CONSTABLE AT THE GATE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 18)

by Nicholas Rhea

  “Morning, Nick,” she greeted as I approached. “Just the man I was hoping to see!”

  “Not trouble, I hope!” was my fairly predictable reply.

  “And I hope not too!” she grinned. “It’s about old Mr Chesterfield. Alan’s father. You’ve come across him?”

  “Alan’s dad? No, I can’t say I’ve met him.” I frowned as I tried to recollect the man she was speaking about. “Does he live locally?”

  “He does now,” she said. “He moved here from Scarborough, he’s come back to live with his son, Alan and Alan’s wife. You’ll know them, they’re at High Newbiggin Farm.”

  “Yes, I know Alan and Jenny very well,” I told her. “Nice people.”

  “Right, well, Alan’s mother died two or three years ago and his dad managed to look after himself for a while afterwards. He did quite well even though he missed his wife, but then his mind began to deteriorate. He took to wandering away from the old folks’ bungalow where he lived. That was at Scarborough.”

  “I remember Alan once saying his dad lived at Scarborough,” I recalled.

  “He was very happy there. In fact, both Mr and Mrs Chesterfield liked Scarborough. When they were still working on the farm at Aidensfield, they always went to Scarborough for their occasional days out, it was almost like a holiday for them, and so when they retired they decided to settle there. Anyway, after Mrs Chesterfield died, poor old Vincent got a bit lonely and started wandering away from his house. Scarborough police had a few alerts to look out for him and they always found him, usually on the foreshore gazing out to sea. The old chap always maintained he was just having a nice walk and that he’d find his own way home. He always said he wasn’t lost, claiming he knew, where he was. Anyway, from Alan’s point of view, the worry was too much, especially due to the distance from his father, so recently he brought his dad back to Aidensfield to live on the farm. It’s a big place with plenty of room, and the old fellow has his own rooms — lounge, kitchen and bedroom. It’s ideal — he can look after himself and be alone if necessary, but the family’s always on hand if there’s a problem.”

  “I’ve no doubt I’ll come across him when I pay them a visit,” I said.

  “His name is Vincent,” she reminded me. “Vincent Chesterfield. In his prime, he was a fine man, Nick, a proud man and highly respected. He was well known hereabouts and some of his contemporaries are still around. He’s met up with some of them and likes nothing better than a good natter over a pint of bitter. He was a farmer at High Newbiggin before he retired about twelve years ago. When he left the farm, Alan, being the only child, took over. So the place is still in the family.”

  “All that happened before I was posted to Aidensfield,” I realised. “So, why are you telling me about old Mr Chesterfield?”

  “As I said, in recent months, he became prone to wandering away from his home in Scarborough and that means he might still be liable to go wandering even while he’s living at the farm. I know his family is nearby so they’re able to keep an eye on him and it helps that the farm is a long way off the beaten track, but there are still plenty of places for him to go astray. If he wandered on to the moors in winter or bad weather, well, he could die as you know. So, Nick, I thought you ought to be told that he’s in the district and is a potential problem. One of these days, you might come across him in the village or on the moors. If you do, and if he looks lost, you’ll know where he’s come from!”

  “And I shall return him safe and sound to the bosom of his family,” I smiled. “So what’s he look like?”

  She described him as a man of medium height with a rather stocky build who was in his late seventies. He had a round, cheerful face, blue eyes, horn-rimmed spectacles, a good head of thick white hair and a slight hearing difficulty.

  He usually wore a grey flat cap, grey flannel trousers, a hacking jacket with a grey background colour and black brogue shoes; he was quite well dressed, his clothes were not shabby or cheap and he was fairly spritely for his age. He used a walking stick and did like walking briskly over quite long distances — he could walk four or five miles without any great difficulty and his general appearance was one of a man in total possession of his faculties. Sadly, though, he was not in total possession of those faculties — his mind did cause problems from time to time and he sometimes forgot who he was and where he lived.

