To quote another example, with a wave and a shout he hailed me one morning as I was heading towards the Hopbind Inn to discuss with the landlord his application for an occasional licence. I had a few minutes in hand, and thinking I might be about to receive some vital crime-busting information, I halted for a chat with Willie. It was a hot day in August with not a cloud in the sky.
“Now then, Willie,” I gave the traditional Yorkshire greeting.
“Now then, Mr Rhea,” he moved his head in acknowledgement. “Not a bad day but mebbe a bit on t’ warm side. I’ve known worse and I’ve known hotter, but it’s not as hot as that day our beck dried up . . . you’ll remember that, Mr Rhea? Nay, it was before your time . . .”
“You wanted to see me?” I had to direct him to the matter he wished to discuss, otherwise I should never be told anything useful.
“Aye, I’m glad I caught you.” He looked right and left as if making sure no one else was eavesdropping upon our conversation.
There was no one in the street at that moment, although within seconds, two doors of nearby houses opened and two ladies sailed forth towards the shop. Mrs Charlton and Mrs Beeforth were both glad that someone was occupying Willie — they’d been waiting for this moment all morning and with a bit of luck, they could complete their trips and get back into their homes before Willie had finished with me. But it would be touch and go, as I knew my own time was very limited.
“What’s the problem?” I put to him.
“It’s that lad from them new houses,” he almost whispered the words.
“Which lad?” I asked.
“You know, him whose dad was badly recently, had to go to hospital, gall stones or summat, his dad I mean, him with that old black car. Well, it’s his lad.”
“What’s his name? The son, I mean,” I asked without much hope of a positive answer.
“You should know that, Mr Rhea, I shouldn’t be surprised if it’s in your records somewhere. Funny family, they are, allus up to no good. They’re from Middlesbrough or is it Stockton? You’ll know that of course.”
“So, this lad. What’s he been up to?” I asked.
“Well, you should know that, Mr Rhea! I’m right surprised at you asking me that one!”
“So why did you want to tell me about him?”
“Well, I thought you and your mates had mebbe better keep an eye on him, you know.”
“Really? Why?”
“Well, you know what he’s up to!”
“I don’t, if I’m honest,” I said.
“Well, all this coming and going, out at all hours . . .”
“Probably it’s because he’s got a girlfriend,” I suggested.
“Has he, by Jove? I never knew that! You’re one jump ahead of them there, Mr Rhea. So do you know him . . .”
“No, I was just suggesting that if a young man stays out late, it’s a fair indication he’s got himself a girlfriend. It’s often nothing more sinister than that; it doesn’t mean he’s a burglar,” I tried to explain.
“No young woman in her right mind would touch him with a bargepole.” He shook his old head as if imparting some great wisdom. “Not with a bargepole. But I thought I’d better mention it.”
“You did right.” I looked at my watch. There was literally a couple of minutes before my meeting with George Ward at the pub. “Now I must be off, Willie. Thanks for the chat!”
I managed to detach myself from him without a lot of trouble because I had seen the two ladies returning from the shop — Willie had got his eye on them and I knew he preferred talking to ladies. Leaving him, I crossed the quiet road and within minutes, was settling down with George over a mug of coffee. Through the window of George’s private accommodation, I could see that Willie had managed to waylay one of the homeward bound ladies, Mrs Charlton.
“I reckon Charlie Charlton’s going to have a late dinner,” commented George.
* * *
It was several days later when I read in my evening paper that an Elsinby man, Ian Hebditch, aged twenty-two, had been convicted at York Magistrates Court of driving his father’s car without the necessary insurance. The vehicle had been insured for the policyholder only — i.e. dad, not for all drivers and certainly not for lads under twenty-five years of age.
Ian’s address was given as No. 18, Beckside Cottages and his occupation was painter and decorator. In court, he’d apologised for the lapse and said his motorbike had failed to start that morning and he’d borrowed his father’s car at short notice to get to work; the problem of insurance had never occurred to him and it was an innocent mistake. He’d been stopped on the outskirts of York by a traffic policeman but the court treated him leniently; he was fined £5 and had his licence endorsed.
