Contradictions can also be found in the word ‘house’. A dwelling with this common name can be very substantial or it might be a tiny cottage nestling in the quieter part of a moorland village. For the patrolling constable, it all means that one cannot gain a true impression of a person’s home merely from its name.
One example was Bracken Hill Farm at Gelderslack. Believing its name has some rapport with the moors, I expected a small hill farm of the kind that had survived for generations, but to my surprise I found a massive spread of whitewashed buildings, with a hacienda that might have come from Spain, a range of satellite extensions that reminded me of a Californian ranch, and views that reminded me of the Loire Valley in France. Even the vehicles in the farmyard might have come from either Texas or the Motor Show.
Another surprise occurred when I was called by a lady who looked after Meadow Cottage, Crampton, while its owners were away.
As I motored to the address, I sought a pretty cottage sitting on the edge of a field replete with colourful wild flowers. Instead, I found a massive establishment with a courtyard surrounded by stables and looseboxes, complete with fabulous gardens overlooked by a house that occupied the space of half a dozen semi-detached dwellings. The gardens were spread along the banks of the river, and a small boat was moored at the edge of the lawn. It was probably the most unlikely ‘cottage’ I have ever encountered.
The reason for the lady’s call is worthy of inclusion. She was housekeeper to Mr and Mrs Rudolph Faulkner. He was a top executive for a Yorkshire brewing company and was regularly away on business, often overseas. His wife, Felicity, sometimes accompanied him, and this was such an occasion. They had left the housekeeper, Mrs Winnie Hilton, in charge of their home for a couple of weeks. Winnie lived nearby and was the widow of a retired farmworker.
Just before lunch one Sunday, as she gazed across her garden fence, she noticed two coaches halt outside Meadow Cottage. This was not unusual, for the village did attract tourists. On this occasion, she watched a gaggle of almost a hundred people climb out. It was a warm, sunny day in June, and they were all armed with picnic equipment. At this point Winnie became horrified, because they all trooped through the gates of the Faulkners’ home and into the splendid gardens before ambling across the lawns towards the river bank. Each was seeking a good place to enjoy a picnic. In this part of the country, it is a sad fact that some dopey visitors do wander into private gardens, but this was a mass invasion. Surely they had not mistaken Meadow Cottage for Castle Howard or Crampton Hall?
Winnie rushed outside to remonstrate with the bus-drivers, but they replied that they had been told to stop here for a picnic lunch. They had no idea who had given the orders to their firm; their order had come from their head office. She knew that if such a visit had been sanctioned by the Faulkners, she would have been informed. In the absence of such consent, she rang me to complain about the trespassers.
I was in the middle of my lunch and, as this was not an emergency, I spent another five minutes finishing my meal before driving the few miles to Crampton. This pretty village stands on the banks of the River Rye and is a delight; it is virtually unspoilt and presents a continuing aura of rustic calm. But things were not very calm that day because Winnie was stalking up and down in her pinny, her face as black as thunder.
‘Now, Winnie,’ I said, ‘what’s this all about?’
She repeated her story, pointing to the hordes of people on the Faulkners’ lawn. They were enjoying their meal, for it was a splendid situation.
For my part, I knew my official limitations so far as trespass was concerned – simple trespass is not a criminal offence, nor is it a police matter. It could enter the realms of criminal law if certain other factors were incorporated, such as the pursuit of game or when committing malicious damage. But if these people did not have the Faulkners’ authority, I felt I should at least try to remove them. I might be justified in so doing on the grounds that I was preventing a breach of the peace by Winnie!
As she fussed and grumbled, I spoke to the bus-drivers, who said they were simply obeying orders, and I then asked who was in charge of the party. They said it was a Mr Williamson, who was among the crowd by the river. With Winnie at my side, I set about locating him. My uniformed arrival caused something of a stir as I marched around and called for Mr Williamson. Eventually a nervous-looking individual with thin, light hair and rimmed spectacles disentangled himself from the crowd. In his early forties, he wore a green blazer and lighter green trousers, and I saw that most of the others in the party wore the same uniform. I now realized that the party comprised adults and young people mainly in their late teens. He faced me with a show of bravery and said, ‘I’m Stanley Williamson.’