  I thanked Margot for this information and made a mental note of the old man’s physical appearance in the certain knowledge that I would encounter him in the fairly near future.

  * * *

  In the weeks that followed, I did notice him once or twice in the village, often doing the shopping. On those occasions, I had no cause to worry about him. Jenny, his daughter-in-law, had obviously decided that he liked something to do and knowing that he did love Aidensfield, she’d realised that a long walk to fill a shopping bag with essentials from the village shop was an excellent way of keeping the old man occupied, both mentally and physically. He could even visit the pub for a chat with some of his old pals and Margot did say they had been asked to keep an eye on him too. Having spotted him in the village with the shopping bag, I did not interfere, knowing that if he did not return to the farm within a certain time, I’d receive a telephone call. But I didn’t receive any such calls because old Mr Chesterfield always returned to the farm with his load intact.

  As time passed, it seemed he was settling happily into his former home at High Newbiggin Farm and everyone — family, Margot and myself — began to feel that his aimless wanderings had ceased. But they hadn’t. After a few months, he started to wander away from the premises. For some reason, old Mr Chesterfield’s mind would suddenly develop a fault and off he would go, wandering away from home at all hours of the day and night without knowing where he was heading or why he was leaving.

  There were times he’d left in the early hours of the morning dressed only in his pyjamas, times when he’d dressed in his Sunday best but instead of going to church he’d gone into the woods to pick mushrooms, times when he’d told the family he was going to meet a friend in the pub when in fact he’d wandered across the open moors with a vague expression on his face. Once he’d got out of bed at midnight to muck out the cow house and feed the hens. In most of the cases, the family very quickly became aware of his absence and were able to trace him and return him to the fold without too much trouble. But even during those excursions, his appearance was one of a perfectly normal old gentleman. A casual observer would never realise the fellow had a mental problem.

  Once or twice, however, when his family were unable to trace him, I did get a worried phone call as a result of which I had to mount a low-key search of the district. And on every occasion, I, or someone who knew him well, managed to locate the lonely wanderer and take him home. He never went very far away. To give him due praise, he never tried to avoid being returned to the farm and, to be honest, he seemed to have no idea of his whereabouts or even his identity until he walked through the door, when his memory seemed to click back into working order. And then he was perfectly normal again. Familiar surroundings did appear to settle his mind and give him comfort.

  It was all very sad and potentially dangerous for old Mr Chesterfield, but Margot said this kind of thing could happen to elderly folks. In most cases, the entire population of the village took it upon themselves to look out for any aged wanderers who happened to live among them and to inform their relatives or help in other ways. Mr Chesterfield was no exception but one pleasing factor was that the people of Aidensfield would care for him as well as his family and the professionals — even if he wandered along the road to Ashfordly, someone would notice him and return him home. That kind of local support was reassuring to all. It did seem, however, that one remedy was to keep old Mr Chesterfield in the vicinity of the farm and to ensure he was fully occupied — that combination of factors also meant he could be supervised. With the experience of a few months at the farm, it became evident that while he was gainfully occupied, he
would never stray from his home pastures. He wandered when he was bored.

  Alan and Jenny were determined to ensure that he had something to occupy him every hour of the day and it was fortunate that the one thing of which he never tired, was the sight and sounds of the routine of the farm. He was quite content to sit and watch the cows being milked or the sheep being clipped. He liked to help feed the calves or gather in the eggs and would even give a hand with the mucking out in either the pig sties or the cow sheds.

  In short, his return to the farm had appeared to improve his mental state and at the same time had given him some happiness in his declining years. Alan and Jenny’s response had been successful because there is no doubt that as time went by, the frequency of his wandering began to decrease. The time had almost arrived when he could be trusted to stay alone on the farm, if only for a short time.

