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

  “It is, but he often goes up there; we never worry about him, he’s quite sensible — and he was up there over the weekend,” Dan admitted. “When we quizzed him on Saturday afternoon, he said he’d been watching the silver hawk flying over Aidensfield Moor. I know nowt about birds and reckon he’s been seeing a big seagull. But yes, I think he could have gone up there instead of going to school.”

  “You’ve been to look?” I asked.

  “Not yet, that was my next job after checking around the village.”

  “Right,” I said. “If you go up to Witch Hill, I’ll check the area around Briggsby Nab. I’ve got to call at Nab Side Farm this morning — my next job in fact — so I’ll keep my eyes and ears open. Then I’ll come back and see you later, say lunchtime, to see if there’s any progress?”

  “Aye, right,” he agreed.

  I did not explain my reason for travelling out to Nab Side Farm because I did not want Dan to think his son was under suspicion as a petty thief — but I knew I would have to interview Simon about the thefts when he returned home. I did not regard this as a missing child drama — not yet anyway. It was just a case of truancy at this stage, but decided I should call at the school before heading into the hills.

  Josie Preston, Simon’s teacher, greeted me and when I explained that I’d been talking to Simon’s dad, she smiled.

  “I had to tell him, but forgot to mention Friday.”

  “He played truant on Friday too?” I asked.

  “Yes, at first when he didn’t come for assembly, I thought he was ill and left it at that. Then later in the morning one of the children said they’d seen Simon on his bike, heading out of the village when he should have been coming to school. I rang the family home straight away, but Mr Ellis was out on a job, I think; there was no reply. Mrs Ellis always goes to the market on Fridays, on the early bus, so I missed her and couldn’t contact either of them. By the time they returned, school was over and anyway, I saw Simon heading homewards on his bike. He was too far off for me to catch him for a chat, but I knew he was safe. Because I got no reply from the house, I think he was absent from home all day Friday, returning in time for his tea, just as if he’d been to school.”

  “That makes sense. You know about the silver hawk legend?” I asked her.

  “Yes, I do. And he did tell me he’d seen a silver hawk one day after school, but said I was not to tell anyone about it! It was a secret, he said, only his dad and mum knew. I have no idea what he saw, to be honest. I did wonder if he’d imagined the whole thing.”

  “I think that’s where he’s gone this morning,” I said. “Somewhere on those moors looking for his silver hawk. But there is no such bird, his dad thinks he’s been watching a seagull, probably a herring gull if it was a large whitish bird.”

  I told Josie I was on my way to Briggsby Nab and that Simon’s father was heading towards the Witch Hill area, so between us we should locate the truant boy. I was content in my assessment of the situation, i.e. that I did not need to be panicked into arranging a full-scale search, and I arrived at Nab Side Farm without a hitch.

  Over coffee and fruit cake, I settled down as John and Francis showed me the scene of their crime. Sometime yesterday afternoon, their house had been entered via the closed but unlocked door. The thief or thieves had explored the house because several drawers had been searched and left open but nothing taken other than cash from John’s office and some food from the pantry. I asked the usual questions about suspicious persons in the vicinity, people working on the farm, people with legitimate access to the house who might have been tempted, but came down firmly in the belief that the thief was someone who was camping or living rough in the area. Judging by the locations of both attacked premises, the villain or villains were able to watch for the departure of the householders. It would be a simple matter to conceal oneself on the moors and carry out a scrutiny of the premises from the slopes of Briggsby Nab — especially through a good pair of binoculars — and then enter when the occupants had left. But would a ten-year-old boy do that?

  Questions from John and Francis failed to elicit any useful information about likely suspects and so I left their house, promising that I would keep them informed about any developments. And like yesterday, I called at various farms and houses between Nab Side and Briggsby — and this time, I was in luck.

  I noticed Ted Wilkinson, a retired garage mechanic, weeding his borders at Bilberry Cottage half a mile or so beyond the entrance to Nab Side and stopped for a chat. When I asked about strangers using the road, he said, “I only saw a lad on a bike, a young lad. I remember thinking he should be at school but he looked smart and tidy. That would be ten o’clockish, when I was taking my dog out.”

