLE
AT THE
GATE
A perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors
NICHOLAS RHEA
Constable Nick Mystery Book 18
Revised edition 2021
Joffe Books, London
www.joffebooks.com
First published in Great Britain in 1997
© Nicholas Rhea 1997, 2021
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is British English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Nicholas Rhea to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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ISBN: 978-1-78931-749-7
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
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Chapter 1
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The rich man in his castle,
The poor man at his gate,
God made them, high or lowly,
And order’d their estate.
CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER, 1818–95
Aud Willie One-Leg spent his retirement days standing at the small white-painted gate of his modest but very pretty cottage. A semi-detached, stone-built house, it stood — and continues to stand — in the main street of Elsinby, a truly charming village nestling below the hills some two miles from Aidensfield. Elsinby boasts many features, including the splendid Hopbind Inn, a post office, a small but vital village store, a castle which is occupied to this day, a Catholic church and an Anglican church, a primary school, a selection of farms around the extremities and a pretty stream which flows beside the road. That road runs through the centre of this peaceful place as the main street and it is enhanced by rows of rustic cottages.
Aud Willie One-Leg was another of the village features. He could be seen at his gate day in and day out, winter and summer alike. He was like a sentry at his post, determined and diligent in his duty and unflinching in the teeth of autumn gales, winter snows, spring storms and the fly-sticky heat of high summer. He spent very little time indoors; indeed, few had ever set foot inside his cottage — I hadn’t.
Like the Yorkshire weather, the seasons changed with remarkable effect but Aud Willie One-Leg never varied in his daily duty — at nine o’clock prompt every morning, Sundays included, he established himself at the gate and remained there until the darkness of the winter evenings enveloped him, or until about five o’clock on the lighter evenings. His daily stint was regulated with breaks for morning coffee, lunch (or dinner as he called it) and a cup of tea in the afternoon; furthermore, he seemed able to arrange his toilet necessities to coincide with his official breaks. Willie’s devotion to duty and the timing of his daily task meant that everyone living nearby knew what time he would make his appearance. As one man said, “You can set your clock by Aud Willie.”
Willie was in his late seventies and his real name was William Watson; he was a widower, his devoted wife, Edith, having died some ten years earlier. A stocky man of middle height, he possessed hands like shovels, a round, weathered and rather whiskery face out of which sprouted a moustache. He had grizzly grey hair which poked unceremoniously from beneath his cap, and strikingly blue eyes, yet I’d never seen him wearing spectacles. He always wore the same dull brown flat cap, tweed jacket with leather around the cuffs and elbows, and brown corduroy trousers.
Those well-worn trousers concealed his false leg. That he had a false leg became evident as he stomped about the village or went across to the Hopbind Inn for his nightly couple of pints, but for his daily sentinel duty, one would never have realised he had such a handicap — unless one approached him for a chat. If that happened, he’d explain in graphic detail how he’d lost his leg.
But for his daily responsibilities, however, he removed the false leg and folded the bottom half of his right trouser leg up behind his thigh where it was held in position with a colossal safety pin. During the day’s guard duties, therefore, he relied on a small shelf which he had fashioned at precisely the correct height on the inside of his gate. He rested the stump of his leg on that shelf and was able to lean on the gatepost with his arm across the top, a position which he assured everyone was infinitely more comfortable than standing all day on a false leg.
Another facet of Willie’s character was that his dress never varied throughout the year, his only concession being to wear a thick overcoat and a scarf when the really ferocious weather of winter set in or to open a huge and highly colourful golfing umbrella if it rained heavily. The umbrella was a gift from one of his fans — for Willie did have his fans. Regular visitors to Elsinby pointed him out to their friends and I do know that some drove out from places like York and Ripon to see him at his gate. In his own way, Aud Willie One-Leg had become a tourist attraction.
Willie’s entire working life had been spent at High Leas, a thriving farm in the hills behind the village. His only break was a spell of active service in the army during the First World War. He had fought in the trenches in France and, at the age of twenty-five, he’d got in the way of a shell, so he told everyone, and had lost his right leg below the knee. His stump had been fitted with a wooden shaft and this had never seemed to hamper his work on the farm where he milked the cows, fed the pigs, looked after the poultry and did every other feasible job from maintaining the plough to somehow managing to drive the tractor.
There was no doubt that Willie had been a veritable treasure to generations of the family which had farmed at High Leas. He’d worked for a succession of masters, always without complaint but with total loyalty and, as a reward, he had the occupancy of Jasmine Cottage for the tiniest of rents. He could remain there until his death and he was very content, so he told everyone.