  Then one autumn day, Jenny had to represent Aidensfield Women’s Institute at an event in York. It was an annual meeting of representatives from all the Women’s Institutes in Yorkshire. It was an important occasion and one at which Aidensfield should be represented. Jenny had been chosen for the task which meant joining the bus which collected other delegates from nearby communities; it would collect her outside the post office at 9.45 a.m. and she expected to return at 6 p.m. or thereabouts. It so happened that Alan’s only workman, a general labourer called Ike Wilson, was ill with flu that day which meant that Alan would be alone on the farm. Under normal circumstances, that would not create a major problem, but the question of keeping an eye on old Mr Chesterfield arose. Although the need had considerably reduced, Alan continued to be concerned about his father and wondered if he could cope with the old man for the whole of that Wednesday while completing his own tasks.

  One of the fields had to be ploughed, the soil needed to be turned so that the frosts of autumn would work the earth and reduce it to a rich loam; the field in question, a massive hillside patch on the edge of the moor, would take all day and possibly more to plough, even using a tractor instead of horses.

  Alan, knowing of his father’s delight at seeing newly ploughed land with long, shining furrows and symmetrical patterns on the landscape, decided he would invite his father to watch him turn the earth. That way, he could keep the old fellow under modest if rather distant supervision. Alan would take a packed lunch and flasks of coffee for their ’lowance times and, in some ways, it would remind Mr Chesterfield of his own days at the farm.

  When Alan mentioned it to his father, Mr Chesterfield thought it was a wonderful idea. He said he would really enjoy watching the seasonal ploughing, to say nothing of the wildlife he would observe at the same time.

  “It’s a nice idea, but where will you put him so he can watch what’s going on, Alan?” Jenny had asked. “You’ll have to keep him interested all day.”

  “I’ll put him in my car,” Alan had told her. “I’ll park it in that top pasture; it overlooks the field I’ll be ploughing and if he sits in the front passenger seat, he’ll get a really good view. There’s a radio in the car too; it’ll be comfy and warm, and he can put the heater on if he gets cold. I’ll join him for my breaks, so he’ll have company for part of the day and it won’t seem as if I am keeping him under close scrutiny. That should please him!”

  And so the plan was put into operation. Old Mr Chesterfield warmed to his part in the day’s ploughing. He could take the newspapers too, or a book, and his packed lunch, and something for ten o’clock and three o’clock, a flask or two of coffee, and even a bottle of whisky . . . “I’ll be fine, Alan,” he had smiled. “Let Jenny go to her WI, we’ll be grand you and me, just the pair of us up there.”

  That Wednesday in October, Jenny put on her best clothes and Alan drove her down to the village to catch the bus, then returned to put his own plans into action. When he got back, his dad was waiting with enough luggage to supply a holidaymaker for a fortnight, but Alan allowed the old man to pack it all into the car. He’d even brought a pack of cards in case he wanted to play patience, and a holdall containing a change of clothing in case he got soaked while taking a stroll in the field. Clearly, Mr Chesterfield was taking this outing very seriously.

  The previous evening, as part of his preparations, Alan had parked the tractor and plough in a barn in a corner of the field so it was in position for the day’s work; all he had to do was drive his car along the grassy lane and park it in the prearranged place with his father on board. This he did. Leaving his dad in the passenger seat, he parked it facing south-east where it had extensive views across the field in which he would be working.

  “There you are, dad,” he said. “You can have a grand time here. I’ll leave the keys in the ignition — if you want me for anything, switch it on and pip the horn. And if you want the heater to work, you’ll have to switch it on and run the engine for a few minutes to warm it up. Now this is the radio . . .”

  “I can work the controls of a car, Alan, I used to have one. I taught you to drive, remember! I’m not senile, you know!” Vincent had snapped. “Now off you go and get started, otherwise you’ll not get finished before dark. I’ll be fine . . . I’ve brought enough to keep me occupied for months! I can even camp out a couple of nights if I have to. So forget me and get on with what you’re supposed to be doing.”