After introducing myself, I explained the problem as I understood it, but he looked puzzled.
‘No, Mr Rhea, we have permission, I assure you. I got it from the headmaster.’
‘But it’s not his house. He can’t give permission.’ I pointed out. ‘The Faulkners are away, and I’m assured they have not agreed to this.’
‘They’d ’ave told me,’ chipped in Winnie Hilton at my side.
My chat with Mr Williamson revealed that this was a party of choristers and musicians from a Yorkshire public school. They were on their way to give a concert at Keldford Hall, which lay about an hour’s drive beyond Crampton. They were due there around 2.30 p.m. for rehearsals, and the concert was to begin at 6.30 p.m. after an early evening meal. The headmaster had suggested a break on the journey, hence the picnic lunch in the grounds of Meadow Cottage.
‘’E once came to stay here,’ announced Winnie.
‘Who did?’ I asked her.
‘That headmaster. He came for a weekend.’
‘So he knows the house and the Faulkners?’
‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Tim’s at school there.’
I now began to see the proverbial dim light at the end of the proverbial long tunnel. ‘Tim?’ I asked.
‘Their son, Timothy, ’e’s in the sixth form.’
‘That’s right,’ chipped in Mr Williamson. ‘He should have been here today, he plays the violin, but he couldn’t make it. He’s broken his finger, playing cricket …’
‘I think we’d better have words with the headmaster,’ I suggested. ‘Can we do it from the house?’ I put to Winnie.
With Williamson and Winnie at my side, I entered the splendid lounge, courtesy of Winnie’s key, and rang the school. Since it was a boarding school, the headmaster was available.
Upon my explaining the problem, he told me that when this concert had been first proposed, several months ago, he had asked Timothy Faulkner whether it would be agreeable if the choristers and orchestra halted at his parents’ house. Knowing the house and its grounds, the head felt it was the ideal point for a break in the long journey. Tim had said it would be fine. The head had expected him to clear this proposal with his parents – clearly, Tim had not bothered.
To give due credit to the headmaster, two or three days before finalizing his arrangements he had called Tim to his study to check that his parents had approved the proposal. Tim, not admitting he had forgotten to ask and wishing to keep faith with the head, and also knowing that his parents would be out of the country on the day, had confirmed the plans.
‘Obviously, Mr Rhea, there has been a breakdown in communication,’ he said, and I could sense his embarrassment.
‘So I’ve got a hundred trespassers in the grounds of an empty house,’ I told him and, with him still on the line, I relayed the explanation to Winnie.
‘That’s just t’sort o’ trick young Mr Tim would do,’ she sighed. ‘’E really is the limit …’
‘Can I suggest we allow these people to remain, provided they leave no mess?’ I put to her.
‘Aye,’ she nodded. ‘Seeing Mr Tim’s said so.’
And so the crisis was over.
As Winnie locked the house, I walked away with Mr Williamson, who said, ‘Thanks for sorting that out, Mr Rh
ea. The lady was upset.’
‘She was just doing her job – and so was I. So you go back and enjoy the picnic – but please make sure your people leave things tidy, eh?’
‘I will – and, look, by way of apologizing for the trouble we’ve caused, I’ve two complimentary tickets,’ he dug into his pocket. ‘Maybe you and Mrs Rhea would like to join us?’
‘I’d love to,’ I said. ‘But how about Winnie and a friend? She’s had more hassle than me! She has no transport, so it would mean taking her with you on one of these buses and then bringing her back again.’
‘I think, under the circumstances, we could fix that,’ he smiled.
And so Winnie Hilton and her friend Alice saw the rehearsals, had a meal with the group and had a look around Keldford Hall before going to the concert.