Two or three days later, I was back in Elsinby when Aud Willie One-Leg hailed me once more.
“By gum, Mr Rhea, you acted fast on that tipoff I gave you.”
“Did I?” For the moment, I was puzzled by my success.
“Driving without insurance, eh? Nasty business, Mr Rhea, I knew he was up to no good. Lads with motorbikes need watching, Mr Rhea, as you well know, especially when they’re out at all hours. Now, there’s that chap up yonder . . .”
And he jerked his head in some rather unspecific direction.
“Which chap?” I decided to go along with him now. Clearly, Willie thought I was acting upon his gems of crime-busting information.
“Lives in that caravan up by Howe Plantation . . . now, he’s up to summat, mark my words.”
“I’ll keep an eye open!” I promised.
“And so will I,” he assured me.
And so the crime-busting team of Rhea and Aud Willie One-Leg was formed.
But I never asked him to give evidence in court — I had the feeling he would confuse the magistrates.
* * *
There was another interesting gate which I motored past almost every day of my police duty. It was called Waterloo Gate and stood on a junction at a noted and potentially dangerous corner of the main road which led into Ashfordly from Harrowby. It was at that junction that the minor road for Aidensfield and Briggsby joined the main road. The corner featured frequently in traffic accidents, particularly during the winter months when the combination of a very sharp bend, an adverse camber and icy conditions caused vehicles to leave the road or collide with each other. In the course of my work, I had dealt with several spills at that point, happily none of them fatal.
In all cases, my dealings were overshadowed by the magnificent gate. It had been erected in 1818 at the entrance to Briggsby Lodge which lay hidden in woods just off that corner and commemorated the Duke of Wellington’s defeat of Napoleon at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815. Some said the gate had been erected by descendants of Wellington, others claimed it was the work of local survivors of that historic contest and yet more said it had been paid for by the occupants of the big house which stood some distance behind it. Whatever its origins, it comprised two tall and sturdy stone pillars with a graceful stone arch linking them at the top, and a pair of handsome iron gates which would not have looked out of place at the entrance to Buckingham Palace.
In the space above the gates and in the hollow centre of the arch, there was a heraldic crest painted in gold, silver, white, red, blue and yellow. It was secured to a series of iron bars which matched the gates beneath and bore the single word ‘Vorwarts’.
Briggsby Lodge, set in the modest parklands behind the gate, was a small Palladian mansion and, like Aud Willie One-Leg’s home, this was one place I had never entered during my period as the village constable of Aidensfield. In fact, the house itself stood just over the boundaries of my beat although its splendid gate was on my patch; the house lay within the jurisdiction of Ashfordly Section, and was thus within the care of Sergeant Blaketon and the officers of that market town.
Nothing had ever occurred which would require me to visit the house on duty but in fact, the occupant was a recluse called Gertrude Fossard who was never seen
out of the building and who never invited anyone in. The exception was one local lady, Miss Helen Glanville of Briggsby, who did her cleaning, washing, shopping, general administration of the house and the running of errands. She organised men to care for the grounds and parkland, saw that some of it was rented for grazing and permitted a local farmer to grow potatoes in a distant corner. All this ensured that Miss Fossard had an additional income from her land, and that the grounds of her house were well maintained.
The busy Miss Glanville, a large, red-haired lady in her fifties, cycled from her home to the Lodge almost every day and I understand she was paid well for her devotion to the recluse.
In time, I learned that Miss Gertrude Fossard was a lady of independent means in her late seventies. She claimed ancestry dating to Norman times — certainly, down the centuries, the Fossards had been noted landowners in North Riding with castles and estates at Whorlton and elsewhere, along with historic links to the English sovereigns and to Parliament itself, but I had no idea whether or not her ancestral claims were true. I knew of no other Fossards in the area; most certainly, it was no longer a plentiful name among the county’s aristocracy.