  “Where was he?” I asked.

  “Well, he put his bike behind a wall, up near Larch Gill, that’s at the bottom of Witch Hill. It’s a blue bike with a white seat. Then I saw him climbing up the moor from there, using that dried-up bed of the beck as a footpath.”

  “Thanks,” I breathed a sigh of relief. “But did he go anywhere near Nab Side Farm?”

  “No, nowhere, Mr Rhea. It’s just that I thought it odd, him not being at school.”

  “Thanks Ted, I’ll see if I can trace him.”

  I found Simon’s bike within half an hour. He had taken it through a gate and rested it against a high drystone wall so that it was invisible to anyone driving past. And ahead, I saw the rocky bed of the dried-up beck or gill as such small streams are known on these moors. The gill flowed from the heights of the moor to join the river several miles away, and so I decided to follow that route. It was hot and I was dressed in my heavy uniform; soon, I was panting and perspiring, pausing every few yards to wipe my brow and regain my breath. I stopped every few minutes to rest, each time turning to view the panorama which was unfolding below me.

  As I climbed higher and higher, I could see the entire dale spread below with all the farms, cottages, patchwork of fields and web of stone walls in view. I realised people from the cities and towns would have to pay heavily to see this kind of countryside. But I did not have time to daydream and revel in the landscape — I was hunting a truant! Unfortunately, I was not as fit as I should be — and certainly, not as agile as a ten-year-old boy would be. But I persisted, noting that it was now approaching one o’clock, and then as I crested yet another incline, I saw him. I saw the small figure of Simon Ellis sitting with his back to a drystone wall which followed the line of the hill and he was gazing at something through his binoculars. He was sufficiently absorbed in his observations not to notice my arrival and I was able to approach him before he realised I was there. I thought he would get up and run, but he did not. His face, however, revealed his fear of my discovery.

  “Hello, Simon,” I said, sitting at his side and resting my tired legs. “What brings you up here?”

  “Hello, Mr Rhea.” He licked his lips nervously, clearly wondering why I was here and what I was going to do. “There’s a silver hawk’s nest down there,” and he pointed towards a hollow in the moor.

  “Is it?” I was surprised. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, it’s got four eggs in, very light blue ones.”

  “Has it? It’s not a seagull of some kind, then?”

  “No, Mr Rhea! I know what a seagull looks like!”

  “Can you show me?”

  “She’s sitting on the eggs, Mr Rhea, we’d frighten her off. But the male will come soon to feed her, then you’ll see where the nest is. It’s near that big lump of rock, the one with the green moss on it, over there,” and he pointed.

  I followed the line of his outstretched finger and found the boulder.

  “So we wait?” I asked him.

  “Yes, he’ll be here soon, the silver hawk. You’ll see him, Mr Rhea, but you must not tell anyone.”

  “Mustn’t I? Why not?”

  “Because it’s a very rare bird, Mr Rhea, and people mustn’t know it’s here . . . it’s come back, you see, back to Aidensfield.
They used to live here a long time ago. This is Witch Hill, Mr Rhea, and they say the silver hawk brings good fortune to the people who live here . . . ah, there he is! Watch him, Mr Rhea, watch the silver hawk,” and he pointed to a dot in the sky, handing me his binoculars.

  I focused them on the approaching bird and saw that it was a large bird of prey, heading towards me on slow-moving wings, almost gliding in fact. And it was silver. At least, it appeared to be silver where the bright sunshine touched its back, wings and underparts; I saw that it had black wing tips and that it was carrying something in its talons. Certainly, the sun appeared to be glinting from its plumage and I could see why it was called the silver hawk.

  “He will call to his mate soon,” I heard Simon whisper to me. “She’ll rise from the nest to meet him . . . you’ll see.”

  He was right.