‘By gum, Mr Rhea,’ she said when I saw her a few days later in the village, ‘I did enjoy yon concert. It’s t’first time I’ve been to a posh affair like that.’
‘What about Mr Faulkner? Was he upset about those picnickers?’ I asked eventually.
‘I never told him,’ she said slyly. And neither did I.
Because the Faulkners’ cottage was so splendid, I expected a similar spread at Thorngill Grange, a dwelling high on the moors above Gelderslack.
The reason for my call involved a missing hiker. A middle-aged man called Simon Milner had decided to tackle the long-distance Blackamoor Walk and had not arrived home at the expected time. He had been due back at tea time the day before my enquiries. Sensibly, Mr Milner junior had allowed time for his father to turn up or make contact before raising the alarm, but as neither had happened by breakfast time next morning, he decided to inform us.
Sergeant Charlie Bairstow took the call when I was in the office at Ashfordly.
‘Right, Mr Milner, we’ll circulate a description – I don’t intend instituting a full search just yet. Perhaps he’s called at a pub somewhere and stayed overnight?’
‘A pub!’ Milner junior had apparently been horrified at the suggestion. ‘My father does not go into public houses, Sergeant. He is a Methodist lay preacher … a teetotaller … a man of strong principles and high morals!’
‘It’s just a thought, Mr Milner. No offence meant. I mean, our moorland inns are havens of refuge, you know, not dens of iniquity. You’ll be sure to call us if he does turn up?’
He said he would keep us informed.
We circulated a physical description of the hiker, but at this early stage there was no real cause for alarm. Mr Milner, in his middle fifties, was an experienced rambler and was not known to be suffering from any illness or disease. Searching for hikers who had become overdue was a regular feature of our work. Many simply strayed from their chosen path or took longer than they had planned; more often than not, they found temporary accommodation in barns, inns and boarding houses, or even in friendly farms and cottages. In the case of Mr Milner, however, it seemed we could ignore the hospitality of the moorland inns.
Sadly, some hikers are a nuisance. Those who walk alone seldom bother to tell anyone of their route or intention, nor do they advise us of any enforced delay. As a consequence, at the behest of anxious friends or relatives, we often find ourselves searching for them, albeit in a very perfunctory manner in the early stages. But if they do not turn up, genuine concern develops and the longer the delay, the greater the concern and the more intensified the search, But, realistically, where does one begin to search 553 square miles of elevated and open moorland?
It was a curious fact that, in the months before Mr Milner’s case, we had experienced an increasing number of problems with hikers. This had been especially noticeable among those attempting the long-distance Blackamoor Walk, a trek of around seventy miles across the loftier parts of the moors. It had become quite commonplace for some to stroll into Ashfordly market-place in the early hours of the morning, singing and shouting, having consumed bottles of strong liquor along their way. In some cases, there was a definite party atmosphere, and it seemed that parties of hikers were making whoopee somewhere on the hills. Their overdue return to civilization had not seemed to bother them, even if it had created anxiety among their friends and families.
As there were no pubs on the actual route of the Walk, these people must have diverted a considerable distance to get supplies – and that would cause delays and ultimately some worries among loved-ones waiting at home or at checkpoints. But there was another problem – in their happiness at reaching civilization, their singing and exuberance awoke the residents of Ashfordly; furthermore, they left their litter all over the place and in many cases became noisy, unpleasant and unwanted. It is fair to add that some who became too abusive or obnoxious ended their trip in our cells and even in court.
Some would sleep off the booze in barns or even in the open fields, but even in these cases, anyone who was overdue was likely to become the focus of an expensive search by the police or Moorland Rescue Search Party. Clearly, the upright and sober Mr Milner was not in this category. I could not imagine him rolling home in full voice after a session in a moorland pub.
It was ten o’clock that morning when I left Ashfordly police station to resume my patrol, and in the absence of more urgent work I decided to carry out a limited search for Mr Milner. I selected the area around Thorngill Grange. In that vicinity, a section of the Blackamoor Walk passed through the northwestern corner of my beat before terminating at Ashfordly.
