As with all the aged and infirm in the villages on my patch, I kept a discreet eye on Edna, sometimes popping in if I didn’t see her lights on during a dark evening, or if the milk or papers were late in being collected from her doorstep. She always received me with a smile and an appreciation of my concern, but inevitably said she was quite well, thank you, and I hadn’t to worry myself about her. But then one dark and chilly Wednesday evening in autumn, I saw her wandering along the main street dressed only in a light blouse and skirt. It was cold enough to warrant a sweater at least or even an overcoat and she looked so vulnerable. I stopped for a chat.
“Hello, Edna,” I always used her Christian name, as indeed everyone did. For some reason she disliked the formality of being called Mrs Waggett. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to see if my grandma is all right,” she smiled sweetly. “I always go and see her on a Thursday night.”
“Your grandma?” For a moment I was flummoxed by her response and then realised she had regressed to her past. Old people did this from time to time, and I knew the only way to deal with her was to humour her.
“Where’s she live?” I asked.
“At Beckside Cottage.” She looked at me as if I should know that. “She’s always lived here.”
“She’s gone out,” I answered. “She asked me to let you know. Maybe you could call another day?”
“Oh, all right,” she smiled sweetly. “But I always go on Thursdays.”
“It’s Wednesday today,” I countered. “Come along, I’ll walk you home.”
“Is it Wednesday?” she puzzled. “I thought it was Thursday, Mr Rhea. Shall I go tomorrow, then?”
“Yes,” I went along with her illusion. “I think that would be a good idea.” I returned her to the house and advised her to lock the door when I left but a week later, I found her again, this time carrying an empty bucket.
“Hello, Edna,” I said. “Where are you off to now?”
“To the pump, to get some water for my washing,” she smiled. “It’s wash day tomorrow, you know, and I have a lot to do so I want an early start.”
“The pump’s not working,” I tried to persuade her. “There’s a blockage of some kind. Come along, I’ll take you home and see if we can find water somewhere else.” By the time we reached her house, she had reverted to the present day and seemed quite astonished that I should want to help her fill her bucket.
“There’s nothing wrong with my taps,” she snapped when I reminded her I was going to help her. “And I have hot water laid on!”
In the week that followed, I came across her wandering off to the dairy to get some cheese (the dairy had closed before World War II); off to visit relations such as her father in his butcher’s shop or aunts, uncles, grandparents and friends, all of whom had died many years earlier; off to buy some new candles ready for the winter when an electric light bulb had blown, off to the fields to help a long-dead farmer with his hay time; off to the Methodist chapel for a service when it had closed several years ago; off to the blacksmith’s shop to bring the horse home after being shod and off to the railway station to meet her husband after a business trip to Glasgow.
During my patrols around Aidensfield, I encountered others who had found Edna wandering about in a state of some bewilderment, invariably having regressed to her childhood or her young married days. The district nurse, Margot Horsefield, promised to keep an eye on her as did the postman, milkman, local shopkeepers and others who noticed the passing scene in Aidensfield. Each of them had found poor Edna wandering about in a state of some distress, invariably seeking something or someone from her past life.
It was evident she needed help and I decided it was a matter for the family so I rang one of her sons. I selected Alan because he lived nearest; his home was at Penrith on the edge of the Lake District and I think he was manager of a slate quarry.
“Thanks, Mr Rhea,” he said on the phone. “Some friends in Aidensfield have also told us about her behaviour. My wife and I were coming to stay with her this coming weekend, to try and decide what to do with her. She is expecting us on Saturday morning, I said we’d be there for dinner. Maybe I could pop in sometime for a chat about her?”
“Yes, of course,” I welcomed the opportunity.
Between that day and the following weekend, she wandered off several more times, on each occasion being found by a resident of Aidensfield and returned to her house. It emerged, though, that when being taken home, she would snap out of her imaginary world and revert to the present day. The fact that she had imagined herself in the past was upsetting for her and one day I found her in tears. She was standing outside her back door, one hand on the door jamb and weeping softly.
“Edna?” I touched her on her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Mr Rhea. Senility, I think. Old age. Daftness . . . I find myself standing in the street or outside my dad’s old shop and not knowing how I got there or why I am there, then somebody says I’d told them I was off to see my mother or visit my granny . . . and they’ve been dead years, Mr Rhea. I must be going daft. It worries me, I am all right, you know, really. I’m not senile, am I? I can look after myself and do my own cooking and cleaning. I’m not really going barmy, am I? I don’t want to be a burden to anyone . . .”
“Alan’s coming to see you, isn’t he?” I said. “On Saturday. He’ll look after you . . .”
“Yes, he’s good to me is our Alan. And Laura, that’s his wife. A lovely woman, very good for him she’s been. But I don’t want to go away, I don’t want to live with them, I’d be a burden, you know . . . he has his own life, you see.”
“I am sure he will do all he can for you.”
“My own mother used to wander, you know. We would find her all over the place, down the fields looking for her father who’d been dead for years . . . that sort of thing.”
