“Very little said by Mr Greengrass is all right!” I smiled ruefully.
“But there is no law against horses using the roads, is there?” The man was smiling at me now. I felt I had made some kind of progress.
“No, there is no law to stop horses using the road, but there are laws to stop them being ridden furiously and to the danger of others on the road,” I said. “You can trot them or gallop them, but not race them.”
“I see no difference, mister,” he frowned. “Walking, galloping, racing . . .”
“Racing can lead to danger, to the horses as well as other road users, and so our law says it is illegal.”
“Even at five thirty on a light summer morning when no one is around?” he said.
“If there was no one around, we should not know about it,” I laughed. “It is because someone was around, in a lorry, that has made me aware of it. I am here to ask you to stop, for the sake of your animals and other road users.”
He smiled slyly at me and said, “But they were not all our horses, mister.”
I knew that it would be extremely difficult to prove whether any of the galloping horses belonged to this group, and he knew that.
“So whose were they?” I returned.
“One is ours, the other two belong to Mr Greengrass,” he said.
“Greengrass?” I looked at the animals spread along the verge.
“You mean most of these belong to Claude?”
“No, not these. These are all ours. Two of the three galloping this morning belong to Mr Greengrass.”
“I don’t understand.” I was puzzled by this statement and for a moment did not believe what I was hearing.
“We need to complete a deal with Mr Greengrass,” he said. “We are people of our word. The gallops must continue, for four more days.”
“So what is this deal? Why is it so important?” I put to him.
“You know Greengrass, mister?”
“I do indeed,” I said with emphasis.
“He buys and sells horses, among other things.”
“Does he?” I had no idea he dealt in horses. Not thoroughbreds, I felt.
“He keeps them somewhere, horses like ours, horses that sell in horse fairs. We sell his horses for him, at Appleby Horse Fair. It follows at the end of this month.”
“You sell all his horses?” I was surprised at this.
“No, we agree to take five of them to Appleby for him. Five of his best ones. That is all we can cope with. So, he selects ten of his best horses and brings them to us. We gallop them as happened this morning, to see which is the best. One of ours goes with them; ours are fit animals, mister. Being on the road all days keeps them fit. We compare his with ours. And we take his five best ones to Appleby, get the best price and return the proceeds, less our commission and expenses, to Greengrass when we come here next time, after Appleby.”
“But surely,” I said, “there are other ways of assessing the condition of a horse?”
“Of course, mister. We check them all, but we need to know they are fit for the walk to Appleby, and after that, they will be fit for sale. I can tell a lot from a one-mile gallop, none of his has ever beaten ours in the morning race.”
“One mile?”
“Greengrass said the place we use is exactly one mile long, used by the police to test their cars, he told us.”
“He’s right. We test our speedometers on that measured mile, but I never dreamt it could be used to establish the condition of a horse. So I’d better have words with Mr Greengrass. Was he there this morning?”
“Yes, he was with us. Our men were the riders of all the horses, mister. We know our horses. And we shall pick the five best of his to take with us.”
“Well, I cannot give you permission to race your horses on the road.”
“If we could find another place with a mile of level going, we would prefer to use it,” he said.
“You’ve tried the old airfield, it’s just along the road from here?”
“No,” he said. “We do not ask any more. We are always turned away.”
“If I could secure you permission to race your horses on that old airstrip, would that suit you?”
He smiled and nodded. “That would be very much appreciated. It is only once a year.”
“I’ll go right away,” I promised him.
* * *
The owner of the derelict airfield was a farmer called Humphrey Grisedale whom I knew well. A sober gentleman, devoted Methodist and teetotaller, he led a very pure kind of life, never visiting the local pub, never going to whist drives or supporting charities which involved hunting, shooting or fishing. Tall and slim with a skull-like face, he answered my knock with a wide and toothy smile for which he was renowned.
“Mr Rhea,” he beamed. “How good of you to call. What can I do for you this time?”
“It’s not a stock register visit,” I said. “More of a request for assistance.”
“Well, you know me, a Christian gentleman through and through. I always help those in need,” he said with one of his wide smiles.
I commented upon his known philanthropic work in the district and followed it with a commentary upon the dangers present upon our highways. Having, hopefully, paved the way for a sympathetic reception to my request, I went on, “Mr Grisedale,” I said. “Some acquaintances of mine need a length of smooth, flat terrain upon which to test the quality of their livestock. Horses, in fact. They need a goodly distance — a mile is about right — and it would be required for about five days during the year, five consecutive days. Currently, they are using the public highway for this . . . I feel it is very dangerous and probably unlawful, but I wonder if you would consider allowing them to use the old runways which you now own.”
“Has Greengrass been talking to you, Mr Rhea?” he frowned as he put the question to me.
“Greengrass? No, he hasn’t. Why?”
“Well, he came to me some time ago, a year or two since in fact, with exactly the same proposition. Something to do with grading horses for sale at Appleby Fair, if I remember rightly.”
“Yes, that sounds like it. And what was your reaction?”
“Outright refusal, Mr Rhea. No chance.”
“Oh,” was all I could think of saying, before adding, “Can I ask why?”