Miss Fossard was just one of many aristocrats who lived upon or nearby my patch at Aidensfield and, unless her house was raided by housebreakers, burglars or confidence tricksters, there was no reason for me to pay her a call. She never left the house and so it was never empty and therefore never required my supervision as unoccupied premises. That was a service we offered to those who left their homes empty for extended or even short periods.
In spite of a lack of specific requests for police attention, I felt sure the Ashfordly constables would be keeping the house and grounds under careful scrutiny for malefactors; consequently the life and times of Miss Gertrude Fossard were relegated to the back of my mind. She caused no problems and demanded no attention from the police as she lived quietly in her splendid mansion behind the beautiful Waterloo Gate. The gate, in fact, was not used as the regular entrance to the house, although Miss Glanville on her bicycle took a short cut via that route. Other visiting traffic such as the butcher’s van or tradesmen, used another entrance which emerged in Ashfordly, not far from the marketplace.
It meant, in general terms, that Waterloo Gate was more of a showpiece than an actual gateway, the route from there to the mansion being little more than an unsurfaced track through the parkland.
* * *
One dark and wintry Saturday morning in January, with northerly winds causing icy patches and flurries of snow creating drifts on some of our more exposed roads, the life of Miss Fossard was far from my mind as I patrolled the outer regions of my beat in my official Minivan. And then I received a radio message. It came from PC Alf Ventress at Ashfordly Police Station.
“Nick,” he said after I had responded to the call sign, “what’s your location?”
“Briggsby,” I said. “Just leaving High Curragh Farm.”
“Good.” There was a note of relief in his voice. “We’ve just received a report of an accident at Waterloo Gate. One vehicle involved, driver injured. Can you attend? Alwyn Foxton can’t go; he’s dealing with a sudden death.”
“I’m on my way!” I responded. “Has the ambulance been called?”
“Yes, it’s on its way. ETA — ten minutes.”
“I’ll be there in five minutes,” I told him, signing off the air.
Wary of the prevailing road conditions and carefully negotiating the drifts which were formed as the light snow was blown through gaps in the bare hedgerows, I made my way to Waterloo Gate. When I arrived, I discovered a red Hillman Minx had collided with the sturdy left pillar of Waterloo Gate.
It had apparently skidded on black ice on the corner, left the road, hurtled over a wide grassy verge and then come to a violent halt against the strength of the pillar at the left of the gate. The gates themselves were open, probably the result of the impact, but they did not appear to be damaged. A young man was in the car, slumped over the steering wheel, and I noted the ominous patch of red on the remains of the shattered windscreen. I knew he would have head and facial injuries. A young farmer and his dog were standing nearby, anxiously awaiting my approach. I recognised him as Jim Atkinson.
“You called the police, Jim?” I asked.
“Aye, from t’ house,” he said. I knew he lived near the junction. “Ah ’eard this bang and came out. Ah dossn’t move him.”
“No, you did right to leave him. The ambulance is coming,” I said. “Now, let’s have a look at him.”
The impact with the huge stones of the gate had crushed the front of the car, curling the metal of its bonnet and wings until they looked like shavings from a piece of wood. This had exposed the innards and the engine. I could also see some damage to the stonework of the gate pillar, but was unable to make a full assessment with the car in its present position. The driver was lying very still in the wreckage of his car, his chest against the steering wheel and his bleeding head resting against the windscreen. The blood was not spurting, I noted with relief, so he hadn’t burst an artery. That knowledge considerably reduced the urgency of the situation. The driver’s door was wide open, flung wide by the impact. I spoke to him.
There was no reply. I touched him. He was warm, alive I felt, but clearly in need of urgent medical attention. That head wound could prove serious and he might have done some damage to his ribs and lungs. A broken rib could pierce a lung in these circumstances, but I knew better than move him — first aid was suitable in some cases, but our training had taught me that head and chest injuries should be left to the experts.