It was his false leg which had given him the name of Aud Willie One-Leg. Aud, pronounced ‘ord’ in North Riding of Yorkshire, is a term of affection and although it can be translated as meaning ‘old’, it is not generally used as a reflection of a person’s age. Instead, it is a term of esteem and affection, often used to refer to both men and animals — a beloved dog will be Aud Ben or Aud Rover, a favourite cow will be Aud Lass or Aud Primrose, and a beloved wife of any age will be My Aud Woman — and so it was that William Watson was known to all the local people as Aud Willie One-Leg.
His cottage was built of the local tan-colo
ured limestone with a red pantile roof and, in keeping with the traditional image of such a place, it had roses around the rustic archway which stood around the door and honeysuckle climbing over the solitary outbuilding — which was, in fact, the outside toilet. Indeed, it was the only toilet. It was a very attractive cottage, beautifully maintained with white-painted woodwork and fronted by a neat white gate bearing its name. There were well-tended borders around a small, tidily trimmed lawn too, all the work of Willie who tended his little plot when he was not standing on guard at the gate.
In addition to its rustic charm, the cottage was very strategically placed for Willie’s purpose. It was on Elsinby’s main street and almost opposite the Hopbind Inn; the post office was just around the corner to the right, with the school just up the lane to his left; the entrance to the castle lay about a hundred yards along the street, only a few yards from the shop. The two churches, always busy with visitors, cleaners, flower-arrangers and others, not to mention Sunday services, weddings, baptisms and funerals, were situated just off that main street too. The fortuitous positioning of those strategic village institutions meant that Aud Willie One-Leg was never short of someone to talk to. In fact, he was at the centre of activities, a focal point for the community in much the same way as the war memorial or village pump. Almost everyone who walked along that short main street was within hailing distance of Willie as he mounted guard at Jasmine Cottage. And hail them he did, strangers and locals alike. If a visitor was walking along the street full of admiration for the charms of the place, or perhaps heading into the pub for a pint of cool beer or a quiet lunch, Willie would call out, “It’s a grand day!” or “It’s not a very nice day”, his opening gambit depending upon the state of the prevailing weather conditions.
People from the south of England were somewhat unnerved by this show of friendship for they were not, and are not, accustomed to speaking to total strangers let alone be bidden the time of day by a Yorkshireman in a flat cap. But most would respond by agreeing with Willie.
“Yes, it’s a very nice day,” they would say, or “No, it’s not very pleasant.” Some would just nod their heads or wave in agreement.
“It’s not as good as it was yesterday but mebbe it’s better than it’ll be tomorrow,” was a typical Willie response, alternating with, “Bad days come and go, and it’ll get better in time. However bad it is, there’s allus worse somewhere else.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” and many townies, believing that Yorkshire country folk with rosy cheeks can forecast the weather by looking at birds, bees and weeds or sniffing the air would then say, “I’m on holiday, and I do hope the weather is going to be kind.”
“You are in Yorkshire, think on,” would be Willie’s wry reply, his form of warning about the unexpected climatic conditions on the remote moors. “Compared wi’ t’ climate down south, they reckon it’s allus bit chilly up here, but some folks can’t abide good aud-fashioned fresh air. That’s all it is — good, pure fresh air. But I reckon you’ll not be disappointed — so long as you take a raincoat with you.”
And so the visitor would be hooked. Once Willie had ensnared him, he’d be there for an hour or more, listening to tales of how Willie’s leg had been blown off by a shell and how he once milked the entire herd in the middle of the field because a whirlwind had flattened the milking parlour. He told a good story, did Willie, and his summer days passed in the entertainment of unsuspecting tourists. Many went home thinking he typified the rustics of North Yorkshire but in fact he was unique.
The locals, however, tried to avoid him, not because they disliked him but because if he managed to catch any of them passing by, it meant at least an hour was lost. In some cases, his conversation was like a constantly running tape — he repeated the same yarn time and time again.
Sadly, few of them had the time that was needed to listen to his ramblings but to listen to them repeatedly was definitely quite boring. In their efforts to avoid being caught by Willie, the people of Elsinby would watch through their cottage windows and wait until he, like a spider, had caught some other unfortunate person in his web, preferably a tourist.
At that point, they would all rush into the village, to do their bits of shopping, post office visiting, church cleaning, calling on friends or nipping into the Hopbind for a pint. But woe betide anyone who was the first down that street on any morning of the week . . . like the spider waiting for the fly, Willie was waiting.