“Gambling, Mr Rhea. I am steadfastly opposed to any form of gambling. It is sinful, in my view, and Greengrass was placing bets on the horses which he told me about . . . so I refused. Betting is against my religion and my principles.”
“So if I persuaded Greengrass to avoid any form of gambling when dealing with the horses, you might reconsider it?”
“I am a Christian gentleman, Mr Rhea, and if I have the facilities on my land to avoid the risk of injury or accident, then of course I shall be pleased to assist.”
“Gypsies are involved.” I had to be fair with this man. “They are camping along the lane now.”
“I have no objection to genuine Romanies, Mr Rhea. Those people down the lane are genuine, I have seen them and talked to them. Indeed, if only they would ask, I should be happy for them to camp in the south-eastern corner of my old airfield. It is land without any other function, they could have it and be settled. You will tell them that?”
“I’ll explain about the no-gambling and no-betting condition . . . so you have a long stretch of runway they can use?”
“I have, Mr Rhea. I have indeed.”
When I returned to the gypsy encampment and spoke to the man with whom I had the earlier conversation, he was delighted.
“The Greengrass man told me to avoid the airfield,” he said. “He said the man was not human — ”
“The man is human in his own way,” I smiled. “But his religious beliefs forbid gambling of any kind. You go and see him . . . I will go and see Greengrass.”
“Thank you mister,” he said, holding out his hand for me to shake.
“I’m PC Rhea, Aidensfield Police,” I reminded him.
“Malachi Smith, at your service,” he smiled in return.
I shrugged my shoulders at that response, returned to my Minivan and went off to find Claude Jeremiah Greengrass. He was working on his ranch when I arrived, collecting eggs from one of his battered henhouses.
“Now then, Claude,” I called as I emerged from my van.
“I didn’t do it, whatever it is,” he called. “And Alfred didn’t worry that lad’s pet hamster.”
“What hamster?” I asked.
“Whose ever hamster it was that got worried,” he grinned. “Anyroad, what brings you here this fine summer morning?”
“Horse racing on the highway, Claude. Contrary to section 78 of the Highways Act 1835. You nearly caused a milk tanker to have a pile-up this morning.”
“I wasn’t riding the damned things; it was them gyppos.”
“But they were your horses, Claude. Well, two of them were, two out of three. It’s got to stop!”
“It’s business, Constable.” He blinked at me and twisted his head around in his nervousness. “I have to sell ’em, and I have to show they’re good horses, for Appleby. Those gyppos want to see ’em race, hold their own against their animals . . .”
“Then do it on the old airfield,” I said.
“He won’t let us, old skinflint Grisedale.”
“He will, if you don’t gamble on the outcome.” I tried very hard not to smile at this stage.
“Gamble? Who said owt about gambling?”
“It is an offence to loiter on a street or public place for the purpose of placing bets,” I chanted at him. “So if I turn up on the measured mile in the morning and find you racing horses on the highway and placing bets on the outcome, you’d finish up in Ashfordly Police cells. Want to bet on that?”
He readjusted his neck and blinked his eyes and said, “Who do I see about all this?”
“Grisedale for one, and Malachi Smith for another.”
“Who?”
“The gypsy leader. Malachi Smith.”
“His name’s Seamus O’Flaherty,” grinned Claude. “Malachi Smith . . .”
“All gypsies are called Malachi Smith,” I chuckled. “Even those who speak to policemen!”
“Aye, well, I suppose I ought to thank you, getting us off the road. I mean, if Sergeant Blaketon had come round that corner instead of a milk tanker, well, you never know, do you?”
“I do know, Claude, which is why I recommend you accept Grisedale’s offer. Horse racing on his old runways yes! Betting on the outcome, no!”
“Can I sell you a good horse?” he chuckled. “One owner, low mileage, economical . . .”
“Only if it’s comprehensively insured,” I retorted, and left him.
But in the days which followed, horses ridden by gypsies raced around the old airfield at Stovensby before being selected for sale at one of the country’s most famous horse fairs. And now, the tradition continues. It’s much more formalised now with lots more horses and riders taking part. The Stovensby Horse Trials are an annual event, but bookmakers are still not allowed on the track. That is also a tradition, even though poor old Humphrey Grisedale died several years ago. The old airfield is under new management now.
Claude Jeremiah Greengrass gets a complimentary ticket, however. And so do I.
Chapter 8
We must never assume that which is incapable of proof.
GEORGE HENRY LEWES, 1817–78
One of the chief lessons learned at a police training school is that one should never make assumptions without the necessary supporting evidence. For a police officer, therefore, the gathering of material evidence is vital if an allegation of wrongdoing is to be supported, especially in court. One should never prosecute a person without the necessary evidence, although arrests can be made upon a basis of reasonable suspicion.