I made sure the car’s ignition was switched off and that there was no danger from fire, then searched his pockets for documents which might identify him. I found nothing but a small leather wallet which contained £50 in notes and some loose change. I replaced it, wondering who he was; certainly, he was a stranger to me. By the time I had undertaken all my checks to see if the driver was trapped or whether his legs and arms were broken, the ambulance arrived from Brantsford.
After a quick appraisal of the situation, the two ambulance men with my assistance withdrew the injured man from the wreckage, placed him on the stretcher along with his holdall of personal belongings and, within seconds, he was speeding towards Brantsford Memorial Hospital. I was left with the car to deal with and a lot of paperwork to complete. Jim Atkinson had remained throughout, scattering grit with a shovel from my Minivan and telling a handful of passing motorists who stopped that help was coming. He politely suggested they didn’t cause further obstructions or increase the risk of further accidents on the icy surface. Jim was of enormous help to me during those busy moments. Fortunately, the falling snow was not very heavy, now reduced to a gentle scattering of flakes.
Even so, it was continuing to drift in the more exposed regions. After I had taken the necessary details of the car such as its make, model, date of manufacture and registration number, including a brief note of its damage, and then taken measurements of the scene along with the relative position of the car, I radioed Alf Ventress and asked him to arrange for a breakdown truck to tow it to Aidensfield Garage. There, it would be subjected to a closer scrutiny, such as tests on its brakes and steering, and then left for disposal by the company which had insured it. I searched the car for any further personal belongings of the driver or any valuables which I should have to take into safekeeping pending their return to him, but there was nothing apart from a tool kit and spare wheel. I found nothing which provided his name or address, and his holdall had gone to hospital with him.
It was while awaiting the arrival of the breakdown truck that I noticed Miss Glanville pushing her cycle from the Lodge along the snow-covered track towards Waterloo Gate. Clearly, her daily stint at Briggsby Lodge was over for the day, and her arrival was fortuitous — I could inform her of the damage and ask her to notify her employer. I hailed her as she approached the gate, sensibly clad in a heavy overcoat and Wellington boots.
“Hello, Mr Rhea.” She spoke in the broad manner of the rural folk in this region. “Trouble, is it?”
“This car skidded and hit the gate post,” I pointed to the damage. “The driver’s in Brantsford Hospital but at this stage I don’t know his condition or even his name. Anyway, he’ll be interviewed in due course, and his insurance company will have to be notified about the damage to Miss Fossard’s gate. I’m not sure how badly damaged the gatepost is at this stage, but I’ll know once the car is removed, and then I’ll provide Miss Fossard with details of the insurer when I know them. Perhaps she will contact them direct, to claim the cost of the repair?”
“Yes, all right. I’ll tell her when I go back later this evening. Is the driver badly hurt? She may like to know.”
“He had injuries to his head, but he was not dead,” I told her. “I’ll let you know the moment I have some more detailed news. You’re going back tonight, in this weather?”
“It’s only a half-hour walk across the park, Mr Rhea, and I can stay the night if I want. She likes me to keep her company at dinner and to be honest, I quite enjoy it myself. I do live alone, you see . . .”
“It’s kind of you,” I said. “But I don’t think the damage to the gate is very serious.”
And I watched as she decided not to mount her trusty cycle for the final half-mile home, instead choosing to wheel it through the light covering of snow. Some ninety minutes later, the breakdown truck towed the wrecked car backwards from its resting place against the pillar and it was only then that I could see the damage to the stonework. The two large stones which had absorbed most of the impact had been dislodged and I could now see they were a few inches out of true and would have to be realigned.
The pillar was certainly in no danger of falling down and the stones were not supporting the hinges of the gate, consequently the gate itself and its surrounding metalwork had not suffered. I noted the extent of the damage in my pocketbook, and it would be entered in my official report of the accident, an abstract of which would eventually be sent to the driver’s insurance company. Miss Fossard would probably wish to recover the cost of repairs from them and I felt she would have no difficulty with her claim.
CONSTABLE AT THE GATE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 18) Page 2