Having determined that Mr Milner was expected to conclude his hike along this stretch, I decided upon a modest search of the surrounding moor. A check on the map showed that Thorngill Grange stood on the edge of the heathered heights, close to where the Walk dipped from the more remote sections before entering a wooded glen for its final three miles or so. Until now, I had never had any reason to visit Thorngill Grange, but a check on the Electoral Register showed me that it was occupied by Albert and Dorothy Potter. I had no more information about the place or its inhabitants.
It did not take long to discover that it was even more remote than the map had suggested. I reached the end of a rough, unmade track some time before catching sight of the house. The track deteriorated into a primitive footpath across the heather before dropping into the dale beyond. When I parked at the brow of the ridge, I could see the house sitting at the head of the dale. It would require a considerable hike to reach it. But this was neither a mansion, a gentleman’s residence nor even a farm. It was a tiny thatched cottage, one end of which was derelict while the other seemed barely suitable for anyone to occupy. A dry stone wall surrounded the cottage, but there was no name on the small wooden gate which opened into the paddock and nothing to indicate that this was Thorngill Grange. There was no other building nearby. The house stood utterly alone.
Beyond, on the heights above the other side of this tiny dale, was the open moor, treeless, flat and awe-inspiring. The wild expanse of heather was within a few days of bursting into the gorgeous purple which is so beautiful and dramatic. Running from the heights was a moorland stream, the Thorn Gill which gave its name to this cottage, and it flowed down a narrow cleft in the hills, eventually to reach the River Rye near Rievaulx Abbey. Black-faced sheep roamed these moors without the benefit of fencing, and the paths they had created over the centuries criss-crossed among the heather, some being utilized by an increasing number of ramblers and hikers.
The Blackamoor Walk traversed these high and lonely moors, and indeed there was a primitive stone footbridge across the gill. It led from the main route of the Walk towards Thorngill Grange, and I guessed the Potters made use of it to check their sheep and lambs if indeed they farmed the moor. But the bridge was not part of the Walk – the route passed the end of it.
The views from this point were staggering in their range and beauty, and as a perfect hideaway, Thorngill Grange must surely be a dream. Perhaps the Potters used it only as a country cottage? I would soon know the answer.
I opened the gate, which squeaked a little, and was greeted
by a black-and-white Border collie who fussed around my legs as I made for the unpainted oak door. It opened even before I reached it, and a very short, very fat woman in her late sixties stood before me. Her greying hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and she was wiping her hands on her apron; they were covered in flour, I noted.
‘By gum,’ she smiled through gums which contained about a third of their complement of teeth, ‘it’s a policeman!’
‘Hello,’ I greeted her. ‘I’m PC Rhea from Aidensfield.’
‘Well then, you’d better come in and sit down. Ah’ve a kettle on t’hob. You’ll have a cup o’ tea and a bun?’
This was not an invitation – it was a statement of fact, because it was customary for the moorland folk to entertain visitors in this way, and I had arrived at ‘’lowance time’.
I ducked under the low beam above the doorway, the straw thatching brushing my head as I removed my cap, and found myself stepping back a century or even further. The low roof was heavily beamed in dark oak. Some polished horse brasses, genuine ones, plus a few horseshoes, were crudely nailed to some cross timbers. The floor was of smooth sandstone, and it bore a clip rug before the fireplace. The fireplace was a massive hole in the thick stone wall; in the right of the gap was a black oven with a brass handle and an ornate design on the door, while to the right was the hot water boiler, identified by the tap under which was a ladling can, a white enamel mug with a handle; it caught the drips from the tap. A peat fire was smouldering between them, and above it was a smoke hood, a relic of bygone times. Above the smouldering peat, hanging on a large hook which in turn dangled from an adjustable rail, was a large black kettle. It was singing all the time. In spite of the bright sunshine outside, the room was dark and cool.
Constable among the Heather Page 5