There are times however, when the desired evidence is not easy to obtain or even beyond the range of the most diligent investigatory efforts, consequently even the best police officer in the world may reach a conclusion which, in the light of future events, is proved inaccurate or even downright wrong. Members of the general public are not bound by such a rigid discipline, though, and there are times when a set of circumstances which is observed by them can lead to assumptions which are totally untrue. Gossips are wonderful examples of this — they can witness a small incident and dream up all manner of dubious ‘facts’ from their interpretation of what they saw. It is frankly amazing how often people can make themselves believe things which have no foundation in fact. The truth is, of course, that we can all let ourselves be led into believing something about another person which is inaccurate — even police officers, with all their training and caution, are sometimes fallible in that way.
It was the actions of Sidney Layfield which vividly reminded me of that human weakness. Sidney was a little man, barely five feet tall, and when I made his acquaintance upon my arrival at Aidensfield, he was well rounded in plump middle age. He had a round face, a very bald round head which shone in the morning sunshine, and yet in spite of his rotund outline, he was always neat and tidy. He wore tiny shoes and had tiny hands; I reasoned he must have been a very tiny child.
It was only because he was a resident of Aidensfield that I had become aware of him and his lifestyle — it is a police officer’s job to know all about those who live and work on his patch for such local knowledge can sometimes enable a helping hand to be offered, advice to be given or a crime to be detected. I had never had cause to interview Sidney about anything, lawful or unlawful, and our social activities rarely coincided but because he and his wife, Mavis, lived in a modest terraced cottage in the village, I was aware of their existence.
Sidney, I learned over the course of a few months, had once been a stable lad and jockey; in his youth, he had been slim and lightweight, riding out at some of the local racing stables and even winning races both on the flat and over the sticks. But with increasing age and widening of his girth, he had given up his riding and now worked in the hardware department of a large store in Ashfordly. What had once been a slender figure with a thin face topped by lots of dark wavy hair, was now a chubby little chap who smoked a pipe and liked good food.
With the distinctive high-pitched voice of a jockey, he drove a Morris Minor to work and appeared to live a very quiet and modest life. He rarely involved himself with village matters, other than an occasional visit to the pub for a couple of swift halves of bitter. At home, he read a lot, sitting in a comfortable armchair with his faithful pipe producing clouds of pungent smoke and if he had a hobby, it was horse racing. He would sometimes have a modest bet on one of the classics, or on one of the local horses if it was running. Contentment seemed to be his mission in life and I was not surprised to learn that he had never been ambitious — his modest success at racing may have come from youthful determination, but as an adult, his mundane work at the hardware counter seemed to completely satisfy him. Whereas he might have been a champion jockey or highly successful trainer, he was now an expert on things like screws, tin tacks, woodworker’s tools, frying pans and domestic tin ware.
Mavis, his wife, however, was of a different mould. Not much taller than her husband, she’d had ambitions in her younger days — ambitions for Sidney that was, one of which was for Sidney to own, or at least manage, a thriving racing stable or to be a racehorse trainer, or to own his own shop or even be a manager of something, anything in fact. It was common knowledge around Aidensfield that she had often nagged at him in the hope he would stir himself into some kind of ambitious behaviour, but nothing had worked on Sidney. The stress of achieving professional success was not for him. He continued in his own sweet and undramatic world among knives, nails and nutcrackers, while Mavis ran cookery classes at the village hall (which my wife, Mary, attended).
Mavis also worked part-time during the summer months at a busy seaside café in Strensford. If Sidney had not wanted to find fame and fortune, it seemed that Mavis considered her own achievements
to be a substitute — her renown as a meal maker was growing, Sidney’s girth was evidence of that, we all felt. She had achieved a wide reputation as a fine cook through her successful cookery classes and also at the café where she produced mouth-watering dishes for the day-tripping masses. Her busy world seemed to take her mind off Sidney’s lack of ambition, particularly during the summer when she spent long hours at the café, and that meant he had a respite from her constant efforts to thrust him into a more competitive world.
It must be said, though, that her efforts to stir him into bold action were less strenuous now. I think she realised he would never change — after all, he was approaching fifty. Sidney, instead of seeking opportunities to expand his horizons, happily occupied his spare time by taking his dogs for long walks. He had a pair of cocker spaniel bitches, one with black markings and the other with chestnut, and he walked miles with his dogs. At weekends, when Mavis was working, he would take a packed lunch and spend all day out on the moors and in the dales with Tinker and Bess. Probably as a legacy of his days working in racing stables, he rose very early each morning, often at 5.30 in the summer months, and he would get out of bed and take his dogs into Aidensfield Woods for a long walk before going to work.
As my own hours were irregular, with frequent patrols at dawn, I would sometimes see him paddling across the green towards the gate which led into the woods.
The woods were perfect for walking, especially when the sun was rising; in the spring, they were magical. They were deciduous woods comprised mainly of mature beech trees many of which had lovers’ initials carved into their smooth grey trunks. There were other varieties too, such as sweet chestnuts, horse chestnuts, ash, oak, limes, elms, hollies and a wide range of conifers. The river ran its boulder-strewn course through the woods, producing waterfalls and deep pools of sufficient beauty to attract photographers and artists alike, and although the woods were owned and managed by Ashfordly Estate, there was no restriction on access to the public. The place was a network of fascinating footpaths providing everything from riverside walks to steep ascents to the heathery moors above.
CONSTABLE AT THE GATE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 18) Page 18