  As the beautiful shining silver hawk soared above the boulder Simon had indicated, it issued a sharp call and I saw a large brown bird rise from the ground, from a place hidden in the heather. As the silver hawk cried and called, she rose into the air to meet him and then did something remarkable. When she was flying directly beneath him, she turned over onto her back with her talons outstretched and at that stage, the male dropped his catch. It looked like a small bird, dead of course, but she deftly caught it in her claws, rolled over and flew back to the nest. The majestic silver bird executed a huge turn in the air and soared away towards the horizon, to find something else for his mate.

  “That was amazing!” I handed the binoculars back to Simon. “I had no idea birds did that!”

  “The silver hawk does that,” he said. “It is famous for it.”

  “But the other bird was brown,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, that is the female,” he told me with the authority of one who knew his subject. “She sits on the eggs while he hunts, and if we approach the nest, she will attack us.”

  “You know a lot about birds, Simon,” I said. “I did not think there was such a bird as the silver hawk.”

  “That’s not its real name, Mr Rhea. I checked in books at school. It’s a hen harrier, that’s its real name. The male is white and grey with black tips to his wings, and the female is brown with dark streaks. They are very rare, Mr Rhea, we must not tell anyone about this.”

  “Is that why you didn’t go to school today?” I put to him. “Because you wanted to see the silver hawk?”

  “I’m guarding it, Mr Rhea, guarding the nest in case people come to steal the eggs.”

  “But no one’s likely to do that, are they? They’ll never find the nest, Simon, and if what you say is true, the female will drive them away!”

  “They might shoot her, Mr Rhea, to steal the eggs.”

  “Who might?” I asked, sensing there was something deeper in all this.

  “Those two men in the tent,” he told me. “I’ve seen them walking about the moor; I think they’re looking for the nest.”

  I didn’t tell him that it would be a simple matter to find the nest if they really wanted — it was a matter of waiting for the male to return and for both birds to perform their spectacular aerobatics.

  “Two men in a tent?” I asked. “Where are they?”

  “There are some trees over there, out of our sight, under the hill. They’ve got a tent near a small beck, and a motorbike.”

  “Can you show me?” I asked.

  “We mustn’t scare the bird,” he said, rising to his feet to lead me over the moors for half a mile or so. We moved into the shelter of one of the many drystone walls which adorned Witch Hill and soon I was standing a short distance from a small green tent. A scrambles motorbike, adapted as a two-seater, was parked on its stand nearby.

  “Are they there?” I asked Simon.

  “No, they went off early,” he said, “walking; I saw them through my binoculars.”

  “Whereabouts?” I asked.

  “Up to that farm over there.” He indicated an elevated farm at the far side of the dale. “I saw them just before you came.”

  I groaned. I knew the farm. It was called High Swang and belonged to Adam and Elizabeth Lonsdale. It was too far away to reach by foot and involved a seven- or eight-mile journey from here by car, so I decided to obtain the registration number of the bike and call the police station at Ashfordly via my police radio.

  “What did they look like?” I asked him, without much hope.

  “I saw them through my binoculars,” he said. “One of them is very tall and thin and he has long, dirty hair. He wears jeans and a dark-blue shirt. The other was smaller and had glasses on, he had long hair as well, light brown.”

  “Thanks, Simon, this is brilliant!”

  With Simon watching, I made a quick search of the tent which revealed only a pair of sleeping bags and some personal belongings, with nothing to suggest a name for either of the men. But the bike did have a registration plate and I noted the number, the tax disc revealing it was registered in Middlesbrough.

  “Simon, I must go to my car now, and ring for help. I want to catch those men whoever they are. Now, you have your bike, eh?”

  “Yes, I must go now.”

  “Simon, you must not stay away from school like this. Your mum and dad are frantic with worry, and Miss Preston too.”

  “I had to protect the silver hawk, Mr Rhea, and daren’t tell anybody.”

  “Well, if I can find those two men, I think the silver hawk’s nest will be safe. You can still come up here after school, and at weekends, and I do think we should tell the experts about the bird. I can tell everyone you were right in what you saw, that it’s not a seagull of any kind.”