“But you’ve got your health and strength,” I tried to reassure her as I led her indoors, sat her down and made her a cup of tea. I found some cakes in the pantry and we had a pleasant talk beside her fire. I told her that the whole village would look after her, that she was not going senile or losing her senses and that we all admired the way she kept herself neat and tidy, and how she maintained her sturdy independence. I felt sure there would be no need for her to move to another place — I wondered if she feared an old folks’ home. She listened and smiled at me from time to time, but I could see that memories of her recent experiences were weighing on her mind. The experiences with her own mother, of which I knew very little because they had happened years ago, clearly upset Edna because she recalled them every time she switched back from her regression into the current time.
I passed word of Alan’s impending arrival around those villagers who had been directly involved with Edna and that eased our minds somewhat. On the Thursday and Friday, Edna went through a tearful few hours, telling her friends and neighbours that she thought she was becoming mentally ill.
They reassured her and suddenly she would switch out of that mood and become the Edna we all knew — or the Edna we had known until her current condition had manifested itself. But for us all, Saturday — and Alan — could not come soon enough.
But on that Saturday morning, Edna vanished.
The alarm was raised by Ted Fryer, the butcher. Ted now occupied the shop which Edna’s father had owned; it was a thriving business with much of its success being due to Edna’s late father, Dick Farrell. And now, after the passage of many years, Ted continued in the same tradition. Every Tuesday and Saturday morning he toured Aidensfield and district in his delivery van, taking orders and delivering to his customers. Being the daughter of the man who had founded the business in Aidensfield, Edna was one of Ted’s special customers. Every Saturday, she took delivery of a modest joint of beef for the weekend along with other things to last her until he called again on Tuesday, such as bacon, some lamb chops and sausages. But that Saturday morning her kitchen door had been standing w
ide open; he had shouted into the house as he always did but had got no reply. Knowing of Edna’s recent propensity for wandering, he’d entered the house shouting into every room, including upstairs, but in every case had not received a response. A quick search of her garden, a few enquiries of neighbours and a quick visit to the post office were enough to convince him that she’d wandered off once more. Just to be sure, though, and prior to calling me, he had returned to her house for a final check, shouting into the bathroom and the outside toilet.
The kitchen door was still standing wide open but there was no sign of her and then he noticed a certain knife was missing.
“It was a knife her father used years ago,” he said. “I think it had been a present from her father’s father, when he started off with his business. She kept it as sharp as a razor, just like he always did. Her dad would test it by shaving hairs off his arms; she always said his knives were the sharpest and best kept for miles around. Then when he died, she inherited it. She used it for carving her Sunday joint. I know the knife well because she asks me to sharpen it once in a while, she says nobody can sharpen a knife like a butcher can. Her dad was noted for his knives, and she asked me to look after that one. I sharpened it and cleaned it. She thought a lot about it, Mr Rhea, a family treasure. It always hung on a hook over the draining board; it had a hole in the handle with a bit of string through it. But it’s gone. She’d never part with that knife, Mr Rhea. Never.”
“You mean she’s taken it with her?” At first, the implication of that remark did not fully sink into my mind.
“I did have a look around, Mr Rhea, in the washing-up bowl and knife drawer . . . it’s not there.”
Ted knew, as I did, that in recent weeks Edna had been showing signs of insecurity and depression and I began to understand the importance of his words.
“She’s not likely to harm herself, is she?” I put to him.
“Well, she hasn’t been right, has she? She’s been saying she doesn’t want to be a burden. She’s been worrying about losing her mind, that sort of thing.”
“But she’s too sensible to do anything daft!” I said.
“Things have been getting to her and I wouldn’t say she’s been very sensible in recent times,” he shook his head sagely. “But whatever, Mr Rhea, I reckon we ought to be looking for her.”
“So do I,” I heard myself say. “Right, I need help, people to search all the places she might visit, all her old haunts . . .”
“But if she’s taken a knife, Mr Rhea, she’ll likely go somewhere away from her old haunts.”
“I wonder how long she’s been gone?” I was speaking aloud. “Look, Ted, I’ll ask around the village before I mount a massive search party. Somebody must have seen her wandering off.”
“Right, you do that, and I’ll ring round a few of the blokes I know to get a search party organised. The cricket team’ll turn out for one thing, and there’s plenty of kids off school this morning to give a helping hand.”
“Right, Ted, thanks. I’ll do a quick recce around the village, and then go back to my house to ring for assistance. Can you see me at my house in, say, forty-five minutes?”
“Right,” he agreed.
The trouble with a Saturday morning is that the village does not follow the same pattern of activity as it does from Monday to Friday and one consequence was that no one had seen Edna that morning. People who went to work or came into the village during the week, did not do so on a Saturday.
After half an hour’s frantic questioning in the centre of Aidensfield, I produced no news of Edna. I returned to my police house and telephoned Sergeant Blaketon at Ashfordly.
“There’s me and PC Ventress on duty here,” he said. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes. I can leave PC Foxton to man the office.”
“I’ll wait at my police house,” I said. “I’ve some volunteers meeting me there.”