I did wonder whether the residents of Elsinby had thought of devising a rota system of outings which would allocate to a volunteer the task of being first on to the street on a given morning. I do know there was talk about it in the pub from time to time. It would work something like this — if Mrs Brown ventured out first on Monday, with Mr Kenton on Tuesday, the Misses Hindmarsh on Wednesdays and so on through the week, it would relieve the pressure on everyone. Knowing that the first person to venture out after nine o’clock would inevitably be hailed by Willie, it seemed a good idea to apportion that task to a different volunteer for each day. Everyone in the village could take a turn — but that scheme never came to fruition. It seemed everyone preferred to avoid Willie if at all possible and it was quite true that many of the locals relied on visitors for their salvation; after all, Elsinby was a pretty place often resorted to by trippers from nearby towns and cities and if they heard Willie only once, it presented hope to the local people.
So far as Willie was concerned, such visitors were a godsend, strangers were welcomed and businesspeople seeking addresses in the village were wonderful because each was caught by Willie and this allowed the village to go about its normal business.
For me, of course, as the village constable, Willie was priceless. He was the eyes and ears of Elsinby, he saw everything and everyone, he knew everything that was happening in the place and he loved to talk. One might have regarded him as a perfect witness but this was not the case. Apart from the problem of getting away from him once he started to tell his story, the other problem was that he never actually told me anything — in spite of diligent efforts on my part. I feel sure he thought he had imparted to me some great and important crime-fighting news but this was rarely the case.
In dealing with Willie, however, I had to be constantly aware of the passing time for I could not afford the luxury of standing around and gossiping all day. Unlike most of the locals, however, I had an excuse to tear myself away from his tale-telling by stating I had an urgent appointment or a vital professional meeting with Sergeant Blaketon or some other senior officer. In some instances, of course, I simply motored past without stopping, albeit with a friendly wave, but I never ignored him.
I was soon to learn that one of his strengths — or perhaps it was a ploy — was to associate his tales with the person to whom he was conversing — Doctor William Williams, for example, was regaled with tales of how Willie’s missing leg still ached while the plumber heard stories about non-existent hot-and-cold water in the trenches; the district nurse was told of life in military hospitals while the vicar was tested on his knowledge of the Bible, Willie having swotted his piece the previous evening. Farmers of the modern generation were told how it used to be in Willie’s time, how the corn was cut with scythe and how milk from old-fashioned churns tasted better than the new-fangled heat-treated stuff. And so it went on, with Willie gaining knowledge about everything and everyone. Whenever he talked to me, though, it was the outrageous lawlessness of some of the Elsinby residents which formed his subject matter.
“You ought to do summat about that lad with his motorbike,” he would say out of the corner of his mouth, as if imparting a major secret.
“What lad?” I would ask.
“Thoo knows! Him from up yonder.” And he would attempt to indicate some vague direction with a slight movement of his head, doubtless not wanting himself to be considered a police informant by giving too much away.
After several futile and unproductive attempts to draw from him the name or even the address of this
grievous offender, I would ask, “So, what’s he done? This motorcyclist?”
“Well, thoo’s t’ bobby, thoo should know!”
“Yes, Willie, but if I don’t know who you’re talking about . . .”
“Now it’s not for me to say things about other folks, as thoo well knows, but summat’ll have to be done. What’s good for t’ goose is good for t’ gander.”
“Is he driving without a licence?” I would ask. “Or driving his bike when he’s underage, maybe?”
“Now, it’s not in my nature to tell tales, Mr Rhea, but thoo should know what’s going on in this place. Then if thoo knows what’s going on, thoo can do summat about it, and mebbe put a stop to it. That’s what I say.”
“Yes, that makes sense,” I would agree. “So what’s he up to, this motorcyclist? What is it that I should be stopping?”
“Well, I hope you soon find out and do summat about it because it’s not good for him, and it’s not good for others, Mr Rhea, mark my words. But if I was thoo, I’d keep my eyes open and then you’ll be able to do summat to stop it all.”
“Yes, I will,” I assured him but with absolutely no idea who or what he was talking about. Certainly, there were lads with motorbikes in the village but none could be regarded a nuisance. Some enjoyed scrambling, the term we used for riding over the rough moorland with specially adapted machines, while others were content to use their bikes as a means of transport or as a magnet for attracting girlfriends. But I knew none who was misbehaving and was blissfully unable to draw from Willie the precise nature of his complaint or information, nor did I ever obtain a name of the supposed villain.
Very quickly, I began to realise this was one of his tactics. He would impart his own brand of knowledge to me, somehow managing to define his own boundaries as to whether he was acting with spite as a police informer or being a noble guardian of the peace in Elsinby.
CONSTABLE AT THE GATE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 18) Page 1