  He walked at my side and when I reached his cycle, I realised I could remove the front wheel, and that it would then go in the rear of my Minivan. I would carry him back to Aidensfield in my van. But before doing anything else, I raised Ashfordly Police on the radio. Alf Ventress answered.

  “Alf,” I said, “I’m on the moors near Witch Hill,” and then proceeded to explain about the thefts from the farms. I added my theories about the two suspects and said they were now thought to be in the vicinity of High Swang, on foot. I provided the registration details of the motorbike too, and he said he would check with Middlesbrough motor taxation department to ascertain the owner. I concluded by saying I would drop Simon Ellis off at his home in Aidensfield before taking the road out to High Swang, hopefully to catch two thieves. Alf said that there was a road traffic patrol car in the locality — it had called at Ashfordly Police Station only ten minutes earlier, and he would direct it to High Swang. If that happened, then I could return to wait near the little tent.

  I then suggested Alf telephone the Lonsdales at High Swang to alert them to the presence of two possible villains — I knew that the farm had a bell extension from their phone, so they could hear it ringing if they were in the outbuildings, and if that sounded, it might scare off any potential thieves. Alf assured me he would do that. I eased to a halt outside Daniel Ellis’s home and eased Simon’s bike from the rear of my van before knocking on the door. Dan answered and the moment he saw his son, he started to shout at him.

  “No, wait,” I pleaded with him. “Your Simon has been doing some excellent work, Dan; apart from identifying a rare bird — a hen harrier — he’s probably helped me catch a couple of thieves. So don’t be hard on him — I’ve explained about not taking time off school without permission . . . and I’ll call later to explain in greater detail.”

  “All right.” He did not sound too convinced, but calmed down as he led his son inside, leaving bike and its front wheel propped against the wall. Before deciding whether I should return to the tent and motorbike, or head for High Swang, I radioed Alf Ventress again.

  “Tango Seven is en route to High Swang,” he told me. “Sergeant Blaketon suggests you return to their tent in case they make for it. I have contacted Middlesbrough Police with the name of the owner of the motorcycle; enquiries are being made from CID and a reply is awaited. Over.”
r />   “Received and understood,” I responded, turning around and heading back to silver hawk country.

  As I drove the long, slow miles to the foot of Witch Hill, I heard Tango Seven report its arrival at High Swang where, it seemed, Adam Lonsdale had caught the two youths actually in the process of raiding his pantry. He’d held them at the point of his twelve bore until the arrival of the patrol car, and they were now being taken to Ashfordly Police Station under arrest for housebreaking. My presence was no longer required at the tent and so I turned around and made for Ashfordly, learning as I did so, that the owner of the bike was called Spike Blackburn and his companion was Steve Murphy, both petty crooks from Middlesbrough.

  It seemed they were known to the local CID who said there had been some kind of trouble between rival gangs on Teesside, as a result of which these two likely lads had abandoned their usual haunts until the fuss died down. They had literally taken to the hills, but lacking the knowledge required to cater for themselves in the great British outback, they had raided farmhouses for food and some cash, the latter being used for trips into Ashfordly to buy fish and chips and the occasional pint of beer. They’d been in their tent for five days, but I think they were pleased to be arrested — at least they’d have a warm cell for tonight and some hot food, even if it did come from the fish and chip shop.

  * * *

  It was a successful conclusion to a curious but very interesting day — I learned something about ornithology and decided I would introduce Simon to a wildlife expert I knew in Pickering — the return of the silver hawk to our moors was too important to ignore, and it was Simon Ellis who had discovered the bird.

  The hen harrier species, unfairly accused of raiding poultry runs, had almost become extinct in this country but once the bird received the protection of the law, its numbers began to increase. Once limited to the Orkneys and Outer Hebrides, it began to colonise parts of Great Britain after the war, all the time moving further south as its numbers increased. The sighting near Aidensfield was very important and, even now in the late 1990s, the hen harrier can be seen on the North York Moors.