And so a search party for Edna was organised. While I was awaiting the arrival of my various colleagues and volunteers, I rang several contacts in Aidensfield to ask if they’d seen Edna going walkabout. None had. We were no further forward and after pondering her recent mental state, I must admit I was bothered about her. Within three-quarters of an hour, Sergeant Blaketon and PC Alf Ventress had arrived, along with Ted Fryer and his team of villagers. I described Edna to them all and outlined her recent behaviour, reminding the local people of her past family contacts, places she might have gone to visit in a state of regression. We divided the volunteers into teams of four and set them each the task of searching a particular area of Aidensfield, some using motor vehicles to reach the outlying portions, others using sticks to search the moorland and rough vegetation and yet more to concentrate on buildings and likely hiding places within the village — places like the churches, village hall and outbuildings would be searched. We agreed to meet again in two hours at the police house, i.e. at one o’clock lunchtime. While Sergeant Blaketon and Alf Ventress concentrated on buildings within the village, I had to make enquiries along the routes she might have taken to leave the security of Aidensfield.
People washing their pots or shaking their mats might have seen her wandering past. And I was lucky. I knocked on the door of the last house in the village along the road to Briggsby and a young woman answered. She was Susan Pennington who said she’d seen Edna walking briskly past her house shortly after nine this morning, heading for Aidensfield Woods. I asked whether Edna was clutching anything, but Susan hadn’t noticed anything in her hands, although Edna had been dressed for a hot summer day rather than a cool and rather damp autumn morning. Before organising a large search of the woods, I needed more confirmation that Edna was in there and remembered Sidney Layfield’s morning walks with the spaniels. I hurried to his home and asked if he’d seen her.
“Oh, yes, Mr Rhea,” he said. “I saw the old lady and passed the time of day with her. She said she was going to meet up with her husband in the wood. She said she hadn’t seen him for a long time and wanted to be with him. I thought it was a bit funny, I’d not seen any old gentleman in there.”
I groaned at that comment and asked, “Was she carrying anything?”
He shook his head. “Coat you mean? Handbag? No, nothing, she was bare-armed too, a bit on the chilly side for that. And damp too.”
I explained that she was wandering and that her mind was not functioning as it should be, whereupon Sidney said he would join the search, along with his dogs. He and they knew the woods intimately. Satisfied that she had wandered into the woods and that her disappearance had all the hallmarks of a potential suicide attempt, I hurried back to locate Ted and his volunteers.
Next I radioed Sergeant Blaketon in his car. The outcome was that the search would now be concentrated upon Aidensfield Woods. I had a map of the woods at my house and hurried to locate it, then we all assembled near the war memorial to be allocated an area of the wood. I explained about her words to Sidney Layfield, about the knife and about her state of mind and, after due warning from Sergeant Blaketon to keep well away from the knife if she started to wave it about, we sallied forth.
I was in the same party as Sidney and our route took us towards the western heights of the wood, the part where the myriad paths wandered among the boulders and beeches below the cliff face which reached to the heathery moor above. It was a rugged area, rough being perhaps a more apt description but it was Sidney who noticed the footprints in the damp earth as we came to a junction.
“Fresh prints, Mr Rhea,” he said. “A woman’s shoe, by the look of it . . . heading that way.” And he pointed.
“Come on,” I said.
It is sufficient to say that a few minutes later, I found Edna. With Sidney and his dogs panting behind me, I came across her sitting on a tree stump beneath a huge beech tree. She had the butcher’s knife clutched in her two fists, its point reaching to the sky. She appeared to be staring with high concentration at the knife but she was unharmed. When I approached, she smiled and said, “Hello, Mr Rhea.
How nice to see you. And who is the gentleman with you? What nice dogs . . .”
“That is Mr Layfield with his spaniels, he knows these woods very well, Edna. We have come to take you home. Now, can I have the knife?”
“No, you cannot, Mr Rhea! That is a very special knife, a family heirloom. You cannot have it, most certainly not. It is mine — and I am using it!”
“No, Edna, you must not use it . . . you must give it to me . . . or place it on the ground and then let me come for you . . .” I held back during this dialogue, not wishing to alarm and anger her because the point of the knife was dangerously close to her exposed throat and breast.
“Mr Rhea.” She looked at me coldly and with determination. “You have no right to interfere in this. I am doing this for me and my dear husband, Henry. We used to come here, you see, to be alone, to be together. I want to be with him now, which is why I have come here.”
At this point, I was uncertain whether she had regressed to former times or was speaking of the present time. But the scenario had a feel of urgency and desperation about it. With only little Sidney present, I wondered what on earth I could do to prevent her using the knife, or how I could cope if she did use it . . . talking seemed to be the only answer.
“Edna, please. Give me the knife.”
“Mr Rhea, I have made my decision quite clear to you. The knife is mine, a family treasure, it belonged to my father. You cannot have it. I refuse, Mr Rhea, totally. Now, if you will leave me in peace, I shall prepare to meet my dear husband . . . Henry, did you know Henry, Mr Rhea?”
CONSTABLE AT THE GATE a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 18) Page 20