  And so Alan left his father sitting in the car as he went to start the tractor and commence his own work. From time to time while ploughing, Alan looked across to the hillock upon which the car was parked, and saw his father’s figure inside. He was sitting quite still, reading, listening to the radio or simply watching the progress of the work in the fields. On one occasion, he went for a short walk but returned to the car within five minutes. His return pleased Alan — Dad seemed to be acting sensibly. Then Alan halted his labours about half past ten and joined his dad in the car for coffee break. They’d have drinks and a scone — ’lowance as it was known locally.

  For a few minutes, the two men chatted about farm work and Alan found himself enjoying his dad’s companionship. All too soon it was time to resume. Alan returned to his tractor with a promise that he would knock off for lunch about 12.30 and rejoin him in the car. Mr Chesterfield said he was fine, he’d tackle the Yorkshire Post crossword, find something on the radio to listen to and maybe stretch his legs with a longer walk down to the stream. Alan signified his agreement. It seemed that Dad was not going to be a problem today.

  About three-quarters of an hour later, when Alan was completing a somewhat complicated turn at the far end of the field, he glanced towards the place he’d left his car — but it had gone! At first, he couldn’t believe his eyes. He thought his position at the distant end of the field had obliterated his view so he halted the tractor and leapt from it to run to a higher position. But the car was not there. And neither was Dad.

  He recalled his father saying something about going for a walk beside the stream, but he wouldn’t have taken the car down there — access was via a narrow footpath. With the tractor engine still running, Alan wondered whether it would be quicker to unhitch the plough and take the tractor in pursuit of the car, or simply run to the farmhouse to see if Dad was there. After all, he might have gone to the toilet.

  The wisdom or otherwise of letting the old man sit in a car with the keys in the ignition now came into question but Alan found himself running almost a mile to the house to see if his father was there. Panting heavily, he arrived but saw the car wasn’t parked near the house or in the outbuildings. Alan ran into the house, shouting “Dad, are you there?” but there was no response. He checked the bathroom, the downstairs toilet, the kitchen, his father’s own end of the house, then all the bedrooms and lounge. Finally, he rushed around the outbuildings calling his father’s name, but there was no sign of him. With a feeling of absolute dread, he had to accept that both car and old man had vanished.

  That’s when he rang my police house. I was out on patrol but Mary managed to get a message to me via the police radio, and I went straight to High
Newbiggin Farm. It was around noon when I arrived having first done a swift but unsuccessful search of the village for the old man and Alan’s car which I knew by sight even if I did not remember its registration number. By the time I arrived at the farm, Alan was pacing up and down the yard, the anxiety now clear on his face.

  “I just don’t know where he could have gone, Nick.” He swept his hand through his thick hair. “I’ve looked everywhere, inside and out, and he’s not here. He’s got the car, though, that’s the problem, and it’s packed with enough stuff to see him through a holiday! Spare clothes, the lot! In a holdall. I should have realised he was plotting something, the cunning old devil!”

  “Have you any idea where he might have gone?” I asked.

  “If he’s not in the village, no. I’ve no idea,” Alan admitted.

  At this point, he told me the complete story behind this escapade along with his father’s background, and I sympathised with him, expressing hope that old Mr Chesterfield would not come to any harm. He might voluntarily return to the farm but nonetheless, I said I would initiate a formal search. I made a note of Mr Chesterfield’s description and the clothes presently being worn by him, along with a more detailed description of the car and its registration number. Armed with this information, I radioed force control room to ask that observations be maintained for the car and its driver.

  “Is there a particular area of search?” asked the operator from control.

  I looked at Alan who was with me as I made this appeal and he said, “He used to take my mum to Scarborough for the day, and he did live there for a time in retirement. He does love Scarborough, it’s the only place I can suggest.”

  I relayed this to control who said they would make a special request to all mobiles patrolling the coastal areas, and details would be passed to the town police of Scarborough.